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sometimesanalice · 1 year ago

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Bedside Manner

Summary: You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 8K

Warnings: A little angst, a little pining, and two idiots in love.

It’s a perfect summer afternoon. Well, almost.

The sun is high in the sky and the steady salt kissed ocean breeze keeps it from being too uncomfortably hot. The coolers are filled with beers and sodas and a few pink cans of rosé that Coyote had brought. And the beach blankets were littered with open half-eaten family sized bags of chips and cubes of bright pink watermelon and containers of various dips and ziplocs with sun warmed and mostly melted chocolate chip cookies.

“You guys, really, I’m fine,” you state as adamantly as you can given the circumstances.

Sure, you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your throbbing, bleeding head. Sure, you are a little afraid to put your full weight on your left ankle and already dreading the long walk back to your car.

But it’s fine, you’re fine. Everything is…peachy. Or it will be as soon as they all stop looking at you like you’re about to crumple to the ground like some 1920’s silent film starlet from on the silver screen.

Nat has that deep pinch between her sharp brown eyes. Jake’s lips are pressed together in a firm white line. The rest of the team stands hovering around you in a misshapen semicircle, all sandy and sweaty, and wearing the concern painted across their faces.

All except for Rooster, who can’t seem to look at you at all.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Phoenix says flatly, clearly unamused by your attempts to minimize the situation. And you wish that just this once she could have let this go and follow your lead. But then she wouldn’t be Natasha Trace.

Your best friend since middle school had always been the most capable and sharpest person in the room and you loved that about her.

Normally.

But not so much when her keen assessment of you keeps you from being able to slink away quietly without fuss.

“No, seriously. It’s just a little scratch. It’s not a big deal.” It sounds feeble even to your own ears. Trying to hold back a wince when the way you shake your head makes starbursts bloom behind your eyes.

You could have dealt with the pounding in your head if it weren’t for the relentless burning of your ankle that was only making things worse. One or the other would have been easier to manage, but both vying for your attention as the pain pulses with every heartbeat was miserable.

The sun was too hot, the kids frolicking the ocean were too loud, the sunscreen on your skin felt too greasy. All you wanted was a shower and your bed and to forget this whole day even happened.

You look around the group trying to gauge how successful your efforts are, but it’s clear that no one seems to be buying your brand of poorly performed bullshit. You wanted to crawl into yourself like a hermit crab, protected by your own shell, as six pairs of eyes all looked on at you sympathetically, while the pretty brown ones you wanted to see the most were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and trained down at the ground.

It was supposed to be a fun day.

You’d woken up that morning absolutely giddy about trading spreadsheets for sand and sunburns and sea salt tangled hair. Your cheery, new swimsuit already laid out and waiting for you from the night before.

There was something thrilling about hooky on a Friday with all of your favorite people that made you feel all kinds of young and free. Well, hooky for you. They’d been given the day off after a month of intensive training and testing of some new defensive software. They all deserved the break and you were more than happy to tag along.

You were always the good kid in school, never skipping, never missing a class. You’d felt like a rebellious teen as you crafted your ‘out of office’ email, a smug grin on your face like you were getting away with something. Even though you’d earned the right to use that PTO whichever way you wanted.

The anticipation of a snow day from your childhood school days had nothing on the intoxicating promise of a beach day on a golden summer Friday.

The team must have felt the same way too because the group chat the night before had been chaotically amusing. The excitement was palpable enough that you’d almost think you all lived in some landlocked state rather than San Diego, where it felt like all roads led to the beach whether you wanted them to or not.

Somewhere between the string of all capitalized sentences and exclamation points with a few well-chosen emojis scattered throughout, Natasha had managed to wrangle everyone in enough into sorting out who was responsible for bringing what. There wouldn’t be another veggie platter incident, not on her watch.

You’d felt bright and effervescent as you’d pulled into the parking lot, your eyes reflexively seeking out a blue Bronco that hadn’t arrived yet. With a beach chair over one shoulder and a beach bag over the other and a packed cooler bag in your hand, you’d made towards the multicolored sprawl of blankets and the striped peaks of the umbrellas, where you were met with the smiling faces of shiny happy people.

Some of the boys had rushed over to help you carry your things and added your offerings to the communal pile of snacks and sunscreen and bottles of water. It had been easy to fall into conversation with everyone as you set up your own little patch of paradise and shimmied out of your frayed cut-offs. Natasha had given you a wolf whistle and you’d laughed as you give her the finger.

And hour and a half later with an easy grin on his face, carrying a case of beer and two big Ziploc bags stuffed with what you learned later were homemade cookies balanced on top, was Rooster.

You’ve had plenty of beach days with them but every time you saw him in those damn denim shorts he always seemed determined to wear, regardless of how impractical they were, your mind still went a little fizzy as you took in just how well they clung to his thighs.

He’d taken the ribbing from his squad in stride as he unboxed the beers and added them to the collection already chilling in Bob’s bright yellow cooler. You were trying- and failing- to read your worn paperback book when he’d surprised you by plopping his things next to yours on your oversized towel and stole a chunk of juicy watermelon off of the plate balanced on your lap.

“Hey, book worm,” he grinned as he popped it into his mouth, “How’s my favorite girl doing?” That smile of his getting bigger when you rolled your eyes at him.

“Hi, Rooster,” you’d said looking at him from over the top of your sunglasses with an amused smirk.

And if your cheeks felt warm, it was from the sun and not the teasing tone of his raspy voice.

When he’d shrugged off his shirt to apply the sunscreen you’d brought with him in mind, the wink he’d shot you went straight to your head like champagne. The sun highlighting his impressive abs and sculpted shoulders didn’t help either as he took great efforts to cover his chest and stomach with the lotion. He had to be doing it on purpose, because he’d kept rubbing it in well past when the white hue faded. But who were you to complain? Melanoma was no joke.

“You wanna help me out?” he’d asked turning his back to you, looking over his shoulder. You’re pretty sure that he’d been flexing because he’d looked impossibly broad, every defined muscle standing out for eyes to map out and explore.

You’d been at war with yourself, because while your eager hands were desperate to touch him, you also knew that once you ran your hands along his solid frame that you’d never want to stop. That you wouldn’t be content until your fingertips had traced every inch of him.

You had been blessedly and devastatingly spared the choice.

“I got you, Rooster. My hands are already all sunscreen-y,” chimed in Bob, who had just finished rubbing his own freshly applied layer. “Wouldn’t want it to get on her book.”

You were only half relieved to be off the hook, while Bradley on the other hand was still looking at you expectantly, almost hopefully, still with the white and yellow bottle of sunscreen partly extended towards you.

“That’s so sweet of you, Bob-” you’d started.

“Yeah, so sweet-” Bradley grumbled under his breath.

“I appreciate you sparing my pages the sunscreen grease,” you’d said shooting Bob a smile, choosing to ignore Bradley’s comment completely. “Plus, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll have him covered in no time.”

Bradley looked between you and Bob before he passed the bottle to the other man, shaking his head a little in defeat. You’d giggled to yourself as you wiggled your book at an openly brooding Bradley, and then leaned back on your elbows to observe the way the attentive WSO made sure to carefully and thoroughly cover Bradley’s entire back.

Respectfully, of course.

Behind your sunglasses you’d admired all of Bradley’s bulk compared to Bob’s lithe grace. But in your defense, they were standing right in front of you and you’d already reread your book at least five times in the past, so it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the scene in front of you had been.

“You look awfully comfortable over there,” Rooster called out with a raised eyebrow.

“Just taking in the view,” you’d teased back.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he huffed as Bob finished up, giving him a thanks, man before tossing you back the bottle of sunscreen. He’d nudged his sunglasses down his nose and pinned you with his gaze, “Let me know if you want me to get your back. My hands are just as capable as his.” Even in the high heat of summer, the way he’d looked at you sent chills running along your arms.

You felt the way his keen eyes traveled from your face, down the deep-v of your swimsuit and along the swells of your breasts, and down your legs to your freshly painted toes. His mouth had ticked up in the corner then left you reeling and your heart pounding away in your chest as he’d strut off to go join Fanboy and Coyote by the mountain of snacks.

And that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. You never knew if he was just flirt-y or flirt-ing.

You hadn’t had a crush in ages, but when Nat had introduced you to her team five months ago, the man with the sunkissed curls and surprisingly attractive mustache had immediately caught your eye.

And as you’d gotten to know him, it had only gotten worse.

Not only was he very nice to look at and could make you laugh until your sides ached, but he also he had depth about him in a way that most men your age didn’t. You liked talking to him and listening to his stories. You liked learning his perspective on things. You liked being around him.

He made you feel interesting and special and funny and seen. You’ve never felt as comfortable in your own skin as you did when you were around him.

Rooster would send you flirty winks, give you less than subtle once overs, and could flash you such devastating slow grins that they’d have you trying to catch the butterflies they released in your stomach for hours after you went home.

But he’s never made a move.

If only he wouldn’t play hide and seek with his true intentions.

You felt like you were still waiting on some small clue whether he was serious or not. You didn’t know if he was just having fun with you or if he was into you and it was more than just friendly banter. It would be so much easier if he’d straight up tell you one way or another.

Needless to say, you’d let Nat be the one to help you with your sunscreen a little bit later. The idea of Bradley’s big hands on you, gliding along your sun-warmed skin and under the crisscross straps of your swimsuit, was too much for your hummingbird heart.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the butter yellow midmorning transformed into a Midas-touched golden afternoon.

The squad had been able to reserve a fire pit and the plan had been to stay until the sunset. An endless summer day stretching out before them like a cat. They had nothing but time.

Clusters of people came together and split apart like a kaleidoscope as some went to take a dip in the ocean or raid the cooler and snack spread or go for a walk along the shore. Changing and shifting with the direction of the wind, going where the mood took them.

And for a peaceful moment, it had been you with your book and a napping Bradley sprawled out next to you on your towel with his arm flung over his eyes. Close enough that you could feel his warmth, almost but not quite touching. The sound of his soft breaths and the waves their own kind of lullaby as you contentedly read your book, turning your pages quietly to not disturb the man next to you, as the droplets of the Pacific dried on your skin.

You still don’t know how you got roped into playing a round of dogfight football with the Navy’s best and brightest. You were more of a corn hole or ladder toss kind of girl, but Coyote had all but thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you out before you’d agreed to participate, conceding your defeat.

You were on a team with Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy against Nat, Rooster, Payback, and Bob. A few plays in and you had been getting the hang of it. They’d all been making sure to take care to go easy on you even in the chaos of two teams playing offensively and defensively at the same time. You were more than a little out of breath, but you were having fun.

Before the next snap, Mickey gave the most impassioned pep talk you’d ever heard, “Fuck luck, we don’t need luck. We gotta fucking win.” You had been about to laugh, but then you’d seen the looks on Jake and Javy’s faces and decided against it. Curious about the other team, you’d glanced over only to see Rooster looking back at you.

The calls had been made, the blur of plays in motion as people whirled and dodged and sprinted.

You’d just lobbed the ball to Javy before darting around Nat when a big, solid body collided with you. Hard. You’d felt the twinge of your ankle twisting in the sand right before the force sent you flying in the opposite direction you’d been headed.

The impact had been jarring. The air knocked from your lungs.

Where you should have been met with a mouthful of gritty sand, instead your head had connected with the rough surface of a partially buried rock. The low, thick thud reverberating throughout your whole body.

You’d been so stunned that you didn’t even register you were even on the ground until you heard the chorus of oh fucks and holy shits and goddamns and jesus christs over the ringing in your ears.

The game coming to an immediate and conclusive end.

For how many empty bottles and cans were sitting collected in a trash bag off to the side of your beach set up, they had been surprisingly quick to act as you blinked blankly, trying to clear the spots from your vision.

It was a silent ballet of efficiency as they instinctively fell into their roles, much like you imagined they did the sky. Everyone stepping up and then stepping back as they did their part, like the ebb and flow of waves.

Nat had carefully poured some fresh water from a bottle on your face to remove the sand that clung to the sweat and sunscreen on your skin. Then Jake had wordlessly passed her his clean spare shirt he’d jogged of to get to help stop the bleeding after Javy checked on your pupils to make sure they were the same size. While Bob stood off to the side holding your warped sunglasses in his hands, as if he was hopeful they could still be salvaged. Mickey and Reuben had been waiting in the wings giving you space, ready to help if they were needed, but not wanting to not crowd in.

And from the corner of your eye, you’d caught Rooster standing a couple feet away with his hands in his hair looking absolutely wrecked.

“Bradley?” you’d tried, even though his name stuck to your teeth. But he’d just shook his head at you before turning away slightly, like he couldn’t look at you, which made your heart sting as well.

They only allowed you to move to sit up after they were content with the answer to their questions- What day is it? Friday. Where are you? San Diego. What else hurts? My ankle and my pride.

It wasn’t until someone hauled you up from underneath your armpits that the throbbing and stinging and aching settled over you. The pain seeping and spreading through muscle and bone like an inky oil spill.

It’s still an almost perfect summer afternoon except for the fact you hate everything about this.

You hate the way they’re gathered around you with too many pairs of assessing eyes pinned on you. You hate that you’re the reason the game of dogfight football came to a definitive and abrupt end. You hate that you’re the reason their carefree and fun afternoon off has turned into this.

There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, the hot tears of hurt and frustration and embarrassment are clamoring to be released. You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling.

And it doesn’t help that you’re the type who’d rather lick your wounds in peace.

You just need to get back to your car and you can figure things out on your own from there. You just need a moment to yourself.

As you open your mouth to argue your case again, Jake puts his hand up and stops you before you’ve even had a chance to start, “I hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re not fooling any of us.” He says it gently, but gives you a pointed look at the way you’re leaning heavily on your right leg to keep the pressure off of your left ankle.

“That head wound is not a little scratch. Just like your ankle isn’t just a little puffy, when it’s twice the size it should be. You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Nat says, final and resolute. A lifetime of friendship has taught you not to argue when she has that look in her eyes, the one that says try me, I dare you.

They all talk over you as they figure out who is the most sober of the group after your suggestion to call yourself an Uber is immediately shot down. Drinks are being counted on fingers, and memories are searched to make sure every sip and bottle and can is accounted for.

Your eyes drift over to the man who is still actively avoiding looking at you, even as he talks to everyone else on the team. You aren’t paying too close attention to what he is saying, but you can hear the short, clipped staccato of his words.

Bradley’s shoulders are tinged a little pink even though you know for a fact that you had purposely passed him the 65 SPF. His eyes are hidden behind his dark green tinted sunglasses, but you don’t need to see them when you can read his body language better than any book.

