#still have a dozen or twenty more to take pictures of | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

Text

Not-So-Scary Moments With The Yan. Genshin Boys (Sumeru + Fontaine Edition).

Characters: Alhaitham, Neuvillette, Kaveh, Tighnari, Cyno, and Wriothesley.

Word Count: 2.7k.

TW: Borderline Shitposting, Prolonged Imprisonment, Varying Levels of Emotional and Physical Abuse, Codependency, Mentions of Stalking, and Unhealthy Relationships.

Alhaitham

It took Alhaitham about ten minutes to drag himself out of bed, his staggered footsteps audible through the thin walls of his apartment.

It took twenty for him to haul himself through his morning routine – water running somewhere in the distance and porcelain clattering against marble countertops as he washed his face and tried to work some life into himself. Alhaitham usually wasn’t so lethargic, but he’d had a rough week. There’d been a sudden influx of paperwork for the Akademiya’s sole scribe, and every second he didn’t spend buried under new legislation and requests for increased budging was, instead, dedicated to one of his many personal research projects. By the time he’d gotten home last night, it’d been all he could do to make sure you hadn’t starved to death and drag himself to bed.

He usually would’ve kept you waiting for a few more minutes, but an agitated grunt marked an end to his normal patterns. In a moment, he was braced against the doorway to his own study, his eyes narrowed half-hearted towards where you sat in his leather-padded chair, your feet propped on his desk. There was an book open in your lap – one of his, something about metaphysics and ley line abnormalities and how both tied into the Inazuman politics. He eyed it wearily before speaking, his voice still deep with exhaustion. “Where did you put my hearing aids?”

His tone was accusatory, his irritation visible. You put on your sweetest smile. “Where did you put my novellas?” you signed, thinking for a moment before adding, “Bitch?”

“They aren’t ‘novellas’, they’re—” He cut himself off with a scoff. “They’re filth. I don’t want you rotting your brain with smut.”

“The plots are very—”

“The plots are half-baked excuses for paper-thin characters to fondle each other in locations you can tell the author didn’t take the time to properly research and—” His gaze flickered to you, his frown deepening. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“You’ve read them?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Finally, he let out a labored sigh. “The dozen or so I couldn’t be bothered to throw away are in a cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. It’s locked – the code is your birthday. Now, where are my aids?”

“You fell asleep with them on last night,” you said aloud, abandoning his glorified textbook and pushing yourself to your feet. His hand shot to the side of his head, finding the metallic cuff only slightly displaced by having spent the better half of the night on his head. As you passed him, you paused, pressing a kiss into the corner of his scowl and pretending to ignore the muffled groan he let out in response.

Neuvillette

Of all the sights you thought you might see after arriving in your wonderous new nation, the Iudex of Fontaine standing over your drained bathtub with a look of potent remorse written across his expression was not one of them.

You’d imagined yourself strolling through the walls of the Opera Epiclese in vivid detail, been able to picture exactly what you might’ve seen standing below the Tower of Ipsissimus or above the bottomless pit that was the entrance to the Fortress of Meropide, but even after you’d found yourself in the smothering care of Monsieur Neuvillette, you never would’ve been able to conjure this sight. He usually insisted that you bathe together, going so far as to have an in-ground tub that could’ve easily been mistaken for a hot spring installed in his (until recently neglected) personal residence to better indulge the habit. Thankfully, the trial he’d been presiding over had run long today, and you’d been able to save yourself an hour of his calloused hands running over your body, of his eyes burning into your skin with a nearly inhuman focus. You knew he’d be disappointed. Irate, even, depending on how his trial swung.

You hadn’t expected him to be so… sulky about it.

Half-lidded eyes, a slight pout tugging at the corner of his lips as he lingered idly in the doorway between your shared bedroom and the in-suite bathroom. Steam and silence laid heavy in the air – the latter you were eventually forced to break as you fiddled with the hem of your robe. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hoping more to break the tension than to make him think you were genuinely apologetic. “It was getting late, and I didn’t know when you were coming home. I didn’t think you’d take it so personally.” When he didn’t respond, you braced yourself for the worst. “If you’re angry, please say so. I… I’d rather get this over with now, if it’s all the same to you.”

His expression softened. He let out an airy sigh and, with only a moment of hesitation, closed the space between you. “I’m not angry.” A pair of lean arms wrapped around your waist, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck. You heard him inhale, and did what you could to suppress the shudder that ran up your spine at the thought of him basking in your scent. “I’ve just been… looking forward to it, I suppose. Your taste relaxes me.”

Immediately, you went rigid. “My… taste?”

“Mhm.”

“Neuvillette,” you started, very slowly, giving your own mind time to catch up to the dread slowly building in the pit of your stomach. “Have you been drinking my bathwater?”

He was quiet for a not inconsiderable amount of time.

Finally, he pulled away from you just far enough to speak. “…no?”

For your own sake, you decided to believe him.

Kaveh

“Kaveh.”

“Not now, treasure.”

“Go to bed.”

“I will, in another hour.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I’ve already told you – I’m fine.” He narrowed his eyes, expression contorted by concentration. “Knight to B4.”

“Kaveh,” you repeated, leaning across the table. “You were showing me your blueprints.”

“Oh.” He blinked several times, looking over the sheet of blue paper marked with chalk drawings and near indecipherable hand-writing. “Were you impressed?”

Your frown irked, but you swallowed back your exasperation and pushed yourself to your feet. Slowly, you took him by the hand and, when he failed to protest, guided him out of his own seat and towards the room you were usually restrained to, when he wasn’t home. He’d kept himself awake for the past two nights, every moment of the past forty-eight hours devoted to finishing his proposal for a wealthy commissioner’s summer mansion before its upcoming deadline and, now that the coffee had been drained from his system and his adrenaline had been given time to fade, he was practically a shell of a man – all dark circles and hunched posture and disheveled blonde hair.

Sleep deprivation was, by far, the worst thing he could inflict on himself. At least he was happy after he drunk himself into oblivion. This was just depressing; as miserable for him as it was for you.

With a dutifulness you shouldn’t have had to show to your lover-turned-stalker-turned-captor, you brought him to his bed and watched as he collapsed onto it, what little strength he had to hold himself up immediately dissolving. With a sigh, a roll of your eyes, you turned to leave, but a hand lashed out from the crumpled heap and caught you by the wrist. “Stay with me?” His voice was muffled by layers of sheets and blankets, but clear enough. “Please?”

Usually, his bids for affection were met with bitter neutrality or, on your worse days, spiteful condensation. Usually, you would’ve torn yourself out of his hold and made sure he knew that he’d ruined any chance of living out his little domestic fantasy the second he decided his obsession was worth more than your happiness. Usually, you would’ve hated him that much more for daring to ask.

But, he could barely hold his eyes open and when you failed to immediately recoil, the sloppiest, most lovesick smile you’d ever seen plastered itself across his lips. It was his turn to pull you forward, this time; to drag you onto his bed and into his chest. With a satisfied sigh, he slotted his chin against the dip of your shoulder and draped his arms around your waist – an old position. A relic of better times you’d never been strong enough to completely dicard. “When it’s time to draw up the plans for our home,” he mumbled, only half-audible. “I won’t so much as breathe until its perfect.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t say anything.

He’d already fallen asleep.

Tighnari

He glanced once at the thick packet of ink-marked parchment you’d slammed in front of him before looking back to you, his expression disparaging. “And this is supposed to be…?”

“A custody agreement,” you answered, grinning. “Alhaitham put it together during his last visit.”

“We don’t have any kids.”

“It’s for Collei. If I ever leave you,” and, to be clear, you would be leaving him, as soon as you figured out how to get away from a man who poisoned your tea whenever you so much as suggested entertaining a future that didn’t include him, “I want weekends and summers.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“Which is why we’re letting her pick who she wants to spend holidays with.” You tapped the front page with your knuckles. “Honestly, dear, if you weren’t going to so much as read the documents, we could’ve scheduled this for another day.”

His ears twitched, his tail sweeping across the floor in irritation. “Even if this was legally binding – which, by the way, something assembled by a scribe would not be – I would never give you weekends. That’d be too much travelling for a girl in her condition, and I don’t want her to feel like she comes from a broken home. Moreover, according to Regulation #531 as passed by the Grand Sage last year, you would have to get Collei’s signature before—”

“Check page twenty-seven.”

You watched him scowl as he thumbed through the pages. A second later, his ears flattened against his scalp, and he took to muttering under his breath. “Traitor.”

“If you don’t want your aggression towards the dependent party used against you in court, I’d suggest you sign on page four, seventeen, and thirty-two.”

You left his villa half an hour later with a with a new imprint of his fangs on the side of your throat and a signed document in-hand.

Cyno

“You have kidnapped me.”

“Technically, I was only—”

“You’ve blackmailed me, imprisoned me, and tortured me.”

“You can’t still be hung up on—”

“You’ve branded me with your name, forced me into your bed, and made me play out all your delusional, fucked-up fantasies—” You took a deep breath, pursed your lips. “—but if you show up to a black-tie event wearing that, it will be the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

He looked down, as if considering his attire for the first time. He was in his usual uniform – which was to say, shirtless and barefoot, his hair windblown and a fine layer of sand still coating what little he was wearing. You could only be thankful his polearm wasn’t slung across his back, but you knew he’d make it past the door without it. “The way I dress has never been a problem before.”

“There’s a difference between hunting down rouge scholars and going to a banquet being held by a literal god. Archons, Lesser Lord Kusanali herself might be there.” You gasped, dragged your hands over your face. “Everyone who’s ever gone to the Akademiya will absolutely be there.”

For all his many faults, he could never stand to see you in pain. There was a brief delay, a moment of unsure shuffling, then his arms were wrapping around you, his chest slotting against your back has he pulled you against him. “It’ll be alright,” he muttered, speaking into your shoulder. “If anyone so much as attempts to insult you—no, if anyone tries to talk to you at all, I’ll strike them down in the blink of an eyes.”

His comfort was stale, but you forced yourself to relax. At least enough to speak. “You know,” you mumbled, letting your hands drift to your temples. “Dehya was hired by an up-and-coming scholar, a few weeks ago. I’m not sure how long her contract was, but there’s a chance we’ll see her tonight.”

There was a beat of silence, then another.

“Cyno?”

“I’ll change.”

Wriothesley

You could hear him trudging up the metallic stairs to his office; his footsteps heavy enough to drown out the soft music flowing out of his century-old gramophone. His head emerged from the curving staircase, first – his hair somehow more disheveled than its usual state of barely-tamed chaos – then his chest, his tie undone and his collar terribly mangled, as if he’d spent all day indulging the worst of his nervous habits. He was baring his teeth, his pale cheeks flushed with anger and his eyes narrowed into a pointed glare. It wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for (in your wildest dreams, he would’ve managed to sink his beloved fortress before he ever reached you), but it was close enough.

You moved to stand, to greet him with the warm embrace he usually demanded, but he was already in front of you, already pinning you to the back of the lounge you’d been splayed across with a single fist planted less than a hair’s width above your shoulder. “You,” he growled, leaning in close enough for his breath to fan over your skin. “Do you know how many journalistsI had to deal with today? They were everywhere. I couldn’t go a step without tripping over some— over some glorified tabloid.”

“So, your meeting with Monsieur Neuvillette went well?” His scowl deepened, and you let out your most faux innocent laugh – a chiming, bubbling thing he’d never been able to stand. “You shouldn’t scowl like that, love. All those photographers will have to find a new model if you manage to give yourself frown lines.”

He jolted, but forced himself to shut his eyes, to let out a long, ragged breath. When he did face you again, he’d regained a degree of his composure – just enough to meet your smile with his own tight-lipped grin, more teeth than anything. “I’ll let you off easy if you tell me how you did it now. Before I decide it’d be faster to strangle an explanation out of you.”

“I didn’t break any rules, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You paused, folded your hands over your lap. “It was all thanks to our great and benevolent duke. Contacting people outside of the fortress has gotten so much more efficient ever since you decided prisoners should be able to send letters without administrative vetting.”

He buckled visibly, his shoulders falling as he lean towards you, his face soon buried in the dip of your shoulder. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.” There was a raspy chuckle, a hand on your thigh, squeezing just hard enough for his anger to shine through the playfulness of the gesture. “I think I’ve earned the rest of the day off, and I think you’ve earned—”

The door to his office swung open before he could finish, a masculine voice calling up from the voice below only a moment later. “Your grace, t-there’s a reporter here to see you! She says she’s been told not to leave until she speaks to your partner!”

“That’ll be Charlotte,” you half-sung. “She seemed like such a nice girl in her letters. It’d be a shame to keep her waiting.”

When he failed to answer, you brought up both hands and cupped his face, cooing as you used your thumbs to quirk the corners of his mouth upward.

“Just remember to smile for the camera this time, alright?”

4K notes · View notes

chu16a-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Benji Dunn x reader - (Im)possible to focus

Paring: Benji Dunn X reader

Summary: You are a drunk, flirty, and teasing mess. Benji can't concentrate when you are like this.

Warning: I wish one day, I could take such a nice picture.. Alas, I will have to content myself with a Pinterest pic. Mention of Tequilla, for all of you, who can taste the hangovers caused by it.

(Im)possible to focus:

Benji Dunn had been in love with you for what felt like forever.

Not the dramatic, heart-in-flames kind of love. No, it was quieter than that. Softer. The kind that built itself up over late-night mission planning and cramped van stakeouts, over the way you laughed at your own bad jokes, or always remembered to grab his favorite energy drink before a mission. It crept up on him, slow and stubborn—until one day he realized there was no part of his life you hadn’t slipped into.

Luther knew, of course. So did Ethan. They’d tease him about it in passing nudges, smirks, a not-so-subtle “maybe you should just tell her.” but Benji always brushed it off with a nervous laugh or a change of subject. Because how does he tell someone like you, someone brilliant and brave and out of his league in a dozen different ways, that he's quietly been building a future around the sound of your voice?

He doesn’t.

He just kept showing up, doing his job, pretending the look in his eyes doesn’t unravel him every time he gets too close.

Until one night, you stumble off a mission slightly drunk, still beautiful, and smiling like trouble, and suddenly Benji has a much bigger problem on his hands than he’s ever trained for.

---

The tequila hit you faster than expected, warm and reckless, loosening the tight coil of nerves you usually kept locked away. You hated it, the way your heart skipped every time Benji was near, the butterflies that wouldn’t quit, no matter how many missions you pulled together. It annoyed you, really. How was it possible to be so distracted by just one guy? Especially Benji, always the brainy, nervous tech guy. But no. He had your tongue tied and your thoughts scrambled.

Tonight, the weight of pretending was too much. Pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, or how your chest tightened when he laughed. Hiding your feelings had become exhausting. And honestly? It was kind of ridiculous.

Your boots clicked against the floor as she stumbled back into the safehouse, the remnants of the mission and a few too many drinks trailing behind you. Then, just like that, you locked eyes with Benji across the room.

The butterflies in your stomach flipped again. Your grin grew mischievous. Maybe it was the tequila talking, or maybe it was time.

Time to stop hiding.

Time to test the waters.

“Heyyyyy,” you drawled, walking into the operations room like a cowboy after a long ride, if the cowboy had glitter on their cheek and smelled faintly of lime.

Benji looked up from his monitor and froze. Luther turned slowly in his chair. Ethan, ever the professional, sighed like a man who’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

“You’re back,” Luther said.

“I am,” you announced proudly. “In one piece. Which is more than I can say for the guy who challenged me to a mezcal chugging contest.”

Benji opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Are you… okay?”

“I’m thriving,” you beamed, arms stretched out like you were ready to be crucified by a hangover. “Ten out of ten. No notes.”

“You smell like a bar floor,” Luther muttered.

“That bar floor won us the microdrive with the nuclear launch codes on it,” you pointed out, flopping into a chair with absolutely no coordination. “You’re welcome.”

Ethan stepped in, arms crossed. “Great. You can sleep it off on the plane. We’re wheels up in twenty. Benji will brief you.”

You blinked at him. “Huh?”

“We got a new mission,” Benji explained gently. “While you were, um… blending in.”

----

You looked at him. Like, really looked at him.

And there it was again, that adorable little furrow in his brow, the nervous energy practically crackling off him. You barely heard his words, but man, his mouth moved so nicely when he talked. His lips were doing a whole performance. You were captivated. There could have been subtitles and a background score, and you still would’ve stared.

Benji paused mid-sentence. “You’re not listening, are you?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully.

The tablet in Benji’s hands was clearly trying its best. He had diagrams, thermal scans, a bullet-pointed infiltration sequence, all very smart, very Benji. But you were leaning against the wall beside him, legs stretched out lazily, cheek resting on your hand as you stared up at him like he was an alien species made entirely out of sunshine and soft sweaters.

He was focused, reading from the tablet. “…once we get into the gala, the target’s expected to meet with a buyer, codenamed—”

You blinked slowly.

Nice eyes.

“…you’ll be in position by the east wing. Disguises are prepped. I uploaded blueprints to your—”

Cute nose. The way it crinkled a little when he got technical.

“…backup’s arriving in a separate convoy—are you even hearing this? You’re staring.”

“I am.” You didn’t even pretend to hide it.

You rested your chin in your hand, turned your head toward him with a blissful, dopey smile, and booped his nose. “I like the way you talk.”

Benji’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“…what?”

“You’re just so…” You waved your fingers vaguely, as if that explained it. “Benji.”

Benji shifted in his seat, gripping the tablet a little too tightly.

“Okay,” he told himself. “Focus. You’re a professional. You’ve trained for this. You’ve hacked nuclear facilities in Belarus. You do not get rattled by—”

His eyes flicked to you.

“—by smiles. Or knees touching yours. Or that lip thing she’s doing.”

He sat back like the seat might offer protection. It did not.

You, on the other hand, were basking in the effect you had on him. It was rare to see Benji flustered to the point of collapse. His cheeks were practically glowing, and his knee had started bouncing like it was trying to send Morse code for "HELP ME."

“You always wear glasses when you brief?” you asked, ignoring him entirely. “Or is that just for me?”

He cleared his throat. “I need them to read.”

“Hm,” you said, eyes twinkling. “They make you look very… smart. Like a genius who might accidentally defuse the wrong bomb but still look good doing it.”

His lips parted, but no sound came out. His thumb accidentally flicked the tablet screen too fast, skipping four slides ahead.

“You cannot be undone by one smile and a half-drunken compliment,” he muttered under his breath, staring blankly at the tablet for the fifth time.

But you looked at him again, really looked at him.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted silently, “maybe I do like her. A little. A lot. A catastrophic amount.”

He closed his eyes for a second, just to regroup.

“She’s literally drunk on cartel tequila and flirting like she’s in the spy rom-com version. Get a grip, man.”

You giggled. “What’s your type, Benji?”

“My type?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, resting your chin on your hand. “Like. Do you go for the cool, serious types? Mysterious femme fatale? Hacker girls? Tequila-scented messes with messy hair and bad timing?”

Benji’s mouth opened. Then closed. “I, uh—don’t really—”

“Let me guess,” you said, eyes dancing. “You’ve never been flirted with on a plane by a semi-drunk teammate mid-mission briefing before.”

He gave a helpless laugh. “Not exactly a common occurrence, no.”

You leaned just a little closer, your voice dropping a note. “Well. First time for everything.”

Benji’s entire face went red. His brain short-circuited.

Words failed. Logic failed. The tablet in his hand might as well have been a toaster.

“She’s not even trying to be subtle,” he thought, eyes wide. “Is she joking? Please tell me she’s joking. Oh god, what if she’s not joking?”

He coughed, very professionally. “I should, uh, get back to .. slides.”

“I’m listening,” you said, clearly not listening at all. “I just like when you talk. You have a soothing voice.”

Benji shifted in his seat, looking like he was seriously considering jumping out of the emergency exit.

“Do you always get this shy?” you asked softly.

His response was a squeak.

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh and finally leaned back in your seat, giving him a little break. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. For now.”

He peeked at you from the corner of his eye, cautiously hopeful. “You will?”

You grinned. “No.”

Benji stared at the same mission slide for what felt like hours. Nothing was registering. He could hear his own pulse over the soft hum of the jet engines.

You shifted just a little closer, letting your hand rest on his knee.

His soul briefly left his body.

“I’ve lost all grip on reality,” he thought. “I don’t even know what I’m briefing anymore. This could be a grocery list. I’d believe it.”

He inhaled, clinging to what was left of his dignity.

“If she leans any closer,” Benji thought with wild-eyed panic, “I’m going to throw this tablet out the emergency exit, fake a nosebleed, and lock myself in the lavatory until we land.”

And honestly? It was starting to sound like a solid plan.

---

The mission was done.

No gunfire. No alarms. No sprinting through underground corridors with Benji cursing at firewalls.

Just the quiet hum of nighttime Madrid pressing in around the safehouse, and the distant flicker of neon signs across the rooftops.

Benji stood beside you, arms crossed, tablet finally powered off and stashed away. His brain should’ve been enjoying the peace, finally, a moment without explosions or last-minute improvisation. But instead, it was loud. Chaotic. Mostly because of you.

You were perched on the ledge of the rooftop, legs swinging over the edge like this was all just a casual afterparty. You hadn’t said much since the debrief. You just… smiled. Like you were still holding onto something.

