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starsofang · 2 months ago

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CALL OF THE SEA / PART TWELVE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, heavy topics such as death, blood, and past trauma mentioned masterlist a/n: thank you for all your support while i grow through a difficult time!! i appreciate all of you for being so patient and loving. long chapter for u!! <3

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Ghost didn’t remember much about his childhood. His mind blocked it out for him. But he did remember the pain and suffering he went through at such a young age.

He didn’t deserve that. Seeing his family, massacred in front of him. The blood mixed with the metallic scent that even now seemed to tinge his nose with a nostalgia that made him sick.

He was only a child, yet that was the day Ghost was born within him.

It was like an awakening. He saw how cruel the world could be through a pure lens and it tainted his vision red. Nothing was ever the same that day, and gradually, Simon was forgotten and Ghost was his new muse.

He could recall the nights he spent alone, digging through waste bins and slumping out on the streets like a dead dog. Stealing bread from shop merchants and having to run, barefooted to avoid getting beaten. Freezing to death on the street corner when winter came around and the pure snow covered the ground in a blanket.

It was scary for a boy his age. Dehumanizing. He didn’t deserve that.

He thought he was lucky when a ship crew came along, parading the streets to offer security. A job, a place to sleep, and meals — it seemed perfect for somebody who had absolutely nothing.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Ghost never saw Simon again after that day. He was lost somewhere at sea, hidden under the roar of waves. Ghost didn’t know where to look for him until soon enough, Simon had disappeared and Ghost replaced him. Graves made sure of that.

A captain, like hell he was. Ghost knew something wasn’t quite right about Graves the moment he met him, yet as a child, he was desperate. Once he was in, it was too late, and the broken pieces of him became completely irreparable.

Graves held a devilish aura about him, one Ghost could practically see radiating around him. Every step he took was one closer to chaos.

No matter the destination, Ghost was held on by a leash with Graves being the handler. The sights Ghost saw, some being from his doing, was something he’d never get back. It was as if reliving that very day where he lost everything.

Living amongst Graves’ crew was worse than living in hell. He would’ve preferred it. To be banished for his sins, to taste the sweet nectar of death, and live his eternity punished. Anything to stray from Graves and his ship.

When he saw the way you looked—the darkness looming over you, the distress in your eyes—he saw himself. And when he saw Graves, he saw the life that was stolen from him.

That red that clouded his lens when he was a child was all he could see. Pure, angry red.

Now, standing in Price’s quarters, that red only grew angrier. This time, for you—for putting you in the same position he’d been stuck in for years.

You didn’t deserve that.

Your mind was a whirlwind of chaos. It was struggling to digest the information given to you. So much at once and you could barely manage to keep yourself together.

Everybody looked sorry for you. Ghost looked enraged. Price was lost. Soap and Gaz were remorseful. It was too much.

You hated that they looked at you like that. You hated when they didn’t look at you like that more. Having them worry, when for the duration of your stay it was like walking on burning rocks, it felt strange.

Their own worry caused yours as well.

“What is that?” you asked. “The mark of death. I— I don’t know what that is. What does that mean?”

You were becoming more frantic. The panic that ensued was growing, and you could tell it bothered Price. He was quick to grasp your shoulders, settling you.

“It’s complicated,” he explained quietly, hushing you. “That man you saw? His name is Phillip Graves. Some call him the Devil of the Seas. He’s a wicked pirate who feeds off of the innocent, their fear. None of us know what he truly is, not even Ghost, but we believe he’s apart of something sinister.”

“What, like he’s sold his soul? Made amends with the Devil? You are talking madness!” you exclaimed, exasperated.

“We are talkin’ truth,” Price corrected. He was as patient as ever, yet still held the firmness of a leader. “He’s that of a reaper. Souls is what he wants. The mark of death is his contract, you may say.”

“But you are not telling me what the mark does,” you cried.

Your head hurt. The world was spinning. You didn’t understand.

“I think it’s quite obvious what the markin’ is, dove,” the Captain said solemnly. “It is only by miracle it hasn’t happened to Ghost yet.”

“So I am to die? Is that it?” You flickered your gaze between each man. Your eyes told a million stories, and each of them were ones of fear and anguish. “I am going to die?”

“No,” Ghost snapped. You looked at him. He seemed as pain as you were, but the anger was taking over logic. “You ain’t dyin’. Not today, not tomorrow. M’not lettin’ it happen.”

“Ghost,” Soap tried, but he was quickly shut down.

“I said no,” he repeated resentfully. “Price, show her the map.”

Price turned to him, stiffening. It seemed he still didn’t quite want to let you know the full truth. Now, you felt it was to protect you rather than leave you out. It was too late for protection.

The Captain silently walked to his desk, pulling open the old drawer with a slam, shaking the table. He pulled out the map you’d seen so long ago, unrolling it and slapping it on the table.

“Come, dove,” he called, and you listened.

The men surrounded the desk with you, staring down at the map. The ink was still the same as it was before—islands crossed out with an X, while one remained circled.

“Suppose it’s time you knew, hm?” he asked, offering the smallest of smiles. You found that you missed his real one. The one he tried to hide when he found a joke of yours humorous.

Your nerves shot up. Your emotions were at an all-time high. You were scared, scared to find out the truth.

“These islands,” he began, tracing his finger along the map to point at the ones with an X, “are all land marked by Graves. Every single one, we went to in search of a medic. The one in the poem, remember?”

The one who heals the ill and poor

shall be the cure to all demise.

You weren’t sure how it linked to you. You’d never met Graves, nor had you met your pirate crew until they took you away. The connection wasn’t there. It didn’t make sense.

“Yes, I remember,” you confirmed quietly. “What does it have to do with me?”

“We searched for a medic from every village, yet when we arrived, they were famished with death, or on the brink of,” he explained. “All of the villages were all succumbin’ to Graves’ mark of death. We think he was attemptin’ to get rid of all villages as much as he could so we wouldn’t be able to find their medics. We don’t know how, but he knows we have the prophecy, and he doesn’t like it.”

“And how do you know the prophecy is related to Graves?” you questioned. “How do you know it relates to me?”

“Ghost got the prophecy a long time ago when he was still on Graves’ ship,” Soap piped in. His hands rested on the table and he leaned over the map, but his eyes bore into yours. “He was searchin’ for answers even then. This is all he got.”

You couldn’t imagine the desperation Ghost must have felt, knowing Graves had him under his despicable spell. Not knowing whether he was going to live or die.

Your heart ached.

“And me?”

The room went silent, as if your words burned a wound in them.

“Your village had the mark, yet nobody had suffered from it,” Gaz said quietly. His eyes were soft when he looked at you with the unmistakable glimmer of pity in them. “We knew you were the one we were lookin’ for.”

“My village was not cursed,” you denied, shaking your head. “There is simply no possibility. We rarely got outsiders unless they were coming to browse the merchants.”

It clicked in your head how quickly it must’ve happened. Graves, visiting your village under the guise of an innocent shopper, gearing his interest towards the various merchants that littered your small streets.

It would’ve been so easy for him. So terribly easy.

Your people died to Price’s crew, but the true evil was the man who gave the pirates reason to ensure a massacre.

“That’s why you did what you did,” you muttered to yourself in disbelief. “You killed them because of him. You killed Mary because of him.”

“The curse would’ve taken over the moment you left,” Gaz explained. “You were the shield protectin’ them without even knowin’. You’re meant to fulfill the prophecy, grantin’ you immunity until we found you.”

All this talk about a prophecy made you want to scream, cry, yell, anything. Why you? Why were you the one chosen, and why did it have to be you?

You wanted your life back. You didn’t want to be apart of this.

Before you knew it, tears welled up in your eyes. They stung, causing you to blink rapidly. You didn’t want to seem weak, but in this moment, you were.

“Dove?” Gaz called out, concerned.

“I don’t want this,” you cried, shaky hands balling into fists. “You—you knew I was apart of this and never told me. You kept me in the dark for this long, you hid me from the truth, and for why?”

“We don’t have all of the information yet, dove, please—” Price began, but you shut him down.

“Bullshit!” you shouted, and he reeled back in surprise. You had been outspoken before, plenty with the Captain especially, but he had never seen you lash out so fiercely. “You took my life away because you assumed I was the one in your ridiculous prophecy on a whim. You took a guess and went with it. I am hardly a proper medic, let alone worthy enough to be that person for you, so why have you chosen me?”

“You must understand, you were the only medic left alive,” Price defended. “We had no choice. We did what we had to do.”

“At my expense,” you argued.

“At all of our expense,” he retorted. “I did not care for your life when we stole it. I did not care for it when you were locked in the brig. I cared for Simon’s.”

You fell silent, whipping your head to look at Ghost. You’d heard Price call him Simon before, by a slip-up, but now he had said it purposely. Ghost simply looked away, arms crossed over his chest.

All that talk before and now, at your aid, he was as quiet as a street mouse.

“Without you, he will die. We do not know when. Graves hasn’t killed him due to the thrill of holdin’ his life in his hands. It’s a toy to him. He can take his life away at any moment, and I would not allow that, even if it meant ruinin’ yours.”

Price’s cheeks were reddened from the frustration and helplessness he was feeling. He was a Captain trying to save his crew’s life, uncaring of yours—in the beginning, at least.

Now, the mere thought of losing both had him kneeling like a pitiful dog to the Devil of the Seas.

“I do not wish to be here,” you murmured, taking a step back. Soap opened his mouth to retort, but you silenced him. “I need to be alone.”

The Captain gave you a sad smile, nodding his head. He was respecting your wishes.

“As you wish,” he agreed, and you made your way out of the suffocating quarters, returning to your shared one with Gaz and Soap.

“Dove,” a voice called out. It was quiet, like it was whispering, yet to you, it sounded loud. You hated its voice.

It was black. Your eyes couldn’t adjust to the light, no matter how much you shifted them to look around.

Your body felt heavy, as if something was weighing on you. Your lungs were tight, and when you opened your mouth for air, nothing came in. You slapped your hands over your throat, clawing at the skin.

Why couldn’t you breathe? You felt like you were drowning. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t take in an ounce of air, and you could feel your lungs beginning to protest.

A cold panic came over you, like an icy wave consuming you in its dangerous waters. You tried to move your legs, but they were stuck. They were too heavy.

All you could do was helplessly paw at your throat, praying to gasp for a breath, praying that the Gods had mercy on you.

“Dove,” it whispered once more. Where had you heard the voice before? You knew it, but your mind was blanking from the lack of oxygen.

“I’ll be seeing you, dove,” it mocked.

Dove. Dove. Dove.

“Dove!”

You shot awake, a sharp gasp invading your lungs. The burning in your chest was harsh, and it was as if you truly hadn’t been breathing.

Coming to, you blinked the groggy confusion away, lifting a hand to wipe at your eyes.

Soap peered down at you, his eyebrows knitted worriedly. His hands were on each side of your shoulders, as if he’d shaken you awake, and when you realized you had been asleep, you only guessed that’s what he was doing.

“I kept callin’ ye but ye weren’t wakin’,” he said wearily. “Are y’alright?”

You glanced around the room, taking it in. Gaz’s bed. The clothes strewn on the floor. The mess on the small desk that you’d never seen occupied.

You were no longer suffocating in darkness. It was a mere dream—no, a nightmare. A terror.

You were safe.

“I don’t know,” you confessed breathily, still catching air.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you recalled the nightmare. You couldn’t remember the voice, not when you were fearing a death that was merely fake, but you knew now.

“Tell me,” Soap urged gently, taking a seat next to you on the bed. You sat up to join him, frowning at the floor. “It’s okay.”

You risked looking up at him, searching his eyes. They were soft whenever they looked at you, and they’d been like that since the beginning. He was always patient, even when you did things that cost him a scolding from Price.

You felt like you could trust him, more than any of them.

“It was that man,” you explained. “Graves. I think he is messing with my head. I dreamt of dying, like… like I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. The whole time, I could hear his voice, calling me out. Mocking me.”

Soap listened carefully, taking in every one of your words. He cared, that much you could tell, and the situation weighed heavy on him. The worry lines on his face were proof.

Graves was tormenting with your mind, feeding into your fear. He knew you were terrified, and he enjoyed it. The way he mimicked what he told you, whispering it the same as before, it sent chills down your spine and made your blood run cold.

You understood now why Ghost was always a mystery—because he was scared, too. He just hid it better.

“I am scared,” you confessed shakily. “I do not want to die.”

“And ye won’t,” he assured, but you shook your head.

“You do not know that,” you argued. “None of you do. You have not given me a chance at life. I am stuck in this without a choice, and I am the new target. It’s not fair.”

Soap’s expression dropped into one of guilt. His focus shifted away from you, avoiding your eye, before returning back to you.

“It’s not,” he agreed quietly. “We’ve done to ye what Graves did to Ghost. Treatin’ ye like—like burdening scum, like ye don’t matter. I can’t express to ye how sorry I am for everythin’.”

You didn’t want an apology, but you accepted it nonetheless. It was the first anybody had truly apologized for the mess you were thrown into. Maybe it was something you needed without realizing. You felt a sliver of weight lifted.

“I never had a family,” you told him, staring down at your feet that hung over the side of the bed. The shoes Soap surprised you with stared back at you. “The village did not like my values or my lifestyle. It was hard being an outcast there, but it is even harder here.”

“Yer not an outcast.”

Looking back up at him, you found him smiling, a faint sparkle twinkling back at you.