His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing and shifting, like he is squeezing and releasing his fists from where they’re tucked under his biceps. Everything in his body looks coiled tight and strained, so at odds with the easy going and loose-limbed man you know him to be.

You don’t realize just how much you’ve zoned out until Natasha has to say your name a couple time before you pull your gaze away from Bradley and back to her.

“Ok, it’s settled,” Nat informs you, “Rooster’s going to take you.” You barely nod your head in acknowledgement when she tells you, because it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach now too.

“It’s the least he can do,” Jake drawls.

“That’s not fair-” you start, defensively.

“Fuck off, Bagman-” Rooster snaps.

The rage in his voice shocks you, you’ve never heard that much heat from him before. There’s none of the teasing tone that usually underscores their banter. Jake puts both of his hands up placatingly like my bad, folks and Javy just shakes his head and sighs.

And this time when you look at Bradley, he is finally looking back at you with a deep furrow in his brow. His jaw is clenched tight, that muscle ticking and jumping, as he takes in the way you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your forehead.

Not exactly the way you’d hoped he’d be looking at you when you put on your new blue and white striped swimsuit this morning.

The one you’d bought because you wanted to make him look.

Just not like this.

With everything sorted the rest of the team trickles away a smattering of take cares and get better soons and let us know if you need anythings. But not before Mickey hands Rooster his stuff and passes Nat your bag and sandals. He gives you the gentlest of squeezes on your shoulder before he leaves to join everyone else back on little part of the beach you all had claimed before things went to shit.

Your group of eight now downsized to a trio.

Bradley is quick to roughly pull on his tank and shirt, and Nat fishes out your car keys from your bag as she waits for him to slip his shoes on. When he’s ready she passes it to him and he silently slides it over his arm.

Nat bends down to help gingerly glide your feet into your sandals, “I’ll grab the rest your things and drop them off at your place and then one of the boys will drop off your car later. We’ve got it all covered, ok?”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say quietly, trying to hold back a wince as she slips the left one on, your ankle pulsing in tempo with your heartbeat.

“Best friends don’t say thank you, they just do,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands. It’s the same thing you’d told her after you’d dumped a carton of strawberry milk on Carly Radke for outing Natasha your freshman year in high school. It was only time you’d ever gotten detention, but it had been worth it.

“They just do,” you repeat with a small smile.

You’re so grateful that your friendship with her is one that has spanned years. That you’ve been able seen one another grow and change and come into their own, but that you haven’t outgrown each other. She’s the person you want by your side and having your back. There is no one quite like Natasha Trace.

She turns to Bradley and you watch him stand a little taller under her sharp eyes, your straw tote still dangling from his forearm.

“You good?” Nat asks him with a look in her eye that you can’t place. And you’re reminded that even though she’s your best friend, that he has also earned a spot as one of her closest friends. Their relationship built over years and experiences that you could never fully understand. Different, but just as deep.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her. I’ll take care of her,” Rooster promises with a stiff nod, as he gives her his word. It might have made your heart beat a little faster if you didn’t feel like such a burden. That it’s simply a twist of fate and three less drinks than everyone else for the reason that he’s the one to look after you. That he’s the one stuck with you.

“I know you will,” she says softer now, patting his shoulder, “Keep me posted.” Nat presses a kiss to your cheek and gives you an encouraging smile then heads off to go rejoin everyone else.

You watch her go with longing. The cheerful beach set up with its colorful blankets and umbrellas looks more like a desert mirage now. The sweet coconut scented potential of what the day could have been now forever out of reach.

And then it’s just you and Bradley and the sound of the waves and cries of seagulls.

The two of you silent and motionless.

You feel one wrong move and the fragile attempt of the stiff upper lip you’ve cocooned yourself in will crack open and all the soft parts of you will seep out into the sand beneath your feet.

His expression is shuttered closed as he bends a bit like he is going to pick you up.

“Woah, buddy, what are you doing?” You’re squinting into the sun as you look at him. You’d step into his shadow to block it, since you’re now in need of a new pair of sunglasses, but that would mean moving to the left which isn’t an option with your ankle.

“Buddy,” he grunts under his breath, slipping off his sunglasses and carefully putting them on your face, being mindful of stinging scrapes and wad of soft cotton you’re holding to your head. “They’re definitely going to have to run concussion protocol on you,” he mutters more to himself than to you, “I’m taking you to the Bronco and then we’re going the ER, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, Rooster,” you grit out, even rolling your eyes hurts, “But I don’t need you to carry me.”

Everything about this was excruciating and embarrassing enough without him being the Clark Gable to your Vivian Leigh. Maybe you could lean on him and hop over to his car? Like a six-foot-one pair of crutches with good hair.

“Take a step without wincing and I’ll think about it,” he says firmly, pointedly calling your bluff. There’s an expectant look of go on then, whenever you’re ready on his face. Because he knows he’s right, and you do too.

You don’t even bother to make a move, but the way your lower lips wobbles speaks volumes.

“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, almost like pains him to be right.

He bends a little to hook his arms around your knees and back to lift you up, and this time you let him. Your free arm automatically wrapping around the back of his neck. And he starts off towards the winking windshields of the parking lot.

You’ve thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, how good it would feel to be pressed closed against him. And now you are and it’s nothing like you’ve imagined, because there isn’t anything sweet or swoon-worthy about how you ended up in them. You’re his duty, you’re not his desire.

All your sandcastle hopes have been washed away by the tide.

You’re so frustrated. You’re frustrated by the day, by yourself, by him.

This time you can’t blink back the tears that well up in your eyes. They flood through your tear ducts carving hot trails down your sun-tinged cheeks.

You want the Bradley from earlier.

The one who stole your watermelon with warmth in his eyes.

The one who dozed next to you in the sun like a cat, his features soft free of the tension he now holds in his shoulders.

You want your Bradley.

The one who’d whispered cheeky comments in your ear whenever the team got into lighthearted tequila fueled arguments about things like whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

The one who’d always go up to the bar with you on busy nights at the Hard Deck and make sure you didn’t get bumped into on the way back to your friends with your freshly refilled drinks.

You’re aching, aching. Everywhere.

For a brief moment, as you swipe at your tears, you’re happy for the throbbing in your head and ankle, so that way you don’t have to think about the stinging in your heart.

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” Rooster says gentle and low as you sniffle, but you can hear the thickness of the words in his throat. The term of endearment is the sweetest of nothings, making your tears come faster. Where it should ease the heartache, all it does is make you angry at yourself for giving your emotions away. “We’re almost to the Bronco. It’s ok, we’re gonna get you taken care of, I promise.”

We.

You wanted that with him.

You want to press both of your hands to his cheeks to make him look you in the eyes to ask him is it going to be you and me together? You’ve been a fool for love before, but you didn’t know if could take another hit-and-run with your heart.

The salt of your tears makes your cheeks feel tight and itchy as the summer breeze dries them on your skin.

Bradley carries you like you weigh nothing, but cradles you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever held. He’s mindful of any dips in the sand and gives wide berth around the college kids playing volleyball close to the entry back to the parking lot.

When he reaches the Bronco, he sets you down gently, making sure both of your feet are planted on the asphalt before letting go of you to unlock his car. He tells you to wait a moment when you move to open the passenger side door.

“I never know when I might get called up for an emergency deployment, so I like to have some extra clothes just in case,” he explains as he digs around in the backseat, pulling out a pair of gray athletic shorts.

“Oh.” And you realize you’re still just clad in your striped swimsuit. “Thank you for sparing me from the hospital germs,” you say lightly, an attempt at a joke to break the ice. One that doesn’t land, since instead of cracking a grin he just presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.

Bradley crouches low in front of you and you put a hand on his shoulder for balance as you lean against the Bronco, still trying to keep as much pressure off your left ankle as possible as you step into them. He’s looking up at you and even through his sunglasses perched on your nose, you swear his brown eyes get a shade darker as he eases the shorts up your legs. You’re touched by the effort as he ties the strings in a lopsided bow, even if things are feeling tense between the two of you.

“Think this’ll be easier,” he mumbles shrugging off his light blue button up. You’ve always liked this one, with its soft pastel pink and minty green watercolor prints of net fishermen and hula girls and palm trees.

He holds it open for you, helping you thread your arm through it, and then takes over holding Jake’s now ruined shirt to your head so that you can get your other arm past the sleeve. It smells like him, citrus and amber. Your fingers brush against each other when you reclaim the makeshift bandage, and he adjusts his shirt so that it hangs over your shoulders just right.

It’s an awkward kind silent as Rooster helps lift you into the Bronco with his strong hands around your hips. He is all smooth efficiency as he buckles you in with a click. You pass him back his sunglasses the same moment he hands you your tote bag, and it almost feels like a hostage exchange.

He says nothing as he hauls himself into the driver’s side. The car rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition and a cheery song from the 80’s station on the radio comes on. Bradley quick to turn the volume down low. His thumb brushing your shoulder as he sets his hand on the back of your seat to look behind him as he carefully backs out of the spot.

It’s never felt this strained with him before.

It’s so painfully obvious that the two of you are walking on eggshells around each other. You can almost feel the wall that’s gone up around him. The white noise of the radio drowned out by the hum of the road as he drives in near silence.

Your day has been most effectively ruined by a chunk of sedimentary rock, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still recoup what’s left of it.

He could still have the perfect summer afternoon.

He could still go back to your friends and their perfect beach set up and laugh with them as Coyote keeps accidentally setting marshmallows on fire. He could still catch the bold oranges and soft pinks of the sunset with all the satisfied contentment he deserved to experience.

“You can leave me and go back, you know. I’ll be ok if you just want drop me off and then head back to the beach,” you say looking down at your fingers as you trace the stitching of his leather seats.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you glance over at him. The vein in his neck is standing out boldly against the column of his throat.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who would leave someone at the ER alone?” he asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

“No. No, of course not,” you say emphatically, “That’s why I’m giving you permission.”

“Permission?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.

“Yes, permission,” you say, clipped.

You’re giving him an out, why doesn’t he get that?

He heaves a big sigh and grunts. “Is it… Would you rather have Bob- with his big hands- here instead?” Bradley asks, frustration leaking out around the edges of his words.

“Bob with his big hands?” you repeat baffled, “What does Bob have to do with anything about this?”

“That’s what you said earlier, sweetheart. I’m just citing the source. Or I can call Phoenix? Or…” he pauses glancing at the t-shirt pressed to your head, “Or even Seresin. Once we get you checked in I can call any of them an Uber or something, and they can be there with you, if you don’t want me.”

“No, Rooster, I don’t want anyone else.” You wince at the implication and hope it doesn’t read into it further than the current situation to two of you are wading through like quick sand.

“Ok, good,” he grumbles.

“Great,” you lob back.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, “Then where is this even coming from?” The action makes his thick forearm flex in this most delicious of ways that you’d appreciate more if you didn’t feel the anger simmering low in your stomach.

“It’s pretty damn clear that you’d rather be back there, Rooster. Or literally anywhere else right now.” You flip down the sun visor with more force than it deserves, regretting that you gave him his sunglasses back when the bright California sun in your eyes turns your headache into a full-blown migraine.

“Of course, I’d rather be anywhere else!” he says hotly, tossing his sunglasses back in your lap, “Do you think I like that you’re hurt and that we’re on our way to the hospital?” You shove them on your face with an angry huff.

A car speeds by blaring their horn as they pass by.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” he grunts but speed of the Bronco doesn’t change, “Asshole.”

Bradley’s driving five miles under the posted limit, and you know for a fact he religiously drives at least ten miles over. And his turns have been smoother than butter, as if he is trying not to jostle you anymore than you’d already been today.

You are so tired of this hot and cold thing that he’s doing. His words and his deeds weren’t going hand in hand. He keeps giving you the cold shoulder, but is also so in tune with your every movement and need.

Gingerly, you angle yourself in your seat to look at him better, resting your tired left arm on the back of your seat and taking in his strong profile.

“Why are you being like this?” you demand, waving your free hand in a vaguely in his general direction.

“Like what? I’m not being like anything,” he retorts, making the same vague hand gesture as you did a moment earlier.

And oh, if that doesn’t fill your chest with hot indignation. That low simmering anger has turned into a full roiling boil as you shift in your seat trying to get your ankle in a position where it doesn’t hurt.

“Seriously, Rooster? I can feel tension rolling off of you in waves. You’ve been like this since everything turned to complete shit on the beach. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m just trying to figure out how to make things better,” you bite out unable to keep things bottled up anymore.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Are you kidding me right now? You think you ruined my day?” He glances from the road to you and back again, his brown eyes wide and searching.

“Yes?” Or so you’d thought until you’d seen the shock written all over his face, but now you weren’t so sure. It’s like you’ve dumped ice water on him instead of simply calling him out. “I feel like you’re taking it out on me and I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rooster swears under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart. I’m mad at myself, because I ruined your day. I should have been more careful, I should have been looking out for you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss in that swimsuit.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment, but you choose to ignore it.

Misery drips from his words like spilled ink off a page. You knew he was upset, but you didn’t realize he was upset about that. That he’s shouldering this fluke of fate as if it is his burden to bear. Some of the anger you’ve been feeling leaves your body like the tide washing out back out to sea. You’re still upset at him for how he has been acting up until this point, but you’re not mad at him about that.

“Bradley, no. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, an accident I’m responsible for,” he says hoarsely, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “God, I can still hear the sound it made when you hit that rock and it makes me feel sick. I would give anything to undo that moment. I need you to know that.”

He is being so hard on himself and your heart squeezes, this time in sympathy rather than hurt. He didn’t place that rock in the sand, the both of you were victims of circumstance.

“It could have happened to anyone. It could have been anyone,” you press delicately, trying to get him to hear you, shifting in your seat again still uncomfortable.

The sunshine bounces off of his slumped shoulders as he sighs raggedly.

“But it happened to you and it’s my fault. You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you’ve been crying. And it’s because of me.” He reaches down with his right hand and lifts up your leg so that you can rest it on his thigh, some of the ache alleviating immediately. He asks quietly, “That better?”

“Yes, thank you,” you murmur. He looks so upset, and all you want to do is curl into his lap. You want to hold him and you want to be held by him. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”

You expect him to move his hand back to the steering wheel, but he keeps it on your leg. His thumb stroking your still slightly sandy shin. Your cheery toenail polish at odds with the color blooming around your ankle.

Bradley’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, “Yeah, I do. I know that. But I still blame myself.”