Benji shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, replaying the memory of earlier. The plane ride. The briefing. The ridiculous way you leaned in way too close, asked if he always looked that “mischievously intelligent,” and ran your fingers along his arm like you were checking for static.

No more teasing, he told himself. No more flirting. Finally, some peace.

But then the question settled, sharp and heavy in his chest:

Did she really mean it?

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were looking up at the stars now, lips parted in thought, that quiet little smile still ghosting on your face.

The way you looked at him back on the plane, like he was the only person in the room. The compliments, the soft touches. Were they just drunk-tired nonsense? Or something more?

You caught him staring.

“Benji,” you said softly, “you’re doing the overthinking face.”

He blinked. “I have a face for that?”

You nodded with mock solemnity. “It’s very... furrowed. Looks like you’re trying to defuse a bomb and do taxes at the same time.”

Benji gave a dry chuckle and looked down at his shoes. “That’s… surprisingly accurate.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, your voice quieter now. “Listen, about earlier… I might have been a tiny bit tipsy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just a bit?”

You gave him that smile—the one that had haunted him through more briefings than he’d admit. “Okay. Maybe more than a bit. But hey, it worked.”

He tilted his head. “Getting teased and flirting with me worked?”

“Sure did,” you said, smirking. “You didn’t run away. That’s something.”

Benji looked at you, really looked. You weren’t being flirty now. Not performative. You were just… there. Earnest. Still a little flushed from the post-mission comedown and maybe the tequila, but your eyes were clear now. Sure.

You reached out without thinking, resting your hand on his knee and giving it a playful squeeze.

He froze. “W-was that intentional?”

You tilted your head, lips curving in a smirk. “Maybe. You know. For science.”

He laughed nervously, eyes darting away for a second before returning to yours. “You’re dangerous when you’re curious.”

“Well,” you said, leaning just slightly closer, “if I’m going to be a mess, might as well have a good reason.”

And there it was again, the air shifting between you. Not heavy, not explosive. Just… full. With tension. With potential. With years of teasing, almost, maybe.

Benji’s pulse hammered in his ears as you closed the distance, your breath warm against his cheek.

He didn’t move at first. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. But your eyes flicked down to his lips, and that was permission enough.

He leaned in slowly, meeting you halfway. When your lips finally touched, it wasn’t fireworks or a dramatic swell of music. It was soft. Tentative. Real. The kind of kiss that said: Hey. Finally.

Neither of you rushed it. Neither pulled away too soon.

When it ended, you were both a little breathless. And smiling like fools.

Benji opened his mouth to say something—anything—but was promptly interrupted by Luther’s voice crackling over the comms:

“Hey lovebirds, I swear to God, if you’re making out on the roof and not helping me re-pack the gear…”

You burst out laughing, head falling against Benji’s shoulder.

He groaned. “He’s always listening. It’s terrifying.”

You looked up at him, your grin still wide. “Well… guess some things never change.”

Benji looked at you, heart still thumping, and smiled back. “I hope at least one thing does.”

#mission impossible #benji dunn x reader #benji dunn imagine #benji dunn #fanfic #Drunk!reader #misson impossible x reader #ethan hunt #oneshot #reader insert #x reader #simon pegg

122 notes · View notes

agentmarvel · 1 year ago

Text

center image by @/ave661

PART I

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 2,992

read on ao3

summary: in which contract killer simon "ghost" riley has to marry by a deadline, and of all the women to pick from, he chose you - without your knowledge, against your own stubborn will, and without much hesitation. your entire life, what you thought you knew, is flipped on its head while you try to navigate your new worldview and the complications therein.

cw: toxic parenting

♡

Simon stares at the photos before him, eyes flittering across the array wordlessly as he contemplates the question at hand. As migrant as his gaze has been, he keeps circling back to the same photo in his grid. Something about it draws him in, calling to him like a siren song. There’s no inclination that this path could lead him to his death, leave his bloated corpse floating just below the surface like seaweed, equally as limp and lifeless, nor can he be bothered to mind the possibility of rocky shores ahead, nearly certain to run his ship aground if he’s not exercising the utmost caution. His sails have never flown higher, and this? This feels like the right rigging for his needs.

It’s not that Simon wants a wife. Truthfully, he wants for nothing - he fucks when he feels like it, does as he pleases, and has hired hands to handle his household; anything he desires is placed at his feet with the snap of his fingers. He’s earned the life he has now, paid for it in blood, sweat, and tears - the likes of which belonging both to him and the piles of bodies he prefers to think of as stepping stones rather than people. But Simon Riley is nothing if not a man of his word, and the bill has come due.

Twenty years, he promised. Twenty years, and not a day more. It seems like an eternity to an eager, naïve teenager.

John Price, the master of hired guns, trained Simon. He put years of his life into molding Simon into the perfect weapon while instilling a moral compass impossible to sway. It did not come without cost, though. When he agreed to teach a driven, persistent, gifted fifteen year old Simon the ins and outs of the business, they made a deal. In exchange for John’s knowledge, Simon would be given time to build his empire before being required to take a wife.

“A mountain can’t rest upon a single pebble,” Price had told him. “Strength is in numbers, my boy. Earn loyalty where you can and buy it where you can’t.”

He’s been on his own for just over a decade, John becoming his equal, and he still takes those words to heart; hence the spread of pictures. Word travels fast, and when it gets out that the Simon Riley is seeking a bride, every magnate - respectable or otherwise - with a daughter to spare is throwing their hat into the ring. Conceited, perhaps, but having connections with Simon gives a man the kind of power they’d be foolish to reject.

His right-hand, Johnny, has already weeded out those with seedier dealings - those who cater to terrorism or are even suspected of having connections to human trafficking. While Simon is merciless in his kills, he does not kill without compunction. He’s swift and silent and doesn’t believe in leaving them to suffer. Death itself is punishment enough. There’s no purpose in his life for those who inflict undue dolor for their own gain, and he will not be associated with the uncouth.

The process limits his options, though not by nearly enough. Still, nigh on two dozen remained. He culled the field down to a mere nine by adding stricter constraints: age, employment history, education, and the like. He has no interest in the barely legal, the spoiled socialites, the vapid, shallow, or vain. As hollow as this state of matrimony may ring under the circumstances, he’d prefer not to be one of those men who feels disdain for his partner.

That’s the thought that keeps him circling back to one specific photo - a grayscale surveillance-style photo. The subject is undoubtedly stunning, appears to be precisely his preference in every physical aspect, but the devil is in the details. A delicate necklace that appears to be well-worn but treasured enough to stay polished, a purse that bears no distinguishable designer but shows no sign of detrition, neat, complimentary nails, but he can see a thin sliver of dried glue at the cuticle of the thumb; all signs of frugality without sacrificing sophistication...

Even the tiniest observations sing a haunting, operatic tune that keeps Simon hypnotized with little regard for what could lie within the treacherous depths below. Instinct drives interest, and if there’s anything Simon’s learned in his line of work, it’s to trust his instincts.

Not another beat passes before his fingertips finally close around the edge of the picture. He hands it to Johnny.

“Dig up everything you can on this one, yeah?”

♡

Fascination seems to be the weakest word to describe the rabbit hole Simon finds himself in when Johnny slides a file across his desk. He thumbs the manila tab that peeks out beneath the slew of staggered papers, taking caution to remember the name printed neatly across it - your name. It tastes sweet when he says it out loud. Pretty name for a pretty girl, he muses with a nearly imperceptible smirk.

The surname strikes him with a notch of recognition. Your father, if memory serves correct, is one of the largest arms dealers in the world. A pleasant man by reputation, though Simon has never met him directly. Sans the obvious, he keeps his nose clean. Nothing iniquitous or unscrupulous. There aren’t many American families that Simon has ties to, and forging a bond of this sort with a weapons tycoon would certainly be beneficial.

He digs into the contents of the folder, the pages feeling almost like silk between his heavily calloused fingers. A vague eagerness settles into his bones. Simon feigns disinterest outwardly, expression masked in stoicism, but he can’t lie to himself - he’s undoubtedly curious.

Each barely-cooled sheet turned only draws him further into a spiral. Your basic documents - driver’s license, birth certificate, passport - fill in a few blanks. The additional knowledge of your height, weight, and eye color offer insights not clear from the photo. He knows your middle name, birth date, that you’re an organ donor. You’re not living off your father’s money, as evidenced by the consistent bi-weekly paycheck deposits in your bank records. Educated, obviously, as your student loan payments are automatically drafted monthly.

On paper, it’s almost as if you were made for him, and what a thought that is. Optimism isn't in his nature; a heavy dose of skepticism hangs like a dark cloud, brewing a storm of adversarial rationale. But the pinch of hope that hovers like the sun in the back of his mind tells him to digest before coming back for seconds, and he concedes.

In the days that follow, Simon notices himself spending every spare moment revisiting your file. He placates Johnny’s lingering nosiness with the assurance that he’s merely trying to make a prudent choice under the circumstances, but that’s not quite honest. Truth be told, you’ve become a bit of an obsession of his over the last week. He often notes that his mind is wandering to the things he didn’t learn from the dossier - how you take your tea, what perfume you use, where you’ve always wanted to go but have never been. It’s a dangerous admission, one best kept to himself.

He toys with the notion of conducting the same research on a couple of the other candidates, just to be sure, but his decision is made final when Kyle sends over the links to your social media accounts. None of them are private - an issue Simon will have to address quite thoroughly at a later date - so he has no trouble combing through the last several years of your life.

Admittedly, it leaves an adequate mark. You’re witty and smart while remaining a bit sardonic. Thoughtful and warm, but not without your sharp edges. You’re ambitious and driven, a bit of a firecracker. Color him impressed; he quite likes that.

Demeanor aside, he also finds that you really, genuinely are an absolute beauty. The few photos from your file don’t hold a candle to the selfies you’ve posted. Something about seeing you when you feel most confident, when you’re exuding that effervescent glow of aplomb, it sparks a sensation in Simon’s stomach that he can’t quite describe.

That all but seals the deal.

He snaps up his phone and sends a text to Johnny before placing it face-down and turning back to his laptop.

>>> Set up the meeting

♡

As his jet touches down in Bogotá, Simon is reminded of what a nasty beast jetlag can be. It’s an animal he’s not had to contend with since his younger years, a fact for which he’s grateful. Call it a perk of his constant travel over the years and the more… unconventional hours he entertains on jobs. They’re approaching hour fourteen of their flight, though, so he supposes he can’t fault his men for falling asleep.

(He did, however, take a picture of them sleeping on each other before the turbulence awoke them; you know, for the sake of posterity and potential future blackmail.)

Simon’s mind had been far too occupied to allow him the opulence of rest. Upon his lap sits a dossier on his next target, a relatively high profile subversive at that, and all he can think about is the pretty little thing that’s been haunting his subconscious for the last two weeks.

By all accounts, it’s baffling. He understands that this sudden onset of infatuation is irrational, illogical, and quite frankly, irresponsible. It distracts him from things he ought not be distracted from, and that irritates him to no end.

The whirring of the engines slows to a dull hum, and Simon, with a grunt of discontentment, stuffs the file into his briefcase. He’ll accomplish nothing as long as he’s preoccupied. Hopefully, focus will be far less elusive on the flight back.

A loud thunk from the cockpit draws him from his spiral of ire, and Nikolai emerges. He greets Simon only with a curt nod before disengaging the door and deploying the stairs. Once they’ve kissed the asphalt, he ventures back a step, creating room for the men to disembark.

“Welcome to Colombia, gentlemen,” he announces. “We leave in six hours; gives me time to refuel the bird and grab some fuel myself. Enjoy your time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?” He tacks on a wink for good measure, which draws a bark of laughter from Kyle. Nik’s been with them long enough for them to know that’s a very short list, a fact Johnny is very quick to point out.

Simon claps a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and hands him an envelope before stepping out - a hefty cash sum for his time and efforts. He may have also snuck in a sizable bonus as an anniversary present, but that will stay between the two of them.

“Get some rest, too, yeah? You’ve earned it.”

The air outside is crisp and pleasant. Underneath the standard airfield smells, Simon detects a pinch of coffee and cocoa. He wouldn’t be surprised; there’s a manufacturing plant not too terribly far from here, and if the wind blows just so, it may carry on the current. It’s refreshing, especially after being trapped for hours in an aluminum tube with three men who, today in particular, seem to be having a war over who can wear the strongest cologne.

Kyle and Johnny flank him on either side as they stroll off the tarmac. They’re both covertly armed to the teeth as a general precaution, but he trusts there will be no sinister intent behind a simple lunch. Surely, his appointment won’t mind. He likely won’t be attending alone either.

At the far end of the strip, a hired car is waiting. It’s relatively inconspicuous for the part of the city housing the restaurant, according to Simon’s research - a sleek, black SUV with windows tinted dark enough to hide any passengers, but passable enough to not draw attention.

Once in the city, it’s inherently obvious that there’s plenty of time to kill before the agreed upon hour. Place and time re-confirmed, the boys are turned loose to occupy themselves however they see fit, and Simon delves into the rows of local shops.

He finds things here and there; a pair of stunning leather boots, a box of cigars for Price, trinkets and treats he can share with his staff or gifts he can bring to gatherings so that he never greets his gracious hosts empty-handed. Even a little something for you, should all go according to plan. He smiles inwardly as he tucks the velvet box into the pocket of his slacks. It won’t replace the necklace you clearly adore, but he hopes you’ll wear it regardless.

After a quick trip back to their driver to leave their finds, the trio makes their way to the restaurant. Johnny and Kyle lag behind, keeping a respectable distance from Simon, whose eyes are immediately combing the patio for your father.

He spots him closer to the corner, sitting with his back to the wall. Two tables over, a pair of rather conspicuous men sit, cliché aviators perched in place while positioned to have a clear view of the upcoming interactions. Simon makes a mental note to wait until closer to the wedding to offer suggestions for higher quality detail. Assassinations are easier when you can gauge your obstacles so easily; trust him, he’d know.

In his periphery, he sees his companions select an empty table four over from the rent-a-cops. Kyle sits with his back to the table, glasses off. Johnny sits across from him, keeping his on to supply a reflective overview. Simon can’t help but crack the tiniest grin. He’s taught them well. They move as a singular unit when needed and rely on instinct over protocol. It’s the perfect display of how safe you’ll be with him. If he seems a little arrogant about it, that’s because he is.

Your father looks up from his phone and meets Simon’s eyes with an unspoken question. Simon tips his chin just once before the man stands, greeting him with a gracious smile.

“Ah, Mr. Riley… Pleasure to finally meet you.” He’s sincere in tone and offers his hand. Simon takes it without hesitation, giving it a firm shake while he shares the sentiment.

“You as well, sir.”

His smile widens a bit at that, and he gestures to the open chair, saying, “Please, sit.”

Simon takes the invitation, settling into the seat and the subsequent relatively meaningless small talk. They cycle through the basics before ordering their food and get a pinch more personal while they wait, discussing their respective hometowns and places their work has taken them. It isn’t until they’re digging into their plates that your father finally broaches the subject they’re both most anxious to discuss.

“As much as I’m enjoying getting to know you,” he begins, gaze not rising from his fork as it prods a pile of coconut rice. “I’m sure you didn’t fly halfway across the world just for that.”

“No, sir,” Simon responds. “I’m here to talk about your daughter.”

That draws the man’s attention, eyes finally meeting Simon’s with a subtle grin. It’s almost somewhat unsettling, like a cat finally catching that damn canary, though he’s unsure whether it’s him or you that owns the role of prey.

“But you already knew that, didn't you?”

“That I did,” he confirms, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Tell me, Simon, what exactly is it about my daughter that calls to the infamous Ghost?”

Simon pauses a moment, unsure of quite how to approach the response. He'd rather not tip his hand until he determines what sinisterity lies behind that predatory gaze. The mask your father is wearing at the moment is approaching uncanny, and a faint alarm bell sounds in the back of Simon’s mind.

“I only ask because, well, I never would’ve expected that a man of your stature would choose someone so… plain, shall we say? Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good girl, but she’s certainly not without her flaws. Stubborn, opinionated, talks too much, certainly far from the ideal housewife. And don’t get me started on how she takes care of herself. Really makes me wonder, Mr. Riley, what ulterior motives might you be hiding?”

“None, sir. Nothin’ I need from you that I can’t get myself.” Simon’s voice is flat as he tamps down the anger crawling beneath his skin. How does a real man speak ill of his own daughter so flagrantly? Does he really have no regard for you? He has half a mind to remove your father’s tongue after the wedding, if only for your sake.

“Pray tell, then.”

Simon scrubs a hand over his jaw before he answers, “Pretty girl. Smart from the sound of it. Doesn’t rely on attention from the public or ‘er daddy’s money. Ain’t lookin’ for a sweet little housewife; I like it when they bite back.”

“And you understand that she’s… How do I put this delicately?” He pauses. “She’s a bit bigger than what you'd consider a trophy wife."

Simon scoffs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he's aware of that. That's part of what drew him to you.

“Quite like a fuller figure. Don’t want a woman who’ll fuss over calories when I cook for ‘er.”

Your father mulls it over, chewing thoughtfully as he considers the words before him. Simon watches as the muscles in his jaw flex and reflex, and he swears he can hear the scales tipping back and forth as they try to find some balance.

Finally, he wipes his face with his napkin. His expression cracks into something adjacent to genuine, and that alarm gets just a little bit louder.

“I suppose this little meeting has reached its end.” He snaps his fingers twice as the waiter, gesturing for the check. Rude, in Simon’s opinion, but he bites his tongue.

“Sir?”

“I’ve got business to attend to back in the States, and by the sounds of it, a wedding to start planning.”

♡

part ii

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod x reader #cod x you #fat reader #plus size reader #jj writes

416 notes · View notes

ao3-rex1223 · 7 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐈𝐕

Pairing: DBF!Leon x Fem!Reader

Tags: vaginal sex, creampie, breeding kink, cunnilingus,

Summary: Leon is called away to a mission in Spain before Christmas and you wait anxiously to see if he'll make it home in time.

“I’m going to try my hardest to finish in the next couple days,” Leon reassures you over the phone. He’s been away for two weeks on a mission in Spain since a rogue military faction started snooping around for remnants of Las Plagas. You pace Leon’s living room; ever since you two got together, you spend a lot of time waiting at his place. You tell your parents your ‘house sitting’ since they still don’t know you’re secretly dating him, though sometimes you wonder if your father at least suspects and isn’t saying anything. He never questions what you’re doing anymore. As soon as you say you’re going to Leon’s, he simply smiles and nods, never pressing you for further details.

You flop onto his bed, twirling your hair in your fingers. “Think you’ll be home by Christmas?” you ask, hope rampant in your tone, the holiday only one week away. Your eyes glance around the bedroom you share with him more often than not, lingering on photos of you two placed in simple frames all over. You smile to yourself, feeling the warmth from the happy memories.

“I wanna be there. I’ll do everything I can, baby.”

“I’ll make sure your house is nice and Christmas-y for when you get home,” you promise, already envisioning so many decorations, it’ll be like Christmas threw up all over his house!

I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” Leon replies with a chuckle.

You hear gunshots ringing in the background, causing your heart to race wildly. “Leon!” you choke out, plagued with worry.

“I better go, baby girl,” Leon says suddenly. You can hear rustling, like he’s moving quickly. “Love you.”

“I love you, too, Leon. Please be careful!” you cry, tears pooling in your eyes. The line goes dead and, as always, you never know if it’s because he hung up or something awful happened. You won’t know until he calls again. It could be hours… It could be days. You take a deep breath and sigh, hands trembling as they hold your phone, eyes staring at the screen with Leon’s image and contact information still displayed. “Just come home,” you whisper to that digital picture.

In an effort to distract yourself, you make a trip to the local hobby store to find some decorations for Leon’s house. Your mood lifts slightly as you wander the store, picking out every tantalizing Christmas decoration you see, filling the large shopping cart full before you’re even half way through the store. You glance down at your haul so far; reindeer, Santas, porcelain houses, lights, fake snow, candles, garland, nutcrackers, bows, stockings, ornaments, even a few gnomes dressed in holiday garb. You return your gaze to the aisles ahead…and then…in the distance, you spot an eight foot tall synthetic tree, decked out in colorful LED lights and your eyes shine like a small child padding down the stairs on Christmas morning to see all the presents that good old Saint Nick left for them. Beaming, you rush to the nearest employee and ask - no, beg - them to help you get one of those magnificent trees. The twenty something year old worker clearly suppresses an eye roll - not that you’ll let it get to you - and tells you he’ll ‘check the back’. After a few minutes, he returns and tells you there are no more of the trees you wanted in stock. “The closest we have in stock is a nine-footer,” he explains, his tone detached and apathetic, as though he'd explained the lack of stock a dozen times already today and couldn't muster any more effort.

Unwilling to let this Grinch steal your cheerful attitude, you gleefully exclaim, “Oh! I’ll take the nine-foot one, then!” You practically jump up and down.

“Great,” the worker replies, coldly and turns on his heel, heading back to the stockroom. You bob your head and sing softly along with the Christmas music playing overhead. Finally, the worker returns with a flatbed carrying your beautiful tree.

After struggling to get it into your car, eventually you strap it to the top and carefully drive back to Leon’s place with your massive purchase of holiday decorations. You link your phone to the stereo in his living room and start playing more Christmas music, along with which you are all too happy to sing. You immediately start putting up the nine foot tree. With tender, loving care, you add lights, ornaments, and tinsel. You string more lights along the mantle of his fireplace and garland on the banisters. The small statuettes you bought find places on his coffee table and end tables.