“Not anymore. We thought ye were a little strange in the beginning, though,” he said, the end of his sentence bordering a tease.

You couldn’t stop your own smile from forming. Despite carrying the crushing weight of the world’s worries, as well as growing a headache with every word spoken from each of them ever since your arrival, you found yourself growing more fond over them the longer you lingered.

It’d been a bumpy road, and there were still miles ahead of you, waiting to unravel. But you couldn’t fully convince yourself that there wasn’t a part of you, yearning to belong with them.

“You are all very strange,” you retorted lightly. “I have never met such people as you before.”

“Thank ye.”

“It was not a compliment.”

Soap snorted, shaking his head at the banter. “The Captain is bitin’ tooth and nail in his quarters, thinkin’ he fucked this all up with ye. Never seen him that worried before, but with Graves bein’ around again, I don’t blame him.”

The statement caught you off guard, and you found yourself curious. “He is worried for me?”

Soap eyed you strangely, as if it had been obvious the whole time. “Ach. ‘Course he is. Cap’s got a good heart, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

“I did not realize he cared for me after everything,” you confessed.

Soap hummed, looking down at his trousers and picking at a loose thread. “We all do.”

You stared at him dumbly, cocking your head in question when he didn’t elaborate. You had become acquainted with them, surely, you lived with them now after all, but you weren’t aware they truly cared.

When Price had told you they’d grown fond of you, you didn’t quite believe it. You assumed it was his way of convincing you to trust him, but it seemed that wasn’t the truth.

The two of you sat in silence, staring anywhere but at each other. The awkwardness grew, and it felt strange to feel that when the relationships had been too uptight even consider having those moments.

You took the time to weigh out your options. The Captain being worried, especially over messing things up with you, had you in a turmoil.

As much as you wanted to deny the path chosen for you unwillingly, you felt an obligation to please them. Yet, not in the way you initially thought.

You didn’t want to let them down.

Maybe you truly were as strange as Soap thought.

“Is he still in there?” you asked Soap. He perked up, nodding his head.

“Aye. He’ll be rottin’ in there before we know it.”

You pursed your lips, facing that inner battle once more before coming to a conclusion. “Would you like to join me, then?”

Soap raised his eyebrows, watching you stand from the bed. You shot him a warm smile, tilting your head at his confusion.

“For?” he asked.

“You all need a medic,” you said, giving a nonchalant shrug. “And I do not wish to die by the hands of a filthy pirate such as Graves. I am in this now, so I suppose I’ll simply have to deal with it, am I correct?”

Soap’s smile slowly grew at your sudden courage, standing up to join you. He reached out for you, and once you became confused, he looped your arm with his, grinning down at you.

“Sure are, dove. I’ll come with ye.”

The Captain looked a mess when you entered his quarters with Soap. Ghost was beside him where Price sat at his desk, the map and prophecy still scattered on the table. The two of them were speaking hushed to one another, yet when the door opened and you stepped in, they went silent.

“She wanted to be alone, Soap,” Price protested, but you quickly shook your head, taking a step closer to the desk.

“It’s alright,” you assured. “I have had time to think.”

Price’s eyebrows raised and he glanced at Gaz for a brief moment before returning to you. “I see,” he hummed, nodding. “I have as well.”

You cocked your head, eyebrows furrowing. He gestured for Ghost and Soap to step out of the room, requesting privacy, and the sudden realization that you would in fact have to speak after your outburst made your nerves to churn.

Ghost gave your shoulder a light squeeze as he walked behind Soap, catching you off guard. When you looked at him, he stared forward, avoiding your gaze.

The door clicked shut as they left, and you stood uncomfortably in place, shifting on the balls of your feet.

“I owe you an apology,” Price began. “A true one. I may be a Captain, and I know in those regards, I come off rather violent. I can be a brute, I will admit, but I am also a man who knows times when he is right and wrong.”

He stood up from his chair, circling around the desk to face you. He leaned against the old wood, crossing his arms and clearing his throat. Upon quick inspection, you saw the faint smoke of his cigar swirling in its ashtray.

“I should not have treated you so unkindly since the beginning. I should have considered how scared you must have been, how alone it must feel,” he continued, eyes drifting off for a moment as if deep in perplexing thought. “I do not apologize for doin’ what I thought was right in that time to save my own, but I do feel sorrow for what transpired in your time bein’ here.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if Ghost had been the reasoning for this. He wasn’t a man of many words, but you knew the respect him and Price had for one another. It was safe to assume he’d speak with him privately regarding everything.

“I’d like to apologize as well,” you began, but Price stood up straight, quick to raise his hands in protest.

“You have nothin’ to apologize for—”

“I am sorry for lashing out the way I did earlier,” you cut off. Price stopped, lips pressing together. His gaze remained stuck on you, now that you had his attention. “It does not excuse what you have done to me, and I see you have realized that. If this is to be my life, I wish for compromise rather than seclusion.”

Price didn’t say anything at first. His eyes darted over your face, taking in your features. He saw the calmness you held compared to when you were last in his quarters.

You didn’t seem defeated, nor did you seem to simply agree for the sake of him and the others. You wanted this for yourself.

“I will grant you that,” he agreed in a hum, nodding once. “I do not wish for you to feel out of place no longer. You have had enough of that, I believe.”

You took in his words, and they made you smile. It was what you wanted to hear—no angry exchanges, no selfish banter. A simple compromise, one you both wanted.

“Graves came to me in a dream,” you told him. His expression soured. “I believe there will be plenty more instances where he will do that. Based off of what you have told me about him, I do not want to prolong his presence longer than I must. So, I’d like to be of help.”

Just as quickly as Price grew tense at the mention of Graves, he calmed down, shoulders relaxing when he realized your implications.

“Soap has not convinced you, yes?” he asked, uncertain. “This is your call. I may have taken you due to my own selfishness, but I give you the choice now. You do not have to be a part of it if you do not want. You are part of us now, but this is not your battle.”

“It is,” you disagreed, though remained a calm composure. For the first time around Price, you felt at ease in the same room. “If I am to be part of your crew, your family, then your battles are my battles. I may not have had a family, but I am certain that’s how it works. Does it not?”

Price stared at you; expression unreadable. It took mere moments for his lips to slowly curl up, granting you one of his rare smiles that seemed to radiate a certain light you’d never seen before. It caused your heart to pick up, though you were unclear as to why.

“That is how it works with us, dove,” he agreed softly. “Your battles are ours. You can count on it.”

“Wonderful,” you cheered with a smile of your own. “Shall we continue what wasn’t finished before, then?”

Price chuckled low under his breath, his amusement growing the longer you stuck around. He nodded, tapping his desk and calling you to it.

“Come on, dove.”

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schemmentigfs · 2 months ago

Note

Req/idea: Melissa wanting to pleasure the reader, but she’s inexperienced with women? (Talking her through it, reassurance, building trust, etc)

Her First Woman’s Touch.

Summary: Melissa goes through a difficult process of self-discovery and acceptance to learn more about intimacy between women, so she can give you pleasure during sex.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of religious trauma, internalized homophobia, a single slur, body insecurities, smoking, smut. melissa might be out of character sometimes? joe hate club

Notes: This is long, but it’s worth it. 🤍 i wrote it with so much love, so enjoy babies.

Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti wasn’t insecure and vulnerable. She always was the rock of her social circle, the unstoppable woman who could handle anything thrown at her with a steady, unflinching resolve. Her demeanor was tough, marked by a confidence that rarely wavered. But lately, a huge doubt consumed her.

After years of feeling trapped by a label that didn’t define and fit her, she finally came out as a bisexual woman. However, this new freedom came with its own uncertainties. Now, being in a stable four months relationship with you, a more younger, captivating and more experienced soul. Her heart was racing as she thought about how she wanted to please you and be sexually intimate, but her lack of experience with women made her hesitant.

The painful memories of her college years flooded her mind again and again, a time when she had yearned to explore her bisexuality but felt shackled by her upbringing. Her parents, deeply religious, had instilled in her a profound sense of guilt about any feelings that strayed from their beliefs. Melissa always watched with envy as others embraced their identities, while she remained in silence, suppressing who she was. This inner conflict persisted long after graduation, but now, as an adult, it felt heavier than ever.

The memory of her father’s harsh words cut through her like a knife. “You’re going to burn in hell, Melissa Ann!” he shouted, his voice thick with anger and disappointment. “You’re gonna be the black sheep of the Schemmentis. If you don’t stop with those stupid thoughts.” Those horrendous words, once echoing through their small, cluttered kitchen, now reverberated in her mind, haunting her even years later. “Someone corrupted you, that’s not the daughter I raised to make me and your mother proud. Non sei un fottuto frocio!”

A knot tightened in her stomach, a familiar feeling of dread and nausea creeping in as she recalled her traumatic childhood. She remembered the confusion and shame she felt, struggling to understand why she was drawn to both boys and girls. It was a realization she had kept hidden for so long, fearing the wrath and rejection of her family. Every stolen glance, every fleeting crush on a girl, had been tainted with guilt and self–recrimination.

For decades she blamed herself for not being straight. For not fitting into the strict normal mold her family expected her to follow. The fear of condemnation had forced her to hide her true self, living in a constant state of doubt. The burden of carrying her secret had made her feel isolated and alone, as if she were the only one in the world grappling with these feelings.

In her teenage years growing up in a strict devout Catholic household, Melissa would often lock herself in her bedroom, her sanctuary from the outside world, and pray. The room was small, with a crucifix hanging on the wall above her bed, and a small statue of the Virgin Mary on her simple nightstand. The faint scent of incense from morning Mass still lingered in the air. On the days when the weight of her feelings became too much, she would kneel by her bed, clasping her hands tightly together, her knuckles white with tension.

But her prayers often turned into desperate arguments with God. She’d rail against the silence that seemed to mock her suffering. In fits of anger and confusion, she would scream at the crucifix, questioning why she was cursed with desires that didn’t align with the life she had been taught to lead. Melissa was supposed to marry a good healthy man and start a family of her own, wasn’t she?

“Dear Lord, why have you condemned me to this torment?” she cried out, her voice cracking with desperation. “Why have you made me this way? Why can’t you accept me for who I am? Am I so abhorrent in your sight that I must suffer endlessly? Tell me—am I so wrong, so irredeemable in your eyes?”

She paused. “And what about my feelings for both boys and girls? Is it a sin to love them both? Am I to be punished because my heart refuses to choose between them? Why must my own nature be a source of such unending pain? Why can’t you understand that my love for them is just as real, just as genuine, as any other?”

One evening, overwhelmed by the unbearable weight of her internal conflict, Melissa’s deepest frustration reached a boiling point. She hurled a wooden chair across the room, its legs scraping loudly against the floor as it crashed into the wall. The violent act seemed to punctuate her desperation, the chair’s splintering echo a stark contrast to her deep-seated pain.

“Why do you let Pa call me a dyke? Why do you let him say I’m an abomination? You know the pain it causes me! Why do you let him tear me apart inside while Ma pretends nothing’s wrong?”

Her knees buckled as she collapsed to the floor. The coldness of the tiles was a stark contrast to the feverish heat of her anger. One of the holy saints statues, a symbol of her faith, tumbled from its pedestal and shattered, its fragments scattering across the room.

The once serene face was now a mosaic of broken pieces. The porcelain, once pure and whole, now lay in shards, mirroring her own fragmented sense of self. The saint’s broken visage was a stark reminder of the purity that had been tainted by the harsh reality of her suffering.

“No! Not Saint Maria! Nonna’s favorite saint!”

The exhaustion was overwhelming. She felt her limbs growing numb and her head growing heavy. Her vision blurred, and the room spun around her. Despite her attempts to fight it, her body succumbed to the fatigue. Her breaths grew shallower as she drifted closer to unconsciousness.

As she began to lose consciousness, her lips parted, and a whisper escaped her mouth. “I’m just… a failure,” she murmured, voice barely audible. Her depressive words were a final, fragile admission of her internal turmoil. The words were soaked in the weight of her self-loathing and the pain of feeling misunderstood and rejected.

The door creaked open slightly, and Kristin Marie peeked into the old bedroom, her wide eyes searching for her older sister. She saw Melissa sprawled on the floor, her form partially obscured by the scattered shards and a amount of blood. Her innocent curiosity was momentarily replaced by concern, but the sight of her stillness made her stop.

“Sister Mel is sleepy,” she giggled, her words full of poor miscomprehension. The toddler turned to leave, deciding to give her sister the rest she seemed to need. “Play later!”

Hours later, Melissa slowly stirred, her head throbbing with a dull ache. As she tried to sit up, she felt a sticky warmth on her forehead. She reached up, her fingers coming away covered in a faint crimson. Groaning softly, she touched the spot gingerly and winced as the pain intensified.

“Son of a bitch...”

Gazing at the mess and determined to salvage what was left, she carefully gathered the shards of the broken statue, her hands shaking slightly. She meticulously cleaned the pieces, placing them in a small box as though they were precious remnants of something sacred. And pretended that nothing happened. It was now her dirty little secret.

One that Melissa would keep with her until her death.

Every family gathering, every holiday, was a reminder of how different she felt, how she didn't belong. The Schemmentis prided themselves on their strong values, and she felt like an outlier, a blemish on their perfect image. The weight of her father's words and her mother’s neglecting was a constant reminder of the expectations she could never meet the acceptance Melissa feared she would never find. The poor woman’s siblings, although supportive of their sister, stood in silence, afraid of going against their beloved ma and pa.