The Bronco rolls to a soft stop at the light. There’s enough traffic that you know you’ll be here for a bit, and so does he since he turns in his seat to look fully at you. You take his sunglasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt that rests above your heart, so nothing stands between his brown eyes and yours.

“So, you’re going to keep beating yourself up over it and icing me out? Making me feel worse? For what, Bradley? Because you’re a glutton for punishment? That’s not fair to me or to you.”

“Shit,” he mutters, his left hand running through his curls. “You’re right and I’m so sorry. I’ve been in my head feeling so damn guilty that I’ve been such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”

You’re about to answer him that when a horn startles you, making you jump in the leather seat. You see the light is green, the car that had been in front of you is gliding through the intersection passing under a blue sign pointing the way to the hospital.

“Bradley, the light.”

The car behind the two of you honks their horn again.

“They can wait. This is important, you are important. Do you forgive me?” There’s an underscore of need that punctuates his question.

“Yes, of course,” you say easily and sincerely. There’s so much remorse in his eyes, you would have forgiven him with that look alone.

“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief. And then he smiles at you for the first time since the beach and that ache in your heart is completely soothed, bandaged by that soft way he is looking at you.

Atlas no longer, he can simply be Bradley.

He takes his foot off the brake and by some miracle he’s able to make it through the light before it turns red again. You can see the tall structure of the parking lot near the hospital poking out above the line of the treetops.

The destination is closer than ever, but there are still things on your mind.

“And you aren’t an asshole, Bradley. But your bedside manner could definitely use some work,” you tease with a smile of your own.

“Baby, I’ve been trying to show you my bedside manner, but you keep holding me at arm’s length,” he groans dramatically.

The idea of experiencing Bradley Bradshaw’s bedside manner makes you feel all kinds of weak in the knees, even as you’re seated in his Bronco with your leg propped up in his lap, his big hand skating up and down along your shin comfortingly.

“How can you even say that with a straight face? You’ve never made a move!” you exclaim incredulously, “I was even the one to ask for your phone number, if you remember.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I hit on you all the time,” he argues with your favorite brand of Bradshaw banter, “I’ve been waiting for you to give me the green light, sweetheart.”

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty and smart,” you smirk.

He barks a laugh and the last tendrils of all the tension and all the pressure that had been swirling around you like a marine layer evaporates.

“You saying I’ve had the green light this whole time?” He looks over at you with a boyish smile, you like the way you feel when he looks at you like this.

“What I’m saying, Bradley, is if you’d have actually asked me out I would have said yes.” You press your toes into the muscle of his thick thigh and immediately regret it, wincing as pain ripples around your ankle.

He makes a sympathetic sound deep in his chest, “Sounds like I’ve been an idiot.”

“A very pretty one,” you allow, leaning your aching head back against the back seat.

“At least there’s that,” he concedes good-naturedly as he pulls into the parking lot, turning on his blinker for a spot opening up near the entrance to the Emergency Room by some twist of fate, one that’s in your favor this time.

Bradley pulls into the empty spot and kills the engine turning to you. He gently eases your foot back down onto the sandy floormat of the Bronco and leans into unbuckle your seatbelt.

He’s so close now looking up at you from under his eyelashes, and your breath catches in your throat. He moves closer, you can see the bits of hazel that surround his pupils. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head up, lips parting at the anticipation of his kiss.

There’s no holding back the noise of dissatisfaction you make when his lips press a tender kiss to your cheek. You lean into him wanting to feel, wanting him to give you more. His warm breath coasts over your skin as he chuckles. You can feel the way his lips are pulled up into a smile.

“I’m a gentleman, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls away, his eyes lingering on your lips. “My mom raised me not to go for the kiss on the first date. Or ones with head wounds and potential concussions.”

“Some first date,” you lament jokingly, looking in at the fluorescent lights awaiting you inside the hospital. You’d rather skip over this part entirely, but you’re ready to be done with holding Jake’s shirt to your head. “Nothing like insurance cards and scrubs to really set the mood.”

“Mmm. How about this, after we’re done here, I’ll take you through whatever drive-thru you want-”

“In-N-Out,” you cut in without a second thought. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off on you, even if the fries are terrible.

“Ok,” he grins, “I’ll take you through in In-N-Out and get you your number two combo with mustard and grilled onions with a vanilla shake.” He pauses waiting for your nod of approval, looking more than pleased with himself when you acknowledge he got your order right.

“I like the sound of this so far,” you hum.

“Well that’s good. Since it’ll be our first date, I want to set that bar high,” he says giving you a wink. And there are those butterflies again, this time you don’t try to catch them with a net. They’re free to flutter around as they wish.

“If you really want to impress me, you’ll also take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru for their fries,” you muse.

“Done.”

“I was kidding,” you laugh, shaking your head at him disbelievingly and thoroughly charmed.

“Well, I wasn’t. So after we get you fed, give or take some fries, I will bring you home. I’ll get you whatever you need, I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Think you might be on crutches for a bit, sweetheart,” he says softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “And then in the morning, if you’re up for it, I’ll take you out for breakfast. Or bring you breakfast. Whatever you want. We can call that date number two.”

“And then you’ll kiss me?”

“And then I’ll kiss you,” he promises, offering you a crooked pinky finger. You beam and you wrap your own around his.

He slips out of the driver’s seat leaving you to contemplate the terms of his offer as he rounds the front of the Bronco. The nurses are going to get an eyeful of him in only those snug jean shorts and thin white tank. You make a mental note to avoid looking at him if they have to connect you to a heart rate monitor, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Not yet anyways.

“I have counteroffer,” you announce turning your body towards him as he opens your door for you.

“Let’s hear it, baby,” he says with a grin that almost makes you forget how bad your head and ankle hurt, “Shoot.”

“We still go to In-N-Out, but then in the morning you make me breakfast in bed with some of those famous Bradshaw pancakes I’ve heard about,” you say, as he steps in between your legs, “Seems like a good way to work on that bedside manner of yours.”

“I think you’re going to like my bedside manner, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

You tilt your head at him, taking in the sunkissed strands in his hair and the affection in his eyes, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Guess we will,” he rasps.

Rooster drops another sweet kiss to your cheek, whispering for you to stay put, and then he struts off towards the automatic doors of the Emergency Room. Leaving you alone with the butterflies in your stomach and the hope in your heart.

You dig your phone out of your straw tote and check the time, doing the math in your head.

There are a few messages from Nat and other people on the team already checking in, but you know you’ll have time to reply to them later as you wait with Bradley sitting by your side.

You look up and see he’s got a wheelchair now and is making his way back to you, wearing a soft smile on his face just for you.

Only seventeen more hours until you get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw and you can’t wait.

You’ve got that forever feeling about him.

Oh, oh, oh.

Thank you for reading! Rock on. Oh that joke was schist, I'll see myself out.

This was written as part of @roosterforme's Rocktober Playlist! You can check out all the other great submissions here!

The song that inspired this story was Paula Abdul's "Straight Up"

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader

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lovebugism · 1 year ago

Note

eddie fucking you in the back of his van whilst it’s raining😫

hope you like it lovie!! — after a series of ruined date nights, eddie makes up for another failure the only way he knows how (established relationship, smut 18+, 1.4k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie was gonna take you out, come hell or high water — literally.

It was like the universe was conjuring up ways to keep you apart. He tries to plan a date night with you, and suddenly you have to pick up your coworker’s extra shift and the brakes in his van don’t work anymore.

He takes you to a drive-in to see some black-and-white horror movie, and for the first time in weeks, things are actually looking pretty good. With some candy he brought from home, the two of you settle under the covers in the back of his van, lazing against one another as the projector flickers on.

And then it just starts fucking pouring.

It’s like he blinks and the whole thing gets canceled and the entire parking lot is empty.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he grumbles under his breath, not unlike the black storm clouds rolling overhead.

You giggle at his dramatics. The heavenly sound melts with the wild cadence of rain, tapping rhythmically against the rusted tin roof of the van.

You’re still being a good sport about the whole thing despite the circumstances. You don’t care what you’re doing, really. You’re happy just doing nothing with Eddie.

“They refunded us for next week. We can just come back Saturday.”

“I wanted to do it this Saturday,” he whines, all boyishly angry. With his arms crossed over his chest, he leans his head back and bares his milky white neck. “This was supposed to be our night together— why does everything have to get so fucked all the time?”

“It’s not like everything’s totally ruined,” you assure him, practically cooing as you smooth out the frown between his brows with your thumb. “At least we’re together. Who cares about the rest of it?”

“I know, but… You were really excited about it. And I was really excited to watch you watch the movie.”

Eddie tries to be serious, but he’s grinning the second he makes you laugh.

“Shut up…”

“I mean it,” he tells you, serious and quiet with it. His cheek squishes against his shoulder when he pouts at you. “I think I might be heartbroken, babe.”

You know what he’s playing at. You lean into it, anyway.

“Yeah?” you hum with narrowed eyes.

He nods.

“Want me to make it better?”

“Please?”

You close the short distance between you to press a kiss to his mouth. It’s the chastest little peck — you’re practically gone the second you’re there. Eddie chases you when you pull away, tasting of nicotine and pink starbursts when he kisses you deeper.

You get lost in him like it’s nothing, sighing when his soft tongue juts gently against your own. He’s sucking softly at your bottom lip one second, and the next, you’re lying on a pile of fuzzy blankets.

His rings and cold knuckles brush your sides when he tugs at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for its removal. You come to then, pulling back from him with a low click sounding between your kissed mouths.

“Wait…”

“What?” he wonders, lips rosy and swollen. His deep, chocolate eyes dart between both of yours, looking for any sign that something might be wrong.

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

“No— Everyone already left.”

He’s breathless from having been kissed so ardently. He leans down for more anyway. His stomach twists with rejection when you press against his shoulders to stop him.

With a sigh, he concedes and rises off of you again. His shirt is wrinkled and skewed around his neck from your passionate touches. Still on his knees, he reaches for the metal handle of the back door and shouts into the roaring rain — “Hello? Anyone out here?”

“Eddie!” you shout, giggling and jerking backward when rogue droplets sprinkle inside.

The van shakes when he slams the door shut again.

“See?” he lilts with a lopsided grin. “No one.”

You shake your head at him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“You love me, though,” he mutters as he settles back over you. The weight of his body is warm against your own. With your hands on his sides, you pull him somehow closer.

“Unfortunately…” you gripe, kissing the breath from his lungs a second later.

When he reaches for the hem of your shirt again, you let him take it off.

—————

The thundering rain against the roof almost drowns out your gentle moans. Eddie’s glad you’re breathing them right into his ear, so he can hear everything he’s doing to you.

His thrusts are slow and measured. Almost painfully unrushed. He shushes your begging to go faster — “Just let me make you feel good,” he mutters, slurred and low, “Let me hit that spot.” He pierces you with his cock, tilting his hips to hit deep inside you until you make a pretty noise for him, then he creeps back out again.

He never pulls all the way out, though, ‘cause he might die if he left the warm velvet you are around him. He keeps his pelvis pressed intently against your own, the coarse hair at the base of his cock steady on your pussy. The pressure against your clit is merciless.

“Put your legs around me, baby,” he mumbles against your mouth because he knows the different angle will make it better for you.

He almost smirks when you obey him without thinking, but his mouth parts with an unexpected moan before he can. You pull your knees back and tuck your ankles around his waist, heels pressing gently above his ass.

Your cunt widens and suckles him further in.

Eddie grumbles a hearty, poorly muffled moan into your neck.

“There you go— just like that,” he praises. “Doing so good for me, pretty. Always so good for me.”

You whine again, high and light, like the praise is equally as pleasurable as his cock.

His metal chain glides between your breasts when he pulls back from you. He tucks his ringed fingers into your waist and sits back on his haunches, balls resting warm and wet against your ass. He keeps rocking into you, unhurried.

“What happened to that mouth you had before, huh?” Eddie wonders, still breathless.

He smirks when you moan in response. He knows you don’t have the words to answer him. He knows he’s fucked you far too stupid.

“Thought I was incorrigible, remember? What happened to that?”

Your mouth parts in a silent whimper, back arching and brows pinching when his cock hits deeper than you think he’s ever been. The pleasure feels borderline electric — makes your spine tingle and your legs go numb.

“Yeah… For someone who loves mouthing off—” Eddie continues to tease despite his breathlessness. You clench around him, and he has to remember to exhale. “—You open up so easily for me. Don’t ya, honey?”

You wanna say something. You think you almost do. But his thrusts are as merciless as they are slow. He presses impossibly deep within you and keeps hitting that spot until you tremble. The words get caught in your throat, along with a silent moan.

“That’s okay, honey. Just let me fuck you. Let me make you feel good,” Eddie slurs, mumbling like he’s talking to himself. “Go dumb for me like you always do. So perfect at that— god.”

He tilts his head back to howl a groan. Through fluttering lashes and a blurry vision, you see his clenched jaw and taut neck and heaving chest.

Eddie always talks a big game when he gets you all sweet and pliable underneath him. He loves to be dominant while he tears you apart, but as his own orgasm crawls up his spine, his true colors start to show.

He leans back over you again, caging you beneath his warm weight. He stops hiding his pathetic whines and whimpers and instead buries them into your sweat-slick shoulder. He babbles in your ear, a bunch of garbled nothingness because words are starting to lose meaning.

“Fuck, honey. Oh, fuck— you’re so fucking— shit. You’re so goddamn pretty, baby, you know that? So good for me. So soft, too. Shit. This pussy’s gonna kill me.”

He tucks his face into your neck and tries to kiss you through his whines. His ringed fingers crawl behind your back, holding you like his life depends on it while his measured thrusts grow rapid and sloppy.

Eddie begs you to cum, or rather demands it because he can feel himself about to explode. “Cum— Cum for me— right fucking now.”

You do. You’ve been hanging by a thread the whole time, really. And like you expected, Eddie’s not too far behind you. Your unabashed moans entwine, mixing with the wild cadence of the rain against the tin roof of the rocking van.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: fictober!

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leighsartworks216 · 7 days ago

Text

Lay All Your Love On Me

Zayne x gn!Reader & Sylus

Written for a challenge by @jinwoosbabyboo

The prompt: running into your main lads man (boyfriend) while you're out with your second favorite lads man (as a friend) and how they would react

I wrote this at like 2am cuz I got so inspired and then I promptly passed out lmao

Title from "Lay All Your Love On Me" by ABBA

Warnings: fluff, silly, jealousy, drunkenness, Sylus being a little shit

Word Count: 1,390

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus grabs your shoulder, steering you back onto the sidewalk and away from the window displays. You’d been adamant on walking this way, even though your apartment is in the direct opposite direction. When asked why, repeatedly, all you did was giggle and say it was a secret. He can’t tell if that mischief stems from who you are as a person or the alcohol warming your blood.