Throughout the afternoon, you’re constantly checking your phone to see if Leon has called or at least texted. Nothing. You know he must be pinned down somewhere. He will always let you know he’s okay when he can. You clasp your hands together in a silent prayer for his safety.

Meanwhile…

Leon forces himself to breathe quietly as militia men scour the decaying laboratory - the one that used to belong to Luis. He stays hidden behind a cabinet, clutching his handcannon in position to fire if needed, but he’s hoping to avoid a direct confrontation, not that it wouldn’t be the first time he’s faced down a hoard of enemies…and it wouldn’t be the first time in this location, either. Flashbacks from that day he came here to rescue Ashley Graham back in 2004 fill his mind. That was long before he met you, before you changed his whole goddamn life. Christ, he misses you. He misses the warmth of your body pressed against his; he misses your smile; he misses your laugh, your kisses, your warm, wet mouth around his-

“Hey! Check over there!” one of the men commands, pulling Leon from his reverie. Fuck, he thinks to himself as he hears heavy boots approaching his hiding spot. He cocks the powerful magnum, ready for a fight. Some big burly motherfucker pokes his ugly head around the corner of Leon’s hiding spot. He growls, bearing his sickly teeth which are quickly blown to pieces by the bullet fired from Leon’s weapon. Shit, can’t catch a break. Guess we’re doin’ this, Leon realizes. He pushes the large man’s limp body away and gets into position, ready to take out anyone else who dares come his way. Nothing, absolutely nothing, will keep him from returning to his girl.

Back at Leon’s place, you decide to bake some cookies, hoping to have a nice treat for him when he gets back, as if you didn’t practically buy out the store’s entire stock of Christmas decorations. You inhale the warm, homey smell of the delicious dessert, soothing your weary heart, which still worries for Leon’s safety. You take a deep, centering breath, reminding yourself to trust in Leon’s abilities.

Two days before Christmas, you finally hear from him. “Hey, baby girl. I'm coming home!”

You shriek with joy, jumping up and down in his living room. You spend the day meticulously cleaning the place, making sure it's perfect.

And on Christmas Eve, near midnight, The door opens, his face marred by fatigue and restless nights, but still handsome as ever. The soft glow of the fireplace illuminates his features in a warm hue. “Baby…” he whispers, his voice barely loud enough to hear. Tears pool in your eyes, your nose tingling as emotion overwhelms you. You rush toward him and throw yourself into his embrace.

Just like that, with the love of his life in his arms again, Leon feels whole once more. He crushes you against him, soaking in your warmth, soothing his aching soul. He buries his face in your neck, taking in your unique scent. It reminds him why he fights, why he continues to battle the evils of the world, because, as bad as things are, if he can make it a little better for you, it’s worth the pain and effort. For a while, you simply hold each other, the crackling of the fireplace and the quiet whispers of the cold winds outside the only soundtrack for your heartfelt reunion. When you finally part, he gently cups your face and presses his mouth to yours in a tender and passionate kiss. The softness of your lips is a balm for his wary heart. Your tongues slide together in perfect synchrony, a dance of love and devotion.

You finally break for air, gazing with longing into each other's eyes. “I missed you so much, sweetheart,” Leon coos, his voice cracking slightly from the weight of all his emotions.

“I missed you too, Leon,” you reply, pressing a delicate kiss to his nose.

He smiles, his tense muscles finally relaxing after the long and grueling mission. “Hey,” he begins, his voice smooth like butter again, “got something for you…” He bends down to pick up a box with a bunch of holes in it. You look with curiosity at it, certain you hear it…whimpering? A giant red bow adorns the top. He holds the bottom while you lift the lid. Inside is a small, fluffy white puppy, looking up at you with innocent, golden eyes. It yawns, inadvertently showing off its sharp little teeth. Adorably ferocious, you think to yourself.

“Leon…it’s…” You try to speak, but feel too choked up. Your hands carefully reach in to pick up the helpless ball of fur. Holding it in your arms, it sniffs you cautiously before licking your face, drawing out a genuine, joyful grin from your lips.

“You remember me telling you about that dog that helped me out all those years ago?” Leon asks. After you nod in affirmation, gently scratching your new friend’s furry cheeks, he continues, “I found him again. Had a litter of pups around. This one was the runt; he wouldn’t do well on his own in the wild, so I brought him home. Thought he could keep you company while I’m away. Merry Christmas, baby.”

Tears fall down your face at the thoughtful gift. “Oh Leon! I love him!” you exclaim, kissing him deeply once again, your soft pup nestled between the two of you.

After settling the pup - who you decide to name Buddy - into his new home, you and Leon share a bottle of champagne to celebrate his safe return. You clink your crystal glasses and snuggle together on the couch while Buddy snores softly, fast asleep on the recliner.

Hearts yearning to share the most intimate of connections, Leon lifts you into his arms, bridal style, and carries you to the bedroom, the champagne glasses long since drained of their titular contents. He lays you on the bed with infinite gentleness and crawls over the top of you. He kisses your lips then peppers kisses all along your cheeks and jaw. He pecks a few more just below your ear before whispering, “I love you so much baby. More than anything. I fucking need you.”

You moan softly, cunt getting slippery with your essence, arousal growing, unobstructed. “Leon…I need you, too. I love you!” Tears pool in your eyes again as your feelings for him overwhelm you, yet again.

He hums his approval at your response, hand gently lifting your shirt, grazing your perfect breasts as he removes it entirely. He growls hungrily as his eyes take in the plush mounds. “Missed these two, as well,” he adds with a smirk and kisses both breasts before taking one hardened bud into his mouth.

Your teeth take your lower lip between them, biting gently as pleasure begins to fill you, originating from the gentle nibbles on your tits. You can feel his cock hardening, throbbing against your thigh through his pants. He sucks on the fat of your breasts, definitely intending to leave hickies there. Your hands reach down to tug at his shirt. His mouth releases you for mere seconds, long enough to whip his shirt off and throw it across the room. He continues to kiss his way down your taught stomach. His hands grab the waistband of your sweatpants and panties, pulling them down and off, effortlessly. “My Christmas feast…” Leon growls and pushes your legs apart. His thumbs part your wet folds and he looks hungrily at your glistening, pink sex. He licks his lips before diving in, hot, open mouthed kisses claiming your neglected pussy. Your hips roll in time with his expert licks, angling your clit toward his tongue. He closes his lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking on it like it’s a rare delicacy. Your abs tighten as your body begins to respond on its own, your back arching hard and your head digging into the bed. Your hands death grip the sheets, nails nearly cutting through the fabric, a mind numbing climax imminent.

“Leon! I’m cumming! Fuck! I’m cumming!” you cry out, the pleasure worth the wait you had to endure while he was gone. Orgasm ripping through you, he pins you in place with his strong arms while he continues to lick you though your waves of euphoria. As you pant, gasping for air, he kicks off his pants and gives his aching dick a few strokes, precum leaking from the tip. He pushes your legs apart again, which practically fall open whenever he looks at them.

“Can’t wait to be inside you again, sweetheart. Not at home until I feel your perfect cunt wrapped around my shaft,” He guides his throbbing cock toward your willing entrance, notching the tip past your eager barrier. He drops onto his hands above you, arms caging you in as he slides further inside, the familiar sensation of his thick length filling your tight channel and kissing the entrance to your womb like a warm embrace, a feeling of completeness. “Fuck…you’re so goddamn tight, baby girl. Never gonna get tired of this,” Leon purrs. His mouth connects with yours once more, pouring all of his pent up love and passion into the heated kiss. With tender thrusts, he begins to move inside you. Your eyes roll back in your head as his cock rubs your g-spot, teasingly slow. You moan and whimper, begging for more with incoherent babbles. “Yeah, baby girl. You want more? Want me to put a baby in you, honey?” His mouth returns to your neck, licking and sucking, his own arousal and need growing beyond his control.

His words make you arch into him even more, the thought of him impregnating you is once again a potent aphrodisiac. “Yes! Please! God, I want it so bad!”

He groans at your impassioned affirmation. He begins snapping his hips forward hard, your tantalizing breasts jiggling with each movement. He withdraws nearly completely out before slamming back inside you again, driven by primal instinct, an innate desire - no, a need - to breed you, to watch your belly swell with his child, to claim you in every way imaginable. He laces your fingers together, pressing them gently into the mattress. His rhythm is frenzied and irregular as he begins chasing his own high. As you cum a second time, you tense, hard, then cry out as your walls collapse on his dick, sucking him in deeper. With a guttural, rough moan, Leon thrusts into you one final time, filling you with his hot, sticky seed. For a long time, he simply remains buried inside you, unwilling to sever the connection just yet. He pulls you with him as he rolls off of you, deciding to keep himself warm inside your delicious heat for the night. “Need you to cockwarm me, baby girl. Been too damn long.”

Your pussy quivers weakly as the last remnants of your orgasm trickle out of you. “Always, Leon. Merry Christmas, baby,” you coo softly, running your fingers tenderly through his hair.

He closes his eyes as you caress his scalp and rub it gently. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he replies, wrapping his arms tightly around you, pulling you close as he begins drifting off to sleep, comfortable and happy for the first time since he left for the mission to Spain.

#leon kennedy x you #resident evil smut #leon kennedy x reader #12 days of smutmas #leon s kennedy smut

160 notes · View notes

crowdedimagines · 18 days ago

Text

Tailspin V (Finale) - Bradley Bradshaw

summary: Bradley is a single dad and his new neighbor catches his eye. The only thing is, she might have more baggage than what's in the moving truck... 6.5 K 🐚 series list warnings: domestic violence, kidnapping, and death

With all things considered he bitterly smiles at everything she’s done in the house. She packed bags for the kids, prepped snacks for the road, and her daisies are still sitting on the counter next to her phone. There's over a dozen officers sweeping the house right now, but Bradley is glued to the stool, gaze locked on the yellow daisies. The second postcard still clutched in his hand.

Too late.

Bradley was frozen when he found the second postcard and called the sheriff directly. It took about ten minutes for half the town to be in his yard trying to help. His second call was Jake, who he told to leave the station in the hands of the next in command and pick up his kids. Jake didn’t even hesitate or ask a question.

“Bradshaw.” Sheriff Anderson calls, pulling his focus, “You know we’re gonna need to take that.”

He gestures down to the postcard, curling slightly with Bradley’s grip. He lets go of his tight hold, and holds it out for someone to take and bag. Uniforms are spilling out to every room of the house still. They notice scuff marks in the gravel outside. Like someone was dragged. Maybe she tried to dig her heels in.

“We’ve got everyone else sweeping the area. Mayor Clarke is getting a search party together.” The sheriff clears his throat, “What time exactly did you come home?”

“Five twenty-six.”

“When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“She called me a little after four when she dropped Sadie off at her dance class. She came home to the house alone. She wanted to do some last minute packing and clean up so we could hit the road right away.”

Bradley’s hands begin to shake.

“Hey, I need you here with me. I need you to focus.”

Bradley runs his hands back through his hair, standing from the stool. He paces the length of the counter and Sheriff Anderson patiently waits.

“We were gonna go to San Diego. She had the impulsive idea for a weekend getaway. She wanted to feel normal.”

“Who did you tell?”

“I told Jake this morning at the station, and I called Natasha who lives in San Diego to tell her we were coming down.”

“It would seem that the cameras were turned off remotely. Someone logged in and turned them off for both houses.”

“Son of a bitch.” Bradley sighs, ducking his face behind his hands for a few moments.

The sheriff writes some things down, more people dart in and around scoping out every crevice of his house. Bradley zones out, focusing on the box sitting on the counter full of memories. He’s had the wooden box since before he and Anna started dating, and it held polaroids, and then that turned into sonograms, and now it holds all of that and even more that he’s held onto over the years. Y/n is now in the box as well, the yellow paint sample strip from Hank’s store, and a family picture when the four of them went fishing on the pier just a few days ago. He wants to keep filling the box, how did he get here?

“He’s toying with me now. That’s something new from his previous abuse. He’s enjoying taunting me.” Bradley analyzes, “That second postcard, he wanted me to find it when I came home. He wanted me to know that he was in my house. With her.”

“You’re part of his fantasy now too.” Anderson agrees, “We’re gonna find her, Bradley.”

Anderson glances at a few of the deputies, quiet nods exchanged. Bradley continues to pace, anxiously waiting for everyone to be back under this roof. Anderson clears his throat and everyone clears out of the room.

“Bradley.” He places a hand on his shoulder, “You have saved people from burning buildings, plane wrecks, war zones, you name it. We’ll bring her back. I just need you to stay with us.”

Bradley turns his face away from the sheriff for a beat so he can gather his strength. He straightens, jaw tight.

“Start with traffic cameras. Neighbors can help identify unfamiliar vehicles in the area. He had to get her out of here somehow.”

“Copy that.”

✿

It’s dark, and the ground beneath her is cold. Cement. It takes a couple blinks for her eyes to focus. Her right one only halfway. Matt. He did that.

She moves to touch her eye and assess the damage, but her arms are restricted behind her zip tied to the metal pole behind her. There’s a faint drip somewhere of water leaking.

“And she’s up!” his chilling voice calls.

She looks up to see the proud evil smile that had been familiar to her for years. Only now, there’s not even a hint of warmth. He’s hollow. Empty.

He stands from the folding chair opposite her. He takes a few steps closer and crouches down, water bottle in hand. He takes off the cap and leans it against her lips, she takes a big gulp and he pulls the water away. She spits the remaining water directly in his face.

“You’re fucking crazy.” She sighs, catching her breath.

“I’m fucking crazy?” He grabs her jaw roughly, “You started all of this. You turned my own parents against me.”

“You did that all on your own, Matt.”

He’s rewriting history. He’s forgetting she would’ve had nothing to tell if it weren’t for his abuse. All the trips to the emergency room. Waking up with a black eye and a dozen red roses to make up for it. Years.

“We’re here right now because of you.”

“I had a family before you did this to me. Now it would seem someone else has a family. Isn’t it precious? Family gives you strength, that’s what made you so malleable before.”

He lets go of her jaw and stands up to distance himself. Her anger was plain on her face, a mixture of that and disgust.

“You know, you’ve still got that fire.” He laughs, he almost looks proud of her fighting back now, “That’s what made you so different from anyone else. You don’t give up, you can’t quit me. You can try to build your fantasy life with that firefighter and be their replacement mom, but that’s not real. None of it is real.”

He throws the water bottle at the wall, sending it spraying. His mood flipping in a second. She remains silent, not giving him the reaction he’s so desperately craving. She needs him to be bored. She can’t express her distaste for how casually he’s throwing her family around. Her family.

“What WE had was real, Y/n. C’mon, I thought you knew better. Coming after my trust fund was brilliant, I have to admit. You knew my parents would do just about anything to keep our name out of the news.”

“That’s not why I went to them.” She admits.

“Of course it is.”

“I went to them to get you help. I told them you needed to be sent to inpatient care, you need help.”

“No!” He begins to pace, Y/n pulls her legs in close to her chest and tries to pull against the ties, “I am perfectly fine. I was even better before I met you.”

“The trust fund was their idea. I tried, but I barely survived you Matt. I couldn’t save us both. They were my escape hatch from you. They’re the ones that threw you away because you disgust them. A person who is perfectly fine isn’t capable of something like this.”

“You’re lying!” He screams.

He turns wildly and walks out, slamming the door behind him in the process. Darkness again. She leans forward again, pulling against the ties. She lets it bite against her wrist so she can stretch it out. She relaxes, now there’s a slight give. She can do this.

✿

Red and blue lights continue to flash into the living room. The house feels familiar in a different way to Bradley now than it did this morning. It feels like a war zone. Being picked apart by the scattered officers that come and go with the crackle of their radio. Bagging things and taking them out to be identified and swabbed. It’s also tainted with Matt being here. How many times did he break into the house? Was he brave enough to do it when they were home? Will they ever know?

Sheriff Anderson’s laptop sits open in front of them on the island. A faint pixelated image of a black town car with New York plates. He’s sloppy. He’s accomplished this much, and he’s lazy enough to have taken his own car here. It makes Bradley’s stomach turn a little more. This isn’t well thought out.

The photos. The timeline. The map. The postcard.

“You’re not going to believe this.” A deputy walks in with a small black listening device in hand, holding it up proud for them all to see, “He bugged the house.”

He drops it onto the counter, the short wire attached to it cut.

“He bugged the damn house?” Bradley’s brows meet in frustration.

“We found two more in the bedroom.” A voice calls from upstairs.

“Son of a-”

“Listen, this isn’t the worst news.” Sheriff Anderson crosses his arms over his chest.

“How can there be any good to this?”

“If he’s transmitting this live, we can trace it.” The sheriff turns to the deputy who had found the original device, “Get a tech on the line. Pull signal analysis, I want to know where this feed was going.”

Bradley supposes there actually could be worse news. This is at least a glimmer of hope, better than the vague direction of the vehicle heading northbound. He feels more sick being in the house, he opts for the front porch instead. He was listening to them. Probably, from the time between the first postcard and when he took her. The talks of their getaway pushed him to act. The house behind him is still busy, but he’s hung up on the absolute invasion of privacy and safety. Matt was listening to him reassure her. Telling her he would protect her. He listened to her laugh. He listened to them make love. He listened to her sleep.

Jake's truck pulls into Y/ns driveway and parks. The Bradshaw driveway is taken over by the CSI team that came in. Sheriff Anderson wasn’t kidding when he said he’d haul in everyone who owed him a favor. These are more than the resources of his small town. The two kids fly out of the backseat and take off for the sidewalk to run down to their house. Bradley sees the large giraffe Sadie clutches and the small goldfish tank Nick carefully holds and knows Jake took them to the arcade just off the pier before coming home. He had already gotten the reassurance that they were okay, and he’s sure Jake was giving him more time. Time to know more. Time to figure out how to say exactly what’s going on to them. He’s still not sure. Jake has to lift the caution tape on the front porch for them to duck under and greet their dad.

“Daddy!” Sadie cheers running into her dads arms. He scoops her up with ease, and pulls Nick in tight against his chest.

“Hey, you two. I missed you guys.” Bradley sighs honestly.

Nick looks up at him with serious eyes.

“I know tonight has probably been really weird and probably a little scary. So I wanted to talk with you guys and see you before anything else.” Bradley moves to the front porch swing with them. Jake takes a few steps back to sit on the front steps, just within earshot.

“Where’s Y/n?” Sadie asks, her voice sounding sleepy.

Bradley swallows and gives himself a second or two of silence to respond.

“We don’t know right now, that’s what we're doing right now. We’re all working together to look for her.”

“Did she get lost?”

“Not exactly. Do you remember us talking about that bad guy? He made a really bad choice and took her somewhere without asking. But we know about it, and we’re gonna bring her home.”

Tears well in everyone’s eyes and all they can do is look at each other for a second. Bradley with his arms wrapped around both of them. Too many times have they cried.

“Why would he take her?” Nick’s anger evident in his voice, “She didn’t do anything. Y/n is a good person.”

“Some people don’t care about right and wrong. They want control, and we know Y/n is very strong, stronger than he could ever be, and that’s why he’s scared of her. That’s why we’ll get her back.”

It’s mostly silent, save for a few sniffles passed around. Most coming from Jake who is facing forward, not daring to look back.

“Do you think she’s scared?” Sadie hiccups.

“Maybe a little, but we know she’s tough. And we know she’s gonna fight to get back here to you guys.”

Nick nods slowly, processing. Sadie curls further into Bradley’s chest. He pulls back from the two so he can turn his head in Jake’s direction.

“Can you take them to the station for the night?” He asks, “It's the safest for them to be in the bunkroom with everyone until we know this place is clean.”

“Safest place in town.” He nods and sends him a salute with a wink. “We’ve got the night crew on shift already, we can have a sleepover Uncle Jake style.”

“Thank you.” He nods quietly, he can’t thank him enough for everything he does for his family, “Can you call Nat and let her know what’s going on? She was expecting us in San Diego hours ago.”

“I’m on it.”

Bradley turns back down to the children snuggled up with him. The summer heat is forgotten on a day like this.

“You’re gonna have a sleepover at Daddy’s work tonight. We’re gonna get you some pajamas and everything else you need for a sleepover. You remember the bunk beds?”

“Yeah!” She smiles, “Can we bring our prizes?”

Bradley nods and takes her giraffe and tosses it to Jake.

“-and do you remember your Dad’s candy drawer? I think you’ve earned a couple pieces.” Jake interrupts and grabs Sadie off of Bradley’s lap. He carries her inside to help her get her stuff. Nick stays glued in the spot next to his dad.

“You’re gonna go after her, right?” Nicky asks, looking up at his dad with wide eyes.

“First thing we get news.”

“Will you tell her something for me?” Nick asks, he fidgets with his hands for a few moments before looking back up to his dad.

“Anything, bud.”

“Will you tell her I think she makes us a good family?” His voice soft, yet so sure.

Bradley pulls Nick into another hug, beyond proud and grateful for his son. He can’t imagine the change this summer would bring for all of them. He’s older now. His maturity is something he can recognize being familiar with losing a parent young. He was the same with his Dad and just how much his heart hurt watching his mom do it all alone. Like he has been for the past five years.