In the midst of this stifling environment as life continued, the older woman remained in complete denial. At work, she kept her personal life carefully hidden. Even though her closest colleagues sensed her discomfort and unease, they never pried. She wore her public mask of professionalism and cheerfulness, but beneath it, she was struggling with her own truths.

Becoming a tough woman and pretending to just be heterosexual, a role she embraced, took a significant toll on her mental being. This strength she presented to the world was both a shield and a cage. The weight to maintain this image meant suppressing her vulnerabilities and emotions, leading to a constant internal battle. Her moments of solitude were marked by a deep, unspoken sadness as she grappled with isolation.

The persona she projected often felt like a lie, one that she had to uphold despite the emotional exhaustion it caused. Her mental health suffered as she became increasingly disconnected from her true self. Not recognizing herself anymore.

Melissa’s failed marriage with Joe was a constant reminder of the life she had tried to conform to but never truly belonged to.

That seemed to change when Ava hired you as the new teacher to take third-grade class. You brought a warmth and openness that cut through the fiery redhead’s worst barriers, sparking a connection she had not anticipated. As your friendship deepened into something more, she found herself struggling with feelings she had long suppressed. Despite her growing affection for you, she hesitated to cross the line into physical intimacy.

This vulnerability and insecurity consumed her every single second. As she lay in her king-sized bed on a Friday night after a busy day at school, she couldn’t help but replay every moment of your relationship in her mind. She worried constantly about whether she was good enough for you, fearing she might be making you impatient due to her reluctance to have sex. The fear of disappointing you gnawed at her, and she found herself staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. She ached with the desire to connect with you on a deeper level, to show you just how much she cared, but the uncertainty held her back.

Each night, as she lay next to you in your complex apartment, the older woman would often find herself tracing the gentle curves of your sleeping body with her fingertips, memorizing the softness of your skin under her touch. You were a source of warmth and safety, still every time she opened her mouth to voice her fears, the words lodged in her throat. It was a silent battle, one that filled her with shame and frustration. Melissa felt as if she was a stranger in her own body, struggling to reconcile her desires with her reality.

You had been nothing but patient, reassuring her multiple times that there was no rush at all, that love was about connection and trust. Even amidst your understanding, a humiliation consumed her. How could she be almost fifty four and still feel so unprepared for something natural like that? The shame burned fiercely in her chest, a constant reminder of her late blooming, leaving her wondering if she could ever truly satisfy you in the ways you deserved.

“Santo cielo. I can’t do this I fuckin’ can’t.” Melissa cursed, tears threatening to fall into her green eyes. Why was this so damn complicated? The internal struggle felt unbearable, as if a storm was about to explode inside her. It consumed her, and even surrounded by understanding, the pressure of everything was overwhelming.

Turning her head toward the mirror, she stared at her reflection. The image staring back at her was a woman trapped between two worlds. On one side was the freedom she had found in accepting her sexuality, a liberation she had long yearned for. On the other hand, the harsh reality of her insecurities loomed large, amplified by her constant comparisons to others who seemed so much more experienced and confident. The weight of her inexperience made her feel small and inadequate.

She sat up in bed, wiping at her eyes angrily. “Fuck this, Schemmenti,” she muttered. The words came out as a broken whisper, a desperate plea to herself, but the self-reproach did little to ease the turmoil inside her. The tears came anyway, hot and unchecked, as she let out a shuddering breath. She needed to find a way to talk to you, to bridge the gap that her disquiet had created. But the question remained—could she overcome her past and embrace the love she had found with you? She wanted to explore, to learn, to share everything with you, but the fear of failing paralyzed her.

“There are so many things I still don’t understand,” the redhead continued, her voice choking, as if she was waiting for someone to answer her. “So many things that I need to explore. And I keep getting lost in doubts. It’s not fair to you, baby. It’s not fair to me either.”

Melissa let out a long, weary sigh as she sank into the soft embrace of the sheets once again, curling up into a tight ball of self–deprecation. The emptiness of the bedroom started to swallow her figure, a stark contrast to the comfort and safety she used to feel. She stared at the empty space beside her, her gaze tracing the outlines of the pillow and the indentations where you lain on weekends. The walls of the room, once so familiar, now seemed cold and distant, offering little solace from the storm of emotions inside her.

Memories of happy times with you surfaced, fleeting but powerful, when she would catch you looking at her with tenderness, and such understanding, that it felt like the world stopped spinning. In those moments, her apprehension would momentarily dissipate, replaced by the warmth of your company and gaze. She remembered how you would gently reassure her, your voice a soothing balm to her restless state.

I know I’m your first woman; that means everything to me.

I’ll be gentle, just take your time. You’re safe with me.

Your reassurances helped—sometimes. When you’d say things like those, a part of her believed you, trusted in your kindness. But another part of her couldn’t stop the flood of negativity, couldn’t shut out the fear that she would disappoint you, that she was fumbling through something too precious to ruin.

You’ll never be enough for her, Melissa. You’ve never done this before. She’ll get tired of waiting for you to figure it out. You’ll embarrass yourself.

You’re fumbling, and she’s just being nice. She’s just waiting for the moment she can walk away.

You’re too old for this. You’re too slow, too clumsy. She can do better. She will do better.

“Mi dispiace amore mio, sono un codardo,” she yelled punching the mattress with her fist.

That Friday, she cried until she fell asleep. Exhausted, her salty tears wet the pillow, and silent sobs shook her body as she tried, in vain, to calm the storm of emotions built up inside her. The deep need to feel confident and equal to the love you gave her. And as a troubled sleep finally embraced her, Melissa felt a small relief. The crying, in a way, had been a step towards releasing the feelings that tormented her.

Was she really a coward that would never face her fears?

What were you doing with an old lady like her who didn’t know anything?

Wouldn’t it just be better if you left her?

Over the weekend, the older woman was relaxing on the plastic couch in her living room, a glass of red wine resting in her right hand as she puffed away at a cigarette. The soft lights created a welcoming atmosphere, and the sound of the television, playing Celebrity Jeopardy, filled the space with a comfortable familiar distraction. She was distracted, but her mind was away from the entertainment, deep in thoughts about what she had just watched and what she still needed to do. Melissa watched the show's contestants, her eyes scanning the confident faces on the screen.

She looked at her cigarette, which was almost finished, and let it go out in the ashtray. Her old cigarette addiction had become a metaphor for her deepest insecurities — a habit that was difficult to break, but one that constantly reminded her of her challenges and rage. Each ember that dimmed seemed to echo the older woman's own struggles, a poignant reminder of the destructive patterns she fought to escape. The acrid smell lingered, an olfactory ghost of her past, stubbornly clinging to her clothes and her very soul. With a heavy sigh, she flicked the ash and resolved to confront the parts of herself she had long tried to ignore.

She leaned back into the couch, closing her eyes and taking another sip of wine. The warmth of the alcohol spread through her chest, loosening some of the tension. She knew she needed to do something, to find a way to overcome her fears and insecurities. But where to start? And how to reach information? The idea of opening up about her feelings, of admitting her lack of experience, felt terrifying since she hated to show any sign of weakness.

“Maybe I should do some research?” Melissa thought aloud, the idea dawning on her slowly. It sounded ridiculous at first, but the more she considered it, the more it made sense. She had always been someone who liked to be prepared, to have all the information before making a decision. This situation was no different. If she wanted to feel more confident, she needed to educate herself.

As the edition of Celebrity Jeopardy on the TV ended, replaced by a late-night talk show, Melissa stood up and stretched, feeling the tension ease from her muscles. She walked over to the windows, looking out at the night sky. The stars twinkled brightly, a reminder that the world was vast and full of possibilities. She smiled softly to herself, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.

The redhead raised another cigarette to the empty room, striking a match with a soft scratch. As the flame illuminated the dark space for a moment, she took a deep drag, letting the smoke curl up around her. “To new beginnings, for me, for Y/n. To us,” she whispered, voice barely above a murmur. The words hung in the air, resonating in the quiet of the room. It wasn’t a perfect solution, and she knew doubts and fears would still linger. But it was a step in the right direction. As the TV continued to hum, Melissa felt a small flicker of hope. She might not have all the answers, but at least she was ready to start looking for them.

Over the next few days and weeks, on several sleepless nights, the teacher searched on Google. How to navigate a same-sex relationship when you’re inexperienced? she typed, pressing enter before she could second-guess herself. As the results loaded, she skimmed through the titles. There were so many women who had been in her shoes, who had felt the same insecurities and fears at one moment of their lives. With each click, she felt more intrigued and amazed as she noticed the many different options for how she could give and receive pleasure. Articles, videos, forums—an entire world unfolded before her, revealing nuances she had never considered or imagined. She read article after article, watched educational videos, and even ventured into The Womanizer and Quinn blogs where women shared their intimate experiences and advice. The sheer variety of ways to connect and pleasure each other was both overwhelming and fascinating to her.

As she read through personal stories and advice columns, Melissa felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She took notes, bookmarked pages, and even found herself blushing at some of the more detailed descriptions. It was a strange, exhilarating education that left her feeling more informed but still uncertain. The more she learned, the more she realized how much she didn't know. And as she delved deeper into this research, she began to realize that the key was not just in techniques, but in communication and emotional connection. The Sicilian woman recalled how your soft touches and kind words made her feel safe and wanted. Perhaps the most important thing would be to bring that same security and desire to both of you.

After weeks of diving into intense research, Melissa found herself at a crossroad. Each day spent pouring over books, articles, and seeking advice had only heightened her awareness of her inexperience. The redhead made a heartfelt promise to herself, one that resonated deeply within her. She resolved that rather than allowing her fears and uncertainties to overshadow her, she would harness the insights she had gained to fortify the bond between you. This wasn’t just about confronting her own apprehensions; it was about opening her heart fully and trusting you in ways she had never allowed herself before.

She envisioned a future where both of you could explore and embrace the full spectrum of love and connection. Melissa understood that the path ahead would not be without its challenges. It would require patience, understanding, and a willingness to be vulnerable. Although, she was committed to embarking on this journey with you. She was prepared to face her worst fears head-on and let the promise of love and trust guide her.

—

“C’mon. It shouldn’t be that hard, stop being a pussy.” The redhead huffed, walking through the busy streets and holding a small pamphlet with an address on it. Pushing herself forward. The words were meant to be a pep talk, but they came out more as a grumble. Dressed in a black leather jacket, her left hand buried deep in her pocket gripping her keys so tightly that the cold metal dug into her palm. While the right clutched the paper, she cut a confident figure. But inside, she felt like a terrified kid again.

On this afternoon, Melissa found herself standing outside a cozy queer café in Philadelphia. The establishment’s large windows framed a warm, inviting interior filled with plush armchairs, bookshelves, vases of plants and soft lighting. A sign with an impeccable handwriting on the door read Sapphic Women’s Discussion Group. All Welcome! The vibrant façade, adorned with rainbow flags and welcoming posters promoting LGBTQ+ events, felt inviting and intimidating.

She was resting on the door handle. The intrusive thought of turning around, retreating to the safety of her car, and forgetting this whole idea crossed her mind. For years, Melissa had thought about walking into a place like this, spaces that welcomed women like her, women who loved other women—but she never imagined she’d actually do it. Not at her age, not after a life of silence and denial.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods enveloping her.

“Here goes nothin’,” The Italian redhead said with a hint of sarcasm, her South Philly accent wry and unmistakable. “I swear if anyone makes funny of me, I’ll fucking ran away–”

Inside, the atmosphere was lively but casual. Women of various ages and backgrounds were seated at tables, engaged in conversations. Laughter and the hum of voices filled the air, creating a sense of community and belonging. The older woman spotted a table in the corner with a small group of women and made her way over, hoping to blend in while still taking in the atmosphere and aura. The table she chose was adorned with a simple centerpiece of fresh flowers, next to a hand-drawn menu filled with witty drink names like Sappho’s Latte and Audre’s Espresso.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, her voice betraying just a hint of nervousness.

They nodded, murmuring polite welcomes, and she sat down, smoothing her jacket out of habit. Just as she was settling in, a woman in her mid-thirties approached, a friendly smile lighting up her face. She had short, dark hair that fell naturally across her forehead, and her denim jacket was covered with pins advocating for various causes—pride flags, feminist slogans, and more. There was something about her presence that radiated both strength and warmth, an unspoken understanding in her eyes that seemed to invite openness.

“Hey, you’re new here, right? I’m Jules. Can I join you?”

She managed a small, nervous smile and shifted her gaze downward, politely giving her a clumsy handshake. “Sure, it’s my first time being here. I’m Melissa.”

Jules took a seat and leaned back, her presence somehow instantly putting her at ease. “So, what brings you here today?”

Melissa took a deep breath. It wasn’t easy to open up about something so personal, especially to a place full of strangers, but something about the atmosphere in the shop made her feel safe enough to try.

“Recently, I came out as bisexual,” the older woman began, trembling. “It took me years to figure it out...or maybe I knew all along, but I was just too scared to accept it because of, you know... religious guilt and family trauma.”

“That’s a huge step, Mel. Coming out, especially after carrying something like that for so long... It’s not easy. You’re brave for even being here.”