“Come on, sweetie. We should be getting you back home.” He plants his feet, tugging on your arm to try coaxing you back the way you came.

You whine. You stumble over your feet trying to get free from his hold. “Nooo~ We need to keep going this way!”

He sighs. The amusement he found in your inebriation faded about a block ago. “If you’d tell me why we need to keep going this way, it would help me figure out what you want so badly.” You trip into him. He huffs as he catches you, holding you in a loose hug until your head stops spinning. “Feel like talking, kitten?”

“Hmm…” You let your arms go limp by your sides and drop your forehead to rest against his chest. Closing your eyes isn’t really helping, but neither is staring at your feet. Still, your feet are far more interesting to look at right now as you try playfully stepping on his toes. “I just- He’s gotta be this way! Cuz he said he was gonna go to the bakery after work, but I forgot! And- urgh, Tara dragged me out ‘n then I remembered!”

“Who are you talking about, kitten?”

You sigh heavily. You lift your head to look at him, chin pressing painfully against him. He doesn’t react more than quirking a brow at you. “This really cute guy I like,” you admit. Seemingly out of nowhere, tears start to pool in your eyes.

Sylus is starting to regret answering the desperate call Tara made to him, begging him to take you home. He can understand her desperation now.

“He- He’s taken, though! I like him so much, Sy! But he’s not single anymore!” You hiccup pathetically, face crumpling with emotion. “And he’s so, so pretty, and I- I wanna kiss him soooo bad, Sy. What ‘m I supposed to do?”

He pats your back awkwardly, scanning the stores down the way. “Look, the bakery is right there. Why don’t we sit down and wait for him, hm?”

You sniffle, wiping at your eyes with your wrist. “Okay…”

You follow along like a pouting child, holding his hand as he walks you the rest of the way to your destination. Outside of the display window, dense with cakes and other sweet treats, haloed by the orange light from within, is a wooden bench, blessedly unoccupied. Sylus sits you down first, ensuring you’re not gonna run off and cause trouble. He sits at the other end, his elbow resting atop the bench as he props his head up. He nods to you, resigned to his fate. “Tell me about him.”

You perk up, wet eyes lighting up as you wiggle giddily in your seat. “Oh, he’s so cute, Sy! He’s like, really tall and he wears cute sweaters sometimes. And! And his eyes are like-” You mimic starburst explosions coming from your eyes. “You know?”

“I can’t say I do.”

Ignoring him, you keep rambling. “His hair is soooo soft, too. I don’t know how he does it, cuz he doesn’t do anything to his hair, but it’s just- it falls so perfectly. ‘N it smells really good, too. I’m so jealous. I wish my hair was that perfect.” You pout, fussing with your hair. It doesn’t help that you can’t see it, but you certainly try. In the end, you’ve created the perfect mess on your head.

The door to the bakery jingles as it opens. A customer takes two steps outside before stopping. “Y/N?”

You look up, eyes glazed over, blinking dumbly. Slowly, your eyes focus in on him, like you’re just waking up from a dream. You gasp and rush to your feet. You fall into him more than you purposefully hug him, but he wraps his free arm around you all the same.

You turn toward Sylus, still lounging on the bench. “Sy, this is the guy I was telling you about! Look at his hair!”

Zayne easily deflects your clumsy attempt to mess with his hair. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m just a friend. You can call me Skye. You must be their boyfriend.”

“Wait!” You stare up at Zayne with wide eyes. “You’re taken by ME?!”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Too much,” Sylus answers for you. He stands up, thumbs tucked casually into his front pockets. “They were crying on the way here about you being ‘taken.’ I trust that I can leave them in your capable hands?”

Zayne looks the man up and down. He doesn’t recognize him among the countless stories of friends you’ve told him about before. Something about him sets Zayne on edge, but he just nods stiffly, lips pursed. “Thank you for escorting them here,” he says, but it lacks the warmth of true gratitude.

Sylus smirks as he nods in return. You turn to wave at the tall man. “Goodnight, Sy! Say hello to Mephie for me, m’kay?”

“Of course, sweetie. Good luck sleeping off your hangover.”

With that, he turns and heads back down the street. Zayne watches him leave, arm tightening around you. Something stirs within him uncomfortably: the unmistakable twist of jealousy. It calculates every small glance, touch, glimmer of anything where there’s nothing, tossing it into a burning fire in his system. But now is not the time to address it.

“Hold this,” he says, with all the patience of a doctor dealing with a crying three-year-old.

You take the bag of treats from him without hesitation. “Oooh, what’d’ya get?”

Before you can peek in, your feet are being pulled out from under you as Zayne lifts you into his arms. You hold the bag in your lap with one hand. The other wraps around his neck to keep you secure. “The bakery had some seasonal desserts to try, so I got some of each. If we don’t like them, I also bought a couple of our usual favorites.”

The bakery is close to the hospital where he left his car parked. People give him odd looks as he passes by, but he’s more focused on the intense look you’re giving him. Intense not for any strong emotion behind it, but because of the unyielding way you stare at his face.

“What’s on your mind?”

You sigh dreamily. ��Can’t believe I get to date you,” you hum. You groan quietly, pouting at him. “I wanna kiss you, but I know you don’t like that in public. Can I kiss you when we get back home?”

His lips quirk into a small smile. “You can kiss my cheek tonight,” he says, voice low, private. “Tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, you can kiss me properly.”

“I’m not gonna be able to survive until tomorrow!” you whine dramatically. “Just one small kiss? Pretty please? Pretty, pretty please with sugar on top?”

That stirring emotion in his gut is rapidly settled with your pleas. He sets you carefully back on your feet beside his car. The parking lot is empty, and almost every window in the hospital is dark or dim. You hold onto his arm with your free hand, preventing him from grabbing his keys until he answers.

He sighs softly, amused. Your face is so beautiful in this light. “Okay,” he agrees. “One small kiss.”

The way your face lights up is blinding. You dance awkwardly on your feet in your excitement, letting go of him as you try getting into the still locked car. “C’mon, c’mon! I got the prettiest man in the whole world to kiss!”

What did he have to be jealous about when he was the one taking you home? The one being pulled into kisses by you over and over again while he tries to get you ready for bed? The one you wake up to, groaning and wishing for death after drinking too much the night before? He doesn’t have anything to worry about at all.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi

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birrdies · 6 months ago

Text

'SUNBLEACHED' (1.6k words) Our collaboration piece for the Flowers in the Desert zine! writing by me (birrdies) art by @fishbloc

Sunflowers.

Over the flat, endless plain they stretch as far as Scar can see. Roots and leaves branch like veins and arteries through the soil on the verge of something alive. The sunflowers face the limitless blue above— no beginning or end— the stretch so vast that time itself feels as inconsequential as a marble rolling around in his hand.

Scar doesn’t understand it.

One second his feet had been on the stone where Pearl had fallen, where lightning had struck with finality, and the next he’s up to his waist in sunflowers. Each golden petal stands on edge. As if they know something he doesn’t. He reaches out to touch one of these petals; they tickle the pads of his fingers. Shy, pretty things.

It’s quiet here and Scar isn’t sure if it’s a silence he finds comforting or damning. He thinks he should be afraid, but how can he be? It’s warm here. The earth smells of freshly fallen rain beneath his feet, despite not a single cloud in the sky above. The fresh, dewey scent that soothes him, almost convinces him that this is a good place to be.

“You’re here,” a voice says behind him.

There, enveloped by the countless sunflowers, is Grian. His hair is pale, sunbleached, and his cheeks are pink. Everything about him has been touched by the light in some way, down to the faded red poncho draping his shoulders and the speckling of freckles across his nose bridge.

He’s drowning in it— this light. He’s made of it. And Scar’s eyes fall to find the sunflowers around him withering and decaying quickly. The yellow petals curl and desiccate into gray husks, breaking off their buds and fluttering to the ground. They’re dying. Not by lack of sunlight, Scar realizes, but by an excess of it. Burnt to a crisp.

And like the sun, his skin blisters. The skin of his hands and the redness slathering them have no beginning or end. Gashes and swelling bruises and split knuckles. The blood never clots, a constant red drip falling from the fingers held limp at his sides. A quiet drip, drip, drip the only sound across the windless field. Not even so much as the sound of a breath. Just that blood. “Grian,” Scar says. “I’m here.”

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Grian’s here either. But he’s grateful he is. Their nightmare— or, had it been a dream?— ended long ago, the desert gone and buried several games past. The Grian in front of him now isn’t the Grian he’d fought with moments ago. This Grian was younger. More afraid. More capable of burning.

“Where… where is here, exactly?” Scar asks.

Grian curls those bleeding fingers into the nearest living sunflower. As if he’s unsure whether he wants to caress it or yank it from the ground, roots and all. His face is twisted, it’s always twisted when Scar’s around. But he yearns for the days when that twist had been of wicked delight, the way green-lit eyes exploded into starbursts at the sight of their mutual destruction.

“You won,” Grian says simply, taking a sunflower by the stem and starting to pluck the petals. One by one. “Congratulations.”

Scar falters. A victory. A bolt of lightning striking the earth, the loud thud of a gavel. It’s over Scar, he hears, a constant echo in the back of his mind. You won. Grian’s anger burns. A second petal falls. “You’re upset.” Scar will do anything to make it stop, to untie the knot tied between Grian’s eyebrows, to take those cracked, bleeding hands in his own and mend them until the skin is whole again. To take away the pain, the regret, the guilt.

Grian never left the desert, no matter how much he wanted to. And Scar could never go back. No matter how often he wished he could.

“This is your dream, Scar.” Grian turns his face away. “It’s been a long time coming— a victory.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve won anything,” Scar says honestly. A victory implies the heavy yet welcome weight of a crown, the fleeting yet intoxicating rush of excitement. But all Scar feels is the emptiness in his chest, the air around his crownless head. Blood on his hands that he can’t see, but knows is there all the same. The same way it stains Grian’s.

Grian plucks a third petal. He barks a cruel laugh, but it sounds more like he’s about to cry. “How do you think I felt?” Scar frowns. “It’s still about the desert? After all this time?”

Grian plucks another petal. Four. It flutters to the ground to join the others, yellow petals torn and crumpled, slowly turning gray. The edge of his mouth tugs into a knife-like smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s all he can manage, though he doesn’t mean it. Nothing can make him regret that day, knelt in a cool pond with the weight of a diamond blade against the junction of his neck. The hand he used to hold onto it, digging it into his own skin— asking for it. “You deserved to win.”

“I deserved this? To be alone?” Grian throws his arms out to the sides, to the endless curvature of sunflowers drowning the both of them. Nothing to shield them from the unrelenting sun above. “Because that’s what winning means. You’re alone, Scar.”

Scar’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You’re here.”

“Am I?” A fifth petal. “Or do you just want me to be?”

Scar stares at Grian, uncaring if the scalding brightness gives him sunspots, or if the pain of looking at the spoils of his own choices burns him up from the inside. You won, Scar, his voice echoes again and again in Scar’s mind, a scratched record. His fists curl up at his sides, into the black cloak sewn with lilacs and poppies along the hem.

Is that what this is? A cruel illusion to make him realize what it truly means to be the man at the edge of the world, to be the last man standing? If this is victory— Scar grits his teeth and twists his fists into his cloak— then he doesn’t want it. He’s never wanted it. It was never about winning, it was about—

“About what, exactly?” Grian snaps, plucking the through straight from his mind just as he does with a sixth petal. “Is it about this? Sunflowers? You can’t hide behind them forever. Not here. Not from me. Not from yourself.”

“Stop it.”

Grian’s in front of him now, bloodied hands shoving him by his shoulders. Scar stumbles back and barely keeps himself upright. This isn’t right. This isn’t Grian— not the one he knows, not the one he needs.

“Why aren’t you angry, Scar?” Another push. “After everything that’s happened to you. All the people that have betrayed you. All the times I left you behind.”

Scar grapples for self control, to reign in the flash of anger burning the back of his throat. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Stop lying. For once in your life, look me in the eye and tell me you’re angry.” Grian yanks a sunflower from the ground and shoves it, decaying leaves and all, against Scar’s chest. “Tell me these are just a sham.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue: the truth. A terrifying, bitter thing that burns crawling up the back of his throat. Because it betrays everything he’s worked so hard to build, the masks he’s sported like second skins, the confidence which he flaunts like a shield. Without it, what does he have left? He’s stripped clean, Grier’s hands against his chest burning like sweltering charcoal. Sunflower petals slip between his fingers.

He opens his mouth to let it up, to tell the truth, and then—

The sky above him changes. Only slightly. If he had blinked he would’ve missed it. But clear as day he sees them overhead: clouds. Slowly rolling across a blue sky. And he’s on his back, blinking spots from his eyes as breath rushes into his lungs. The air tastes fresh, crisp, like seawater. Eyes fluttering, he tries to remember what he’d just been about to say. “Scar?”

Eclipsing the sun beating down on him overhead, a head peers down at him. Dark, wide eyes, a slanted mouth. A sporting of freckles across dusty cheeks.

Something knotted unravels in Scar’s chest. “Grian.” Grian’s lips wobble into an uneasy smile. He wipes sweat from his brow, and Scar catches a glimpse of his hands: dirty, packed with mud, but bloodless. “Whatcha doing down there, pal?” Scar’s arms lie limp at his sides. He’s not sure he could move even if he tried. If he wanted to. Something about this peace is fragile, uncertain. As if simply breathing the wrong way will make the world shatter in two and send him back to that place. One wrong move and he’ll be alone again.

“Dunno,” Scar says breathlessly. Stalks of wheat tickle his arms as the wind kicks up, ghosting over his body. A sunflower stands over him, waving in the breeze. “Appreciating the view. Clouds. They’re nice.”

“Come on.” A hand reaches out to him. “Stop trampling my wheat.” Scar has to stare at it to remember that it’s not covered in blood. That it’s just dirt from a long day tending to wheat and sunflowers. That the Grian smiling down at him is the real one. Not the one made to torment him.

Scar reaches for that hand, allowing their palms to slot together. Grian’s skin is callused and warm. He’s there. He’s real. Scar isn’t alone.