“I’ll tell her, and I’ll bring her home.”

✿

The light overhead buzzes, flickering on and bouncing to life. The only time she isn’t met with darkness, she’s stuck with him. The cold from the cement seeps into her bones, her wrists raw from straining against the zip ties. She knows this light is a warning of his arrival. Footsteps.

Matt steps inside, calmer than the last time she saw him. She can still see the tension riddled throughout his body. His hair is messy, eyes bloodshot. A man spiraling inside his own mind. He pulls the chair closer and drags it to the center of the room, directly in front of her. Her eyes blink rapidly, still trying to adjust to the light.

“Rise and shine.”

“Is it morning?” She asks.

“Wow, is it really that quick to lose perception of time?” He scoffs, shaking his head.

“Well, typically when you’re unconscious you lose perception of time.” She rolls her eyes, he swallows visibly. His eyes lasering in with focus on her.

“So, you went behind my back to my parents and told them lies, and took their money.” His tone calm, he doesn’t move up from the chair.

“Matt, they offered it. I never asked. I went to them to get you the help you needed.”

He laughs. Short and bitterly.

“You told them I was crazy and I needed to be locked up.”

“I wanted to get you the care you needed before you did something like this to someone. I escaped New York when I realized it was only inevitable. I just wanted to get as far away from you as possible to avoid being in the fallout. I knew you would be the end of me the way it was going.”

“By care you mean pills and padded rooms. You’re just my ex-girlfriend with a savior complex who can’t handle the things she starts. Just like you can’t handle a whole family. You can’t just abandon them and move across the country. You wouldn’t know that, you don’t have your own family. First you take mine, now his.”

She doesn’t let it get to her. He always wants to drag everyone around him down to his level.

“Your parents are just as scared of you as I am.” Her voice measured, a mix of concern and strength. ‘Why do you think they didn’t confront you with me? They told me I should run. Get as far away from you as possible.”

He gets up suddenly, sending the chair skidding behind him loudly. He kneels directly in front of her. He’s too close. His eyes are sharp with something feral.

“You’re lying! They wouldn’t do that, you had to have lied to them! You were supposed to fix me. Not throw me away like garbage.”

She stays tall, not letting herself cower back away from him. Her wrists burn from where the ties are straining.

“You can’t fix someone that doesn’t want to be helped.”

Crack.

A hard slap flies across her face suddenly. She can taste blood on her lip, but she immediately returns his gaze. She doesn’t cry, she glares.

“They won’t return my calls, Y/n.”

Crack.

“I can’t come home. And they sent you money?”

Crack.

“How much?”

She spits blood onto the floor near them plainly. Taking her time to respond and look back up at him.

“Enough to leave. Enough to get away from you. Enough to buy a house next to the love of my life.”

He lunges at her again, grabbing the collar of her shirt to pull her up against the pipe. She can feel the zip ties sliding with her, digging in a little more at her wrists again.

“You think he’s coming to save you? You think he’s going to risk his life and his family over a piece of ass? He’s a guilty father and he can’t undo what we were.”

“I don’t need him to undo anything, I just need him to finish it. No more games, and no more hiding Matt.”

“I’m gonna take it all back. The money. The house. Your family.”

He suddenly drops her where she stands. It knocks the air out of her lungs, she flinches when he cuts her ties loose. She turns in surprise, but meets his sinister grin.

“We’re going back on the road.”

“Matt-”

He raises his fit to her face and she’s met with darkness before she can finish her thought, let alone her sentence.

✿

“We’ve isolated the signal.”

Bradley’s head snaps up to the team sitting at his dining table all around laptops. He rises from the old recliner in the living room.

“Alright, we’re heading out. Everyone pack everything up, we’ve got a location. All units proceed.” They all clear out of the house. Everyone immediately scrambles into vehicles, Bradley riding with Sheriff Anderson. They fly down the road faster than he’s gone since having kids. The patrol SUV is blacked out and there’s a line of police cars behind them.

“Broadcast signal is originating from a tower a quarter mile southeast. Looks to be coming from a single structure building. It’s an old mill. Evidence of recent car tracks.” The radio rings clear on the dash of the car. Bradley fights the urge to squirm in his seat. They’re headed for the edge of Southport at this point.

His jaw tightens.

“Get me in there.”

They turn onto the dirt road, the line of cars peeling in behind them. They work to surround the mill before exiting vehicles to breach the building. They work as a team, like ghosts moving closer. Bradley’s hand hovers over his sidearm. No car, but the tracks in the dirt are fresh.

A deputy gives a signal and they break down the door. All of them filter in, Bradley being somewhere in the middle of the group. He knows how fortunate he is to even be along for this. They could’ve made him wait to hear from the house all alone. He would be pulling his hair out at this point.

Inside they find dusty creaky wood, all covered in a fine tan dust. Footprints scattered everywhere all over the floor. Pacing. They do a sweep of the building, nothing obviously out of place other than activity.

“There’s a basement.” Someone calls from a far corner. Bradley’s stomach drops, knowingly. His gut makes him lurch forward and race down the old stone steps.

He finds a light on the wall and flips the switch only for nothing to happen. They use their flashlights down the hall to find a door. There’s a lock on it that an officer clips open, letting Bradley do the honors of opening the door himself. He has one hand on his gun, the other on the doorknob.

He swings it open and they file inside only to be met with a musty concrete room. One lone lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, the room filled with old furniture and in the far corner is his sweatshirt that he’s sure she slept in last night is balled up against the wall. Zip ties on the floor broken. Small amounts of blood splattered against the wall. No one is here. A lone metal folding chair facing the wall.

“They're gone.” The deputy states, “It looks like they were just here. The lightbulb was already warm.”

“We just missed them. Do you think he was tipped off?” Bradley asks.

The sheriff sighs loudly and takes off his hat to look closer at the scene in front of him and scratch the top of his head.

“It’s possible he heard us at the house, maybe we’re missing another device. He could have heard our plan to get out here.”

Bradley fights the urge to pick up the sweatshirt and hold it close. He knows it’s evidence now, even if it smells like her from how frequently she had been wearing it.

“Now what?” Bradley questions.

“Now, we look for more clues and evidence for where he’s taken her now. I know it doesn’t seem like good news, but these are small amounts of blood. She’s still alive.”

Bradley doesn’t like that this is the new standard for good news. He understands that it is a good sign, but it does nothing to settle his nerves.

“-attention all units to 2341 Bay Avenue, fire reported at residence. Flames visible, multiple calls.” The Sheriff's radio blares loudly from his chest.

“2341?” Bradley pales, “That’s my house. Confirm that address.”

Bradley’s blood goes cold.

“That is a confirmed address.”

✿

Her body jerks awake while begging for oxygen. She opens her eyes and can feel heat all around her. She’s home. Bradley’s house at least, but smoke is clouding her vision and it’s impossible to see. She can smell gasoline, her eyes stinging and throat burning.

She lifts her head, and it feels heavy to do so. She’s on the floor of the dining room, she can see flames licking at the curtains in the living room and spreading across the rug. She tries to crawl towards the door, head still pounding.

“This house was never yours.” His voice calls, “It was built on lies. Built on him. I’m taking it away from both of you.”

She continues to cough, she looks up but can’t see him through all the smoke. Just haunting footsteps that echo nearby. The kitchen. The kitchen has a back door.

It takes all of her energy to stand, but she opts to crouch. She knows she needs to stay low to the ground so she’s still getting as much oxygen as she can.

“Y/n.” He calls into the darkness, she fights to hold a cough to not expose her location as she creeps farther from the flames and the living room.

“Darling, you always said you wanted a clean slate.” Suddenly he grabs the back of her head pulling her up by her hair, “Let’s take it together.”

She can see he still has the gas can and pushes as hard as she can to break free.

“You don’t get to write my ending.” She throws her head back as hard as possible into the front of his face. His grip immediately loosening to clutch his nose. Without hesitation she steps forward to the stove and grabs the tea kettle and swings it back towards him with her body weight behind it. He stumbles back from the blow towards the living room, the gas can clattering to the floor at his feet. Flames immediately pick up at his feet and his cries follow. Y/n manages to pull herself back up, the flames roaring louder now and it's undeniably hotter in here as it continues to spread. She manages to escape small flames when grabbing the wooden box that sits on the counter in the same spot since the first time she came over.

Finally in the darkness of the smoke, her hand meets the back door.

✿

Bradley jumps out of the car before the tires can fully stop spinning. The house is lit up with flames, he can see a figure in the driveway standing alone, watching his team of firefighters working to save the house. He’s seen a lot of fires in his day, and he knows as hard as his men are fighting right now, it’s too late. The house is beyond finished, even if the basic frame remains.

“Y/n!” His voice calls, causing her to turn. She turns immediately and he races toward her. He immediately pulls her in tight against his chest, her entire body shaking. “You’re okay?”

He pulls back, hands gently on the sides of her face so he can really look at her. Her lip is split and she has a terrible blue bruise across one eye. Her wrists are red with bruises and cuts. She nods to answer him and leans into his touch. Glass from the windows pop behind them, sirens wail as more people arrive on the scene. None of it matters, he’s just focused on her.

“I didn’t know if I was gonna make it.” She admits, “But I couldn’t die in that house. I couldn’t let him win.”

He brushes his thumb across her forehead. She can’t tell if it’s because of a cut or soot.

“I thought I lost you. We were just at the mill where he was holding you. I couldn’t believe it when they reported a fire being here. I knew it had to be him, this was his big finale.”

“I know. I’m so sorry about the house, Bradley.” The tears in her eyes finally drop as she turns back to look at the house that is beyond recovery at this point. Even with everyone now here to try and take care of it.

“I could care less about the house.”

“No, I loved that house. That’s why I wasn’t leaving without this.” She pulls herself free from his grasp to bend down and pick up the wooden box that she knows he holds so dearly. They’ve never even talked about it, but he knows she’s seen him add things to it. She knew it was important to him and the kids.

“Couldn’t leave it behind.” Bradley takes it from her hands with amazement. If he could’ve taken one thing from the house, this probably would’ve been it. He pulls her into his chest again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Thank you.”

“Please don’t thank me. If it weren’t for me-”

“Don’t you dare try to take any blame for this. Houses can be rebuilt, families and people cannot.”

She doesn’t argue with that because she couldn’t agree more. She just stands there wrapped up in his arms while they watch the walls collapse in.

“Miss, we really need to check you out.”

✿

Bradley stands with arms crossed, his gaze locked in completely on his girl who’s sitting at the end of the ambulance that’s less than fifteen feet away. Two of his paramedics are working on patching her up. He’s answering more and more questions for the police about Matt. Now that the flames have mostly died off and there’s little to no house left. They found evidence of a deceased male in the home indicating Matt really is gone for good now.

He can’t even take relief in it yet, he’s too focused on watching her breath and making sure she’s safe. She’s wrapped in a blanket with butterfly bandages across her eyebrow where it took the brunt of a hit. Somehow she’s smiling. Somehow after everything she’s had to endure, she’s smiling at something Cooper has to say.

“-Bradshaw, we're almost done and then I promise I’ll never separate you again.” The Sheriff looks up from his notepad. He simply nods and turns back to Anderson to finish things up.

He also has to get her statement when the paramedics are done, Bradley at her side the entire time. It’s hard to hear from the start to finish. Including the ambush in the house when she returned from dropping Sadie off. The sheriff thanks them before heading out and they stay like that until the darkness of early morning is gone and a faint blue begins to take over. That’s how long it takes for the flames to completely stop and be left with the haunting outline of where his house used to be. Bradley doesn’t say anything at first, he simply looks down to where Y/n rests her head against his shoulder.

“He died trying to destroy something that he could never have.” Bradley presses a kiss to her hairline.

“He thought a house made a family.” Her voice soft. She leans back so she can really look at him. She presses a kiss to his lips, wincing slightly at her split lip. He pulls back and his thumb lightly traces over it.

“He never understood. The house never mattered.”

✿

Bradley tried his best to get her to go to the hospital, with the promise of making Jake bring the kids over, but it wasn’t good enough. She wanted to go straight to the firehouse and see them, plus she’s already been checked over. Bradley just wants to monitor her breathing with all of the smoke inhalation she endured.

Sunlight pours in through the cheap blinds on the windows. It’s early morning, they’ve been up all night, so they slowly creep into the bunk room. Nick and Sadie are in the far corner, curled up on one bed. Jake is awake sitting on the bed next to them with a cup of coffee.

Bradley leads the way with Y/n following and Jake stands when he sees them enter. Bradley had called him to update him on everything, but he smiles at seeing them both in the flesh. He gives them both a quick hug. They make their way over, kneeling next to the side of the bed before either kid could bat an eye. Y/n reaches out to push a curl off of Sadie’s forehead.

“Good morning.” Bradley’s voice warmly calls.

Sadie is the first to peek her eyes open and when she does, they grow wider.

“Y/n!” She’s breathless as she launches off the bed and barrels down onto Y/n’s chest. The woman wraps her up tightly in both arms.

“Hi, I missed you guys so much.” She rubs her hand back and forth over her back. She can feel the muffled cries against her shoulder. Nick is slower to rise, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. A look of disbelief on his face as he sees everyone right here in front of him. His eyes immediately turning red as they well up.

“I thought he hurt you.”

She opens her free arm and he falls into it without hesitation.

“He tried.” Tears stream down Y/n’s face and all Bradley can do is watch and silently listen to them all talk. He hears the door close softly behind him and he knows Jake has just given the privacy of the room. “But I had something to hold on for. Both of you. And your father.”

Bradley just continues to watch, quietly wiping tears from his eyes.

“You two saved me. I kept thinking to myself, "What’s gonna be my next pick for movie night.”

Nick picks up his head, smiling through tears.

“You can take my pick this week.”

They all laugh, still shaken and clinging to each other, but they do it together.

“There’s something else we need to talk about too.” Bradley reminds, wiping his eyes for what he hopes yet doubts is the last time. “When the bad man realized he couldn’t actually hurt Y/n, he wanted to hurt us all. He burned down the house. Our house. Everyone worked really hard to save it, but it’s gone, you guys.”

Nick swallows hard and Sadie simply looks confused.

“It’s gone?” Her voice going quiet.

“Yeah, it is. But that’s not what matters. We can find a new house, it’ll be okay.” Bradley reaches a hand to each kid's head.

“I think you guys should just move in with me.” Y/n blurts, all three heads snapping to look at hers.

“Y/n, that’s a big deal. You have a freedom now that you didn’t have a few months ago.” Bradley tries to give her an out. He should know better at this point to think that’s worth a damn.

“I don’t wanna go anywhere else.” She shakes her head, “This is my home here in Southport, but only with you guys in it.”

She releases her grip on everyone so she can lean back and look at everyone, they all remain curled up dramatically on the floor. She wipes tears from her eyes, but finally they are happy tears.

“I’ve been working on it all summer.” She reminds, “In fact, I’ve had help all summer. It’s basically as much your house as it is mine at this point. We all worked on it.”

“Daddy, can we move there?” Sadie asks, eyes lighting up.

Nick turns to look at their dad too, excitement in his eyes. He doesn't have to think about it, not really. He would never put the pressure on to move his family into his girlfriend's house, but he also can’t imagine a scenario where he lets her out of his sight. A night they don’t spend together? As if.

“You’re sure you're ready for all this chaos all the time?” Bradley asks, ruffling Nick’s hair, “We go through a lot of chalk in this household.”

“I think I can handle it.” She smirks, “What do you guys say? I think it has to be unanimous.”

“I’m in.” Nick throws his hand in the circle between them first. Y/n turns her head to cut a quick look to Bradley, surprised with how suddenly he’s the one on board.

“So I won’t have to ask to come over anymore?” Sadie asks, the adults shake their heads and she throws her hand on top of her brothers immediately.

“I’m in, too.” Y/n agrees, adding her hand to the pile and raising a brow to challenge him, “Your move, Bradshaw.”

He looks between the three faces focused on him. It’s the happiest they’ve look in the longest time. Even with everything they lost, the kids look hopeful.

“I’m in.”

They leave together and head back home. Their new home. It was definitely an unpleasant sight to be met with smoke literally still in the air but instead the kids take off up a new set of stairs. Bradley and Y/n hanging back, slowly making their way inside.

“I thought I was fixing this house up for myself all summer, but who would’ve guessed I was getting it ready for all of us.”

He wraps an arm around her as they intentionally slowly climb up to the front door.

“We’ll keep both lots. Finish this place, make it ours.”

“Ours, I like that.” She smiles, he reaches out a hand to each side of her face. He presses a kiss to her lips, making their smiles widen. The screen of the front porch pushes open, causing them to pull back and look down.

“Daddy! The swingset is still there!” Sadie cheers. Both kids seem to have raced from the backyard to here.

The swingset they put together at the very start of summer. The very day that let Sadie to grow bored and fill an entire driveway’s worth of chalk and spill out onto the sidewalk. Thank god for that.

“Somehow that survived.”

“Dad, can we build a treehouse in Y/n’s backyard since she’s got the really good tree for it?” Nick asks.

“We were just talking about swing sets, and you want to build a treehouse?” Bradley asks.

“I think it’s a good idea.” Y/n nods, “We can keep both lots. Why not make the most of things?”

Bradley playfully rolls his eyes, but he’s happy to know this is his life now. He gets to make these decisions with someone. He has help to move through life, and it’s with someone he loves so much.

The kids tear off inside after Y/n tells them to pick a room upstairs and promises on Monday they’ll head to Hank’s to pick out paint colors for their new rooms. They stay glued in their little bubble on the front porch.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Better now.” She nods, “This is helping. I think we're gonna be okay.”

“More than okay, we’re home.”

AHHHHHHH, my baby 🥹 i seriously appreciate the support this series has given me from you guys. i loved it so much, and i’m definitely not done with this family! epilogue and extras will be coming soon. please hit me up with any requests for extras of their little family. love you guys!!

#bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #top gun maverick #bradley bradsaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster x reader #top gun rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x you #tailspin

91 notes · View notes

ginxyy · 7 months ago

Text

Midnight in a sea of lights

The streets were alive with celebration, a kaleidoscope of glowing lanterns, food stalls, and bustling crowds. Laughter and music filled the air as couples, families, and friends moved through the festival, their faces lit with the warm glow of string lights hanging above. The chilly evening was warded off by the vibrant energy all around, and your hand rested snugly in Mingyu’s as he guided you through the chaos.

“Are you sure this is better than staying in?” you asked, smiling at how easily he navigated the crowd despite his towering height making him an obvious target for bumps and stares.

“Of course it is,” he said, turning to flash you a grin. “You said you wanted to do something special for New Year’s, and what’s more special than this?”

He gestured around dramatically, his free hand sweeping over the colorful scene. You couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm, his energy infectious even in the overwhelming sea of people.

“I’ll admit,” you said, “it’s beautiful. But I didn’t realize you’d be dragging me to every food stall.”

“Hey, I’m doing this for you!” he said, mock offended. “You need to try everything once. It’s a festival rule.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as he stopped at yet another stand, buying two sticks of candied fruit and handing one to you. He watched expectantly as you took a bite, his expression lighting up when you hummed in approval.

“See? Worth it,” he said, popping a piece into his mouth.

The two of you wandered through the festival, Mingyu’s excitement never wavering. He tugged you toward a booth where you both tried (and failed) to win prizes at a dart-throwing game, then insisted on taking a dozen selfies in front of a giant light installation shaped like a crescent moon.

“Hold still,” he said, adjusting the angle of his phone as you stood beside him.

“You’ve already taken, like, twenty pictures,” you teased.

“Yeah, but this one’s for the memories,” he said, snapping another photo before looking at you with a cheeky grin. “Plus, we look good together.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, but before you could reply, the sound of fireworks bursting overhead drew your attention. The first few explosions of color lit up the night sky, signaling that midnight was near.

“Come on,” Mingyu said, pulling you toward a quieter spot near the edge of the festival where the view of the fireworks was unobstructed.

The countdown had already started, the crowd’s voices echoing around you.

“Ten… Nine…”

Mingyu turned to you, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the fireworks.

“Eight… Seven…”

“You know,” he began, his voice low but clear, “this year’s been kind of crazy. But having you around made it feel… right.”

“Six… Five…”

Your heart raced at his words, the sincerity in his tone catching you off guard.

“Four… Three…”

He smiled, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something softer. “So, thank you. For being here. For being you.”

“Two… One…”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was sweet, warm, and full of unspoken emotion. The crowd erupted into cheers around you, but the world felt still, the only sound the soft pop of fireworks above.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold night air.

“Happy New Year,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Happy New Year, Mingyu,” you replied, your cheeks warm despite the chill.

He grinned, pulling you into a tight hug as the fireworks continued to light up the sky. “This year’s going to be amazing. I can feel it.”

With the vibrant energy of the festival buzzing around you and Mingyu’s arms wrapped securely around you, you couldn’t help but feel the same.

125 notes · View notes

studioeisa · 10 months ago

Text

montage of love ꩜ seungmin x reader.

── .✦ 💌 reader uses she/her pronouns. includes: idol!ksm, feelings realization, [childhood] friends to lovers, freeform, time skips, fluff, light angst.

── .✦ 🚏 self-indulgent and prose-heavy with a reference to Twenty-Five Twenty-One! originally posted on ao3.