Encouraged by understanding, she continued, though her words still came out haltingly. “I.. I’m in a relationship now, with a younger woman. She’s amazing, and I really care about her. But I’ve never been intimate with a woman before, and I... I’m so scared. I want to pleasure her, make her feel good, but I don’t know where to start. I was afraid to come here and open up about this. I thought... I thought people might laugh at me or think I’m not ‘really’ bi because I’ve never done it before.”

Jules reached across the table and placed her hand on Melissa’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring pat. “You’re definitely not alone in feeling that way. A lot of us have been where you are now. It’s completely normal to feel nervous, especially when it’s all so new. But what’s important is that you’re here, willing to learn and grow.”

The green eyed woman felt a lump forming in her throat.

“I was married too," she confessed, tinged with bitterness and pain. “My ex-husband, Joe… he was a dickhead. He was always drunk, and he cheated on me more times than I can count. I stayed with him ‘cause I thought it was the ‘right’ thing to do, you know? Because of my family, because of my faith… But it was killing me inside. I was miserable, and it took me a long time to realize that I deserved better.”

“I’m sorry you went through that,” the youngest said sincerely. "No one deserves to be treated that way. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

As they spoke, Jules gave a subtle signal to a few women seated nearby. One by one, they began to gather around, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and encouragement. They formed a small semicircle, their presence a quiet testament to the power of community. Each woman seemed to carry her own story, her own struggles and triumphs, but there was no judgment here—only acceptance.

One of the women, a young woman with thoughtful eyes, spoke up first. “You know, sometimes the most important thing is to listen and learn without rushing. Every relationship is different. What works for one couple might not work for another.”

Another woman, slightly older, nodded in agreement. “And balancing personal space with intimacy is key. You have to be able to communicate openly about your needs and boundaries.”

Melissa nodded, absorbing their words like a sponge. The advice was practical, yes, but it was the honesty and openness in their voices that struck her most. They weren’t just talking at her—they were sharing pieces of themselves.

The conversation continued, flowing naturally between experiences of first loves, heartbreaks, and everything in between. They discussed how vital it was to take things slow, to be attuned to each other’s needs, to ask questions, and most of all, to approach intimacy with openness and care. Each woman offered something unique, from personal tips to deeply felt wisdom, and by the time the gathering wound down, Melissa felt an overwhelming sense of relief and empowerment.

As the women began to disperse, exchanging hugs and goodbyes, Melissa stood up from the table, feeling lighter than when she had walked in. Jules caught her eye one last time, giving her a reassuring nod.

“You’ve got this, Mel. Just remember to trust yourself, okay?”

She smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face for the first time that evening. “Thank you… really.”

As she stepped outside, the sun still hung low in the sky, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. For the first time in a long while, she felt hopeful. She wasn’t just carrying the weight of her past anymore—she was moving forward, armed with the knowledge, support, and confidence she’d gained from this little café and the women who had opened their hearts to her.

Melissa was ready to take the next steps in your relationship.

—

Wednesday was different for Melissa. From the moment she woke up, she could feel the weight of anticipation pressing down on her chest. After dropping her second graders—whom she affectionately called her “little eagles”—off at the gym for physical education, her day should have felt like any other. But instead, her mind raced, a nervous buzz thrumming beneath her skin. She spent the rest of the morning mentally rehearsing what she planned to say, her palms growing sweaty each time she replayed the words in her head.

By the time the lunch bell rang, her resolve had formed, but her body still trembled as she made her way to the cafeteria. She spotted you immediately, seated at a table with Jacob and Janine. The three of you were deep in discussion, laughing about the success of the recent library program project. The sound of your laughter, bright and carefree, made Melissa’s heart flutter. It grounded her, reminding her of why she wanted to do this in the first place.

But as she approached, her heart raced, and the familiar anxiety crept back in. What if she said the wrong thing? What if you didn’t want the same things she did? She had planned something special for the two of you tonight, something that would show you just how much she cared. She just hoped she wouldn’t trip over now that she was so close to making it real.

You were in the middle of recounting a funny story about one of your students when your gaze shifted, and you saw her walking toward the table. Instantly, your surroundings blurred; the laughter and conversation between Jacob and Janine faded into a distant hum as your focus zeroed in on her. Melissa wasn’t often nervous, but there was something in the way she carried herself now—vulnerable yet brave—that made your heart swell with affection.

She hesitated for a moment, standing a few feet away. Her green eyes flicked to the floor as though she was searching for the right words. Her hands, you noticed, were fidgeting at the hem of her blouse, tracing the fabric as if seeking comfort. She drew in a breath before speaking, her voice soft but laced with determination.

“I, um… I planned a romantic dinner for us tonight.” She was cautious, almost tentative. “Would you be able to come over to my place at seven, hon?”

Your heart warmed at her nervousness, and you gave her a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course, babe. I’d love to.” The tenderness in your tone seemed to ease her tension, and you couldn’t help but add. “Do you want me to bring anything? A bottle of your favorite white wine or—”

“No, just you and your beautiful body,” The second the words left her lips, her face flushed a deep, fiery red, the color climbing up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as her eyes went wide in shock at her own boldness. It was as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said, and the mortification was clear in the way her shoulders tensed. “Oh?”

Jacob and Janine, who had been standing just far enough away to give you both some privacy, exchanged a quick glance. Janine, ever the romantic, stifled a squeal of excitement, biting her hand to keep from bursting into giddy laughter. Jacob, always the supportive friend, gave Melissa a discreet thumbs-up, mouthing.“You’ve got this. Just breathe, Mel Mel.” Their silent gestures of support didn’t go unnoticed by Melissa, and despite the fiery embarrassment burning in her cheeks, she felt a rush of warmth and gratitude.

You, too, caught the brief exchange between your friends and chuckled, though your gaze quickly returned to Melissa. There was no mistaking the anxiety in her posture, but beyond that, you could see the flicker of something else—determination, excitement, maybe even hope. She was putting herself out there, more than she usually allowed herself to, and that touched you deeply.

Just me and my body, huh?” you teased gently. “That’s quite the invitation, Schemmenti. What’s the occasion?”

Melissa’s face, already flushed, deepened into an even darker shade of red, but there was a spark in her eyes now, a glimmer of resolve. She was nervous, yes, but she had made her decision. “I just thought it was time to switch things up a bit,” she replied, her voice steadier than before, though still laced with vulnerability. “You know, take a leap and maybe… celebrate us.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. This wasn’t just about a dinner; this was about moving forward, about her desire to deepen your relationship. You could see how much this moment mattered to her—the courage it took to say those words, to open herself up to the possibility of rejection, even if that fear was unfounded. You stood up and closed the distance between you. Without hesitation, you wrapped her in a tender hug, your arms encircling her in a protective embrace.

She stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection, especially in such a public setting. But as soon as she felt your warmth enveloping her, she relaxed, melting into your arms as if this was exactly where she was meant to be. The proximity, the way you held her so tightly yet so gently, made her realize how deeply she needed this, needed you.

“Baby, that sounds perfect,” you whispered softly, your breath warm against her ear. “I can’t wait for tonight.”

Melissa’s hold on you tightened as she buried her face in the crook of your neck, the anxiety that had gnawed at her all day slowly ebbing away. She pressed a soft kiss to your hair, the gesture filled with such tenderness it made your heart ache. With your bodies pressed together, she could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against hers, the calming syncopation reminding her that she was exactly where she belonged.

As you held her, you caught a glimpse of Janine and Jacob, who were watching from a distance with proud smiles. Janine gave Jacob a giddy nudge, her spirit high and full of excitement for you both. Even Mr. Johnson, who was still sweeping the cafeteria floor nearby, muttered something about “first love making messes,” though there was a small, almost imperceptible grin on his face.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at her, your hands resting on her arms. “So, what’s on the menu tonight?” you asked, with playful curiosity. “I’m guessing it’s not just spaghetti and meatballs.”

Melissa’s lips twitched, the nervousness in her eyes slowly giving way to something warmer, more confident. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said, her voice teasing now. “But I can promise you, it’s going to be unforgettable.”

You grinned at her, the excitement for tonight bubbling up in your chest. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

As you stepped back and returned to your spot, Melissa lingered for a moment, watching you with a cute, almost dreamy expression on her face. The weight of the day’s nerves had finally lifted, replaced by a sense of joy and anticipation. With one last glance at you, she turned and headed back to her classroom, her heart feeling lighter than it had in months.

“You two are seriously the cutest couple ever,” Janine gushed, nudging you with her elbow as she sat back down.

Jacob nodded in agreement, a small, knowing smirk on his face. “She’s a lucky woman.”

You felt your face flush with warmth as you beamed softly, your thoughts already drifting to the evening ahead. “I’m the lucky one,” you murmured, more to yourself than to them.

—

The soft glow of candles flickered across the kitchen, casting gentle shadows that danced on the walls. Melissa had taken great care to set the table just right. The white linen tablecloth was smooth and immaculate, the polished silverware gleamed under the dim light, and delicate crystal glasses sparkled like tiny stars. A simple yet elegant centerpiece—a vase filled with fresh roses—added a touch of romance, their soft petals a gentle reminder of the evening’s purpose.

After a quick shower, Melissa stood in front of her bathroom mirror, wrapped in a thick towel as her reflection stared back at her. She untangled her hair with her fingers, letting the soft waves settle naturally around her shoulders. The evening felt charged with meaning, and as she pulled on a deep green dress that highlighted the rich color of her eyes, she couldn’t shake a sense of anticipation that made her fingers tremble. But before she slipped into the dress, Melissa lingered in her reflection, standing there in her bra and underwear.

Her fingers brushed lightly over the delicate lace of her bra before trailing up to her cross necklace. The small, familiar weight of it rested against her skin, a reminder of her faith and the strength she often sought from it. She gently kissed the cross, her lips touching the cool metal, as if grounding herself. Closing her eyes for a moment, she whispered, “I’ll be okay.” Her voice was steady, a quiet promise to herself. When she opened her eyes again, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She was ready—nervous, yes, but there was an undeniable sense of purpose in the evening that outweighed her fears.

The act of kissing her necklace and reminding herself that she would be okay brought a small but real sense of calm. She unclenched her jaw, letting herself breathe before stepping away from the mirror to pull on the deep green dress she had picked out.

Slipping into the dress, Melissa took one last look at herself, smoothing down the fabric and adjusting the straps. It wasn’t an extravagant gown—just a simple dress that made her feel beautiful in a way that mattered most to her. It hugged her curves in all the right places, the fabric complementing her fiery red hair and highlighting the vibrancy of her eyes. She added a light touch of makeup, just enough to enhance her natural features, before stepping back to admire the final result. A moment of calm settled over her, the flicker of nerves tempered by the reassurance she had given herself.

The house was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of lasagna, garlic, tomatoes, and bubbling cheese coming together in the oven. The familiar, comforting smells filled every corner of the room, making it feel warm, welcoming. Melissa stepped into the kitchen, checking on the lasagna and adjusting the heat, ensuring everything was perfect. The faint sound of the record player drifted in from the living room, where a playlist of your favorite songs played softly, romantic melodies filling the air with warmth and intimacy. Everything was set, and now, all she needed was for you to arrive.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet with a soft chime, and Melissa’s heart skipped a beat. She stood still for a moment, gathering her courage. This evening wasn’t just about the food or the setting—it was about the leap she was taking, the love she wanted to show you. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her dress once more and made her way to the door. As her hand reached for the doorknob, she murmured to herself, “I’ll be okay,” one last time, her fingers briefly touching the cross around her neck.

When she opened the door and saw you standing there, her nerves melted away at the sight of your smile. You looked at her, taking in the beautiful green dress, her soft waves of hair, and the way her eyes shone with a mixture of happiness and vulnerability. There was a beat of silence, the world falling away for a moment as you exchanged a quiet, meaningful look.

“Hey, babe,” you said warmly, stepping forward and pulling her into a gentle hug. You could feel the slight tremble in her body as she relaxed into your embrace, her arms wrapping around you as if she had been waiting for this all day.

“Hey, mia principessa,” she whispered back softly, but there was a strength in it. You could sense how much this night meant to her, how much she wanted it to be special. “Come in. I’ve got everything ready.”

The smell of lasagna welcomed you as you stepped into the cozy warmth of her home. You glanced around, admiring the thoughtful touches—the candlelit table, the vase of roses, the soft music filling the space. It was intimate, and it spoke volumes about the care she had put into this night.

“Lissa, this is beautiful,” you said, turning back to her. “You did all of this?”

Melissa smiled, the nervous energy that had been building inside her easing just a little at your reaction. “Yeah, I wanted to do something special for us.”

You reached out, taking her hand and giving it a gentle peck. “It’s perfect.”

For the first time that evening, your girlfriend felt a deep sense of calm.

You followed Melissa to the dining table, where the soft glow of the candles illuminated the spread before you. The lasagna sat perfectly golden in its dish, steam rising from the surface, and the fresh roses at the center of the table filled the air with their delicate scent. She pulled out a chair for you, her hand brushing against your shoulder as you sat down.

The older woman served the lasagna with careful hands, the utensils clinking against the plates as she handed you your portion. As you took your first bite, the rich flavors of garlic, tomato, and cheese filled your mouth, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a second to savor it.

“This is delicious, Mel,” you said, smiling up at her as you set your fork down.

“I’m glad you like it,” she replied sweetly, still carrying that undercurrent of vulnerability that made your heart swell with affection. You could see how much she wanted tonight to be perfect, and it already was. The evening felt like a beautiful, slow unfolding of something deeper, something you both had been moving toward for a long time.