#birdie-writes #it was an HONOR to work with yu on this!!#collaborating was a ton of fun and I'd love to do it again sometime!!#and big thanks to the people in the zine for putting up with my angsty ass #fishbloc #desert duo #desert duo fic #secret life #secret life fic #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #grian #desert duo angst #desert duo fanart

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valtsv · 5 months ago

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so i’m curious about your enjoyment of pain as someone who also enjoys it. do you like all types of pain? what’s the like. intensity cut off? do you have favorite and least favorite pain sensations? for me personally i sort of like getting zapped, and also getting lightly burned, but not enough to actually leave a burn if that makes sense? like the sensation of having something slightly too warm pressed against my skin for too long is nice but i can’t stand actually healing from a burn wound (there was one time i literally couldn’t sleep due to a burn on my thumb). also bruises are nice. like pressing on them. but i absolutely can’t do cramps of any kind. anywayyyyy i curious about your opinions <3

JAMES CEMETERYTHING PAIN ASSESSMENT (or: i am asking you to get weird with it):

DISCLAIMER: this is a subjective account of my personal experiences with pain, and not intended in any way to dismiss other people's perfectly valid personal experiences, or to promote self-harm or violence towards oneself or others. obviously your body is yours to do with as you wish, but i accept no responsibility for those choices you make. please be kind to yourselves and each other.

- bruises: friendly short-term companions that occasionally stiffen, ache and throb in response to movement and touch. they have pretty privilege but fortunately i like that in a wound.

- scratches: zingy, sharp, and refreshing. like biting into a ripe but still sour berry. sometimes they swell up a little while they're healing. these are the best kind of scratches because they have tenderness and texture that's fun to touch.

- cuts (ie: anything deeper than a scratch, but not puncture/impaling wounds): the pain has a more intoxicating, overwhelming effect than scratches, which can be a good or bad thing. temptingly slippery and reactive to touch, but the risk of infection is a looming threat that takes some of the fun out of the act. cleaning them out can be an enjoyable compromise.

- incisions, stitches, and other consensually inflicted forms of wound (eg: tattoos): the choice and intention you have in the matter makes them more satisfying to experience, and your body's reactions (tensing, gritting your teeth, and breathing sharply through the waves of pain running through your body from the focal point of entry) can be exciting to bear witness to if you allow yourself. please engage in this one responsibly and safely.

- broken bones: immediately nauseating, but the dull ache of a healing bone after it's fractured has an almost comfortingly omnipresent quality to it that i find myself nostalgic for when it's gone. the occasional shooting pains you get when you move wrong, however, are too fleeting and sharp to really enjoy.

- muscle/joint injuries and pains: sickening and hateful. they burrow too deep to easily root out, but remain close enough to the surface to make you feel clumsy and unwelcome in your own body; a throbbing tumour ejecting waves of pain into the world. demanding and ungrateful, relieving them is the only thing they're good for. a notable exception is muscle aches from pleasurable/satisfying experiences, which carry that muscle memory and can redeem themselves in the process.

- headaches: really depends on where and how intense they are. i kind of enjoy the headaches that build behind my eyes, and will roll them and blink exaggeratedly to send little starbursts of pressure-release shooting through my skull. headaches that gather around my temples or build at the bridge of my nose, on the other hand, are unwelcome intrusions.

- impaling/puncturing wounds: perhaps a controversial opinion, but the penetrative aspect is probably the least interesting part to me. the aftermath - having a foreign object lodged inside you, surrounded by shrieking nerves declaring their resentment at the intruder, or a vacant hole of emptiness and strange new sensation where once was untouched flesh - is when things really start to get exciting.

- burns/debridement: generally considered the worst kind of pain, and i'm somewhat inclined to agree. it's hard to find much of a silver lining in having your skin flayed from your body layer by agonising layer. i think it's down to a similar issue to the one muscle cramps present - you're too trapped in the mundane misery of having a body, with no adequate distraction or fascination to make up for it. i do find the way that they heal to be interesting, though. the itching and oozing and peeling is by no means pleasant, but it is a disgustingly welcome relief from what came before. and the shiny new or scarred skin left behind feels like a kind of victory medal. a badge of endurance.

#injuries #wounds #masochism #??

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obsessedwhyyes · 3 months ago

Text

Chasing Lightning

Summary: You've spent all day teasing, tempting, taunting - you've really tested Astarion's patience this time. But pushing his boundaries is your favourite past time. Now, here you are, over his knee, about to receive the punishment you longed for, all according to your devious plan. Not that you'd ever admit it, of course.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2003 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Shameless smut, bratty reader, Dom!Astarion, spanking, light BDSM elements, rough sex, PiV.

Gif by silverformymonsters on Tumblr!

A/N: This, uh... Yeah, no, this is just shameless smut. I am so sorry. Behold, my spanking fic, written in a moment of madness.

You lay over his knee, eager, anticipating - a willing sacrifice on the altar of his desires. Each trail of his fingertips across the bare skin of your backside is a promise of what is to come.

You deserve this, you think to yourself. All your teasing, all your temptations. The way you pressed yourself against him when no one was looking, your face a pretty picture of faux innocence; the way you swayed your hips as you sauntered ahead of him, glancing back to meet his eyes, knowing they would be heavy with that predatorial hunger which ignites the flames of arousal deep in your belly. All part of your plan, which he is more than willing to oblige.

You hear Astarion’s voice, dark and dripping with honey.

“I propose a game, darling. A test of your intuition, shall we say?” You hear the wicked smile in his voice and it sends shivers of sweet anticipation coursing through your body. “I'll think of a number, one through ten, and you'll have to guess it based on how hard I spank you. Guess wrong, and I'll spank you again - the same strength - until you guess correctly. Understand?”

“Yes,” you breathe, wilfully yielding to him . There’s an intoxicating power in surrender. Your submission is a choice, freely given, and that makes it all the more potent.

In yielding, you become more. More alive, more aware, more you than you've ever been. The world narrows to the point of contact where his hand meets your skin. You are the ocean, and Astarion the moon, pulling you into new shapes with the inexorable force of the tide.

“Very good,” he purrs. His thumb rubs the gentlest of circles on your wrists as he binds them behind you with his spare hand. “Of course, if it becomes too much, just say the word. I can be merciful… on occasion.”

The game begins, a dance of unseen touches and breathless anticipations. Astarion’s hand hovers above you, its presence like the charge before a lightning strike.

“Let’s start with a simple one, shall we?”

His touch against your bare arse is a whisper at first, cool fingertips ghosting across your skin. More caress than slap. You shiver, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“One,” you murmur, more exhale than voice.

Astarion’s chuckle vibrates through you, a low rumble that you feel more than hear as you bury your face into the fabric of his shirt. “Oh, my dear. We’re barely getting started.”

The next strike lands with purpose - a sharp, precise sensation that blooms across your skin. It’s not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but something exquisitely in between that draws a gasp from your lips.

“Four?” you venture.

“Warm, but not quite.”

He strikes - the same strength once more, as promised.

“Three!” you gasp, revelation and pleasure mingling in your voice.

“Good girl,” Astarion praises and gods, how those words affect you. They sink into your skin, sweeter than honey, headier than wine. You crave his approval like air, each word of praise stoking the flames of your arousal higher.

The dance continues, each strike a new verse in this poem written on your skin.

Smack.

Five is a starburst of sensation. You feel this once, twice, three times until you finally guess correctly.

Smack.

Seven lands with the force of a thunderclap, reverberating through your body and leaving you trembling in its wake.

Smack.

Nine leaves you gasping, teetering on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain. The sting melts into a deep, throbbing warmth that pulses in time with your racing heart.

With each strike, each caress, the heat builds, a delicious tension coiling tighter in your core.

Four. Two. Six. Six again. Eight.

You find yourself arching slightly into his touch, eager for more, your body's reactions beyond your control.

Then, finally, comes ten.

It cracks across your flesh like lightning splitting the night sky, a white-hot streak of sensation that sears itself into your very soul. For a moment, the world whites out, every nerve ending alight with electric sensation. You cry out as the sensations overwhelm you, the number torn from your lips. The pain is exquisite, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance.

In the aftermath, you float in a sea of endorphins, your body humming with the echoes of Astarion's touch. Each point of contact throbs in time with your racing heart, a map of exquisite sensation etched onto your inflamed skin.

His cool hand soothes over the heated skin. The contrast sends fresh shivers through you, and you moan gently in response, despite yourself. Your skin is hypersensitive, your mind a mess of exhilaration and desire, eager for more, more, more.

Through the haze of lust, Astarion's voice chimes clear. “My, my. Such enthusiasm,” he purrs. “Tell me, darling, did you spend all day dreaming of this? Because I certainly did… in excruciating detail.”

You turn on his lap to look up into his eyes, suppressing a smile. “Who, me? I would never!”

Astarion's eyebrow arches, smirking at your obvious lie. “Is that so? So the way you rubbed yourself against me all morning like a worg in heat was just a coincidence, was it?”

You can't help but giggle at his accusation, which only seems to fuel his amusement.

“Do you have any idea how long you left me aching today?”

“I'm sorry,” you pout.

“Sorry who?”

“I’m sorry, Astarion.”

You don't mean it. And he knows it.

You could be good - a sweet, obedient little thing. But to be bad - to challenge him, to tease him, to test his patience until he finally brings you to heel - why, that's just so much more fun.

“That’s better,” he coos, his voice and his praise caressing you like silk along your skin as he gazes back at you, expression equal parts warmth and something much darker - hungrier - beneath. “Cheeky little pup."

He pauses, and the air becomes heavy with anticipation.

“But I'm not done with you yet.”

He rises and shifts you in a blur of motion, bending you over the edge of the bed, leaving your face buried in the soft sheets. Suddenly, you're exposed to him, your arousal on full display, and you feel the air against your hypersensitive flesh. Yet, in this moment, there is no place you would rather be than at his mercy. You are eager, dripping with expectation.

In the midst of your lustful haze, you hear the rustling of clothes - the familiar sound of his trousers unlaced. It sends your imagination soaring. Your core aches with what is to come.

But Astarion, the cruel man he is, doesn't enter you. Not yet.

Instead, you feel the head of his cock slide maddeningly, agonisingly slowly up the slit of you. You feel him become slick with your arousal as he slides down, and back up your slit once more, just barely skimming your clit, which throbs desperately with need. Such delicate, teasing touches - enough to drive you to madness.

“Do you want it?” He purrs.

“Mmhm,” you mumble pathetically into the fabric.

“Tell me, love.”

“I want–”

He inserts himself before you finish, colliding with you with the force of planets, stealing the breath from your lungs. The union is electric, a completion so intense that it borders on painful.

His desperation is evident, at odds with the image of restraint he was attempting to conjure as he ruts into you with wild abandon. His hands are everywhere at once, desperate and searching. Your own fingers claw at the fabric of the bedsheets, mindlessly, drunk on the sensation of him.

Astarion’s hands soon settle on your hips, pulling you to him as you collide again, again, again. You aid him, pushing yourself against his hips with each thrust, needing to be closer, always closer. You move together in a frenzy, chasing that elusive peak with single-minded determination. The world beyond ceases to exist; there is only this moment, this need, this all-consuming desire.

Breaths come in ragged gasps and are punctuated by moans and whispered pleas. “More,” you beg; “please,” you exclaim, though you're not sure how he could possibly get any closer, any deeper within you.

You feel his hand slide beneath you, and you lift your hips to greet him. Your throbbing clit welcomes his expert touch as he begins to unravel you as easily as he picks locks. He rubs circles around the bud, gently, in stark contrast to his wild rutting - indicative of the tiniest threads of self-restraint which remain within him, spared only to bring you to your peak. But gods, in the heat of the moment, you are especially sensitive, and his touch quickly brings forth rippling waves of sensation which threaten to overwhelm you. Your body twitches of its own accord and you know your climax fast approaches.

Your own voice surprises you, high and desperate. Soft whimpers escape your lips, growing in intensity and frequency as the tension builds.

Behind you, Astarion's sounds are a primal counterpoint to your own. His usual smooth tones are roughened by desire, a gravelly undertone that sends shivers down your spine. Low growls rumble from his chest - they speak of a hunger barely contained.

As you both near the edge, your voices mingle and intertwine. The sounds blur together - gasps and moans, growls and whimpers. The volume rises, unchecked and unashamed. You care not who hears you now.

It is you who first reaches the point of no return. A cry escapes your lips, raw and primal. Your body quakes, and pleasure crashes over you, a torrent of sensation that drenches every nerve ending. You're swept away in the deluge, currents of bliss pulling you under, spinning you in their depths.

His release soon follows and, although you don't see him, you feel the intensity in the air, in his increasingly erratic pounding, in his breaths. A growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating through your bodies like rolling thunder. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he releases into you, claiming you as part of his tempest.

He collapses against your back. His weight is solid and grounding like the calm after the storm. He pants slightly, aftershocks rippling through you both like distant thunder.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus.

Astarion's weight shifts behind you as his arm drapes lazily over your wrist. You feel his cool lips brush against your ear, and he nips it gently.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he muses, “I would say you enjoy being punished.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound still slightly breathless. “If that’s what I get for misbehaving, I might have to do it more often.”

"Careful what you wish for, darling," he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I have a whole arsenal of 'punishments' at my disposal. This was merely a taste."

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Why not both?” he replies, his tone rich with suggestion. “I do so enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

As he rises to his feet and helps you to yours, he kisses you, his gentleness a stark contrast from your earlier activities. Where there was an inferno, now there is now the warming comfort of the hearth. Where there was urgency, now there is patience. Eventually, you find yourselves settled once more, cocooned in the soft comfort of the bed. The lingering scent of your encounter mingles with the fresh smell of clean linens, a heady reminder of the night's activities.

“Alright?” Astarion’s voice is soft.

You nod, words unnecessary in this moment.

As you nestle closer to him, a contented sigh escapes your lips. Being bad certainly has its thrills. But these moments, wrapped in Astarion’s arms - these are treasures in their own right. The mischievous spark in you knows you'll seek out more opportunities to 'misbehave', but for now, you revel in this gentle aftermath, every bit as intoxicating as the storm that preceded it.

No Pressure Tags: @silverfangmarks @roguishcat @sparrowbard @chonkercatto

Masterlist can be found here.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #shameless smut #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction

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cripplecharacters · 2 months ago

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I was wondering: I noticed that in art I almost always see limb stumps that are, for the lack of a better word, thick and with a rounded end. But observing amputees around me, what I noticed is that their stumps are more tapered, they also are often uneven instead of perfectly round, and the rest of the limb is often thinner as a result of less muscle mass.

Is this coincidental, or do you think stumps are represented in a way that is assumed to be more aesthetically pleasing to abled folk? How common is the "perfect round muscular stump" thing, if at all??