── .✦ 📟 wc: 1,600+

Seungmin’s poorly concealed indifference towards her is probably the biggest tell of his affections.

She’s known him for so long, after all, growing up in the same Gangnam neighborhood. Their mothers stayed in touch, too, so Seungmin knows all about the course she’s taking up at university and the sporting competitions she’s winning first place in.

Had things been any different, Seungmin is sure he would have been urged to pursue her. As a teenager, the thought would have repulsed him. Now that he’s a bit older, he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t cross his mind at least once.

Maybe a couple of times.

Maybe every single time he got to go home, really, because there she always was. A few houses down, their basement converted into a flower shop.

He wishes sometimes that it wasn’t flowers, because he sees flowers everywhere, which means she haunts him even when he’s miles and miles away.

They don’t keep in touch online. They only ever see each other when his mother sends him out to buy a fresh bouquet for the living room vase.

Never mind that Seungmin comes home hours late, his face flushed and his answers curt. She always gives him the prettiest arrangements to make up for their rendezvouses.

(And, secretly, their mothers are still hopeful.)

But there was no romance in their meetings. Not the first dozen, anyway.

She would close up shop for an hour or two so they could visit a nearby convenience store or some obscure cafe. And when the group’s popularity began to pick up, Seungmin didn’t have to say anything. Their walks began to veer into quieter neighborhoods, more secluded spots.

He doesn’t want to love her. He doesn’t have time for any of that, anyway.

But when she mentions offhandedly that a classmate flirted with her, Seungmin flexes his hand unconsciously. He feels the sudden urge to swing a bat at something.

And when she says it didn’t work out, Seungmin is embarrassingly relieved.

She notices, laughs, reaches out for his hand. He doesn’t move away.

So Seungmin cares for her. He lets himself admit that much.

None of the boys know for the longest time, but he lets slip in front of Minho and Felix and Jeongin one day that he’s going back to Samseong-dong for the night because it’s his 여자친구’s birthday.

Girlfriend. They all balk, even Seungmin. His what?

Seungmin doesn’t bother to correct himself. He leaves his roommates in a general state of confusion and spends the night with her in her flower shop, eating take-out on the floor and talking about his latest trip overseas.

He contemplates, then, asking her what they are. But Seungmin has never been the type to rock the boat. Not when something is still good.

They spend most of their time together in her shop. Rarely anyone who knows him stops by. It’s always an old man, an apologetic husband, a clueless boyfriend.

He asks her, one night, which flower she likes the most, and she simply says, “All of them.”

So he watches a couple of YouTube videos and arranges a bouquet with a little bit of everything. She tells him to stop wasting her resources but keeps the arrangement in the back room until they wilt.

Though the boys ask, Seungmin never dignifies their questions with a response. They stop prying when they realize he’s not about to crack. They follow the breadcrumb trail instead, the traces of her that are difficult to avoid.

Passport photos that Seungmin keeps at the bedside table of every hotel. Pictures he never posts but sends to someone, not the fan Bubble or the like.

And when they’re back home, he’s always hitting the ground running. The typically put together, restrained Kim Seungmin has started rushing, speed walking “home” after extended trips abroad.

One day, his roommates look out their window and spot who he’s running towards.

Seungmin is in love with her, he eventually concedes. Big deal, he thinks.

He doesn’t really realize just how much it matters until he tells her offhand I think I might be in love with you and she freezes. Then laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs, and he leaves the shop that night with the tips of his ears red.

They don’t talk for a week. Chan even pulls him aside at one point, concerned because all his recordings are too sad, too angry.

She meets Seungmin at his dorm one evening and apologizes about her reaction. She was trying to act cool, she admits. And then she says, I think I might be in love with you, too.

Seungmin wants to laugh coldly, wants to get back at her, but there’s something so earnest in her confession that he knows she means it.

Their first day as a couple goes by without much fanfare. Slowly but surely, she becomes more known to him. When he introduces her, formally and finally, to the boys, they are all shocked at the Kim Seungmin he becomes without him even noticing.

He keeps an envious, watchful eye on all the members. There is always some form of connection between them; their knees touching, his arm around her shoulders, his fingers twisting a strand of her hair.

When she speaks, he nods in all the right places. “Call me when you get home,” he tells her as she leaves, and she rolls her eyes like it’s something he’s said a thousand times before.

Seungmin dismisses the boys’ jokes about it. He has no idea, it seems, just how unfathomable his love is to others. And is that not the best kind? His affection is almost intrinsic, instinctual.

To him, loving her was as practical as breathing.

“Did you ever really love me?” she asks bitingly during a particularly nasty row. The details are hazy, now, about what had them bringing out their claws and spewing venom.

It could have been Seungmin’s jealousy. It could have been her aloofness.

Nothing justified her question.

Seungmin recoils like she’d hit him. He stares at her, hard and angry. “Watch what you say,” he hisses, his voice impossibly tight and his eyes deceptively dry.

She has her lips pursed and her arms crossed. She’s poised and raring to fight, and waiting for the right answer. But Seungmin is stubborn, and tired, and what kind of question was that?

There’s no way she could have known, or even seen, the way that Seungmin looked at her. The devotion in his expression. Oh, he practically worshiped the ground she walked on.

And here she was, questioning that. How dare she, Seungmin thought.

What do I have to do? he wanted to ask. Do you want me to yell your name off rooftops? Give everything in my life up to prove it? Say the word. Say the word and I’ll show you just how much I love you.

He says none of that. Instead, he does what he does best: He watches her leave. He watches her retreating back, watches the light blink out from the window of her room, watches their KakaoTalk conversation receive no updates for yet another grueling week.

He doesn’t even find out that she’s fallen ill from her. It’s his mother who tells him in a conspiring whisper.

He shoulders into her room despite her protests and treats her until he’s coughing and sneezing, too. They switch roles.

“Is this enough proof?” he asks one night, delirious and drugged. Then, for the first time, with his whole chest, he says: “I love you.”

She strokes his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Her eyes are dry but they shine, twinkle, and quietly, dozens of times over, she says it back.

They’re able to keep it a secret for four years. Even the most harsh of critics begrudgingly have to hand it to them. What phenomenal discipline! What utmost consideration! Why did she never demand, never ask to have a bigger share of his life?

The short answer: She was happy. She didn’t need the whole world to know that she was the idol’s muse. She was content to watch his stages and know that he would be coming home to her for the weekend.

Right before he enters military service, he releases a SKZ-Player. 사랑의 몽타주. Montage of love. And its hers, wholly hers, referencing their relationship, promising a safe return.

Fans think its about them. She knows who it’s really for.

And when the 21 months of service is over, Seungmin is a bit of a changed man. Enough to stand before the higher-ups of JYP Entertainment, and then his adoring fans, to tell them all that he is in love. He has been for quite some time now. And there’s nothing he wants to do more than to keep making music, and be in love with that one person, if they’d all still have him. He asks, too, for his privacy to be respected.

People do, for the most part, but she’s still found out.

Her flower shop booms in popularity. Old classmates from uni blow up her inbox. She waits for Seungmin to come home to her after his surprise pronouncement and can’t decide if she’s going to hug or slap him.

He gives her the long answer: He’s tired of hiding. He doesn’t care what might happen to his career. And the boys, he ran it through them, and they all think the same.

If you love someone, why hide it? If you love someone, let it be known.

Seungmin takes her hand. “Let’s go out,” he urges.

It’s late in afternoon. Most of their dates have been snatched up moments; evenings in parking lots, backstage in dressing rooms.

But the day is warm and promising, and the flowers are in full bloom. And Seungmin is looking at her, expectant and hopeful, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

And she can’t say no.

She squeezes his hand. “Let’s go out,” she repeats.

He smiles, then. Indifference be damned.

They walk out of the store and the flowers lean towards them like they're somehow brighter than the noonday sun.

#kim seungmin x reader #seungmin x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz imagine #stray kids imagine #stray kids #( wow. going slightly crazy over Tagging. idk how any of this works anymore LOL )#( i also just really really like my first line in this little fic !! wowee )#(🥡) notebook #(⚡️) page: skz

152 notes · View notes

kyoshithewriter · 13 days ago

Text

Pomum (Part three).

Wc: 4k

Warnings: mature themes (18+)

A/n: I don’t know the definition of slow burn looool. You’ll soon get some of vvd’s pov and get some insight on what he actually does dw.

With Sofía’s birthday festivities not offering a distraction anymore, the tension in the mansion returns full force. The house is made up of two kitchen staff, four grounds men and at least two dozen security personnel, yet it’s like a haunted house. Still. Quiet. Raúl, one of her father’s most trusted bodyguards, has now been tasked to be her new chauffeur. The man not only drops her off and picks her up from classes, but he waits on campus for her as well. Something weird is happening and Sofía wants to know what. But she knows she’ll get no answers from anyone. She wonders if that’s also why Virgil has been scarcer this past week as well. She had only seen him twice in passing since her party. He had stopped by in the evenings to have a quick chat with her father in his office. Sofía wants to thank him for the gift that she had already put to use. Just like she learned in classes, Sofía created a complex mix of different soils and her homemade organic fertilizers— she’s hoping her experiment along with the greenhouse conditions will be enough for the plants to sprout and thrive. While she is grateful, she desperately wishes it was enough to fend off the heavy feeling of loneliness that she can feel pitting in her chest. Sofía is bored. Her mom has been isolating herself and Sofía figures the woman might know something she doesn’t. Iris has always handled stress like that. Her father has no time for her and even if he did, what good would his company do? The men hired in the house are afraid to even look in her direction for more than two seconds and the women are all in their fifties or sixties, what would they even discuss together? There are only so many times a day she can scroll on tiktok and her private twitter account with less than twenty followers. She is strictly forbidden from posting pictures and using her real name online so she hasn’t even bothered to create an instagram account. Sofía guesses that’s the same with Amelia since her search online for her best friend has been futile. After spending another Saturday doing nothing but work in the greenhouse, rewatching movies and napping; Sofía decides she needs to get out of the house, even if it’s just a few hours. So after spending twenty minutes pacing a hole in her rug, she takes a deep breath, steels her spine and marches to her father’s office.

********

The house is eerily quiet in the dead of night when she decides to make her move. The inconspicuous bathrobe conceals the cherry red mini dress underneath— something she isn’t allowed to wear but her mother got it for her on one of their shopping sprees just because she pouted hard enough. Sofía moves on the tips of her toes through the hallway, squinting to navigate through the dark. A sharp beep of the smoke detector makes her spine straighten for a brief second; it’s a reminder of how risky this little solo mission is. There’s no amount of puppy eyes or pouting that would calm her father’s ire— no matter how much of a daddy’s girl she is. Once the blissful silence continues, she sucks in a deep breath and continues her slow, stealthy walk while gripping the pair of heels under the fluffy robe like her life depends on it. The dangly chain from her clutch softly clanks against one of her shoes and Sofía pauses to adjust it with a slight wince; it would be easy to lie and say she’s just going to the greenhouse if she’s caught right now. Although the full face of makeup would be hard to explain so she prefers to slip out undetected. The guards who have the night shift will all be stationed outside the front door and by the gate. One or two may patrol the perimeter for a little while but she can easily evade them. The girl breathes a sigh of relief as she quietly closes the kitchen door behind her ramrod straight back. A quick sweep of the yard shows that all the guards are stationed out front, just as she was hoping. She slips deeper into the shadows in the direction of the greenhouse. It’s perfect. If they actually realize she isn’t in the house and run the cameras, they’ll know she’s in the greenhouse and she most likely won’t be disturbed. The greenhouse also provides the perfect cover from cameras towards the hidden back gate that’s covered with overgrown vines. She’s careful to keep her steps unhurried to not look suspicious just in case they run the footage. As soon as she’s inside the greenhouse, she moves towards the citrus trees to remove her robe and hang it over one of the branches. The soil is cool under her bare feet when the slippers are kicked off in haste. Securing her clutch over her shoulder, Sofía hurries out the back entrance of the greenhouse toward the forgotten gate. She runs with an awkward bend to her back to ensure she stays hidden by the building. Throwing her heels over the gate, Sofía tests the strength of the vines with a hard pull. Once the thick, green stalks remain in place, she uses all her strength to heave herself off the floor and places her right foot up to begin the climb. Sofía had gone earlier to ask her father to have one of the men take her to see a movie or even just to the mall to do some shopping on her own. But when the man had invited Sofía into his office and gave her the most impatient scowl before she even made her request, she knew what his answer would be. So she decided to take matters into her own hands. Her heels are immediately slipped on her feet the second she safely scaled down the gate onto the empty street. She still can’t believe that she’s doing this: sneaking out on her own. She has never been anywhere on her own and she feels anxiety start to creep under the surface of her skin, pumping her brain full of doubt and ‘what ifs’ scenarios. Before she has the chance to back out, her phone pings with a notification. The uber she booked is two minutes away from the destination she entered, a few minutes away from the end of the long winding road where she currently stands. So Sofía takes a deep breath, and begins an awkward gallop in the four inch heels on her feet.

********

The dark blue lights inside the club are intimidating. Sofía pulls at the hem of her dress subconsciously. It’s just past 1 am and Azul is packed. The spacious club has VIP sections upstairs and a few round tables downstairs where she currently stands awkwardly. The bass of Streets shakes her already thumping heart in her chest. Sofía takes a deep breath and carefully maneuvers her way through the crowd towards the bar.

“This is a bad idea.” She whispers to no one but herself as her voice gets lost due to the volume of the music.

The bar consists of a long counter with four people moving briskly behind it preparing various drink items. She wiggles her way to a spot at the counter. A group of four tipsy women stand to her left. They’re all yelling and waving at a bald bartender when one of the women, who appears to have red hair, stumbles and bumps into Sofía. The woman whirls around immediately after righting herself.

“Oh my goodness I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” The woman yells louder than necessary.

Sofía nods shyly. “Um yea. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? You’re so adorable!” The woman looks behind Sofía’s frame. “Are you here alone, Cutie?” The woman inquires in concern.

“I… uh…” she contemplates. Announcing that she’s alone to strangers isn’t a good idea but women should be okay, right?

“Yes I’m here alone.”

“Awwww, I’m Sydney, Sweets. This is Gwen, Crystal and Samantha.” The busty woman points to her other friends. As Sofía’s eyes properly adjust to the lights, she realizes that all the women have brightly coloured hair. Sydney’s is a fiery red, Gwen a pastel pink, Crystal an emerald green and Samantha rocks light purple.

“We’re adopting you for the night. Men prey on women like you and not on our queer watches!” The woman slams a fist against the bar counter with a playful scowl on her face while her friends nod and offer kind smiles in her direction.

Sofía gives a shy smile. “Okay.” She rubs at the length of her arms as Sydney throws an arm over her shoulder.

“What are you drinking, pumpkin?”

“Apple martini?” Sofía throws out the first drink item she knows off the top of her head.

“Tame, but we’ll break you in as the night progresses.” The woman winks and orders their drinks.

*******

Sydney keeps well on her promise. Almost two hours in and Sofía has had two apple martinis until the group introduced her to Long Island ice teas and tequila shots. She’s toeing the line of just being a little too tipsy. The kind where you’re still fully cognizant but in a carefree way; where nothing matters except the slow grinding she’s doing on Gwen. The women dance together and Sydney’s towering 6’1 frame in her heeled boots is enough to keep most men from lingering when she tells them to move. Sofía is having fun. She feels so good; so free. On multiple occasions she had stopped dancing for a few seconds just to throw her head back and cackle wildly or hug the women who adopted her for the night. They’re not only keeping her safe but making tonight the best night of her life. Suddenly, Agora Hills by Doja Cat echoes around the room and Sofía feels like stripping her entire body bare. The song, already one of her favorites, is so sultry and the liquor in her system is making her feel heated. She runs her hands through the 26 inches of bundles in her hair as her hips sway. She eyes Gwen with a heated stare that the woman reciprocates before gently pulling her into her curvy body. Gwen’s warm breath fans across Sofía’s open, panting mouth. The woman pulls her in for a teasing kiss. The alcohol makes Sofía so brave that she doesn’t even remember to freak out over the fact that this is her first kiss. Gwen deepens their lip lock and Sofía eagerly falls into it. The woman kisses like she expected she would— mature, unhurried, methodical; she switches between teasing at her lips with her own to mapping her inexperienced mouth with her relentless tongue. Her skin feels heated. Like it’s being scorched. Not just in a way that suggests the packed club is hot; not in the way that feels like the warmth of alcohol spreading through her veins either. It feels concentrated, like a heated stare. Sofía slowly pulls away from Gwen to swing her eyes to the VIP upstairs. And even in the dimly lit club, she can recognize that frame. She sees his scathing glare even in the low lights. Her breath hitches. Oh fuck.

Virgil has a tight knuckled grip on the railing of the balcony. The man thought he was losing his fucking mind. He thought he was thinking about the woman so much that he was hallucinating. But no. That’s Sofía. It’s her in the tiniest, tightest fucking dress he’s ever seen her wear. It leaves little to the imagination and he feels like if he clenches his teeth any tighter they’ll shatter in his mouth. She’s not supposed to be here. And he doesn’t just mean that she shouldn’t be at the club but she shouldn’t be at this fucking club specifically. He’s here for a reason, he’s here to cut a deal with the man that owns the place. There’s a lot of tension between Barka- the owner of this place- and Mr. Hernandez. He’s here on the man’s behalf to do what Donavon tried and failed to do: bring Barka to heel; he’s getting brave and word is going around is he’s trying to overstep. The man wants to start dealing his watered down drugs in his and Hernandez’s territory and even expand his clubs into their area. He’s here to nip this shit in the bud, but as with every other aspect of his life, Sofía is here to complicate it. If Barka finds out the man’s only daughter is here… Shit. She had to show I.D. to enter. The man probably already knows she’s here. Virgil doesn’t keep his eyes off the woman as her hands roam her body, as her hips sway. He grips the balcony tighter seeing the woman pull her in for a kiss. A movement across from the women in the middle of the club catches his attention. A man in a black suit moves in their direction. Sofía looks up at him and he sees her eyes widen.

“Yea, you’re in fucking trouble.” He says to himself as he hurries to wave Raúl over.

“Keep Barka busy. I’ll be back in twenty. I need to handle something quickly.” He whispers in the man’s ear. Virgil can see the wheels in his head turning, he so badly wants to question what could be so important that he needs to leave now but he doesn’t dare. He just offers a subtle nod and returns to the table full of booze, drugs and half naked women Barka and his bozo men wanted to flaunt in their faces. The man who was making her way in her direction catches his figure moving down the stairs and hurriedly changes direction, pretending to be heading to the bathrooms instead.

Sofía’s heart goes into overdrive as Virgil stalks down the stairs.

“I- bathroom!” She yells to Gwen.

“Do you need me to come?” The woman asks, concerned.

“No! I’ll be fine!”

She turns and starts running as quickly as the thick crowd allows. Sofía knows it’s anxiety but she swears she can physically feel Virgil breathing down her back. The alcohol, the sultry music, the high off the kiss and the excitement of the chase, it all gives her a heady rush. So much so that she starts giggling. She forces her way between a couple who were dancing together; they yell their complaints but Sofía’s ears are ringing. She looks back to find Virgil just a few feet behind. Unlike the way she has to physically push her way through, the crowd parts for him like everyone knows he’s someone to be feared. It could have something to do with his towering height in his black suit and the murderous expression on his face. She’s so fucked.

“You have really long legs! That’s no fair!” She knows the man can’t hear but she yells it anyway. Her heart thumps faster in her chest as she breaks into the hallway that’s a lot emptier. She’s about to break into a sprint when a hand sneaks around her waist and drags her flush against a hard body. Her breath hitches and the muscles in her lower belly clench.

Virgil says nothing as he guides her through the hallway but turns left instead of to the right in the direction of the bathrooms. He leads her down a darker hallway with a lone, burly man standing against a singular door. The man immediately opens the door when he sees Virgil’s face with a nod. The backdoor leads to an alleyway. As soon as the man locks the door behind them, Virgil spins her around to face him. The muffled bass from the club does little to lessen the tension between them. She keeps her gaze on his chest while he glares angrily at her.

“I’m cold.” She whispers pathetically. A stupid attempt to get him to pity her.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Sofía?” The volume of his voice is low but he asks it so coldly she immediately starts tearing up.

She shrugs.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

“Fuck you! I know you all think I’m an empty headed little girl but I’m not. I’m 24 and I’ve never been to a bar, or the club or any fucking where and it’s pathetic. I can’t even go to classes alone anymore! I just sit in the fucking house being guarded all day. So excuse me for wanting to have some fucking fun for one night.” She snivels angrily.

“You don’t even know the amount of danger you were in, do you? Do you know who this club belongs to? You walked into a den of snakes and flashed your fucking I. D. with your full name and picture. Do you know what would’ve happened if I wasn’t here? You didn’t even notice the man closing in on you while you’re busy kissing strangers.” He mutters harshly.

Sofía pauses. He’s right, she didn’t notice. She hadn’t even thought about the possibility of just how far the hatred for her father runs. Is everyone in this city his enemy? She could have probably been killed because she wanted to be rebellious.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers pathetically.