For a while, you ate in companionable silence, the music playing in the background as the evening settled into a comfortable rhythm. Melissa stole glances at you as you ate, and each time your eyes met, she smiled a little more freely. But there was something else too—an sexual tension hanging in the air between you, unspoken but unmistakable. It made every touch and every shared look feel heavier, more charged.

After a while, Melissa set her fork down, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her wine glass as she spoke, quieter now. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while…” Her eyes lifted to meet yours, and you could see the seriousness in them.

You frowned, sensing the shift in the conversation. “What is it?”

“I’ve been… I’ve been wanting to take the next step with us. I’m ready. For sex.”

The weight of her confession settled between you, and for a second, it felt like the world outside this moment ceased to exist. Your heart skipped a beat, the meaning behind her words sinking in. You knew how much this meant to her, how deeply she felt things, and how careful she was with every step in your relationship. And now, here she was, opening herself up, offering all of her to you in the most vulnerable way possible.

You reached across the table, your fingers finding hers, and she held onto you like she’d been waiting for this connection all night. “Mel,” you began. “I’ve been waiting for you to be ready. I’m here. I’ll always wait for you.”

A soft laugh touched her lips, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she held your gaze. “I know,” she whispered, and then, as if the moment couldn’t hold itself back any longer, she leaned across the table and kissed you. Her lips were soft, warm, and full of promise. The kiss started gentle, but there was a sense of urgency behind it, a need she had been holding back for too long.

You stood up, gently pulling her with you, and without breaking the kiss, she wrapped her arms around your waist. The closeness felt intoxicating, the room spinning with the scent of roses, the warmth of the candlelight, and the taste of wine still on her lips.

Melissa pulled back slightly. “Come upstairs with me.”

You nodded, unable to speak, the weight of the moment settling in your chest. With her hand in yours, she led you out of the dining room and up the stairs, her grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. The steps felt endless, each one echoing the rapid beating of your heart, but when you reached the bedroom door, everything else faded away. It was just you and her, the world quiet and still, as if this moment had been waiting for you both for a long time.

After going upstairs hand in hand, you enter her bedroom. The environment is spacious and welcoming, with a palette of neutral tones that creates a soft and intimate atmosphere. The walls are painted a light, almost sandy beige, and there are several old photo frames hanging in an elegant pattern. The floor is covered in a large, shaggy rug in a soft brown tone that provides a pleasant contrast to the dark wooden floor.

The center of the room is dominated by a king size bed, covered with sheets and bedding set in beige tones. The pillows and duvet combine in different textures and subtle patterns, creating a feeling of comfort and simplicity.

You lay down on the bed, messing up the bedding set and pillowcases that were still fresh and spotless. Melissa sat on top of you, with her knees on either side of your hips, and began to unbutton the elegant blouse you were wearing. Her movement was careful, almost reverent, as if each blossoming bud revealed not just your skin, but also the vulnerability and trust you were building together.

“I’ve never looked like that,” she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your own in a long kiss that was both hesitant and eager. As her mouth lingered on yours, she noticed the way you slightly shudder beneath her touch, a clear sign of your nervousness. And how anxious you seemed, more so than she felt herself. “You’re trembling.”

Melissa reaches for the lamp, her digits brushing against its switch as she considers dimming the light to make the room more comfortable and less intimidating. But before she can, you reach out to stop her, grabbing her wrist feeling the subtle pulse of her beat beneath your touch.

“No, I want to see you too,” you peel off your blouse, followed by your pants and underwear, letting them fall to the floor in a silent haze.

The older woman gulps and bobs her throat and starts to undress too. Her long green dress fell away in soft folds to the edge of the king size bed, followed by the delicate unfastening of her bra, revealing her full, supple and delicious boobs. Their natural weight makes them sway slightly and her nipples, a dusky rose, stood erect in the cool air. Her panties followed, slipping down her legs to reveal her glistening, damp center with some reddish, slightly trimmed pubic hair above her mound that was a stark contrast to the smooth milky white of her thighs.

For a fleeting second, doubt and insecurity crept in. She wondered if you saw her as beautiful or if the passage of time, with its subtle marks on her skin—fine lines around her eyes and mouth, the gentle curve of age. Arms flaccid and a little droopy, and the fact that she is not completely shaved underneath—might be off-putting. The decades that had shaped her were etched into her form, a testament to experiences and moments lived, but she questioned if they would overshadow the intimacy of the present.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the side, overwhelmed by the thought of you finding her less than desirable, maybe even disgusting like Joe did when they used to have sex in their marriage years. The idea of her imperfections being too much to bear made her shiver with apprehension, and unexpected tears dropped into her cheeks as those thoughts almost brought her to the brink of crying.

In that vulnerable instant, Melissa searched for any sign of disapproval, any hint that the years might have dimmed her allure. But as your gaze locked with hers, she saw something entirely different—an intense, unspoken admiration, a hunger that seemed to pierce through her insecurities. This recognition of her allure gave her the courage to continue.

“You’re so beautiful, bambina.” She tilted her head, her swollen lips meeting yours again in a passionate kiss that deepened as she felt your response. Your hands roamed over her back, feeling the heat of her skin and the subtle firmness of her muscles. Her auburn hair fell around her shoulders, cascading like a dark waterfall that framed her face and partially covered her chest. The sight of her, disheveled and beautiful, made you catch your oxygen.

Melissa lets her thumbs glide down your abdomen, feeling the softness of your flesh beneath her fingertips while she trails imaginary patterns. That only she can see. She squeezes your breasts gently before she leans in to nip at your earlobe. There’s a hunger in the way she worships you, a need to feel you, to taste you.

She begins to kiss her way down your neck, her lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. When she reaches your boobs, she pauses for a moment, her breath ghosting over your nipples before she takes one into her mouth slowly. The feeling sends a shiver down your body, and you can’t help the loud whimper that escapes your lips.

“That feels so good. Don’t stop. Suck harder,” you gasped, unable to contain the fervent need building inside you.

The redhead hums in response, her gaze locked onto yours as she continues to suckle on your hardened peak. There’s something almost reverent in the way she’s looking at you, as though she’s in awe of the effect she’s having on you. Her hair, now tousled and wild, brushed against your skin like a silken curtain. You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of her lips on your sensitive areas, and opened your mouth to draw in deep, steady breaths, trying to ground yourself amidst the swirling sensations.

She traces a slow, deliberate path down your body, her lips grazing the curve of your waist, until she’s almost between your legs. Her hands rest on your thighs, gently urging them apart, and you feel the smirk ghosting over your most intimate area. When she parted your legs, her eyes widened slightly at the sight of your wetness dripping down and the intoxicating smell that made her drool.

“Can I put my mouth on you?”

“Please.”

Melissa’s hands move to your hips, and with a deliberate, almost possessive grip, she pushes you down against the mattress, pinning you in place. The bed creaks softly beneath you, but all you can focus on is the way her mouth hovers just above your aching pussy.

She lowers herself between your thighs, her breath hot against your skin as she leans in, her mouth finally making contact. The first contact of her tongue against your wet folds is electrifying, a shiver running down your spine. She’s never felt anything like this—so raw, so intimate. The sensation of your taste, warm and sweet on her tongue, ignites something deep within her.

The older woman begins to lick through your wetness, her movements grow more confident, more assured. Her face becomes slick with your arousal, but she doesn’t care—if anything, it only drives her to delve deeper, to explore every inch of you with her warm mouth. The soft slurping and suckling sounds she makes while she eats you out, along with guttural groans of satisfaction vibrating against your most sensitive spots muffled against your folds, tell you everything; how much Melissa is enjoying this. Amplifying the pleasure coursing through you. And you can’t help but moan, your fingers tangling in her hair, urging her closer.

“Oh, Lissa…go faster,” you murmur breathy, trying to guide her with gentle encouragement. “Just like that, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

She’s teasing your clit now, her tongue flicking over it teasing it with featherlight strokes that makes your hips buck involuntarily. She seems to be memorizing, learning and responding to your every movement, every sound. You can feel her fingers hovering at your entrance, the pads of her tips brushing teasingly against your folds. The need for more—more of her, more of everything—builds inside you like a tidal wave.

“Fingers. Use them to fill me up.”

Two fingers slide inside you easily, the heat and slickness enveloping her in a way that makes her gasp. The knowledge that she’s the one making you feel this way, that she’s the cause of your pleasure, is almost overwhelming for her. She starts to pump her fingers, slow and deep, crooking them just right to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

“Fuck, hon,” Melissa groans. “You’re so tight… so fucking good.”

“Mhhm.”

The older woman intensifies her pace, her fingers moving faster, deeper, her thumb circling your clit in slow, lazy circles. Her brow furrows in concentration as she continues.

The pressure builds rapidly, and your hips buck against her hand, your need growing more urgent with every passing second. Her eyes stay locked on your face, absorbing each scream and tremor that escapes you, her lips parting slightly as she watches your pleasure build.

“You feel so good,” she murmurs, never letting up the pace. “Are you close?”

Your breath catches, the coil tightening inside you. “I’m so so close, please let me come,” you beg, your voice trembling as you ride the edge.

A flicker of confidence crosses her face as she leans closer, her thumb pressing harder against your clit, her fingers driving deeper. “Cum for me,” she whispers, laced with longing. “I want to feel you, pretty girl.”

That command, spoken so softly but filled with intent, sends you spiraling. With a final, perfect stroke, you fall over the edge, your body arching as the pleasure crashes through you, wave after wave. Your whines grow louder, desperate, as Melissa guides you through the bliss.

She keeps going, drawing out every shudder and whimper until you’re completely undone beneath her. Only then does she slowly withdraw her fingers, leaving you trembling and breathless.

Collapsing against you, her face finds the crook of your neck, her figure trembling with emotion. It takes a moment to realize she’s crying, low sobs muffled against you.

“I did it?” she breaks in disbelief. “I made you feel good… I can’t believe I did it.”

You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close. “You did, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You were perfect.”

Melissa shakes her head slightly, still clinging to you. “I was so scared I’d mess it up… but I did it.”

You gently lift her chin, forcing her to look at you. Her emerald eyes are red and glistening with tears, but the satisfaction you see there only makes your love for her grow stronger. You cup her face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

She lets out a shaky breath, her curvaceous body leaning into yours as if seeking reassurance. Her pink lips brush over yours in a tender, almost desperate kiss. Between soft pecks, you speak against her lips, “You’re safe. I love you. You're safe with me.”

She gives you a small, tearful smile before pressing kisses to your chest, resting her head there as if she never wants to let go.

And you don’t want her to. Not ever.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti x you #abbott elementary #wlw #wlw smut #yes #that was a carol (2015) reference

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flowerandblood · 11 months ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (4)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

That evening she could not sleep; she felt anxious, felt that danger lurked all around her, the darkness in her chamber full of chill and tension. She pressed her lips together lying under the thick furs, recalling for the hundredth time the expression on her uncle's face when he recognised her.

Terror, disbelief, rage, disgust.

She knew that she would be facing him in the throne room the next day anyway, that they would be forced to remind each other of their existence.

She sighed quietly, wondering if her letters had reached him at all.

What if his grandfather or his mother simply did not deliver them to him?

What if his rage was because he thought she had abandoned him?

She felt a quick pounding of her heart, a naïve hope, anything she could grab onto in a situation that seemed to her to have no way out.

She thought she had to visit him, she had to see him, speak to him, end this once and for all, explain to him how she felt, how sorry she was that it had all happened this way.

Just like when she was a child, she slipped out of her chamber, walking ahead in the torchlight. She remembered what time the guards on watch at his quarters exchanged and took the opportunity, with her heart pounding fast, to knock on his door.

She swallowed loudly, horrified to hear the cold, sure, rough come in and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She turned and saw his silhouette sitting by the fire, in his hand the dagger he was skilfully playing with between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her, his eye wide open as if he was anticipating this visit.

She didn't know what she should say, where to begin.

She wasn't sure if she was trembling so much from the cold or from fear.

She tried to repeat to herself that even though he looked different, the same man was sitting in front of her, the one who had stroked her hair all night as a child, soothing her this way when she couldn't fall asleep.

Grasping at these memories she finally choked out what she had come for.

"Did you received my letters?" She asked in trembling voice, trying to sound soft and calm, to be the opposite of his aggressive attitude, to make him understand that she was coming in peace.

She shuddered when she saw the dangerous glint in his eye, the dagger in his hand spun around its own axis and curled between his fingers again, an involuntary grimace appeared on his face that resembled a smile but showed that he was furious.

"Yes." He answered finally, and she drew in a loud breath, analysing his answer quickly in her head.

He had received her letters, all of them.

She could see it in his face.

Did he despise them? Did he throw them away? Did he burn them?

"Have you read them?" She asked, wrinkling her eyebrows in helplessness, feeling that this was one of the most important moments of her life.

She saw him settle more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin high as he stabbed the blade of his knife into the armrest, running it over it, making shivers run through her.

She had the feeling that he had just imagined himself ripping her flesh this way.

"Yes, my Lady Strong. I have read them all. Many times, here, in this chair." He muttered, and she felt a jolt of heat, of disbelief, of both humiliation and desire at the same time, because here he was, just admitting that he'd read her letters more than once, yet he'd never written her back.

She thought it was all a punishment he was inflicting on her – even though he wanted her words, his reply would have shown that he had forgiven her, that he was seeking reconciliation, that he was weak.