Hi!

As an artist that seeks out art of disabled characters, it's 100% trying to make the character look "less disabled and more pretty". It's usually not a conscious decision, most people just have pretty=good and disabled=ugly ingrained into them and don't think about it ever. Positive depictions of disabled people will do everything to portray them as conventionally attractive as possible, and there is no disability that is exempt from this.

This applies to everything. Most art showing disabled people will try to keep the disability to the absolute minimum - it's not coincidence that positive disabled characters have to be white, thin, young, if they use a prosthetic it has to be really cool and/or unrealistic, if they use a wheelchair it has to be a manual that has to be really cool and/or unrealistic, and they have to look as abled as possible; an abled model who just happened to be holding a cane is preferable since gait disorders are ugly. Good luck trying to find a drawing of a character using an ostomy bag, with congenital skeletal conditions, with severe spasticity, in one of these big powerchairs, I won't mention facial differences and how non-existent realistic representation of them is. Hell, it can be hard to find art of blind characters who aren't wearing blindfolds and eyepatches (since disabled body part ugly), let alone using an aid like a cane or a brailler (since that's Disability, and not just a quirky character trait).

With stumps, it's the same thing. Most often you don't see them, since they are Clearly Disabled. Usually they're behind a cool prosthetic that's called something else that sounds less disabled. If they aren't, they're probably bandaged, since they are Surely Scary. If they aren't that, they will be perfectly round, scarless (or with that big "starburst" type scar for some reason), symmetrical to other limb, and essentially look like you just erased the rest of a model's leg or arm.

Again, I don't think this is done on purpose, I think artists just don't think enough about how they choose to portray minorities. No one is researching anything, everything is a game of telephone from how someone else draws it, who cares that that person didn't bother to check anything either.

[Disclaimer that we don't have amputee mods]

How common is the "perfect round muscular stump" thing?

Not very common, but someone with a disarticulation (much more rare than through-bone) will have their muscles still attached to something and thus may not have the kind of tissue atrophy like someone with an above the knee amputation will. Even weightlifters with an above/below amputation will have some degree of atrophy (you can look at guys like Max Okun, etc.) so it's not like you can just "exercise it out".

A residual limb can be fairly round, but it mostly depends on where it actually is. A lot of people will have excess skin from skin flaps + tissue atrophy which gives it a different shape, BE amputees can have the actual bone shapes visible on the stump, etc. And of course there is scar tissue (unless it's congenital) which can affect how the limb looks like beyond just the sew line being visible; it can leave the stump with an indent around it, etc.

But all of that is of course Disability and Different, so it gets omitted in art. It'd be cool if this wasn't the case, but what can you do.

mod Sasza

#mod sasza #anonymous #not writing advice #art reference

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robolvrr · 13 days ago

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can't get enough ! ⋆ ★

ratchet x gn! reader x drift warnings: nsfw. threesome.

pleasure threatens to lull you dumb.

close to it, anyhow. drift can tell, your spine arches helpless, feline and on the verge of that special something him and his partner can't explain.

what ever power you hold over the pair is beyond logic and they've given up the frivolities of embarrassment - it was much more interesting to see just what else you could do instead.

his optics brighten, blazing and wavering at the cusp of your ass. how it meets him in jerky, motivated smacks, veins rushing with blood and muscle and fat rippling by sheer force.

this image plays over and over, until a squeak politely reminds his servos to lessen their might, alloy thumbs smoothing over the raw skin in affectionate afterthought.

he remembers first approaching you and how silly it all was.

a human, with a cybertronian, let alone two? the thought was as taboo as it was unheard of, as far as his knowledge goes. he hadn't devoted himself to a life of modesty, but even he knew tipsy on engex that what he offered was scandalous.

the surprise from him and ratchet? painting worthy. you had smiled up to them so sweetly, their precious, little secret, whispering that you had noticed them both staring. that you invited it, gladly. that you were more than happy to introduce them to just how resilient the human body could be under the right circumstances.

"keep them steady."

ratchet's voice, itching with electricity and a buzz in his field he could never ignore, tears him from ruminating. the mech raises an optical ridge, half-gazing with a lazy sort of amusement. drift ignores the stammer of his spark, continuing his hips when you whine "right there, right there!" - his kind doesn't have to stop, doesn't tire the same way and can actually pound that spot in you that makes you squirt for as long and rough as you'd like.

since you've been good, since ratchet has given him the green flag to do so, drift makes sure the back of your thighs nuzzle the front of his, warmth and softness sending tingles to his sensors. he admires the way your arousal clashes, oil and water, bright carnation and creamy pearl pitter pattering puddles on the floor.

your toes curl and fingers ball to fists, jingle of a brand new gift making music near the curve of your neck.

ratchet had been the one to bestow it. made sure the golden charm was perfectly center when he had clasped it, tightened just shy of breathless.

the insinuations, reality of it all, still drive drift crazy. his groans grow heated, heightened by the uninterrupted watchfulness of his conjux.

your vision is blurred. lips parted, your chest is sticky while you work yourself on drift's spike, stomach bulging at the angle he's pretzeled you in. not that you're complaining. the warrior still treats a tangle of sex like a battlefield, more than observant for the ticks and triggers that'll earn him raspy sighs.

ratchet? is obsessive in his own ways. he commands respect and you rarely try your bratty tricks with him. you can tell he's in the mood for stress relief, servo cupping the underside of your sweat-slick chin.

"open your mouth."

"hhhhguh?"

shushing you, you fold as he leans forward.

"no need to use your pretty head. just open."

in seconds, the fat tip of his spike lands flat on your tongue. you don't have to be mindful of teeth, though relax your jaw in efforts to swallow as much of his girth as you can.

a groan signals you've been... improving.

shallow thrusts split your mind in half, not in pace with drift's. when you lose rhythm, either or of them gently nurture you back on course. if anyone walked in, it'd be a debauched scene worthy the grimiest of hedonia's pleasure habs.

flesh can't handle excitement this passionate the way metal does. white starbursts behind your then shut eyelids, whimpers petering to a roughed up whine as you flounder for support.

you feel... squished. sandwiched more - while you don't have the energy or frankly the autonomy to peek, your hearing is just as good. a swap of something wet. muffled moans.

they're kissing. and ratchet's spike is further down your throat than usual, drift's almost hilted from behind. their glossas messily unlatch from one another and both holes empty at the same time.

gooey, another weak hiccup leaves you. digits course across your scalp, back, cheekbones.

the lost light is quiet. your lovers are content and you - you just can't get enough of it.

robolvrr 2024

a/n : another of the drafts i HAD to get out. please. please. PLEASE get me between those old men. i just know they'd love a little pet tbh.

#maccadam #transformers x reader #/nsft #valveplug #/nsfw #ratchet x drift x reader #ratchet x reader #drift x reader #mtmte x reader #slams this big boy on your dash #transformers x human reader #mtmte ratchet #mtmte drift

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little-pondhead · 7 months ago

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Day 20: Pitch Bible AU

I had a lot of fun with this :)

[Quotes from the pitch bible and personal headcanons are below the cut.]

Link to pitch bible

Pitch!Danny

"The kid with the nerdy, freaky parents. The kid who's afraid of his own shadow."

"Shy, quiet, stumbling and nervous - but always with a smile and a wink to his friends and the camera."

(Page 7)

Danny's death mark looks more like a burn scar rather than Lichtenberg figures. Everyone assumes he was in a fire whenever the trio talks about the Accident. The Fentons back this up since the true events cause an electrical fire in the lab.

He was only bullied about his scars once. Danny burst out crying on the spot, and no one has said anything since. He carries around a homemade balm to soothe the scars when he gets phantom pains.

His death mark extends into his hair and one of his eyes. He now has heterochromia as both Danny and Phantom, as the affected eye's iris was darkened, and a starburst pattern appeared. (inspired by this)

His overall eyesight was also affected, and he now wears reading glasses as a human. Danny frequently loses them, so his friends bought him a used eyeglass chain from a yard sale. The eyeglass chain is made of rainbow beads, and the spirit of the previous owner is attached to it.

Danny took up knitting soon after the Accident to help retrain his fine motor skills and concentration. He's quite good at it, and he made a sweater based on Van Gogh's Starry Night.

Frequently has ectoplasm stains on his clothes from either ghost fights or helping his parents in their lab. Most people think it's paint.

Phantom is invisible to most people (including himself when he looks in mortal mirrors.) He keeps it that way as much as possible, as his appearance is quite inhuman. Danny hates the uncanny valley feeling he causes wherever he goes. Even his friends had to work to get past the instinct to run when he showed himself. He has no pupils, but his death mark remains.

Pitch!Tucker

"Tucker uses the gadgets that Danny has gotten for him by raiding Mom and Dad's lab: The goggles that let him see ghosts, the backpack that lets him capture them, and the occasional random jet back that Dad was saving for a rainy day."

(Page 17)

Tallest of the trio, even with Sam's boots giving her an inch. Took track and field in middle school, so he's also the most physically fit, even if it's just by a little. Tucker is also the most reckless of the three and carries a first aid kit around for both him and Danny.

Bit of an adrenaline junkie, even if he won't admit it. Red Bull is his go-to over coffee and tea, which both Sam and Danny insist is bad for him. He's always hungry from sharing his meals with Danny, who cannot cook at home.

Tucker was forced to stop wearing his hats in middle school, but he hated his hair at the time, so he dyed it blonde and fried it straight to 'fit in better.' Sam and Danny have yelled at him for it, and he's slowly learning to appreciate his natural hair. (He still wants to keep dying it for a few more years, however. Red is the next color on his list!)

Takes dual courses at the Amity Park Community College in computer science. Became a top student quickly. He uses this knowledge to help Danny tinker with his parents' inventions and computers. (Which is difficult, given their backgrounds.)

Has a form of synesthesia called 'chromesthesia,' which means he sees colors and patterns when he hears sounds. His favorite color pattern is the sound of leaves rustling in autumn since it makes pretty yellow, orange, and red swirls. He turns the most memorable sounds into tie-dye t-shirts.

Tucker uses his 'liberated' Fenton tech all the time. Aside from ghost fights, he will 100% use the jetpack to get to school when he's late or use an extendable arm to hold a drink when he's busy. It drives Danny nuts because he has to recharge the backpack more, but when it comes down to it, he doesn't really mind. After all, Tucker is the one jailbreaking all their equipment.

Pitch!Sam

"A Goth Janeane Garofalo-type that hides her good looks behind baggy clothes, she is an encyclopedia of conspiracy theories and paranormal activity…a cute girl who loves all things geek!"

(Page 17)

Sam is the most serious of the three and is suspicious of everything. Her parents raised her as a rich elite; nothing comes for free in that type of life. She practically lives in the secondary suite that belonged to her grandmother Ida, tending to the greenhouse and library there.

Her favorite color is purple, and she raises Purple Emperor butterflies in the greenhouse in an attempt to increase their population, despite her location. She raises other butterflies and insects as well, but the Purple Emperors are her pride and joy. She wears purple butterfly charms in honor of them.

She has a bigger library than the high school, with books on topics Danny and Tucker have never heard of. During a ghost-induced power outage, they went to Sam and her library to perform an "ancient form of Googling." She did not appreciate that joke.

Cuts and dyes her hair herself, and bothers the boys about proper self care. She even has a little notebook in her pocket that lists reminders, dates, and observations she wants to look back on later. (For example, it reminds her when Danny is supposed to take his medicine, since his memory sucks now.)

Sam researches the paranormal almost obsessively, especially since she gains that psychic link with Danny. She wants to understand it, how it works, and why it happened. (She isn’t aware the ‘get better’ kiss was the cause.)

The random feelings and visions have increased her anxiety tenfold. Tucker jokes that she’s Batman now, since Sam has used her money to create a hundred different backup plans for everything she could think of, including hidden emergency packs all over town.

Once curb-stomped a grown man, as a child, on the day of Grandma Ida’s funeral because he was bragging about influencing the final will in his favor. She brings this energy to any fight she’s capable of participating in, and ghosts have learned to give her a wide berth. Locals just think she’s nuts.

#danny phantom #dannymay2024 #day 20: pitch au #pitch bible au #listen I put too much thought into this #if someone wants to take this and run feel free

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inkskinned · 2 years ago

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sometimes i think about the span of human existence and how if you spread your arms out in a long line and said my body is acting as a poem of all the universe's birthdays, the smallest sliver of your furthest nail would be our entire history as humans. and you, doing this, feeling your sternum crack into place because you're-getting-old and all of your bones crunch these days: you are the universe, measuring its own timeline. you're the memory of a starburst saying i gave birth to humans at the tip of my finger.

and i think about how crocodiles have been around for way longer than that fingernail and how sharks have been here forever too and how there are sea cucumbers that understand time like an angel would; their ages so astronomically long that i get dizzy looking down into them. i think about my dog, and how i am so fantastically ancient to him (an impossible number, staggering) and how, at the same time, i can order my life in eras of pets-i-have-loved and how my childhood died when my cat did.

and i wonder if the earth does the same thing, if nature keeps time in epochs. if the tree in the house where i grew up said oh a new family and got upset when one by one we all left for college and left behind our climbing and screaming and birdhouses. that same tree collapsed during a bad storm this winter; heartbroken. the whole inside was a hull, shivering and empty. it missed our roof by a whisper, almost like it held itself together so it couldn't pass a hole into the house it's been looking into for years now. the people who took it away clicked their teeth. it was a hundred years old, at least.

there are things that went extinct in my lifetime. there are memories that don't extend to the tip of the finger. four years ago, for the first time: i saw a bald eagle in the wild. ever since they've been sprouting strangely in my life, their origami frames hunched in a racket of brown feathers. something in the motion of wild animals braced against the new england weather - like we all (all of nature, all of the fingertip) have the same shared hate when it's cold sorrow. like in years and years and years of history we never really evolved a better method than to close your eyes and brace yourself against it.

i saw a butterfly today, staggering drunkenly in the early spring air. it's too early for her other friends. i want to tuck her back into bed and say it's not your time yet! her life like a pinprick in my own. in butterfly school they'd have to stretch out their scales and say - at the end of your furthest wing is where you are in the life of a human. she is in my life, isn't she. something about how my heart seized at the sight of her, so brave and lonely and unfair; and how it snowed yesterday (and will snow again, probably), and how, in spite of that, she was out there and flying.

something about waking up this morning and thinking - i'm too old for this. how my hips and knees and back all make new noises. how the other day at a grocery store i picked up the gloves an older woman had dropped, how she'd laughed and thanked me - i can't bend down like you young folks anymore.

something about the theory that there's been no visible life on other planets because we are too early. that we are the first butterfly of spring. all this bravery. we know it is probably hopeless, and still we go. breathless, the same tactic - we brace against the cold.