The man exhales a harsh breath. The sound of ruffling material reaches her ears and she peeks up at him from under her lashes to see him removing his suit jacket. They lock eyes and Sofía’s body burns. She’s still so wound up from the alcohol, the dancing and kissing. The man places the jacket over her shoulders and his spicy blueberry cologne invades her senses. His nostrils flare as she boldly brings his jacket to her nose to take a deep inhale. She keeps staring, the place between her legs throbbing. She can’t wait to take the edge off in the quiet of her room. It would be so much better if he would be the one to help though. Just a little… she invades his personal space, uncaring of the gun holster she sees on his hip. In fact, it makes him so much more attractive.

“Come.”

“I want to.”

They both freeze. Sofía did not intend to say it out loud and she blames the Long Island ice teas. The man clenches his jaw and rolls his neck. He doesn’t acknowledge her words and instead grasps her upper arm and leads her to the parking lot.

********

Sofía feels like she is hyperventilating. Being in such close proximity with the man she has been wanting for years now with her body feeling so on edge is actual torture. It feels like someone is dangling a crack pipe in an addict's face. Sofía shifts around in the passenger seat, squeezing her legs together for the umpteenth time. She whimpers, feeling the slick sensation between her thighs. ‘I’m never drinking hard liquor again.’

“Sofía, stop.” It’s a stern warning. The man grips the steering wheel. His eyes stay forward as he breaks a red light. The road is mostly empty after three am.

“I- ca- I feel-.” She chokes out truthfully.

“For fuck’s… I said stop.” Frustration oozes from every pore of his tense body.

“I’m sorry.” She whimpers, even as she shifts again. Tears fill her eyes from both frustration and embarrassment.

A street light illuminates the inside of the vehicle briefly. It was no more than three seconds but it was enough for Sofía to notice the bulge in his black slacks. She almost moans.

Virgil stops at the bottom of the street that leads up to her house.

“How did you sneak out?” He questions through clenched teeth.

“I scaled the back gate.”

“If I should take you through the front, you’ll get in trouble. Can you climb over to get inside?”

And now that she thinks about it, she doesn’t think she could. She would’ve been fucked if the night didn’t take the turn it did.

“Not on my own. I used the vines on the other side to help.”

“I’ll help. Co- let’s go.” The man exits the vehicle and she follows.

Sofía walks to the exact spot of where the back gate is and stands with her back to him. Virgil approaches.

“Here?” He whispers by her ear.

“Uh huh.”

He invades her space and Sofía feels the whisper of his bulge against her ass. She doesn’t think twice about grinding back against him. His breath hitches by her ear. They stand in tense silence for a while. A cricket chirps somewhere nearby as Sofía holds her breath; she braces for the hissed warning or to be properly chastised. To her surprise, he pushes his hips forward into her. Her cheeks warm. He’s so big. She can feel even through the layers of his clothing.

“Please.” She immediately remembers the woman from the night of her party. Is that how desperate she sounds too?

“Fuck, Sofía. I- we can’t.” The man says but he moves his hips forward once more, almost as if he physically can’t help it.

“Just a little. It hurts, Virgil.” She whimpers. Reaching for his hand on her waist, she slowly guides it between her parted legs. She holds her breath as he allows her to bring his hand further, further, further… she chokes when he finally touches her soaked thong.

“Fuck.” The man hangs his head by his hand bracing against the wall. “What if they find out you’re not there and come looking? We’ll get caught.”

“Just a little, please. It won’t take long.” She begs.

He huffs but applies the right amount of pressure on her clit and begins to rub. Sofía moans almost gutturally into the quiet night. The sensation takes hold of her entire body immediately. From her teeth clattering together in her mouth to the tips of her curled toes. Virgil shifts the flimsy thong to the side and his warm fingers meet her even warmer, slick flesh. She almost keels over as the pressure in her belly builds.

“Do you even know what you do to me, Sofía? Hm? I want to fuck this tiny little dress off your body.” The man hisses in her ear.

Sofía keens long and low, gripping onto his arm that works between her legs. She grows wetter as the orgasm creeps up on her.

“Feel what you do to me.” He presses against her body again. Tears stream down her cheeks at the overwhelming sensations.

“Virgil, I’m gonna come.” She sobs out. She spreads her legs wider as he applies more pressure on her hardened, slick nub. Sofía knows she should feel pathetic for being so worked up but she can’t care about anything else but the impending orgasm and the fact that Virgil is the one making her feel like this.

“Fucking drench my fingers, baby. Come for me.”

Sofía almost bends her body in half as the pressure in her belly snaps.

“Thank you thank you Virgil, fucking thank you, so good, don’t stop. This is all I wanted.” She cries and comes for what feels like hours.

The man groans appreciatively in her ear at her words. Fuck, he could come from that alone he thinks. Sofía twitches and pants as she comes down from her high. The man finally pulls his hand from between her legs when she drops her forehead against the wall with a dull thud.

“Fuck.” His voice sounds disappointed.

Sofía immediately tenses. “I’m sorry.” She whispers without looking in his direction.

“Please don’t speak of this to any-”

“I’m not as stupid as you think I am.” She mutters sadly.

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all, Sofía. I just… just felt like I had to say it.” He says with a heavy sigh. “I need to get back to the club. I have business to take care of.”

“Okay.”

The man grasps her waist and lifts her cleanly off the floor. Sofía scrambles to sit ontop the wall before looking down at him.

“Be careful.” He warns.

“Okay. You too.”

He gives a little nod. Sofía turns around and climbs down on the vines.

“All good?” He asks as soon as her feet touch the ground.

“All good.” She echoes. She listens until she hears the vehicle drive away before heading inside the greenhouse. Sofía hurries to throw her bathrobe over her dress and switches her heels for her flip flops. She manages to make it to her room without being caught and her sigh is full of so much relief. Sofía takes a quick shower while trying not to let the events of the night cloud her mind.

#football #black woman #football fanfic #virgil van dijk #virgil van dijk x black reader #virgil van dijk x black oc #virgil van dijk x you #virgil van dijk fiction #virgil van dijk x reader #vvd

45 notes · View notes

queen-of-deans-booty · 7 months ago

Text

Not So Perfect Life

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~4k

Warnings: angst, fearing for your life, slight torture, fluff at the end

Summary: According to you, Sam lives a mundane life with his brother who is a very skilled mechanic. It doesn’t take long for his secrets to bubble to the top, threatening everything and everyone he loves.

Square Filled: zip ties for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: i pulled inspiration from a tiktok video! apparently, it's from a turkish tv series, but i am unsure of the name of it.

The empty lot next to your apartment has finally been bought, and one of your favorite stores has been built in its place. You make the most of your money by buying Barbie and Bratz dolls and transforming them into animated characters. You’ve taken an old Barbie doll and made her into Maleficent. Someone wanted you to make a doll version of themselves, so you did that with a Bratz doll. To make extra money, you work at a diner for two nights a week so that you can focus on your doll-making career most of the time.

Sam was supposed to meet you twenty minutes ago, but he’s still not here. You check the time on your phone and sigh silently before walking over to the doll section of the store. While you love transforming an already-made Barbie doll, you do enjoy starting from scratch. The store has different kinds of blank dolls that have nothing on them that you can do anything with.

You grab three of them and put them into your cart.

“I’m here!” You turn and see Sam jogging over to you. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was helping my brother.”

There is a splotch of blood on his cheek, and you frown when you see it.

“You have blood on your cheek.”

“Oh.” He quickly wipes it away. “Shave nick. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I’m just glad you’re here now,” you smile. You walk to the fabric section and browse the different colors. “So, what did Dean need?”

“What?”

You look at him. “You said Dean needed help. With what?”

Sam opens and closes his mouth like a fish, suddenly nervous. “Oh, you know… His job.”

“You don’t know how to work on cars.”

“I know the basics.”

“So, you’re telling me your brother, the very skilled mechanic, needed help on a car he was working on so he asked you?” He nods. “Okay.”

Sam hates lying to you but what else is he going to tell you? You get everything you need to create at least a dozen more dolls and check out at the register.

“So, I was thinking while I make my dolls, we can have a movie night. What do you say? Care to spend the night?” When Sam doesn’t answer, you look at him to see him on his phone. “Sam?”

“Right, sorry, Y/N. You know I’d love to, but Dean needs me right now.”

“With another car?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I know I said I’d spend all day with you, but I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

He kisses you quickly before practically sprinting off. You trust Sam with your life but there’s something about him lately that has your red flag radar going off. He’s lying about something, but you don’t know what.

Sam promised to call but he never did. In fact, you go days without hearing from him. It’s Friday and you just got back from your diner job early so you can get a head start on your dolls. You put on The Nightmare Before Christmas before starting your Sally doll. Weaving the hair in is the most time-consuming of it all, so that’s what you start with.

Your phone rings and you smile when you see Sam’s name and picture pop up. He has his own life and you don’t ever want to be clingy and annoying, so you give him his space. You love him so much so those few days with no contact are like water under the bridge.

“Hey, baby,” you answer.

“Hey, are you busy this weekend?”

“I’m just making my dolls. Why?”

“I have some free time. Dean and I are heading to California for the weekend. Want to come with us? He has some business there, and I was thinking we could go to the beach. Just me and you, sunshine, seafood, and maybe a few kisses.”

“Wow, you know how to butter a girl up. When do you leave?”

“I can pick you up in a few hours.”

“I’ll pack. I’m so excited. I’ll see you soon.”

Forget Sally. You turn off the movie and run to your room to get packed. A few hours later, Sam knocks on your door while Dean waits in the car. You open the door and jump into Sam’s arms with a huge smile on your face.

“This is going to be a fun weekend,” you grin.

He kisses you a few seconds longer than usual. “Come on.”

He grabs your bags while you get into the backseat of the car, and you smile at Dean.

“Thank you for letting me come with you guys.”

“The more the merrier,” Dean says.

Sam gets into the back seat with you, and he pulls you close as Dean drives away. Dena turns the music up just to drown you two out so he doesn’t have to hear how gushy you two are going to be.

“So, I was thinking we could go at night when the sun is going down, and we’ll walk the entire pier and watch the sunset. I’ve been to this area before, and I know this seafood joint you’d love.”

“I already love it. Do you want to know what I’ve never done but want to try?”

“What is it?”

You lean in closer to whisper in his ear. Not that Dean can hear you anyway. “I’ve never had sex on a beach before.”

Sam laughs and runs his hand up and down your back. “I have. Sand gets everywhere, but you’re worth it.”

He slides his hand in your hair and kisses you, keeping it short and sweet for his brother. Since it’s night by the time you get to the hotel, you decide to have a chill night in with the brothers before planning stuff for tomorrow. They don’t have a lot of money which is why you and Sam don’t have your own room, but you’re happy regardless.

“Can we go to the beach today?” you ask over breakfast.

Sam and Dean look at each other and have some sort of secret conversation with their eyes. Dean waves as he sips his coffee.

“Go. You two have fun. I have some business to do. I’ll call you later.”

“Yay!”

You pack for an eventful day at the beach, having everything you need and more in your tote bag. However, you don’t get to use most of it because your fun-filled day at the beach isn’t anything like you expect it to be. At first, you took some time to tan and soak in the rays before you wanted to go swimming.

“Sam, let’s go swimming.”

“Give me one second.” He’s on the phone. “It’s Dean.”

You shrug and walk to the shore, shivering when the cold water washes over your feet. If you get it over with, you’re entire body will get used to the temperature instead of one part at a time. You run the rest of the way in and squeal when the chill seeps into your bones.

“Come on, Sam!”

Sam nods but doesn’t say anything in response. He continues to talk to his brother over the phone, and you look away with a sigh. It only takes one time before Sam gets caught in the current, and he spends most of his time with his nose in his phone, claiming he’s helping his brother with something.

Never have you ever felt like you were second best in this relationship, but there’s a first time for everything…

After a few hours of swimming by yourself, you get fed up. You walk over to Sam who just put his phone away, but the smile is lost on his face.

“I want to leave, Sam.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m good now. Dean can manage without me.”

“That’s good, but I’m done for today. Take me back.”

Sam sighs and packs up anyway, hating the way he makes you feel. He can see the disappointment in your eyes, and he hates that he put it there. If only you knew what he was really up to, you might be a bit more understanding. Still, he’d rather this than suck you into his toxic life.

“Y/N, I’m really sorry,” Sam says once you walk into the hotel room.

“I’m not mad, Sam, I just thought this was a vacation. If you need to work with Dean, I have no problem with that. I would have let you two come on your own.”

“I know, and it is a vacation.”

“Dean’s a mechanic. What kind of business does he have out here that he needs your help with?”

“It’s complicated.” You sigh and look away from him, but he cups your jaw and brings your gaze back to him. “We took care of everything today. Tomorrow, I am all yours. We can go to the beach again if you want, or we can go shopping or whatever you’re feeling up for. Okay?”

“Can we watch the sunrise on the pier?”

“Yes we can, and maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll show you how messy beach sex is.”

You can’t stay upset at him for too long. “Okay, deal.”

Sam leans down and kisses you, and you wrap your arms around his neck. Dean gets home late but you’re already fast asleep in your bed. You don’t know what wakes you up, but you open your eyes to see Sam and Dean dressed and standing by the table. They’re whispering and trying to be quiet, but you can hear every word they’re saying. Sam is keeping so many secrets from you, so you don’t move a muscle to make it look like you’re still sleeping.

“Are you sure the nest is out there?”

“Yes. I talked to the locals and that’s the only place they all singled out.”

“Okay. I have to be back before the sunrise. I promised Y/N we’d watch it at the beach.”

“I can’t promise that I’ll get you back before then, but we need to go now before someone else dies.”

Sam looks back at you before leaving with his brother. Okay, that’s not what a mechanic does. Are they worried someone is going to die? You have to find out what they’re up to. You quickly get changed and follow the brothers down to the parking garage where the Impala is, and you pull out your phone to call an Uber.

It takes five minutes for it to get to you but that’s not enough time for Sam and Dean to get far.

“I’ll pay you extra if you follow a Chevy Impala.”

You tell the driver where to go, and you’re able to catch up to them on the freeway. They head north, far more than you thought they would go. They end up in the woods, but the Uber driver is only willing to go so far.

You hand him a handful of twenties “Thank you for doing this.”

You get out and finish the rest of the trek on foot. You’re not sure where Sam and Dean went, but there’s only one thing in these parts. While on the drive, you looked up the history of the woods, and according to local legend, there is a cabin in the woods responsible for a bunch of paranormal activity. If Sam’s big secret is that he’s a ghost hunter, then you really overestimated him.

You push past the thick trees and bushes until you come to a clearing. A cabin with a lot of windows stands big and tall and the lights are on inside, allowing you to see everything inside. The cabin is a bit run down as it tends to do with age, but there are broken windows and doors from either vandalism or old age.

The Impala is off to the right so you know Sam and Dean are somewhere around here. You walk closer to the cabin and gasp when you see a man fly across the room. Sam walks in with a thick blade in his hands, and he rushes at the man like he’s pissed at him. He tackles the man to the ground but the man kicks your boyfriend off him easily. Sam stands and punches the man as hard as he can twice before bringing the blade down on him.

You’re shocked and horrified to see someone you love so much brutally murder another man without cause. Blood, bruises, and cuts adorn Sam’s face and arms, and Dean isn’t any better. He walks in holding the same kind of blade with just as many cuts on him.

“One of them smoked out before I could get to him,” Dean says.

“Great,” Sam sighs. He cracks his neck and just so happens to look out the broken door and right into your horrified eyes. “Shit.”

You turn and flee from the scene as fast as you can, ignoring the whips and stings from branches smacking you in the face. You reach the road and panic when you don’t see a single car, and you take out your phone to see if you can get a signal.

“Come on,” you freak.

Light shines in the distance, and you start running toward the headlights. The car doesn’t slow down when they see you, and they don’t care if you’re in need of their help. They zoom past you, and you yell out in frustration in fear. You look back to see if Sam or Dean are following you, but there is no one there.

Another set of headlights shines in the distance, and you wave your arms frantically. They slow down at your signs of distress, and you hop into the front seat without seeing who is behind the wheel.

“Thank you so much. Can you--”

You scream when you see Sam sitting next to you.

“Please, just let me explain.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you cry.

“I won’t hurt you, Y/N. Just let me explain.”

His words aren’t connecting with you because all you can see is him killing that poor man. You try the door handle but he's locked it and engaged the child locks, and that causes you to cry more. Sam’s heart breaks at seeing you so terrified of him but this is necessary. He can’t bring you back to town and have you go to the authorities so he has no other choice but to take you back to the cabin where his brother is.

He parks outside of it and gets out, but you refuse to follow. Sam walks to the other side of the car and opens the passenger door.

“Come on, Y/N. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sam reaches into the car and grabs your arm, and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

“No, please don’t! Please!” you cry. You fight to get away but Sam’s grip is tight. This is breaking his heart but it’s necessary. “Let me go! I won’t tell anyone. Please!”

“Y/N, would you stop fighting me?”

You fall to your knees as if that will prevent you from going inside the cabin, but Sam just picks you up instead. He brings you inside and sets you down, and you jump away from him and fall onto the dirty couch. Dean walks into the room when he hears you sob, and he sighs.

Sam walks off to the side with his brother while keeping you in his line of vision. He can’t have you running away.

“She doesn’t know what we do. She thinks you’re a mechanic.”

“Now is as good a time as any to tell her, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, if she’ll let me.” Sam walks over to you like you’re a wounded animal, and he sits on the coffee table. “Y/N, please…” He reaches out to touch you but you jerk away from him in fear. You jump to the other side of the couch and curl up into a ball. “I’m not a murderer, Y/N.”

You look around the cabin and see the bodies of the men they came here to kill.

“I’m on it,” Dean says.

“He’s not a mechanic, is he?” you mutter.

“No, he isn’t. Not professionally, at least. If you’d let me explain--”

“Please let me go, Sam,” you beg and cry. “I have a family and a little sister and parents who love me. Please let me go.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Baby, you need to calm down.”

“Don’t call me that!” you yell.

Sam knows he’s not going to get anywhere if you’re like this so he decides to let you cool off and help Dean with the bodies. He stays within sight the entire time to make sure you don’t go anywhere, and it’s not like you can fight him off. He’s twice your size and three times stronger than you. Not to mention he has a brother who is similar in strength and size. You wouldn’t get far and they know it.

By the time the brothers are done, you’re already asleep on the couch. Sam sighs when he sees you. This is so not how he wanted to tell you about the supernatural. He wanted to take you on a date, probably in the Bunker, and ease you into it. Now you’re scared half to death and refuse to listen to him.

He brought in a blanket to take care of the last body not knowing that Dean had already done it. Instead, he drapes it over your body gently. You don’t stir and he should leave you alone. He should turn away and wait for you to wake up, but he can’t help himself. He runs the back of his fingers down your cheek. The slight movement is enough to wake you up, and you jerk away from him in fear.

“Dean is getting food and water for you.” You don’t answer him. Sam takes the food when Dean comes back, and he sets it in front of you. Your stomach is growling but you don’t move an inch. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out. Look, those men you saw were demons. They were monsters. I don’t hurt innocent people.”

“Like I’m going to believe a word you say,” you glare.

Sam sighs and rubs his hands together. “I love you, Y/N.”

Again, you don’t answer. The brothers can’t bring you back to town so they set up shop in the living room. They’re light sleepers so if you’re going to do something, you have to do it without making a single noise. An hour after Sam and Dean have fallen asleep, you decide to make your move.

Dean is sleeping on the other smaller couch but Sam is sleeping on the floor right next to your spot. You hook your legs on the back of the couch and slip off the back as quietly as you can. You tiptoe to the front door and open it, wincing when it creaks. You look back but Sam and Dean don’t move.

The first steps out of the cabin are slow and careful until you get to the treeline, and then you make a beeline for the road. You look back to see if they’re following you which they’re not. You turn back only to run right into a man’s chest. He reaches out to steady you so that you don’t fall on your ass.

“I wanted a Winchester,” the man’s eyes turn pitch black, “but you’ll do nicely.”

In the next second, you’re knocked unconscious. When you come to, the first thing you notice is the zip ties on your wrists. You’re tied to a chair that’s bolted to the concrete ground. Even if you can escape, you’re too weak to move. The man who took you, the one with black eyes, walks into the room and over to you.

“Please let me go,” you whisper.

“Good, you’re awake. I love hearing humans scream. Music to my ears.”

“Please don’t. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go,” you beg.

The man doesn’t listen and grabs the back of your chair. He shoves his hand into your body and touches your soul, and you tip your head back and scream as loud as you can. He only takes three vials of your soul, but that’s enough to knock you out again. Your entire body aches when you wake up again, and there are two men in the room instead of one.

“I need more of her soul.”

“Stop being so fucking greedy. You’re using it too fast. Lucifer won’t like that. Plus, she’s Sam Winchester’s girlfriend. He won’t be too pleased if she dies too soon.” Both men walk over to another person that’s tied up. How have you not noticed him before? “This one is empty. Toss it and grab another one.”

The second man has no choice but to listen. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you let the darkness overcome you for a third time.

“Hey, Y/N, open your eyes. Come on, wake up.”

You moan tiredly and open your eyes to see Sam kneeling in front of you.

“Sam,” you whisper, barely audible.

“I’m right here, baby. I’m going to get you out of here.”

He takes out a knife to use on your zip ties, but you see someone enter the room… and it isn’t Dean.

“Sam, behind you.”

He stands and turns to face the man who took you.