It all suddenly became so clear to her that she felt lighter, understanding that there was no moment in which she could do anything more to change his mind, that exactly what was supposed to happen had happened.

She looked around his chamber and moved ahead, noticing that where there had been a small cupboard of books now stood three large, tall, oak bookcases filled to the brim with thick tomes.

"Does your mother-whore know you're here?" She heard his cold, indifferent voice and pressed her lips together at the thought that he was doing it on purpose, that he was aware of what would hurt her, that he knew her too well.

She felt a squeeze in her throat when she spotted the familiar name of the philosopher among his collection and stepped closer, pulling out the book she had borrowed from him when she dared to kiss him for the first time.

"My, as you put it, mother-whore, never knew when I visited you, uncle. I was very determined not to be caught." She said lowly, in a way tired of the fact that she seemed to be speaking to stone, a cold marble to which nothing could reach.

She heard him snort, clearly displeased that his question did not elicit the effect he would have expected from her.

"Do you often visit men like this?" He asked perfunctorily, as if there was an answer in his question, as if it was obvious that she was not waiting for him.

Something in the way he said it, in the superiority in his voice made her feel rage; she moved towards his chair and stood in front of him, looking at him with furrowed brows.

Who was he to speak to her this way?

She saw that he lifted his gaze to her, surprised, apparently completely not expecting her to dare come so close to him, the hand with his dagger froze in mid-motion.

"Have you no shame?" She asked with regret and disapproval. She saw that his nostrils quivered dangerously, his healthy eye turned black, his lips pressed into a thin line.

She knew he was about to say something, something that would make her hate him, make her unable to look at him, and she decided that she would be the first to express her opinion, her suffering.

"I don't know who you are, the man who sits now before me, but if there is even a fragment of the boy I was meant to marry in you, let that boy know that he was and will be the only one in my heart. He was my beloved friend and I failed him. It is hard to live with the thought that someone you loved so deeply has died in a way, but there is neither a grave to pray over nor any hope of peace for his soul. What I fear is that the boy I knew has disappeared among the darkness and is dying in it every day."

She muttered, and although she tried to hold them back, tears of helplessness and despair ran down her cheeks as the last sentence left her lips.

She had lost him, lost him forever, this boy who had soothed her fears, who she had looked up to with such pride and joy, who would never speak to her as this man did now.

It seemed to her that she had put him into a state of complete shock, as he looked at her with his mouth parted, his healthy eye wide open – he was breathing faster, completely frozen, as if he didn't know what to make of her words.

She couldn't believe how much he had changed, his white hair long and beautiful, partly tied back, his scar pale, hidden under a black eye patch, his jaw even more sharply defined, his chin pointed, his healthy eye gleamed in the firelight, his leather tunic and breeches framing his well-built body.

He was a handsome man.

She thought about Daemon's words, about how it was better to rip her heart out than to humiliate herself, but she thought she was unable to do that.

That she needed to feel his closeness this one last time.

It seemed to her that her body threw itself towards him on its own, climbing into his lap, pressing her face and hands against his tunic, his familiar warmth, his scent filled her nostrils.

She heard his dagger slide out of his hand straight onto the stone floor with the loud clang of steel.

For some reason, her body relaxed completely and she burst into sobs, as if those years of suffering and separation had poured out of her like a river; she began to babble and apologise to this little boy who certainly felt alone, who couldn't cope with what had happened and with what he had lost.

She shuddered and hopped up, feeling something hard throb between her thighs, then again and again – she looked at him in disbelief, his gaze terrified, his breath heavy.

She thought she was going to hear him say that she should leave, that she was humiliating herself, that he didn't want to know her, that she was pathetic, but he just stared at her, apparently unable to get a word out.

She looked at his lips – they seemed even fuller and softer to her than they were then and she wondered if they would be as pleasurable if she touched them.

Just this once.

"– can I kiss you? –" She asked so quietly that she herself barely heard the words leave her lips. She saw his pupil narrow, his nostrils twitching restlessly.

She felt a throbbing inside her, as well as in his breeches beneath her when he leaned in slightly, exactly as he had done then, wordlessly involuntarily betraying his will and she threw her hands over his shoulders, pressing her warm, thirsty lips to his in a sweet, loud kiss.

It seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, his hips rubbing his twitching erection against her from underneath making her feel something like warm tickling between her thighs.

One, slow, tentative kiss turned into a second, a third and a fourth, his hands suddenly on her body, clamping down on her hips and neck as if he wanted to make sure she didn't leave his side.

She shuddered, looking down at him with slightly parted lips, suppressing a moan when she felt his free hand slip shamelessly under the material of her nightgown and clamp down on her naked buttock, rubbing his hardness against her hidden womanhood with slow, uncertain rocking of his hips.

No one had ever touched her like this before, and she wondered if this was his first time, or if perhaps he had already tasted another woman's body, sinking inside the ladies of the court or the servants.

She felt an overpowering jealousy and pain at the thought, at the thought that he might have desired and taken another, and she thought that this night he would desire only her.

That she would spend the night with him and then leave, surrendering her fate to destiny.

"− uncle −" She mumbled, responding with movements of her hips to his treatments, feeling her insides begin to swell once she had decided what was going to happen.

He waved his hand into her hair and kissed her, greedily, aggressively, quickly, his slick tongue forced it's way deep into her throat.

It had nothing to do with what they had done as children – now their lips teased each other with a loud click of their saliva, his tongue trailing over her palate, licking her encouragingly, inviting her to let their tips touch.

They licked each other like this, panting and moaning into each other's mouths – she let him push her hips closer to him, rubbing his hard cock against her with increasingly intrusive, shameless movements as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his body.

Gods, he wanted this.

She shuddered when she felt his hand pull at the ties of her nightgown, in slow, gentle movement slipping it off her shoulders. He pulled away, panting loudly, to look at the sight of her bare chest, her plump little breasts; she gasped quietly and trembled when his fingers timidly run and squeezed one of them.

She felt something sticky run down her thighs onto the material of his breeches, felt the moisture between her legs.

"− uh − it tickles − here −" She mumbled helplessly, stroking his jaw with her thumb, not knowing completely what she should do next, somehow asking him to spare her the humiliation and take the initiative. She shuddered as his fingers ran over her lust-swollen, puffy lips.

"− it's understandable − you missed your uncle − hm? −" He asked softly, tenderly, startling her completely – she felt the muscles inside her clench around nothing at his words, the tension in her lower abdomen was unbearable.

She didn't know when he took her in his arms and stood up with her, when he laid her down on his bed; she watched as he took off his tunic, commanding her to lie on her back, and she obeyed him.

She squirmed in horror as he suddenly grabbed her thighs and spread them in front of him, lifting the material of her nightgown up, leaning his face between them.

"− Aemond − s-stop, uncle, what are you −" She mumbled in a trembling voice, trying to push him away, to protect herself; she tilted her head back with a sweet, surprised moan when she felt his rough tongue run over her puffy folds, licking what was leaking out of her.

"− o-oh, gods −" She mewled losing immediately the urge to interrupt him, laying obediently on her back and clasping her hands in his wonderfully soft white hair, pushing against him with her hips, listening to the sounds of sucking and licking, whimpering in front of him like a whore, understanding that it was obvious that he wanted to give her pleasure, that he wanted to satisfy her.

"− have you touched yourself here? −" He huffed with some kind of amusement and satisfaction, as if he had been dreaming of this moment all his life, of her at his mercy, with her thighs spread wide shamelessly in front of his face.

She swallowed loudly at the memory of the night she had sunk her hand into her heat seeking fulfilment, thinking of him, the way he looked now, the way he still desired her, and helplessly nodded her head.

She knew he would recognise immediately if she lied.

She heard him murmur with satisfaction at this information, as if he was perfectly aware, looking at what was happening to her now, who she was thinking of at the time.

She moaned in pleasure as his nose ran over her puffy bud hidden between her soft folds; she clenched her hands in his hair trying to push him away as he tightened his lips around it, licking and sucking it, making it almost painful. His hand reached for her mouth to silence her, but she clamped her fingers on his wrist, stopping him.

"− please, uncle, too much − too much −" She cried out pleadingly, trying to pull away from him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he released her from between his lips, looking at her in shock, apparently writing down in his mind that this place was extremely sensitive and delicate.

He hummed under his breath, returning to his earlier caresses, tentatively and slowly sliding his tongue into her tight, hot interior. She threw her head back, surprised at how pleasurable it was, her walls throbbing and clenching like crazy around nothing as he licked her shamelessly with a quiet, lewd clicks of his saliva and her moisture.

"− uncle − mghmm −" She babbled desperately, feeling something approaching, the tension and tickling in her lower abdomen unbearable, her hips rocking to the motion of his mouth.

She prayed shamelessly to the gods that he would just keep going.

"− it'll be wonderful to feel it clench around my fat cock one day − don't you think, sweet niece? −" He murmured between the flicks of his tongue, and she felt his words do something to her; she raised herself up on her elbow throwing her head back, feeling the wonderful, throbbing pleasure spill over her body in waves. She moaned some words, probably his name, feeling stunned and hot with fulfilment, her thighs trembling in his hands.

She fell on his cold bed, panting heavily, begging him to stop, but he made sure to lick her dry, as if he took unspeakable pleasure in her state and pleas.

He rose at last, breathing loudly, wiping his face, his eye wide open as if he couldn't believe what had just happened, with a quick, desperate movement he untied his breeches.

"Touch me." He muttered grabbing her hand; she squealed quietly when she saw for the first time what the erection of a man looked like. He tightened her fingers around its thick root, the tip of it pink and glistening, dripping from his own juices.

She breathed loudly, squeezing it with the kind of movements he was forcing on her with his palm, up and down, feeling it pulsing and twitching in her grasp, that it was swelling more and more, his breath erratic and heavy, full of desire.

"− fuck − fuck, come here −" He breathed out, grabbing her by her hair, pressing her lips to his in an aggressive, frantic, sticky kiss, tasting her own wetness on his palate, his hips rocking aggressively to the rhythm of her hand.

"− don't fucking stop − faster − fuck-fuck-fuck −" He hissed and groaned helplessly with some kind of immense relief, clenching his eye, his lips parted in pleasure; she squealed when she felt something wet spill out of him onto her nightgown, startling her completely.

He leaned in to kiss her, to reassure her.

"− easy, it's just me − shhh −" He whispered between one lazy, moist kiss of their lips and another, releasing her at last, her hand all sticky with his warm spend.

He ordered that nothing was to be wasted and that she was to lick it off, so she did so without a word of objection.

His seed was slightly salty and smelled like nothing she had felt before.

Like sin.

He watched her every move with satisfaction.

"− you are going to spend the night with me −" He commanded, and she nodded, not having the strength to oppose him or think about the consequences.

She didn't care.

"Mmm." He hummed contentedly, sighing quietly, pulling her by her arm along with him, laying down on his back, letting her embrace him.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she hugged her face to his chest, to where his heart was – his fingers began to stroke her hair, just as they had then, years ago.

He knew she loved it.

They lay in silence for a long time, their silhouettes surrounded only by the warm light of the fire burning in the distance.

"– I missed you –" She whispered at last and heard his hand freeze in stillness.

She was frightened that she had frustrated him and felt relieved when, a moment later, he placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, stroking her further with his warm palm.

It took a long time before he said anything, as if he needed to think it all over, to put it all back together in his head.

"Do you still wish to marry me?" He asked at last, apparently assuming that what the others were planning didn't matter and that he had to have a good understanding of what had happened between them, whether they wanted the same thing.

She lifted her head, looking at him already without fear – even though his gaze was cold and his face stern, she already knew what lurked underneath, that if he had built a wall around himself as a child, it was now a giant fortress separating him from everyone else that could not be taken by storm.

What they had done didn't change the fact that they still didn't know if they could trust each other.

"Yes." She whispered, tracing her fingers over the area underneath where his heart was beating. He looked at her for a moment, as if he wanted to make sure she was telling the truth, and then he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips, placing a warm, lingering kiss on it.

"− you have such big hands −" She whispered, looking in awe at the clearly defined lines of his veins. The inside of his palm was rough – she thought it was the fault of his daily holding of the sword.

"− they're not as delicate as yours − your skin feels like it's made of silk −" He murmured with some kind of admiration, gazing at the innocent play of their fingers brushing against each other in the air.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the sight, the elation and pain, thinking of all the years she had dreamed of him coming back for her, of telling her that he still loved her. She felt involuntarily tears under her eyelids and pressed her lips together, trying to hold them back, however to no avail.

They flowed down her cheeks one by one, and she felt her chest begin to vibrate as did her breathing. He glanced at her, hearing this and they looked at each other for a moment in silence.

He lifted his free hand and with a slow, tender movement of his thumb rubbed the moisture from her warm skin.

"Don't cry. Come here." He said lowly, grabbing her waist and pulling her close, his hand slipped into her hair hiding her face in the hollow of his neck, her bare breasts pressed against his chest.

She breathed quietly, focusing on his wonderful, familiar scent and the embrace in which, even though she shouldn't, she felt safe.

It seemed so right.

"Tomorrow, Luke will lose his rights to Driftmark. Justice will be done, and I will announce that our betrothal was never officially called off. We will marry in the tradition of our ancestors, ending at last these years of misery." He said calmly, as if he thought it was the only sensible thing to do – his hand trailed involuntarily through her hair and down her bare shoulder, but his mind was far from her.