#spilled ink #sat down to write about you #wrote about how crocodiles can climb trees oops

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 12: Please Call Me Only If You Are Coming Home]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳 Be sure to vote in our final poll, which will be pinned at the top of my blog per usual 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Homecoming” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What the hell do you need that for?” Cregan says to Helaena in the next aisle over, sounding alarmed. You are raiding a Kwik Stop just outside Colusa, California, following Route 20 west towards the Pacific Ocean. But when Helaena replies, her voice is perfectly soothing, lyrical, too serene for the way the world is now.

“It’s not for me. It’s just in case anyone ever finds themselves in need of one.” And this makes sense, even though you can’t see what it is she’s taken off the disorderly, ransacked shelves; Helaena is always picking up trinkets to keep stowed away in her burlap messenger bag until their utility becomes essential.

Cregan is relieved. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Whew, you almost gave me a heart attack there, Miss LaeLae…”

Ice is stretched out and dozing on the cool tile floor. Luke and Rhaena are keeping watch by the front of the store. Aegon is standing by the decommissioned Icee machine and showing Daeron which route he’s marked on his map and why.

“Why do I need to know this?” Daeron is asking.

Aegon snorts. “In case I get killed, dumbass…”

Fluttering pieces of paper hang taped to the glass doors of the empty refrigerators: Don’t go towards Sacramento; People in Santa Rosa killed my brother for his car; Andrew Lounsbury, if you see this we are headed to Aunt Sarah’s house, meet us there! Meanwhile, in your own aisle, Aemond is watching you as your fingers flit through packages of Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers and Life Savers Gummies, separating the trash from the ones that haven’t been opened yet. His expression is wary, uncertain. “What?” you ask him.

“Are you…okay?” Aemond says, low enough that no one else will hear.

Of course you aren’t; you keep walking into rooms and looking for Rio, and he’s not there. But you know what Aemond means. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you? Are you…” He steps closer, the blue of his eye gleaming with attentive, penitent concern, sins he is certain he must have committed. “Are you sore, are you bleeding at all?”

You smile, just the ghost of a curve at the edge of your lips. “No, really, I feel fine.” And in your body, this is true. There is a tension that has vanished from your muscles, a softness in your bones, not shards of glass shifting beneath skin but living things like the branches of trees, flexible, green, damp life awash within.

“I was trying to…you know…take it slow and be super gentle, but then…by the end…”

“Aemond, you did everything right.”

And he exhales all the iron-heavy dread he’s been carrying around since he woke up this morning to find you already gone—showing Aegon how to flip Bisquick pancakes as Cregan browned them in a skillet in the woodstove downstairs—and you realize how much you’ve scared him. “I’m really sorry about…” He touches his chin restlessly. “I should have asked you if you wanted me to pull out, I just got, uh…kind of…distracted.”

Your smile grows; now you can feel it in your eyes, warm and luminous. “It’s alright. I did too.”

He is hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have told you to stop. And anyway, I think we’re safe.” But of course you’ve lost track of the days, and in your dark trance of grief and Tramadol you were entirely unaware of the rhythms of your body, pangs of desire or clear ample wetness, biological cues, primal timekeeping.

“Cool,” Aemond says, now trying to sound casual. “And next time…are you thinking that I should try to…maybe…just to be sure…?”

You shrug, then tell him the first thing that comes into your mind, that flashes in your skull like lightning bugs at dusk. “I’m thinking that life is too short and too rare to put effort into preventing it.”

Aemond’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t seem disappointed. “So we’ll see what happens.”

“If you’re onboard.”

“I’m totally onboard. I just want to take care of you. I…” He glances down at his palms—open, clean—and then looks back up at you. “I’ve never had anything that felt right before. Not my family, not myself, nothing. But this feels right. And it’s where I want to be forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” And this is what everyone thought: Jace, Baela, Rio. But you make the oath anyway, a hollow promise that echoes like a windchime.

“Me either,” Aemond vows.

You turn to leave the aisle and your backpack hits the shelf, knocking something off the top and onto the tile floor, where it lands with a thump. You gasp, and people come running; but it’s only a box of Honey Buns that was stashed somewhere too high for you to see. “It’s nothing,” you assure them. “We’re all okay, no need to get excited.”

“Death by Little Debbie,” Aegon says, chuckling nervously, his heart still racing.

You pick up the box and think of Rio with abrupt, violent clarity: he’s playing with French-speaking kids on the beach outside Djibouti City, he’s drinking cans of Guinness with you under a full moon on Diego Garcia, he’s reaching out from the pier to pet finless porpoises in Chinhae, he’s bleeding to death on a floor in Winnemucca, Nevada. Your vision is blurring with tears; your throat is knotted and scalding.

“I want him back,” Aegon says softly.

“I know. I do too.” You open the box of Honey Buns and pass one to Aegon first, then distribute the rest. There are only six total. Helaena tries to give hers to Cregan, but he rips it in half so they can share; Aemond insists you take the last one. You eat it wordlessly, sugar melting into your bloodstream.

“I think I saw a minivan down the side street,” Luke says as he chews his Honey Bun, waving his binoculars with his free hand. “It’s probably out of gas like all the others, but…”

“We’ll check it out,” Aemond replies, and everyone follows him as he departs from the Kwik Stop.

It’s a green Kia Carnival with a zombie trapped inside: once a young man in a Nirvana t-shirt, now a ghoul that paws at the glass with its oozing hands and licks the windows, long animal drags of a decomposing tongue. But the fuel cap is still closed, and while the van is turned off you can see the keys dangling from the ignition.

“Think there’s any gas left in the tank?” Daeron says brightly. The Targaryen beach house, following the indirect route you must take to avoid the cities, is about 250 miles from where you are now in Colusa. That’s two weeks on foot, or as few as five hours by car.

Rhaena goes for the driver’s side door. “Let’s find out.” She yanks on the handle to discover it’s locked. Cregan uses his axe to shatter the window, and the zombie tumbles gracelessly out onto the pavement, rancid skin and necrotic muscle ripping from its bones. As it crawls towards the siren call of fresh meat, Ice barks viciously and Cregan swings his axe. The blade slices easily through the monster’s skull, and its flailing, murderous limbs go still.

Rhaena reaches through the broken window to unlock the doors, climbs into the driver’s seat, and turns the key in the ignition. There is a blessed sound: the thunder of a living engine. “Half a tank!” Rhaena cheers.

Aegon gags as he opens the passenger’s side door. “Oh, it reeks so bad…”

“We’ll roll down all the windows,” Aemond says curtly.

“There are organs on the floor! What the fuck is that, a liver?!”

Aemond gives it a cursory glance. “Looks like a spleen.”

“I don’t want to sit near a spleen! I don’t even know what a spleen does!”

“Then throw it outside somewhere!” Aemond snaps. “You’re thirty years old, you can’t clean a minivan?!”

Aegon grumbles as he uses sheets of Burger King coupons from the glovebox to toss zombie guts into the grass. Aemond wipes down the hard surfaces with antiseptic. Luke keeps watch and Daeron shoots down several zombies as they lurch out of nearby houses and towards the Kia Carnival. You ask Helaena for the box of 9mm bullets in her messenger bag and she gives it to you. You load your Beretta M9, stow the remaining bullets in your backpack, and take aim at the approaching zombies to make sure you still know how to get into the rhythm, that you can still be a killer when the circumstances require it. You are out of practice, but you’re beginning to feel more like yourself again. Aemond brought you back. They all did.

When the minivan is as clean as possible, everyone hurries inside and Rhaena drives west on Route 20 under the afternoon sun. At the intersection with Route 53, Aegon directs Rhaena to follow it south around Clear Lake, then to take Route 29 west through rolling hills that were once filled with vineyards, wineries, music, weddings, horse farms. Now the land is hushed, and wild, and dotted with silhouettes that sway drunkenly and swipe at vultures when they try to gobble tattered strips of putrid flesh that unravel from bones like the bandages of a mummy.

The Kia Carnival rides Route 175 west and then Route 101 south, where the earth turns dry and rocky and barren, reminding you of northern Nevada and piling stones of heartache in your belly. In a place called Pieta—an old 1800s railroad depot, according to a plaque mounted just off the road—Rhaena slows down to get a better look at something that doesn’t make any sense. There is a souvenir shop of rocks and gems, now long out of business, and in a shed beside the main building hangs a gruesome specimen that you can see through the open doors. It has two arms and two legs, but it’s not a zombie. Its flayed flesh is a vibrant, healthy red; parts of the thighs and chest have been carefully carved away like cuts of meat are sliced from beef cattle. It is suspended on meat hooks. It is being butchered.

Cregan notes uneasily: “That ain’t an opossum or a bison.”

“I think it’s human,” Aemond says, horrified.

“Guess we’re not stopping for the night anytime soon,” Rhaena quips, then floors the gas pedal.

One of Aegon’s mixtapes spins in the CD player. From the speakers flows Somebody To You by The Vamps.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you see anyone now?” Aemond asks.

Luke speaks without looking away from his binoculars. “And for the fourth time, my answer remains no.”

After a night’s rest in a cabin at Camp Liahona Redwoods in Sonoma County, you followed California State Route 1 down the coast of the Pacific Ocean until the Kia Carnival finally ran out of gas just south of Olema, a small town founded in the 1850s. A ten-mile hike has brought you to the cliff where the fabled Targaryen beach house is perched with a few hours left before sunset. The ailing daylight is golden, the wave crests glittering, gulls cawing as they swoop through the salt-lashed air. From the road that twists like a snake through the slopes of Bolinas—thick with redwoods, Douglas firs, oaks, cypresses, tall grass that whips in the wind and tufts of eucalyptus—Luke is searching the property. It is less a house than a mansion, a museum, a monument, a work of art: sharp rectangular lines and glass walls, balconies, fountains, a pool, a garden.

Cregan whistles. “A place like that has to cost a million dollars.”

“Try fifteen million,” Aemond says distractedly, and Cregan gawks at him.

“Well, from what I can see it looks safe,” Luke declares, lowering his binoculars. “No zombies.”

“You really think they’re in there?” Daeron asks eagerly. “Mom and Criston?”

“Yeah, kid,” Aegon says, squeezing Daeron’s shoulder; but his voice is morose, like he knows he has surrendered to something, a path of least resistance, a hostile planet’s gravity. “Of course they are. Let’s go say hi.”

At the end of the driveway, the five-car garage is open. There is an Alfa Romeo, a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Ducati motorcycle, and a white Chevy Tahoe, which Aemond says belongs to Criston. And there are other items of interest mounted on the walls.

“Yes!” Daeron says as he runs to a quiver full of arrows for his compound bow. Aegon lifts a golf club out of its bag and makes an imaginary putt, getting reacquainted with the feeling of his hands on the grip.

“This is an iron,” Aegon says when he catches you watching him. In the shade of the garage, he pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up into his windswept hair. “It’s metal all the way through and gives you good control over the shot. Drivers are for long-distance, and wedges and putters don’t have enough power. But an iron is just right.”

“Are you going to teach me how to golf?”

Aegon grins, his first real smile all day. “You think you can handle it, SunChips?”

“I don’t,” you answer honestly, and he laughs.

“If you teach me how to shoot, I’ll teach you how to golf.”

“An unfair trade! My skill is useful.”

Aemond knocks on the door that connects the garage to the main house. “Mom? Criston?” There is no response; all of you wait for one, listening intently through the crashes of waves and reverberating gull shrieks. Ice begins to pace agitatedly and nudges Cregan’s hands. He looks at Aemond, half-fear and half-sympathy.

“No,” Aemond says. “No, she’s wrong.”

“She might be,” Cregan replies, steady and ever-agreeable. Helaena is wringing her small, gentle hands. Everyone is watching Aemond to see what they should do next.

He pounds on the door again, this time with a closed fist. “Mom, we’re home! Mom? Criston? It’s me! It’s Aemond!”

Still, there is no answer. Aemond tries the doorknob, and it turns unimpeded. It is unlocked. He opens the door, peeks inside, and then crosses through the threshold. The rest of you trail him like he has eight shadows, the last in the shape of a wolf.

You step into the living room: wide open windows, the ocean breeze breathing through the house. The air tastes like sand and saltwater, sun and blue skies. There are three-story glass walls that overlook the water, a staircase leading up to the next floor, pristine white couches, black end tables topped with vases full of dead flowers, grey marble floors, bejeweled golden crosses that glint cruelly in the bloody late-afternoon light, family photographs on the mantle of the fireplace. There are many pictures of Aemond, and some of Helaena and Daeron as well. You don’t see a single photo of Aegon. He notices you scanning the snapshots in the frames and looks away, ashamed.

“Mom?” Aemond calls, his voice ricocheting through the vast, open space, clinical like a hospital or a morgue. “Criston?”

“Grandpa?” Helaena says meekly. Cregan is clutching his axe and peering around vigilantly. Ice whines and paces, her strange yellow eyes glowing like flecks of gold in a stream. Rhaena tries to soothe her with ear scratches; Ice begins to howl, low long mournful sounds.

You catch Aegon’s attention when he glances at you again. “This isn’t right,” you whisper. “If they were here, they would have heard us by now.”

Aegon turns to his brother. “Hey, Aemond…”

And then there are footsteps from upstairs, slow and shambling. Everyone looks, and it appears at the top of the steps like a mirage or a night terror, like a wrathful god glaring down from Mount Olympus. Long, filthy strands of white hair hang from what is left of its scalp. Its gore-stained teeth are bared. Its eyes are cloudy like the poisoned atmosphere of another planet, one gasp enough to singe your lungs and infect your bloodstream. The snarls pour out ragged and rasping from its disintegrating vocal chords. The man was wearing a suit when he died, and the pale blue shirt is now splattered with crimson and bits of rotting flesh. The black leather shoes on its feet clop as the zombie descends the staircase with staggering, unnatural steps, its decaying arms grasping for the mortals who wait below.

Daeron says numbly: “Dad?”

Aemond’s eye is wide and dazed. Ice is growling. Helaena is screaming and fleeing towards the wall; Cregan embraces her and she clings to him. “Aemond? Buddy?” Cregan shouts. “How do you want to handle this?” And what he means is: Do you want to kill it, or should someone else? Do you need time to process what’s happened? How can we help you?