“Looks like I scored the jackpot. I knew you’d come for her,” the man smirks.

“Yeah, you’re right. I did come for her, but it’s not going you be you who leaves this place alive.”

A fight breaks out between the man and Sam. He has the same kind of blade as he did in the cabin, and that’s apparently a weapon that hurts the man. Sam slices the man’s arm and punches him in the face. Without even touching him, the man uses some kind of power to shove Sam into the wall. Sam tries to move but he can’t, and the man laughs at his helplessness.

He doesn’t get enough time to gloat because Dean enters the room with a sharp knife. He flips the knife so he’s holding the blade, and he tosses it at the man. The blade sticks out of his back, and his entire body lights up orange and gold.

The man falls to the ground, dead, and Sam is released from his hold. Sam runs over to you and cuts the zip ties off, and he scoops you into his arms. You have no fight left in you. If Sam is going to kill you, then he should do it now before you gain your strength back.

Sam and Dean leave before Lucifer hears about this, and they take you to the Bunker knowing Castiel is going to be there to heal you. They didn’t keep you long enough to take a lot of your soul but it still takes a lot out of you.

When you wake up, you’re in some kind of infirmary. None that you’ve ever seen before. Sam is on the other side of the room whispering to Dean, and you make eye contact with Dean. The older brother clears his throat and gestures to you. Dean leaves the room and Sam walks over to you carefully. When you show no signs of freaking out, he sits on the edge of the bed.

Sam doesn’t go into a ton of detail so as to not overwhelm you, but he does explain about demons and a bit about their hunting lives.

“I never wanted to hurt you. This is why I didn’t tell you what I did.”

“You scared me,” you whisper.

“I know, and I am so sorry. I’d never do anything to hurt you. I love you so much.”

“I forgive you,” you sniffle. You saved me.”

Sam reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll always save you. I’ll answer any questions you have, but you should get some sleep right now.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course.”

He kicks off his shoes and slides into the small bed with you, and you snuggle into his side. Despite him scaring you, Sam has always and will always feel like home to you. You feel safe enough to fall asleep in his arms like you’ve done so many times before.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester angst #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fluff #supernatural angst

82 notes · View notes

deadmenandthedivine · 1 month ago

Text

DEAD MEN § the DIVINE

chapter twenty one: an old man’s legacy

Maetilda Targaryen, First of her Name, was supposed to be many things. What she became was entirely different.

table of contents

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, sexual situations (consensual § nonconsensual), eventual smut, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, disassociation, thoughts of self harm and annihilation, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

word count: 7031

The corridors were loud. Dozens of heavy quick footsteps echoed through the castle. Faint orders were shouted in the distance. The princess woke up with a jolt, ears immediately on alert. Something about the air felt different. Very different, bad different. A shift that could not be connected to her rendezvous in the Kingswood just two days prior. She had not left her chambers the day before, but she knew the change was new. She could feel it. The air was still just as humid, but somehow heavier. As if awaiting a spark to ignite the whole castle. She could feel it in her shoulders. The noise in the corridors only seemed to grow. Curious as to why so many people seemed to be moving about near her chambers, the princess sprang out of bed and over to the door. She yanked the handle open only to be stopped by a piece of metal.

“Ser Gunthor?” Her knuckles tapped against the wood, “Ser Gunthor? The door is locked.”

The constant passing footsteps continued, but there was no response. Not even a pause in shuffling to listen. They could not hear her. The princess knocked a little harder. Aggressively trying to open the door a few more times, only to be met with the same results.

“Ser Gunthor? Are you there?”

He said nothing. Maetilda’s heart began to beat harder. Had her father sent his punishment? Had it come so soon? Had her father’s men taken the castle in the dead of night? Her heart pounded harder at the possibilities. Was her knight tied up? Gagged on the other side of the door so that he could not answer? Tears welled in the princess’s eyes as she tried desperately not to panic.

Running out onto the balcony that she had been avoiding for the past several days, she tried to capture a glimpse of the happenings on the grounds. The view from her perch pointed more toward the bay than courtyards, and her straining did not seem to help. The uneasiness of her grip on the bannister and her own footing on the ground only served to heighten her nerves. So many times, she had pictured herself tumbling down and into the rocks below. So many times that she wondered when it would come true.

The castle grounds, King’s Landing itself, was all louder than normal. More chatter, more footsteps, more shuffling and general movement. Something was very, very wrong.

A worried anxiety lit a fire underneath her. Not even trying to call for her maids, despite wondering where they could possibly be, the princess dressed herself to the best of her abilities. She grabbed her slate blue gown with cream yellow dragons, and awkwardly tied herself into it. The ties were looser than they’d normally be, causing the dress to hang baggier around her midsection. Luckily, her traveling cloak disguised it well. Her damned traveling cloak. She put on no jewelry this time. Leaving her entire collection to whoever had taken over the castle. She cared more about escaping with her life and dignity.

Taking a deep breath to settle herself, she crept over to the tower tapestry. The same place her father had exited out of just the other day. Her heart thumped harder as she lifted the heavy fabric over her head. Behind the large tapestry was a stone wall with an embossed inlet design that resembled wood paneling. The top panel started at about the hips while the bottom one topped off about a hands’ width below. There was no door handle or anything. There was nothing that looked even remotely door-like. It was the same design on all of her walls.

She pushed at the top panel, and nothing happened. With furrowed eyebrows, she pushed at the space in between the panels. Nothing. When she pushed at the bottom panel, she expected nothing. Yet at the force of her push, the small section of wall shifted in its place. Almost side to side. Before she could investigate further, the door to her chambers opened and closed quickly. Taking her by surprise. An entire collection of feet shuffled around inside her room as she stood frozen behind her tapestry.

“Princess, may I ask what you are doing back there?” Rhaenys’s voice rang out softly.

Despite the knowledge that the Queen That Never Was had likely made an appearance to scold her for running off with Aemond unchaperoned two days prior, Maetilda was immediately comforted by the presence of her. The princess-by-title stumbled out into plain sight only to be met by a shocking scene of her own. Princess Rhaenys in a simple yet opulent black gown and an inconspicuous gray cloak, one of the Cargyll twins, and Ser Gunthor dressed in tattered trousers, a torn tunic, and an ill-fitting cloak of his own. It was strange to see her knight with no armor, no shoes. The three looked worn. Sad. Their shoulders carried a weight that had not been there before. Maetilda’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Your uncle has died in his sleep.” Rhaenys’s voice cracked as she continued to speak softly.

The princess-by title’s heart dropped, as if the floor had come out from underneath her and she was left to plummet down to the black cells. It was the last news she had expected to hear despite how likely it had seemed to be coming within the next year. Such news had felt so out-of-reach, so far into the future that she had always assumed she had more time. He was supposed to be at her wedding. Jace’s, Luke’s, and the twins’ too. He was supposed to see the birth of his first granddaughter. Together, he and Rhaenyra were supposed to restore the good Targaryen name back to King’s Landing and the Red Keep. There was so much work left to be done. In the Realm, in the Stepstones. He was not done.

“The Hightowers are moving to have Aegon crowned in Rhaenyra’s absence.” Rhaenys continued, “They plan to hold the two of us hostage. We must go now.”

Maetilda’s eyes combed over the chambers she had been calling her own in shock. Her mouth hung open. She had just been trying to escape, yet her feet suddenly felt stuck to the ground. As if melted in their place permanently. The Hightowers. It was always the Hightowers. They had been the ones polluting the castle, the kingdom. They were ignoring the King’s word, their own sworn oaths, and the rest of the Realm’s sworn allegiances. And for what? What was there to show for it? For how long had they been ruling in all but name? Yet had not seemed to be capable of the responsibility. Viserys’s economy was a well-oiled machine, the kingdoms had known relative peace for over a generation. But politics extended far beyond the economy and absence of war. There was always unrest lurking just out of reach. The Triarchy had returned. Lord Corlys himself had been wounded in the squirmishes.

“Maetilda, we must go.” The older princess repeated more firmly.

“We must?”

“Yes, my dear, it is time to go.”

“We are not coming back?”

“No, darling. Leave your things. Come now.”

The younger princess clutched her sisters’ grandmother’s arm as if her life depended on it. Her body shook like a leaf while Rhaenys remained the perfect picture of statuesque calm.

“There is a hidden passage behind the tapestry.” Maetilda told the group as evenly as she could, “But I don’t know how to get to it.”

The older princess let out a single chuckle before she sauntered over and pulled the fabric back. The Cargyll knight followed behind her eagerly. Maetilda and her own unarmored knight remained frozen in place. Rhaenys nudged the bottom panel in the wall before pushing the section to the side with ease. Revealing a long dark hallway made of stone. As if the princess-by-title truly was one of her granddaughters, the twin’s grandmother held out a gentle hand. “We must be quick. They will come to dress you soon.”

“B-but Helaena.” Maetilda continued to gasp like a fish outside of water.

Without a word, Ser Gunthor placed a hand on the princess’s back and guided her forward. Keeping her safe was his job, especially as she found herself too caught up in her own disbelief to move. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps they would walk down the dark hidden passage only to find the ghost who had been playing tricks on her mind. Perhaps she would take her next step and find herself plummeting down into the depths of the sea again. She would see the lady with the obscured face. The one who gave her warning before her father hit her with the rock in his hand.

Ser Gunthor continued to push her along as their group followed Princess Rhaenys’s lead. Ser Erryk shut the door behind them and took up the guard at the rear. The passage was even darker with the door shut. Their footsteps seemed as loud as thunder as the sound bounced off the walls. Maetilda stumbled with each step. Her sworn knight was the only thing that kept her moving forward. She could hear the beat of her heart in her ears. It was a different fear than what she had felt in her time at the Red Keep leading up to that point. Every last inch of her stood on edge. Her ears stayed open and vigilant. Her eyes grew more and more paranoid. She was more awake than ever. Wide awake.

Their group of four followed the hidden passage for as far as it would go, keeping left at every fork. Seeming to know exactly where they were, Rhaenys led the way. An expression on her face unlike any Maetilda had seen before, almost that of worry. But it was unlike Rhaenys to ever be worried. It made Maetilda wish her sisters had been there. They would know what to do, what to say. With Baela’s courage and Rhaena’s strategy, they were the perfect duo. Yet Maetilda’s heart sank knowing that even if the two were with her, they would likely be too angry to lend her any assistance. As if the older princess could sense the younger’s running mind, Rhaenys reached back and locked arms with her grandchild-by-marriage. Together, they stopped in front of what appeared to be a door.

“This takes us just next to the holdfast’s courtyard, Ser Erryk.” Rhaenys whispered.

“Brilliant, Princess.” He whispered back as he rounded to the front of their pack, “If we are to make it out of here, you all must trust me. Do as I say, before I have said it. Do you hear me?”

Maetilda desperately shook her head ‘NO.’ Yet not a moment was wasted before the stone door was pushed to the side, and their group scurried back out into the open. Ser Gunthor quietly closed the door behind them. The corridors were littered with handfuls of people moving quickly. Throwing their hoods over their heads and wrapping the fronts of their cloaks around their dresses, the Targaryen princesses desperately tried to conceal their identities. In a place like the Red Keep, such efforts felt to be made in vain. Nonetheless, they kept their pace as quick and even as possible, just slow enough to not raise suspicion.

As light as mice, they made it down the corridor that opened up into the courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. The princess-by-title quickly looked about to check for more people, only to be met with an empty courtyard. That is, aside from the hanging body of Lord Caswell. His dangling boots grabbed her eyes immediately, taking the breath right out of her throat. She couldn’t hold back the yelp that escaped her, eyes immediately overflowing at the sight of the rope around his neck. His head lulled to the side, the strain of his last gasp of air plastered on his face. His lips seemed to have darkened from the lack of air. His eyes were bulging and bloodshot. She watched his chest for movement only to find none, despite how badly she hoped for the opposite. She could still remember how he had scurried out to greet her and her family when they had first arrived at the castle, how he had been the only Lord to do so. It made Maetilda sick to her stomach to see him strung up and displayed in such a manner. Without any other Lords by his side, yet again.

Arms still locked together, the Queen Who Never Was had stopped in her tracks too. Ser Gunthor gently pushed them from behind while Ser Erryk pulled at their arms as inconspicuously as he could. The princess by title pulled the hood of her cloak down further. To her, every step forward felt like a months-long trek. Her brain thought painfully hard as she reminded herself which foot came next. It did not matter where she looked, if she closed her eyes or not — all she could see was Lord Caswell and the state he was left in. Did he have the choice? Had they killed his wife too? Where was she? How long would they leave him there?

There was no time for her to stop and ponder as before she knew it, they had made it outside of the castle walls unseen. The sight of the city lifted a weight off of her chest. That was, until she realized how far they were from any escape. The front gates, the port. How were they to leave the city?

“I will not leave Meleys.” Rhaenys stated low yet firm to the knight that guided them, unlinking her arm from Maetilda’s in order to better conceal her identity with her cloak. “If I could get to the Dragonpit, then—”

The Cargyll knight broke protocol to cut her off, “No. They’ll expect you there, Princess. You won’t get past the gates. We must make for the riverfront and find a ship. Before they know you’ve gone.”

Ser Erryk gave her a curt nod before he led them around a corner and down a side street. Stone streets her feet had never set foot upon before. It was almost surreal for Maetilda to see the city from such a perspective. The shops, the homes, the places for people to gather. It was welcoming, inviting. She couldn’t help but feel like she stood out like a sore thumb amongst it all, despite how much she tried to blend in. Looking at her sisters’ grandmother, Princess Rhaenys had her cloak wrapped perfectly around her, arms and all. Effectively concealing the things about her that were undoubtedly expensive. The princess-by-title wordlessly tried to mimic her.

They followed one street for a few intersections before making another turn. Ser Erryk knew exactly where they were. Glancing down toward her shoes as they passed a thick group of people, Maetilda caught another glimpse of her unarmored knight’s bare feet. They were red and dry and scraped up from the stone street, but his steps were even and determined. She glanced up at his face to find his head on a swivel. His eyes darted around the crowd, taking note of each and every face. His face was almost as green as his eyes. He was nervous too. What had happened to him? She wondered incessantly. Something had to have happened over night. When she had gone to bed, he had been at her door. He had been in full armour with boots to protect his feet. There had been a sword at his hip.

As their group quickened their pace, the princess’s sworn knight kept his gaze averted. He looked anywhere but her face. She could not remember a time he had ever acted in such a way. A time where his eyebrows scrunched together with such emotion. His eyes, face, and shoulders donned an emotion she had never before seen on his person — fear. Not only was he nervous, he was scared. The knight sworn to protect her life with his own was scared. A thought that turned her bones to ice with terror. If they had hung Lord Caswell, would they have done the same to her knight? Would they have done the same to her? Was that what the wasps’ nest wanted? To see them all dead?

The more her thoughts raced, the tighter her chest constricted. Each breath grew increasingly shorter and more shallow. Doom settled deep in her guts. They bubbled as if they would spill over, yet never did. Her legs felt as if they were filled with stone. They locked up just as they had in the courtyard in front of Lord Caswell. Had they hung him because he tried to leave too? They had to have a reason. Didn’t they?

The noise around them pitched upwards as they all turned onto a shockingly narrow yet very busy street. A current of people pushed down the middle of the crowd, all moving in the same direction. Clots of others collected against the buildings as some questioned where the mass of people were headed, including the group of four. Even while momentarily stopped, Maetilda’s breath continued to escape her. The world around her doubled and blurred when she tried to look around for help. She gasped for a large gulp of breath.

“Move it! go! go!” A large voice bellowed atop the crowd. “This way!”

The princess rubbed her eyes until the world around her came into focus. More specifically, the line of Goldcloaks — one of which was on horseback — that started to direct everyone in the same direction. People in the crowd almost immediately began shoving each other around in an attempt to move forward. Those who did not move with the flow were no better than a rock in a river. An arm looped through Maetilda’s, the familiar arm of Rhaenys. “Stay with me, darling.”

“Keep it moving!” Another goldcloak shouted.

With two out of the four locked together, they all did as they were told and moved with the crowd. The Kingsguard grabbed the older princess’s arm and directed the group around the nearest corner and with a small sidestreet. A few stragglers from the crowd lingered in it. A man with one leg and his wife. A woman with a screaming child. At the next intersection was another current of people all moving in the same direction, their own set of Goldcloaks directing their movements. Where was everyone being directed to? Were the Hightowers already searching for the missing princesses? Maetilda feared the worst. That the townspeople were all to be lined up outside the city until her own group of four had been found. She wondered if all the streets looked the same. If they each had crowds of people moving in the same direction, all being shouted at by the City Watch.

“This way.” Ser Cargyll directed them to join the crowd.

Bells began to toll throughout the entirety of King’s Landing. Maetilda felt lightheaded, yet the hold her sisters’ grandmother had on her seemed to keep her upright. Her vision less blurred as she nervously scanned their surroundings. The homes and shops that had once been so welcoming and inviting suddenly loomed large like a cage around them. People pushed and pulled at others around them as no one seemed capable of moving at the same pace. Some weaved around others at a horse’s speed while some hobbled slowly with aching limbs or old age. Some carried baskets of wares, some carried children, some carried nothing but the clothes on their back. Rhaenys’s arm tightened around Maetilda’s elbow.

Another line of Goldcloaks blocked off a fork in the road, directing the crowd to turn down a set of stairs. The crowd was no nicer on the steps than they were in the street. Shoulders hit shoulders as more people squeezed together than the street allowed. Chests collided with backs. Maetilda glanced behind her to check on her knight once more, only to find an older man standing behind her instead. They locked eyes for a moment. He had long silver honey hair that hit his shoulders and a decently shaved face. His tunic was tattered and his eyes were lidded as he drunkenly stumbled down the steps. He furrowed his eyebrows at her as they held each other's gaze before the princess turned away in fear.

Her head scanned what it could in front of her, doing what it could to avoid the man behind her. The two knights were nowhere to be seen. She spared another glance behind her in order to check the crowd behind the drunk man only to find nothing. Her heart pounded in her ears as her body went into full alert. Their knights were gone. Lost in the crowd.

“Rhae—”

“Shhh. Head down.”

Hoping their cloaks would continue to keep their identities concealed, the two princesses followed the flow of the crowd. They reached the bottom of the steps and continued forward until the streets all funneled into one big street. At the end of it stood a towering structure — the Dragonpit. The largest group of Goldcloaks yet pooled at the entrance, forming their own human funnel as they directed all the townspeople inside. Maetilda did her best to keep her head pointed down, to keep her face concealed. She wasn’t sure if any of the Goldcloaks even knew what she looked like, but she could not leave it to chance.

They crossed the distance until they were at the front entrance, ascending the steps until they passed through the doors. The two princesses were within arms’ reach of the City Watch, yet they miraculously slipped by them without so much as a second glance. Two cloaked women with their heads down had to have looked suspicious enough, she thought. Did the goldcloaks not want to search them for weapons? See what they concealed beneath their cloaks? Perhaps all their identities would be searched once inside. Or perhaps the goldcloaks were told to look for a group of four, and did not expect to encounter the two princesses without their guards. It made no sense to her.

More people than she could ever imagine to fit, began collecting towards the back of the dragon pit. There was a higher platform that riders used to look face-to-face with their bonded dragons. On top of it stood a lineup of Kingsguard, all at the ready, as what was left of the royal family posed at the center. The King’s Hand Lord Otto, Queen Alicent, Princess Helaena, Prince Aemond. No Aegon. A few members of the High Council stood behind them on either side. The bells continued to toll around the city like the roaring of thunder.

“It’s a coronation.” Rhaenys whispered in Maetilda’s ear as the older princess pulled the younger into a spot amongst the crowd.

With their cloaks rewrapped around their limbs, the two settled into place. Watching, waiting, waiting. The crowd around them was slightly tamer inside the doors than outside them, yet everyone continued to stand shoulder to shoulder. It was strange to see her family at such an angle, from the perspective of the townspeople. If one would have asked her that morning where she would have more likely stood, she would’ve said on the platform. But she felt as if she had been flipped on her head. From up there, Queen Alicent, Princess Helaena, Prince Aemond no longer looked human. Instead they looked no better than the funny tapestries on the walls of the Red Keep. Ultimately, Maetilda was glad she stood where she did.

After a long while, once the Dragonpit had been packed fuller than it should have been, a long line of Kingsguard parted the crowd down the center. Their commander shouted orders over the crowd and the knights separated to form an aisle. More orders and their swords were raised into a canopy. Whispers began to echo across the crowd right in time for the trumpets to sound — halting all gossip and side comments. Maetilda found herself glancing back up at the platform. They would crown Aegon up there, she thought. It was his coronation. She looked between the people on the platform and Princess Rhaenys, wondering what her sisters’ grandmother had planned next. How could they possibly escape all the Kingsguard? What if they were recognized in the crowd? Where were Ser Cargyll and Ser Gunthor?

Maetilda’s hands balled into fists. Her fingernails dug into the palm of her hand. She scanned each one of their faces again. The Hand, the Queen, Prince Aemond. They all looked out over the expanse of the Dragonpit with grandeur and pride; the same expression on each of their faces. But when the princess’s eyes fell on Princess Helaena, it seemed her cousin had already found her in the crowd. The two young princesses’ eyes locked together in a tight knot. Maetilda’s own grew wide with fear. Had they come to her chambers in hopes to drag her up there too? Only to find her rooms empty? Did they send a party out to retrieve her? Had Helaena made that party obsolete? But the princess on the platform did nothing. Helaena simply looked at her, not even shocked to see her cousin in a poor disguise amongst the crowd. Prince Aegon made his walk down the man-made aisle, yet the girls didn’t look away.