She swallowed loudly and tensed all over hearing his words, words concerning her younger brother's inheritance which, after all, Corlys had passed on to him, obviously aware that they bore his name but were not of his blood.

He felt her hesitation immediately and began to breathe louder, his fingers digging warningly into the soft skin of her arm.

"Say something." He muttered in an anxious, trembling voice, but she didn't know what she was supposed to answer, her heart pounding like mad, tears welling up again in the corners of her eyes.

She thought with horror that she had made the mistake of assuming that the fact that he could forgive her meant that he could also forgive Luke.

She had noticed it then, in the courtyard, seeing the way he looked at her brother, but she preferred to push it deep into her consciousness, to pretend that it would all be easily resolved, that they would live together in peace and prosperity.

"What will you do if he doesn't lose his rights to Driftmark?" She asked quietly, feeling her voice tremble with every word she spoke.

This time it was his body that tensed all over; she heard him draw in air loudly, his heart pounding like mad under her hand.

"Is your mother-whore plotting something again? Hm?" He growled, gripping her cheeks painfully tight in his hand, forcing her to look at him in a sharp, aggressive motion.

She felt that familiar terror again, fear at the sight of madness, darkness and hatred lurking in his gaze.

"– n-no, I swear –" She whimpered with difficulty. She saw him tighten his lips, his nostrils quivering restlessly in a quick, laboured breath, his eye opened wide.

"Is she the one who sent you to me? To soften me up, to fucking distract me, to divert my attention?" He hissed with growing anger and a note of desperation, a sense of betrayal that escaped his throat as his fingers dug warningly into her skin.

She thought he had completely lost his mind.

Seeing her state, the way she said the words, his grip on her face softened, his thumb ran tenderly over her soft, tear-wet skin.

"– no, Aemond, she wants me to marry someone else, she doesn't know I'm here –" She cried helplessly, recognising that he could do whatever he wanted with her, beat her or kill her.

Nothing could change the fact that she was heartbroken.

"No. No, don't cry. Don't cry, my love. Don't cry." He whispered drawing her to him again and she burst out into loud sobs, seeking comfort in his arms; he kissed the top of her head again and again repeating that he believed her, that he just had to be sure.

Whatever would happen, the boy she knew had never been violent towards her.

"I would never hurt you." He whispered, and her words burst out of her mouth before she had time to think them through, full of pain and disappointment.

"You have done it now and you will do it again." She muttered lifting herself up, putting the sleeves of her nightgown over her breasts, wanting to lift herself off his bed. His hand clamped on her arm stopped her – he raised himself up on his elbow with her, however this time he was careful with how much force he used.

"No. I didn't mean to. Gods, I swear." He muttered, gripping her cheek in his palm, clearly wanting her to look at him, but she shook her head.

"You desire me, but you're not in love with me. You abhor me and whenever you forget that I can give you pleasure, you will hurt me." She choked out between sobs, getting up from his bed; he got up behind her, catching her waist, hugging her back.

She felt his warm, shaky breath on her skin, his hands quivering, his face pressed against her neck.

How could she be so blind, to think that after all this time he would look upon her as an equal?

"I have waited for you for so many years. Don't leave, it won't happen again." He muttered in a trembling, pleading voice.

She knew it was a lie, that he was desperate now, that if only he could be sure she wouldn't escape him, he would do whatever he wanted with her.

"You're right to think I was never worthy of you. Forgive me that you had to endure such humiliation because of me for so many years." She choked out in pain, pulling herself out of his embrace, walking out of his chamber, startling his guards, not caring if they told the Queen of her visit or not.

She returned to her quarters and threw herself on her bed, quivering and sobbing with despair breaking her heart, realising with pain that there was never any hope for them.

He did not love her.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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double--blind · 1 year ago

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(SPOILERS) Andrew and plausible deniability, OR: mfer doesn't wanna be held accountable for his actions

This has been churning in my head for a while (I am mentally ill 🥴), but a large part of the driving force behind Andy and his actions is his aversion to blame. He sorta shares this w/Ashley (she's got quite a few rants abt how things aren't her fault), but I believe Andrew takes it just a step further.

I've seen many say this before, but from the start of the game, you'll notice that even beyond normal moral quandaries, Andrew's first objection to any horrific action Ashley proposes is usually a variance of "what if we get caught?". He objects not bc her ideas are ethically repugnant, but bc they could be found out as having done them, and he knows rationally that others know they're bad. This goes as far back as childhood with the Nina incident. He fears punishment and the threat of prison more than he apparently worries about what his crimes might mean for him as a person or what they might mean for the people that might be affected by them (save him and Ashley). This doesn't mean he doesn't feel guilt or have nightmares abt them, but they're not his first priority. Trouble's a pain to deal with, and the dude's low-energy.

In fact, most of his guilt seems largely self-centered. Like, no exaggeration: if it isn't about either him or Ashley (which is, in a way, lowkey also about him), then he couldn't really care less. Do you recall him ever expressing worry or remorse on Nina's behalf? Mourning her? We think Ashley's the one w/empathy issues, but Andrew's in the same boat imo. Self-preservation and self-interest is all that's keeping him seemingly amiable enough for polite society, bc for the most part, he really couldn't be bothered.

In his dreams, the victims of their murders are just bodies: interchangeable, holding no more meaning beyond the fact that they're dead. Any corpse's limb will do to replace the one Ashley cooked—never mind that they may be from different people—bc they're all the same to him. Even Julia, sitting in her dorm room surrounded by evidence of Ashley's harassment, gets no sympathy from Andrew. For the most part, he elects to ignore it all, and regards Julia herself with a detached sorta nostalgia tinged in no small part with apathy.

img txt: You'll never see her again. And the fact that it doesn't really bother you, bothers you.

(The only things of notable worth from her were the colored pencils on her desk, which he promptly takes from her to give to Leyley instead, and isn't that just some crazy symbolism right there?)

His fear of punishment goes hand-in-hand with his desperate pursuit of plausible deniability. Everything he does, he does under certain self-imposed conditions. If it's Ashley's idea and he argues back, it doesn't matter in the end if he goes along with it, bc it was Ashley's idea in the first place. He's just there to make sure she doesn't get them in trouble, bc she needs him, bc he's gotta take care of her. Even if it's not her idea at all (e.g., killing the closet warden, killing the lady in room 302), it's still her fault, bc he did it for her, bc everything he does, he does for her.

Ashley's a manipulative, evil lil possessive gremlin w/a soul as black as tar, and Andy's a doormat, but don't think for a second that part of him doesn't use that dynamic a little to keep from reflecting on what he is. He suffocates under it, but he also relies on it. If there's any sort of plausible deniability available, he'll take it and run with it.

The truth of the matter is that they're both deeply toxic, warped individuals. The difference is that Ashley's owned up to it and quite frankly doesn't care. Andrew hasn't. He's the "normal" one.

Now, for the funky incest part (what we're all here for babyyyyy)—

We've all seen the flavor text abt the bed-sharing by now, right?

img txt: Oh yeah, you tooootally have nightmares as often as you claim.

We know for a fact that aside from some light teasing, maybe, Ashley would have no problem whatsoever with sharing a bed w/Andrew. Heck, she'll coax him into bed (demo) or climb onto the couch with him (ep 2) w/o any prompting from him whatsoever, just bc she feels like it. Andrew, apparently, can't do the same. He doesn't allow himself this intimacy of his own choosing, so he has to lie and pretend to get it if he wants it. He's greedy for her, too, but he can't let himself show it.

If something is sufficiently too intimate in his eyes, beyond anything he can excuse away for some reason or another, then he'll stop himself from doing it. Just like how he wouldn't let himself succumb to the urge of pulling Ashley into his arms to make her smile, but is willing to give her a hug when she asks for it in front of their parents.

He insists on the extra expense of two beds, and then cites his nightmares and panic attacks as the driving force behind crawling into bed w/her, bc then it isn't really his fault now, is it? He tried to stay away, after all. He did! He just didn't have a choice!

Lol

Andrew can't admit to wanting this—buries those feelings and thoughts as deep as he can so they fester and bleed, the repressed idiot—so he gives Ashley all the power to decide how close they get. It's in Ashley's hands. He's free of that hassle.

Which is why the post-sex vision, and Ashley's reaction to it, is so dangerous. @csg-iii made a good point about it in my last post:

img txt: I think the biggest point about "11" is that Andrew asks/begs Ashley for reassurance that it will never happen ("never say never"). It's a subtle admission that if she really wants it to happen, he knows he won't be able to resist his own urges. His only ""hope"" of avoiding going there is if Ashley doesn't want it.

Andrew, in absolving himself of this choice and putting it in Ashley's hands, shoots himself in the foot, bc what if Ashley goes the whole mile? Then the only real thing keeping his desires unrealized was the fact that they had never been voiced as an option before.

He doesn't want to think of himself as someone who'd bone his own sister. Forget being a cannibal, demon summoner, or a murderer; those titles were foisted upon him. This is too close to something real that he carries inside him; this isn't anything Ashley's buried in him, but rather something of his own invention. Something he'll definitely have to take responsibility for.

#the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal #coffincest #andrew graves #txt post #yeah......... I'm rambling again sorry guys #character analysis

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randomness-is-my-order · 11 months ago

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the pjo show’s cinematography is so warm and homey and clever and detail-oriented so i wanna compile a few of my favourite still shots because why not??

^this one had me smiling so hard, not because it’s a particularly beautiful shot but the framing of the three is so well done. the focus is on sally who is talking to grover (both prominently in the front of the shot) while percy – who isn’t a part of the conversation but a listener of it – is still properly visible through the glass of the door and like??? i just think it’s a super cool way of having a passive character in the shot that i haven’t ever seen before, in a way that percy is both highlighted and still so clearly in the background that it doesn’t take away from the focus characters. also percy’s sweater matching the colours on the door is the cherry on top!!

^next is this one. it’s so perfectly angsty and though not complete, the symmetry is still eye-catching. it encapsulates the feeling percy must experience in that moment–him, amidst destruction, knowing he’s the cause but not knowing how or why. he looks all of twelve with his haphazard hoodie and almost forlorn look. he is not gloating, he is not cheerful. though he doesn’t know the gravity of his parentage, it’s almost like the show is telling us that his powers–which cause the door to break, too btw–will always be a source of isolation for percy. he is a force of nature, a destructive one most of the time, and the fact that he is just a child who is confused will never matter because this world doesn’t care for childhood but godhood alone.

idk, this shot just evokes a very unsettling kind of sadness for me. i think it’s beautifully framed.

^i absolutely love this one simply for the fact that the sheer struggle of the fight is so prominently visible. and yes, i cheated, this isn’t exactly a still shot but like an action sequence screenshot but whatever, it’s too good to not mention it here. the way percy is, honest to gods, bracing against the spear for his dear life, the evident and overwhelming rage on clarisse’s face, the blocking of the scene – it’s perfect. clarisse is not playing and percy is genuinely in danger and i love how this shot and the whole scene really sold us on that fact.

^ i just think it’s extremely cool that we can see the minotaur howling in pain, percy having his mouth wide open as if he’s letting out a yell as he goes to plunge the horn and that as percy does this act–killing the minotaur–which is surefire source of safeguarding himself and grover, something that will get him to camp, we can see thalia’s tree in the background. there is no reason percy had to make the kill here, with the chaos of the fight, so the fact that this is the spot and this is the shot as he kills the minotaur makes me think it’s deliberate. having thalia in the background is so impactful because again, percy could have met a similar fate in some other alternate universe but here, he wins and he survives.

^ do i even need to explain??? the shot is pretty and beautiful and almost magical. percy, alone with a tin of fire, burning blue food and talking to his mother. maybe one thing i can point out is that the sally-percy bond has been heavily indicated through glowing lights since the start. if you recall, the “you are not broken” speech by sally was given in front of the warm, glowing headlights of the car and percy’s face was illuminated by that warmth just the same way it is illuminated by the tin-fire in the forest.

^ first, this is too fucking gorgeous. second, percy is wearing his red jacket again and this dream happened after he reached camp so in my opinion, this dream was initially a comfortable imagining of percy’s mind and was then hijacked by kronos but i could be wrong since i don’t clearly remember how they manifested in the books originally. nevertheless, it’s a great detail to have him wear the red jacket because even if he may not have it with him anymore, it’s still clearly something he holds dear – and might associate sally’s memories with.

also, the fact that percy seems to have alot of scenes with fire might be because as someone who can control water, fire can never truly be a source of danger for him and therefore, he can find comfort in its warmth unhindered, always?

^ how could i not love this epic moment? the trident is perfect, big and blue and grand and majestic. half the screen is water, obviously. but what makes this good shot a great one is that there is literally no one else directly near percy except annabeth. the campers are all far away and in this shot itself only annabeth remains close to percy, though she is fittingly on the land, observing the scene before her. remember how i said percy’s legacy promises isolation but this shot tells me that despite that, percy will have someone who he can count on to be by his side (also cool that even in the bathroom, annabeth was technically still near him, even if she was, well, stalking him) and maybe this is my delusional ass talking, but annabeth being here is foreshadowing for me. i just think it’s a choice to have this epic revelation where they could easily have had percy standing alone in the middle of the lake but no, annabeth is also there and not only because she’s the one who led to that revelation but because she’s someone who isn’t intimidated by percy’s parentage and still can be beside him.