“Aemond?” you say. You touch his arm; he doesn’t react. Rhaena draws her Ruger but doesn’t shoot yet. She is looking to Aemond for permission. Luke is standing in front of Rhaena and forcing her backwards as the zombie nears the bottom of the staircase. Now you can smell it: dark wet rot, spoiled meat, blood and oily fat and organs putrefying in a threadbare patchwork of flesh.

“Dad!” Daeron wails, and he’s covering his face with his hands because he knows what this must mean for the rest of his family too.

“Aemond?!” Rhaena yells. “Aemond, what do you want us to do?!”

You reach for your M9 as the zombie’s leather shoes settle on the marble floor. This seems to shake Aemond from his paralysis.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He grabs his Glock and aims, but his finger hesitates on the trigger. And you can see the ghosts of the people who have died by his hands lurking in the crystalline blue of his remaining eye: Alys, Jace, Baela and her baby…and now Viserys Targaryen too.

In the lull, in the indecision, Aegon roars and swings his golf club. The metal head collides with the zombie’s skull. Weak corroded bone collapses; blood and brains the color of black mold leak out onto the polished marble.

“It wasn’t enough, huh?!” Aegon screams, then hits the zombie again. The corpse crumples to the floor, but Aegon isn’t done yet. “You couldn’t just fuck everything up when you were alive, you had to keep torturing us from beyond the grave, you sick bastard, you selfish prick, what is wrong with you?!” He whacks the carcass with his golf club again and again. “I hate you! I hate you! You deserved so much worse than this! We crossed an entire goddamn country, and Jace died, and Baela died, and Rio died, all so we could get back here, and now it’s all for nothing because you’ve destroyed everyone you’ve ever touched! I fucking hate you!”

Aegon strikes the zombie one last time—the skull is a pulverized soup of gore and bone fragments—and before anyone can reach for him, he has bolted up the steps to search the rest of the house. You find them in their final resting places: bones in the hallway interspersed with gold rings and a medallion of Saint Irene of Thessaloniki, bones in the shower pierced with stainless steel surgical screws from hip and knee replacements, bones in the master bedroom entangled with shreds of a bloodstained silk nightgown and long locks of auburn hair. Daeron is sobbing, and Cregan takes Helaena outside to the garden to calm down, and Aemond wanders through the rooms in shock. You don’t know what to say to him; you remember how nothing anyone said made a difference when Rio died. But Aegon is furious. He tears away from everyone and goes to his bedroom: racks full of CDs, neon green blankets, an acoustic guitar propped in one corner. Then he ravages his hiding places—inside drawers, under his mattress, on tiny shelves he carved into the walls behind golf and Green Day posters—and collects mint tins. Then he pours out the white powder inside onto his desk and arranges it into lines like contrails behind airplanes, like wagon trails across the earth.

You try to stop him. “Aegon, wait, please don’t—”

“Get the fuck out,” he hisses, and for the first time you see the cold reptilian sheen of something like hate in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to love me. I can be alone. I’m used to it.”

“Aegon, I’m not—”

“They’re gone. You can leave too.” Then he slams the door and locks it.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Aegon is upstairs getting high and Helaena is downstairs inventorying supplies in the massive walk-in pantry, the rest of you use shovels from the garage to bury what is left of the bodies in the backyard, unceremonious shallow graves, the soil too rocky for anything more elaborate. Rhaena uses her jagged sliver of slate to mark stones with their names and a few kind words about each of them; but Viserys’ stone is left blank. Then Rhaena returns inside to help Helaena prepare for dinner, while Daeron inspects the perimeter of the house with Cregan and Ice. Luke uses a telescope near the pool not to gaze up at the rising stars but to study the neighboring properties.

Aemond murmurs as he stands in front of the four graves: “I should have gotten here sooner. Maybe I could have saved them.”

“You still have a family,” you say, begging him to believe that there are things worth living for. “You have Aegon and Daeron and Helaena, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan. And you have me.”

Aemond stares out over the Pacific Ocean. The sky above is red and lavender, fire and dreams. “How do we get to Diego Garcia?” He is only half-joking.

“Well you just find a boat and row about 10,000 miles that way.”

He sighs and drags his trembling fingers through his hair. It has always been his job to know what happens next, and now he doesn’t. Gulls squawk and wheel in the air. His right cheek glistens with tears.

“I never saw the ocean until I joined the Navy,” you say, and Aemond looks over at you, curious but not wanting to react in the wrong way and scare you into going quiet again. He’s always mining for details of your past, and you’re endlessly evading him. But perhaps you have been too secretive. He wants to know these things because he wants to know you, and you have no idea how long you’ll be here to shed your mysteries. If a story dies with you, it dies forever.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mother…Mama, I always called her Mama…she went to Virginia Beach a few times while I was growing up, and that was her favorite place in the world. But she never took me with her. She’d go with my aunt or my oldest brothers. So when I got to basic training on the shore of Lake Michigan, that was the closest thing to an ocean I’d ever seen, and it absolutely amazed me.”

“Lake Michigan,” Aemond repeats, trying not to sound like he’s mocking you.

You smile. “And then of course I ended up in some more impressive places. But compared to Soft Shell, Lake Michigan was a whole different planet.”

“Soft Shell?”

“Like softshell turtles. They’re one of those animals that are so ugly they’re almost cute. We have a lot of them in Kentucky. Well, we used to. Maybe people ate them all when the food ran out.”

“Soft Shell, Kentucky,” Aemond says. “What was it like? I mean…I know you left, and I know you had good reasons…but I’ve never been to Kentucky. I’ve never really been to Appalachia period.”

“It’s beautiful. You get all four seasons, and you’re out in nature all the time, and it feels old, like hardly anything has changed there in thousands of years. You feel connected to the earth. I loved the forests and the mountains. I don’t think I realized how much I loved certain things about where I’m from until I’d been gone for years. I didn’t leave because I had to get away from Kentucky. I left because I had to get away from who I was when I was there, you know? Someone lonely and helpless. But how my family was isn’t Kentucky’s fault.”

“No,” Aemond muses. “I suppose not.” You begin walking together back towards the house.

“Ready for more bad news?” Luke asks, and gestures for you and Aemond to peer through the telescope. Aemond lets you go first, and immediately you see what Luke means. There are zombies in the surrounding hills, and not just a few. There are hundreds, stumbling around aimlessly and posing no current threat; but you are not safe here.

“We don’t have enough people to defend ourselves,” Aemond says once he’s taken a look, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s fearful but trying to hide it.

“No, we don’t,” Luke agrees.

“And there aren’t many natural resources here to subsist on. Even the fishing prospects aren’t great without a boat or a pier.”

“Right,” Luke says.

You wonder if Aemond is thinking the same thing you are. He might not know what has to happen next, but you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

The dining room table—large enough to seat twenty—is illuminated with candles, meticulously arranged with china and silverware, and cluttered with canned soups from brands you’ve never seen before: Amy’s, Pacific Foods, Health Valley. There are cases of Perrier and San Pellegrino to drink, and bottles of Chateau Lafite Rothschild red wine. Everyone else is here except Aegon. You are just about to go find him when he comes rushing down the staircase and into the dining room. He is wearing clothes from his closet here: a salmon pink polo that emphasizes his sunburn, khaki shorts, a white puka shell necklace, Sperry Bahama sneakers. The left shoe just barely fits over the bandages still protecting his healing left leg. There are fingerprints of white powder on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, look!” he announces. “Isn’t this precious? A family dinner?”

“Aegon, please sit down,” Aemond says briskly.

“Come on, it’ll be just like old times. We have all four of us kids, and then…Rhaena, you can be my dear departed Grandpa Otto, you just have to scowl at everyone…and Luke can be Criston.”

Luke is confused. “What—?”

“No no no! Don’t worry. It’s a very easy part. All you have to do is gaze worshipfully at Aemond and talk about how brilliant he is. There’s really not much to it, and honestly you do a lot of that already. And then…” Aegon floats by you, skimming his palm down the length of your hair. Something about the weight of his hand gives you goosebumps: careless, careful, fleeting, intimate. He sighs: “My beautiful, tortured mother.”

“Aegon, sit down,” Aemond orders.

“Father!” Aegon cries out suddenly, spotting Cregan at the head of the table. Cregan looks around the dining room, baffled. “You’ve joined us! How unusual! Did your Titanic replicas spontaneously combust? Did the world end? Well, actually, it sort of did…”

“Buddy, I have no earthly clue what you’re trying to—”

“Now this is a tough part,” Aegon says forcefully. “Patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, big shoes to fill! But don’t worry, I’m here to help. I’ll give you your lines. All you have to do is repeat after me, okay?”

Cregan studies him and does not assent.

Aegon slams both palms down onto the table. “You’re so fucking stupid, Aegon. You’re a humiliation, Aegon. Why can’t you be smart like Aemond, or sweet like Helaena, or obedient like Daeron? Why did my firstborn child turn out to be such a fucking waste?”

“I’m not going to say that,” Cregan replies quietly.

“Say it,” Aegon seethes.

Now Daeron is weeping between spoonfuls of Amy’s tortilla soup straight from the can. “I want to go home.”

“We are home,” Aemond says.

“This isn’t home anymore, Aemond,” Daeron sniffles.

Aegon is still trying to feed Cregan lines. “Have you found a wife yet, Aegon? No, of course you haven’t. You’ve got hands like a rat and a disposition to match. You’re an overgrown vermin, you’re a plague to every house you enter. Who would fuck you out of anything but greed or pity?”

“Aegon, please stop,” Aemond pleads, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

Helaena folds her arms atop the table and rests her head on them, hiding her face. Luke and Rhaena keep their eyes downcast. Daeron reaches for a bottle of red wine, but Aegon swats his hand away.

“Nope. Illegal. You’re not 21.”

“Aegon, seriously, I’m so over that joke—”

“Shut up. You can’t even get a tattoo without parental consent.”

“Our parents are dead!” Daeron shouts. “They died terrible deaths and they’re never coming back and you’re making everything worse!”

“Then get rid of me! Put me out on the street and I won’t be anyone’s problem anymore! I’ll get murdered or eaten and it’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you!”

Helaena breaks down sobbing, and before Aegon can register what’s happening Cregan scoops him up off the floor and throws him over one broad shoulder. Then Cregan lugs him upstairs as Aegon struggles and yowls and punches at Cregan’s back, all in vain. You can hear a lot of commotion and then finally Cregan reappears, sweat beading on his brow but otherwise composed.

“I tied him to his bedframe with an extension cord,” Cregan says. “I don’t think he’ll be making any more trouble this evening.”

“Thank you,” Aemond replies, defeated.

“If he’s going to be up there all night, he’ll need water and food,” you say. “And enough blankets to make sure he’s warm.” It gets chilly when the sun goes down here, as low as the 50s. You grab two bottles of Perrier off the table and stand to bring them upstairs to Aegon, but Cregan gently takes them out of your hands.

“I’ll make sure he’s well supplied, Miss Chips,” Cregan insists, and you are convinced he thinks he’s doing you a favor. He doesn’t want Aegon to have the opportunity to upset anybody further. And yet a part of you is undeniably disappointed.

Aegon has been gone for ten minutes, and you miss him already.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Aemond’s childhood bedroom, a huge, impersonal, spartan space, the very few pieces of furniture all in the same color scheme of white and navy blue, you cannot say anything to bring his family back to life, or his friends, or the possibilities of what his life might have been before the dead began to walk. But you remember what he did for you when Rio died and you were sinking in dark, numb despair, and so you take Aemond’s hands and place them on your body—skimming under your t-shirt, circling around your waist—offering yourself like a sacrifice that you both desperately need, like a shot of antivenom that will only buy you hours. He draws you into his lap, and beneath your palms and your lips and your thighs, you can feel him coming back to you, filling up with light like a horizon at dawn.

“I’m still here,” you whisper as he throws you down onto the bed, eases himself into you, carries you away like a ship coasting out into open water. I don’t ever want to be anywhere but here.

Aemond holds you after, ensnared in sweat-damp sheets and entwined fingers, and he confesses: “I knew it was possible that they might not still be alive. Logically, I knew that. But it was like I never allowed myself to feel it. And now it’s…it’s…it’s all at once and it’s too much. I can’t fathom that I’ll never see them again. But I don’t even have time to mourn. I need to figure out where we’re going next.”

“Aemond?”

His lips to your forehead, his voice a drowsy murmur: “Hm?”

“I have to tell Rio’s family what happened to him.”

He pulls back to look at you. “You want to go to Oregon?”

“What if Odessa really is safe?”

At first he is bewildered; then he begins to consider it. “Criston’s Tahoe is in the garage. If we siphon the gas left in all the vehicles, we might have enough to get us halfway there.”

“That’s a lot better than none of the way there.”

“We’ll all have to vote on it. The trip will be dangerous.”

“Everything is now.”

“Almost everything,” he teases, his hand sliding down between your legs, taking you far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, you find Aegon at the cliffside smoking one of his Marlboro Golds, slow meditative drags, eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. That’s alright. He can nap in the Tahoe. Rhaena won’t need his directions for a while; you’ll stay northbound on Route 1 for 200 miles before cutting inland as you near the Oregon border.

You sit down on the sandy, shrub-strewn ground beside Aegon and wait for him to speak. It takes a while, but you don’t mind. You’ve always had patience; you’ve always been a better listener than someone who fills silences.

At last Aegon says: “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Then stop.”

He smirks bitterly, glaring out into the sunrise, orange light like fire on his sunburned face. “You make reinvention sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy. But it is simple. You decide to get out, and then you do it. You don’t let anything convince you to give up or change course. The only way out is through.”

“I have a proposition.”

“I’m still not interested in fake dating you.”

He cackles. “No, it’s something else.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Now Aegon is serious. “I don’t ever want to split up again. Not in a year, not in ten years, not in twenty. Never.”

You smile as you watch the reflection of the dawn in his eyes, murky faraway blue like oceans all across the globe. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of commitment.”

“I want to take care of you until you die. I want you to take care of me until I die. And that’s as far as commitment goes with me.”

“Deal.” You offer Aegon your hand.

He shakes it. “Deal.”

Two hours later, Criston Cole’s white Chevy Tahoe is loaded high with supplies—including several of Aegon’s golf clubs and his acoustic guitar—and heading north on Route 1, a Fall Out Boy song from one of Aegon’s mixtapes blaring through the speakers:

“When Rome’s in ruins

We are the lions, free of the Colosseums

In poison places, we are antivenom

We’re the beginning of the end…”

You rest your head on Aemond’s shoulder and wait for the sapphire-and-gold Bay Area to become the misty, primordial emerald green of the Pacific Northwest.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

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