‘Please,’ Maetilda mouthed in vain, hoping Helaena would know what she meant.

The princess on the platform shook her head. It was as if she knew what was already about to happen. Because she probably did. Helaena always knew. She had never once been wrong. One eye closed, two fires sparked, the heads of three have long been marked. Helaena’s voice echoed in Maetilda’s head. Aemond’s eye, the fight, the coronation — one eye had long been closed, but two recent events had sparked new grievances. Now three would have to die. It wasn’t fair. Who? When? Now? In the princess-by-title’s mind it seemed the most obvious three would be Princess Rhaenys, Ser Gunthor, and herself. To be strung up alongside Lord Caswell. To be a warning.

“I feel ill, Maryanna. We must get air.” Rhaenys grabbed the younger’s hand, using her other hand to cover her mouth.

Abruptly breaking the cousins’ eye contact, Maetilda was the first to turn away. Her sisters’ grandmother had already begun pushing through the crowd of people as best she could. Seeing as most wanted a better view, there was not much argument. As Aegon ascended the steps to the top of the platform, the crowd surged forward. Nearly compromising the man-made walls of the Kingsguard aisle. The two princesses slowly made progress paddling against the current. The feet of the townspeople were harder to maneuver than between the trees of the Kingswood where Maetilda had treaded just two days before. She’d give anything to be back there.

Spotting a collection of more Kingsguard along the perimeter of the crowd, the two lowered their heads even more. Maetilda relied solely on the grip of Rhaenys’s hand to keep her on course. Her heart beat so loud in her chest, it nearly

muffled out the sound of the ceremony. Her hand grew increasingly more sweaty, making it harder and harder to keep a hold of her guide. She wanted to cry out in panic, to call out for Ser Gunthor, but somehow managed to bite the urge back. Butterflies, birds, and every other creature that could fly seemed to burst into her stomach. Triggering her throat to gag repeatedly in feeble attempts to let them out.

Rhaenys hesitated. Her even pace halted just before she stepped out of the line of people. Maetilda anxiously watched her turn to look back at the group on the platform one last time. An unreadable expression — as layered as the age rings on a tree — breached through the calm exterior the older princess held. Like the smallest chip in an otherwise smooth marble. It sent a chill down the younger’s spine. It was so unlike Rhaenys; the stoic, statuesque swan. Maetilda was so nervous she could wet herself. For once, instead of running away, she wanted to stay right where she stood. There was an odd sort of safety amongst the crowd. It was harder to be singled out when standing in a sea of so many others. Despite the fact that Helaena already had.

“Come,” Rhaenys whispered.

The Queen that Never Was checked their surroundings on both sides twice over, watching for any Kingsguard or Goldcloaks looking their way, before leaping across the gap of empty space the crowd had left for the guards. Not a single head turned in her direction as she tucked herself into one of the side corridors that led down into the tunnels where the dragons kept their nests. Their escape. There had to be a way out from down there. A place no one would think to look for them, as long as they avoided Meleys. But if they managed to get to Meleys, would it matter if anyone knew where they were? The two would be untouchable on dragonback. Unless Aemond or Aegon or Helaena chose to chase after them.

They could find a tunnel that led to the bay and escape by boat. That is, if anyone with a boat wouldn’t simply cash out with the quick coin that was the bounty undoubtedly placed on their safe return to the Red Keep. Never in the Princess’s life had she wished for her father so much. Despite his constant threats, she was safe under his watch. He wouldn’t kill her without reason. Would the Hightowers? They killed Lord Caswell, the reason for which she still could only speculate on. Would they kill Rhaenyra if given the chance? In order to solidify Aegon’s claim. Would they kill Rhaenyra’s sons? Maetilda’s brothers?

The princess’s heart pounded so hard in her chest that her ears began to ring. She glanced about her surroundings twice over, just as she had seen Rhaenys do. But the Goldcloaks began to move, rotating their positions around the perimeter. One of them would surely see her. Her pulsing heart fell into her stomach. What was she to do? Rhaenys had been so good at thinking on her feet, Maetilda internally cursed in her absence. No Rhaenys, no Ser Erryk, no Ser Gunthor. Maetilda was by herself. Alone outside the castle walls, perhaps for the first time in her life.

The city watchman that had formerly been on the princess’s right side took heavy calculated steps until he stood directly in her path. Her escape called after her from behind golden cloaked shoulders. There was no way she could sneak across unseen in his presence. What was she to do? Would Rhaenys leave without her? Save her own skin? Could it be that their knights were still trying to find them? Would they find her in the crowd? Perhaps when the ceremony was over? If she could stay unrecognized, if the knights for the Hightowers didn’t find her first. Or perhaps the Goldcloaks would rotate positions again, and Maetilda would finally get her moment.

Small pockets in the crowd began to grow restless. Bodies began to sway much like waves in the Blackwater Bay, helplessly pushing the princess about. All it would take is one slip of the foot, and she would be buried under countless shoes. It was no wonder she was kept sequestered in the castle unless accompanied by guard. The townspeople had no care, no manners, no sense of space. How could they? After being shepherded into the Dragonpit like little sheep. Where they herded like that often? Perhaps the pushing in close quarters was normal. A crowded market was not much different, she thought. All she knew was that it scared her. She was scared and she wanted out. Out of the Dragonpit and out of the city. Out of the family arguments and out of responsibility. She wanted out of everything.

Panic shook Maetilda’s bones, chilled them to the core. She wondered if Helaena could still see her, if the soon-to-be crowned Queen could see her struggle amongst it all. Elbows, shoulders, kicks to the ankles. It had felt like ages since she last had sight of Rhaenys. The pushing and shoving of the crowd only got harder, surely enough to bruise, before spilling over into a fight. Right in front of her eyes, two men squared their shoulders before swinging fists. One landed a punch across the other’s jaw, sending spit flying off in random directions. Those surrounding the two did not hesitate to jump in. Some joining in fists, others trying to split it up.

The shout of authority came from right next to her ear, “Alright, you lot! Keep the peace! We will arrest you!”

“Get off me!” One of the men shouted.

The Goldcloak unsheathed his sword, “I said, ‘Keep the peace!’”

More Goldcloaks came out of nowhere. Wide eyed, the princess struggled for breath as she stumbled out of the crowd. Her hands desperately reached out for the wall to hold her up. She practically tripped into it, the cold stone scratching at her cheek before her hands could truly catch her. She peered over her shoulder to see the two original fighters both apprehended. Each man in the hold of two city watchmen.

A hand grabbed Maetilda’s wrist and yanked, pulling the princess forward. It did not pause to let her catch her footing before it continued to pull her deeper and deeper down a corridor. The sound of the crowd growing muffled. As soon as the princess could look up from her own feet, she was relieved to find the hand belonged to Rhaenys. Her hood had fallen to her shoulders, leaving her silver hair fully exposed. The dragonlords would not stop them. They would not risk Meleys’s trust, not after spending a lifetime gaining it. Gaining any dragon’s trust was not easy. A fool would take it for granted. A king would be foolish to punish them for it.

The two princesses made a quick descent into the Dragonpit’s tunnels. It was not long before the crowds erupted in cheers. The croaks of disgruntled beasts around them echoed in response to the ruckus above. Loudest of all was the Red Queen, who only got louder as the two rounded the corner to greet her. The majestic red dragon trilled out a ‘hello.’

“Gaomi daor emagon olvie jēda, uēpa riña.” Rhaenys replied. (We do not have much time, old girl)

Meleys required no other warning. Like battle trained soldiers, Rhaenys threw on the armor she had traveled to the city in and her dragon positioned herself to be climbed. With no armor to change into, Maetilda could only tie down her hair the best she could. She had no extra laces to fasten it. Her heart hammered in her chest as she watched her sisters’ grandmother climb atop her dragon. Breathlessly, the princess by title followed suit.

Unlike riding with Aemond, Maetilda took her seat behind Rhaenys. Wrapping her arms as tightly around the older princess’s torso as best she could, but the cold metal armor made it hard to keep grip. Rhaenys strapped the younger in with the leather leashes on the dragon's saddle, typically used in combat. Maetilda’s stomach churned. They had no other choice, and she knew it. This was the only direction that she could run.

“Jiōragon īlva hen kesīr. Ivestragī zirȳ gīmigon pōja tubissa issi mība.” (Get us out of here. Let them know their days are numbered.)

Without a moment’s pause, the Red Queen rocketed off. Her wings and hind legs crawling up the tunnels like a bat. Maetilda squeezed Rhaenys tightly. At Meleys’s speed, one slip could mean a fatal fall. The princess had encountered death so many times that day, she was not ready to succumb to it just yet. Despite how tempting its dark embrace was. The princess was so close to home she could practically taste it.

To no one’s surprise, the ascent atop dragonback was far faster than their descent. Once she could climb no higher, the mighty red beast used her hard head to break through the ceiling. Her wings angled upward to shield her riders’ heads from the falling rock. Screams from the crowd above echoed off the high ceilings of the training room turned coronation hall. Maetilda could barely believe her eyes as it happened before her. Stone pieces of floor fell around them. People scattered in every direction, some only to be crushed under more stone or Meleys’ feet. It was chaos. Yet the Hightowers on the platform stood firm.

As if by habit, the prince had spotted Maetilda well before she had found his face amongst his family. She glared down at them all from her high place behind her sisters’ grandmother. The fury of a thousand armies laced between her eyebrows. For once, she felt mighty. Like she had the power to decide what happened next. Rhaenys had fooled them. With the help of the two knights and the cover of the crowds, Rhaenys and Maetilda had bested the Hightowers. A dragon had power far beyond any coronation or crown.

Maetilda’s eyes combed over each one of their treacherous faces. The unyielding Ser Otto, the slinking Lord Larys, the cowering Prince Aegon. As Meleys let out a thunderous warning, the green mother scurried to place her body between her eldest son and the great red dragon. It was almost admirable. Despite the palpable lack of dragon’s blood, she ran straight towards a scorching fate. A final act of love. Meleys sauntered closer, and yet they didn’t move. Maetilda allowed her eyes to move on, finally settling upon the final two: Aemond and Helaena. Her betrothed and her friend away from home. They stared back up at her defiantly, secure in each other’s embrace. Prepared to hold their embrace until the very end. Prepared to face the wrath brought down upon them.

The princess by title could feel the emotion build within her. Relieved to know her escape was imminent. Angered by the memories of the morning that flashed before her eyes. Saddened by the loss of her uncle and the execution of Lord Caswell. Scared for the two knights no longer by her side. Jittery from the residual fear of almost being caught. Fearful of what her father would think when he finally heard of her actions.

He would want the Hightowers dead. All of them. There would be no question to Rhaenyra’s claim after that. Meleys had the perfect shot. No Dreamfyre or Sunfyre or Vhagar to protect the green and black clad traitors.

“Dracaerys?” Maetilda asked, tone full of uncertainty.

A shameful regret permeated her veins. She wished she had never let Aemond have his way. She wished she had fought harder and never let him touch her. She wished she had screamed for Ser Gunthor to save her or for a passerby to have stumbled upon them and split them apart. All she ever did was exactly what she was told, and all it ever did was get her in trouble. The doom seemed to follow her, no matter where she went. It would continue to follow her, unless the problem was nipped in the bud. It was up to her and Rhaenys to nip the Hightowers in the bud.

But Helaena was down there too. Maetilda was sure she would not be able to live with herself if anything happened to her sweet cousin. The one she could tell anything to. Helaena did not deserve a traitor’s death. But there she stood. Without him even being there, Maetilda knew her father would have cast her cousin down right alongside the rest of her family. Guilt by association. A crime that he would have her pay the ultimate price for.

With her snout only a short distance away from the newly-crowned king, Meleys’s mouth began to open. Aemond’s lilac eye filled with fear as he pushed Helaena behind him. His face pleaded for his betrothed’s mercy so that his words did not have to. The way his eyebrows lifted in surprise and his jaw dropped in apprehension. The deep ache of betrayal pooled in his pupils. Maetilda watched every emotion dance over his face in surreal awe. Transfixed by every detail she could see and feel from such a distance. She watched shock turn to fear, turn to sadness, turn to disbelief, which soon turned to anger before settling upon contempt. As Meleys’ mouth continued to widen, preparing to kill them all, Aemond squared his shoulders in preparation. Almost goading his fate into coming closer.

Knowing there was nothing she could do as Meleys only answered to the princess sat in front of her, Maetilda braced herself in anticipation. Narrowing her eyes in preparation to close them completely, unable to watch the inevitable unfold. And yet, it never did. The Dragonpit sat in a long suspenseful silence. Hot smelly air poured out of Meleys’s throat, waiting to be ignited. And yet, Rhaenys never gave the signal. Instead the older princess sat silently from her perch. Looking down her nose at the scene below her. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms suspended in her vocal chords. The stoic, swanlike woman sat as nonchalantly as ever. Afraid of no consequence or outcome. All while Maetilda shakily squeezed all the air from her torso.

Just when one thought the room would erupt in unforgiving flames, the entire Dragonpit — including its tunnels down below — shook under the weight of Meleys’s threatening bellow. A war cry. A promise of vengeance, of blood. The Red Queen held the deafening note for as long as her lungs would allow. Letting the echo ring out like a Norvosi bell. Soiling every set of trousers in the vicinity. Only to turn away, tear straight through the front doors, and carry the two princesses safely out of the city. The Hightowers left to live with their consequences.

A/N: i was having sort flashbacks to writing chapter three as i was writing this one! i had a lot of fun with imagining how maetilda and gunthor would navigate this whole situation. but unlike chapter three, things are no longer as light and consequence-free!

in my head, this is what i would consider the end of part one. not that there are parts, but it’s the end of Maetilda’s time in King’s Landing (for now). i have chapter 22 done too! i'm trying to get all of maetilda's time in dragonstone written before i post anymore (unless i get too excited and change my mind).

thank you so so so so SO much for reading this far. i really appreciate it. :)

TAGLIST: @marvelescvpe @nessjo

xoxo messy

#dead men and the divine #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x oc #targaryen oc #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd oc #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction

9 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 6 days ago

Text

The breakfast photo is the ur-text of the narcissistic internet, a bit of content that no one else is necessarily interested in but which the poster feels the need, or even the responsibility, to make public for anyone online to see. Posting a picture of what you ate on a given morning was something we did during the early years of Twitter and Instagram, and at the time it felt novel: suddenly, you could share the most mundane moments of your life with a crowd of waiting strangers who might just be excited to see them. In a way, the breakfast photo represented the utopian dream of social media: billions of average people could throw fragments of their lives onto the internet with little mediation—their meals, their pets, their shower thoughts—and it would turn into something not only engaging but vital, a dynamic record of reality from the ground level. To post, and to interact with others’ posts, was to participate in a grand project that valorized amateurism, banality, and a sort of content-based meritocracy: anyone and anything could be interesting, and even go viral, if only you posted it the right way.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself missing the breakfast photo and its equivalents online. There don’t seem to be as many people casually sharing random moments from their lives. In fact, doing so doesn’t make much sense anymore, and it’s a little hard to believe it ever did. What do we see on social media now, more than fifteen years since its advent? A sea of influencers and creators aspiring to varying degrees of high-budget polish; headlines announcing the latest horrors of international wars; images, videos, and text generated by artificial intelligence; and unmitigated trolling and attention farming catered to users’ deep-seated fears, and more or less sanctioned by the platforms themselves. The quotidian doesn’t have as much of a place in this landscape. Thus, many people simply aren’t posting as much as they used to. Recently, I watched as a bartender friend of mine in Washington, D.C., where I live, posted a few cheerful selfies to her Instagram Stories on a weekday morning. Later, I noticed they’d disappeared—she had deleted them. “Sometimes with everything going on in the world I get worried I look insensitive posting stuff like that,” she later explained. “I get self-conscious.”

There is a generational element to this sea change: millennials who grew up on social media are moving into middle age and perhaps seeking more privacy in their lives; once you’ve settled down with a partner and children, perhaps there’s less obvious incentive to project your personality online. “I think people are more suspicious of oversharing, generally, some of which is probably a useful and healthy correction from how much we were all sharing a decade ago,” Emma Hulse, a thirtysomething lawyer acquaintance of mine, told me. But, during conversations with dozens of people about their current posting habits, many Zoomers and users even younger told me that they felt an aversion to putting their lives on social media. They, too, are suffering from posting ennui.

Kanika Mehra, a twenty-four-year-old, told me, “I feel like everyone in my generation is kind of a voyeur now,” still scrolling but not posting. She continued, “People don’t want to be perceived,” and if they do post they “feel a bit of a vulnerability hangover.” Tarik Bećarević, a seventeen-year-old, said that he and his friends had never experienced the era of casual social media; now they’re stuck comparing notes on how to order their Instagram carrousels. “I honestly can’t even imagine taking a photo of my breakfast and posting that. Maybe as slide six of a photo dump,” Bećarević said. (His formula for an ideal photo-dump assemblage: “One solo pic, one group photo with friends to prove you have a social life, and then something like pretty nature or food or, preferably, a photo of some unique hobby.”) Even his friends’ private accounts, he continued, “are curated to seem free, rather than actually being free.”

As social media has evolved, the baseline expectations for posting have risen again and again. Dashed-off tweets were supplanted by carefully composed Instagram photos, which were replaced, in turn, by TikTok clips, which increasingly aspire to the production value of television. Influencers and brand accounts can afford to adapt to the higher standards, investing in ring lights and phone mounts, while the rest of us wrestle with our iPhone camera apps. Man Bartlett, a musician and an online artist, was a pioneer of what he called “lifecasting” in the early twenty-tens. In one performance-art piece, from 2011, he spent twenty-four hours in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, tweeting in real time about the people he met and soliciting travel stories from his online audience. But the pressure of creating elaborate content and cultivating parasocial relationships became “toxic and sickening,” he told me. He continued, “As time went on and more and more content became video, that just wasn’t a medium I was personally going to invest my time and energy into.” These days, his main output is terse posts about his music projects on the upstart platform Bluesky.

As the social-media ecosystem has become more fragmented and complex during the past several years, with new platforms continually emerging and decaying, there’s been some user attrition. As one person put it, “I don’t have the patience to keep teaching myself Discord or Bluesky or whatever.” Many people complained about feeling that they were constantly fighting against technology. The design of social media has discouraged casual posting, with metrics that make users feel inadequate for not getting enough attention, and with algorithmic feeds that prioritize popular accounts that post constantly—not mundane moments but punditry, provocation, and self-promotion. “Nobody is seeing their friends’ posts in the feed, so it doesn’t even count as life updates anymore,” Benton Williams, a student at the University of Georgia, told me. Kele Fleming, an independent musician, summarized her frustration: “The algo is never in our favor.” Our feeds used to surface undiscovered pearls of content; now only prominent accounts are rewarded. If there’s no guarantee that our friends will even see what we post, then what is the incentive to keep doing it? When we do, we are ever conscious of the need to please the algorithm or else get lost in the void.

Posting always involves the risk of seeming cringe. Increasingly, it also involves the risk of being drowned out—or, worse, of standing out as inappropriate. During the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020, many individual users and corporate accounts were hesitant to post any content unrelated to activism. That feeling has returned now amid events such as Israel’s war in Gaza and President Trump’s mobilization of ICE against migrants. “The contrast between global crisis and personal update is so stark, it creates a kind of emotional whiplash,” Ali Moran, the founder of a communications agency, told me. Moran continued, “Silence has become its own kind of statement, but so has posting something unrelated. It feels like there’s no right move.” It can feel safer to retreat altogether, sharing personal thoughts or images in the confines of a private group chat or text thread. As a result, the wider internet is slightly more bereft of the mundanity that is the grist for its mill.

The phrase Google Zero is used to describe a hypothetical future internet in which search engines no longer drive traffic to other websites, because they can generate answers to queries themselves using A.I. We might also be heading toward something like Posting Zero, a point at which normal people—the unprofessionalized, uncommodified, unrefined masses—stop sharing things on social media as they tire of the noise, the friction, and the exposure. Posting Zero would mean the end of social media as it was once conceptualized, as a real-time record of the world created by anyone who was experiencing anything at all. But the presence of normies was what made social media worth tuning into. In their wake, like detritus on a once busy beach, there will be only dry corporate marketing, A.I.-generated slop, and dreck from thirsty hustlers attempting to monetize a dwindling audience of voyeurs.

For the time being, though, there are some posters who remain at it simply for love of the game. Michael Goldsmith, a publicity director at Doubleday (the publisher of my most recent book), is one of them. I’ve long admired his constant casual posting for an audience of fewer than two thousand followers on Twitter, now X. One recent illustrative Goldsmith musing: “if a dog could smoke would they hold the cigarette with two paws or in a single paw between two nails.” The post didn’t get a single like. I asked him why he perseveres. “It’s just served the cathartic purpose of taking something out of my brain and putting it into another container,” he told me, adding, “I don’t care if I post thirty times and get two likes or zero likes on those—there’s always the next post.”

8 notes · View notes