^ i adore this shot because 1) it shows us just how young and tiny percy is and 2) it tells us that maybe that door is so fucking huge because it’s being inclusive of centaurs and other giants of their world. also, symmetry strikes again!!! the colours are so well balanced, not bright and vibrant but on the pastel side that indicates an aged feel to them.

and lastly,

^ i just find it funny that a private academy like yancy has an official vehicle that looks as beat up and terribly malfunctioning as this. 😭 like this half van was so out of place i literally goggled at the screen when it first appeared.

okay, i’m done for now. i also really liked the faceless sally scene in the start paralleling medusa’s eventual beheading but i already made a post about it. this legitmately only covers about 10% of the shots i wanted to talk about but these might be my favourites. this was long af so if you read the whole thing, mad respect to you.

#percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy pjo #pjo #pjo fandom #pjo series #pjo tv show #pjo tv adaptation #walker scobell #pjo tv series #leah jeffries #cinemetography #direction #pjo tv spoilers #annabeth percy jackson #percabeth

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verysium · 1 year ago

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『03』ブルーロック: blue lock recs

冴糸師: sae itoshi

lost to time by @syriiina

nostalgia. it’s delicate but potent. “nostalgia” literally means “the pain from an old wound” in greek. it’s the twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone – a feeling of a place where we ache to go again. but in sae’s case, it’s the painful ache in his chest to return to someone that’s already been buried by the sands of the past; the yearning for someone that’s already been lost to time. notes: this fic emotionally destroyed me; heavy angst paired with audio recordings; basically the most gut-wrenching combination ever; smooth chronological plot development; encapsulates the dichotomous pain and pleasure of love; i felt like my heart was healing and hurting at the same time

merry go round by @syriiina

what if you were given another chance? another chance to say all the things you’ve wanted to say, cry all the tears you couldn’t and hear the voice of the person you’ve cherished all your life? sae itoshi was given that chance. just one more chance for your birthday that he’ll never get to spend with you. just another chance at goodbye. notes: at this point this author needs to pay for my therapy; examining the process of grief; almost dreamy and hallucination-inducing atmosphere; idea of letting go; new beginnings; childhood nostalgia; sequel to first fic

to my first love / to my last love by @by-moonflower

when you agreed to date itoshi sae in mid-october of 1993, you never imagined he'd be your first love—whose presence would continue to linger in your life, hauntingly, even if a year, two, or ten came to pass. notes: high school sweethearts to exes to lovers again; examines insecurities of girlhood; idea of love being a process of trying and trying again; reader discovers herself before she discovers others; happy ending; pre-2000s nostalgia; montage/vignette style

come out and haunt me by @alaboadoa

sae is 13 years old when he moves to madrid. his temporary apartment is old and cheap, and worst of all it's haunted. but he finds your company better than nothing, even if you do tend to knock all of his belongings over. notes: incredibly well-written study of sae’s character especially as a pre-teen; honestly would've never expected a ghost AU; this author has such a beautiful mind; finding commonality in exclusion and lack of belonging; a unique rendition of right person, wrong time; loving someone but still not being enough

hungry hearts by @sanzu-sanzu-sanzu

You are Itoshi Sae’s Manager. Fielder of dumb reporter questions and keeper of his schedule. Among many others. notes: their dynamic reminds me of miguel and lyla from the spiderverse or that one kdrama about secretary kim; sae denying that he is in love yet noticing every little detail about reader; their witty banter is so funny; gradual realization of feelings; honestly i think this is how canon sae would fall in love

find love by @tenjiiku

“Mama?” “Yes, little bunny?” You call her by such a name because when she was a toddler she had somewhat of an obsession with playing leap frog with others. The original pet name had been little frog, but it had caused a rather large tantrum, so you never used such a term with her. Her father suggested it. It was the only thing he made that you still used. notes: i don't even need a rec to tell you how good this is; nuanced portrayal of divorce; honestly hit too close to home; idea of marriage not being endgame; slight hint of second-chance romance; love that never fades; sae being emotionally oblivious; for the hopeless romantics

the hanshin expressway by @tenjiiku

He remembers how sad you had looked — gentle, sweet and kindhearted you. And he remembers feeling the urge to hold you. Because it was the first time he voluntarily felt such a gripping emotion. He recalls the way your nimble fingers trembled around your second mug of jasmine tea, and he looks back on the way you turned to him with a forced smile, as if it was the easiest thing to do — to bear yourself and all of your little idiosyncrasies in front of him, no walls, no windows. Just you and him. You, reprimanded for your selfless displays of kindness. Him, admonished for his lack of expressing his. It was hard not to let himself fall into you. notes: literally even the premise of this fic is not for the weak; amnesia tropes are the death of me; prose is so tender and beautiful; sae being the one who now teaches the reader how to love; role reversal; reliving grief; idea of being unable to equate the past and present versions of the person you love; people change and you are helpless to stop it; being unable to return to what once was

rezkinoff / prelude by @tenjiiku

07.01. It is the first day of my break. I am going to journal both my fitness levels and caloric intake because my nutritionist has told me to. I will also note a daily observation so as to look back on my time with certainty that I have spent it properly and because you have told me to. Today’s observation: the heels of my feet are growing calluses and I found a single strand of white hair, still on my head. I need better shoes and hair dye. Perhaps something is in the water. — Itoshi. S notes: one of the most authentic portrayals of sae’s character; sae being emotionally inept but slowly learning; aging but as a graceful process; daily observations of life; the epistolary style makes it a smooth reading experience; ambiguous enough for interpretation

us, again by @ode2rin

in which: itoshi sae returns to the only place on earth he vows to never set foot again. notes: one of the best second-chance romance fics out there; i still think about this fic at night; just the right balance of hurt and comfort; sae and reader both messing it up and finding each other again; dilemma of both loving and hating a person; has a coffee shop scene and a dramatic airport reunion so what is there not to like

scraps by @itoshiexx

you give him all you have. it's time to collect the scraps before there is nothing left. notes: short but packs the most brutal emotional punch at the end; idea of love not being enough; sae pushing reader away; miscommunication; hurt people hurt people; giving up on someone you love most; falling out of love

conversations by @saerins

he’s back home, and you recall the times you’d spoken to him. all the calls you made, then all the calls he made, and then all the times it went to voicemail. notes: i was having a good day until i read this and started violently sobbing; honestly it's a pretty accurate reflection of fame and the troubles it brings for both you and sae; the voicemails crushed something within me; i was grieving for a relationship that never existed; please read when you want a good cry; thank god for the alternate ending here

do stars return? by @hanyjar

your childhood friend leaves, and you question if he’ll ever come back. notes: the way that i ate this shit up with no crumbs. sae itoshi and star metaphors go hand in hand. picture this: you and sae grow up and then he leaves you and then he comes back again. now amplify that and add childhood angst and a sprinkle of poetic language. you're welcome.

凛糸師: rin itoshi

the first snow by @tenjiiku

It’d take him 3 lonely nights for Rin to admit to himself he wanted to see you again. He wonders if he torments you as much as you do him. notes: two-shot that changed the trajectory of my life; this author absolutely nails the slice of life genre every single time; finding beauty in the mundane; realistic depictions of modern love; somewhat slow-burn; dialogue and internal conscience are beautifully written

riptide by @misssleepless12

Concerned with how things were left after U-20, Isagi goes to visit Rin before the end of break. They address it. Sort of. notes: not necessarily a rinsagi shipper but this fic has a stunningly accurate portrayal of MLM romance; no sense of false idealism or over-romanticization; rin and isagi’s natural dynamic is perfectly captured; strong imagery and cultural setting of kamakura; rin’s sarcasm is on point

カイザ: michael kaiser

five dates and a proposal by @by-moonflower

all it takes is five dates for kaiser to fall in love with you and you in him, much to your surprise. notes: this fic actually made me believe in love; strong female character; fear of love and gradual opening up; basically what it feels like to fall in love with someone you never thought you’d actually love; realistic depiction of insecurities

color me blue by @saekkas

in which you need to wrestle your boyfriend, michael kaiser, out of his bed to fulfill a promise: re-dye his hair. notes: domestic fluff; michael being childishly cute; imperfections as perfections; heart-warming snapshot of established couple life; never fails to make me smile when i reread it

#fic recs #bllk #blue lock x reader #blue lock #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #sae x reader #rin itoshi #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader #michael kaiser #kaiser x reader

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azukiel · 1 year ago

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Nightfall Heir Chapter 1

🔞 MDNI 🔞 NSFW

Warnings (as a whole): Explicit sexual content, Graphic descriptions of violence, PTSD, Angst, Blood kink, Kidnapping, Pregnancy and Childbirth

⭐Here is the story on Archive of Our Own ⭐

Summary: Two years have passed since the events surrounding the destruction of the Absolute. Baldur's Gate is slowly rebuilding itself from the rubble, and you and your companions have established yourselves within the city to help in its restoration.

You and your vampiric lover, Astarion, had been nigh inseparable since coming back together. Yet a certain turn of events saw to your kidnapping and then... to your unexpected pregnancy.

🔥Comments and reblogs are much appreciated! 🔥

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you lay in Astarion’s arms, you relished in the bliss that coddled your heart.

Alas, your mind wandered. It had not always been like this.

Blissful.

Your memories vividly recalled the time you had first laid with him, the time where the soft glow of fireflies had danced in the air, casting shadows that whispered secrets into the grass beneath you. The subsequent times thereafter had also been a symphony of sensations - feverish rustling of bedsheets, and the intoxicating scents of his cologne mingled with the musky aromas of passion. Back then, Astarion had always assured you that your very essence would be enveloped in a euphoric blend of pleasure and ecstasy. However, beneath the surface of those passionate encounters lay a web of deception. Your trysts had been nothing more than a meticulously crafted facade, a mask to conceal the collective traumas that haunted you both. Astarion had sought protection and trust from you, while you had yearned for a semblance of true companionship and belonging from him.

Still, the scars you both carried were etched into your souls, impossible to conceal. They were etched into the very fabric of your beings, leaving invisible wounds that refused to heal.

You flinched at the painful recollections as you looked up again at his peaceful, sleeping face. Closing your eyes for a moment, you took in a deep breath. His scents of bergamot, rosemary and aged brandy eloped you with a warmth like a midsummer’s kiss. His enchanting perfume restored a sense of peace. Yet, the darkness that still lingered in the back of your mind clawed its way into your consciousness once more.

Shuddering, you pressed yourself harder against his body to shield yourself, and though, in his sleep, he tightened his arms around you, you felt your walls again crumble. As the salt of your tears stung at the corners of your eyes, your unscrupulous mind continued to ravish your heart…

You were flung back to your childhood, vividly recalling the relentless barrage of blows, the sound of bones cracking, the scathing verbal assaults, and the relentless condemnations. The overpowering stench of sweat and blood used to fill your nostrils as you were forced to confront opponents far stronger than yourself, all for the perverse amusement of the masses... enduring unspeakable torment that had assaulted your body and mind alike. Such was the brutal reality of the Drow society that had shaped your upbringing. And yet, your tortures were not so different to that of which your lover had suffered at the hands of his old tormentor, Cazador.

The torment you had both endured had left deep scars, which had resulted in your eventual separation. The memory of it lingered, triggering a silent sob from you. In the past, you and Astarion had made the mutual decision to remain ‘just companions,’ driven by guilt over having used each other as shields for your sufferings. It had seemed like the ideal solution, a way to aid in healing. But unbeknownst to either of you, it had only exacerbated the anguish, a truth you both refused to acknowledge, even to yourselves.

At least, not until the events in Cazador's gloomy prison had unfolded.

Your mind, shrouded in darkness, conjured up a vivid and haunting replay of the events...

Your heart had been torn asunder as you had watched Astarion confront his old, wicked master. The anguish inflicted upon Astarion had been unbearable, a raw wound visible in your eyes. Alas, the hunger for power had consumed him, a voracious appetite for ascension that had wrapped around him like a suffocating web. In a mere breath, the Astarion you had known and loved had vanished. The vibrant essence of the witty, sassy, and flamboyant Elven vampire you cherished had been replaced by a feral beast. The sight of his former slaver, now succumbed, bloodied and kneeling, blurred the line between captor and captive.

You recall having exerted every ounce of your strength, having plead with Astarion to resist the seductive pull of power, to spare the lives of the countless thralls and spawn. The weight of this decision had threatened to consume his true self, which would have rendered him unrecognizable. Unimaginable sorrow had consumed you as you had contemplated the magnitude of such a loss.

The anguished cries that had escaped him as he struck down Cazador had reverberated through your being, threatening to shatter your very core. Even though Astarion had eventually yielded to your pleas, a deep resentment had grown within him towards you.

Your mind then shifted to when you and your companions had returned to the Elvensong Tavern nigh your vampiric companion. Your body had trembled uncontrollably, with tears streaming down your face, your sobs wracking your entire being. The weight of your despair had felt like an unbearable burden, threatening to consume you entirely. You remember the painful pounding of your heart in your chest, the rhythm deafening in your ears, and your breath coming in ragged gasps as you struggled to regain control. Halsin’s sudden powerful embrace had provided a sense of stability, and his firm hold had offered a sense of security that you had desperately needed in that moment. He was, in fact, the only companion strong enough to hold your arms to prevent you from burning down the place in your despair. You recalled the surrounding room blurring as your vision had become clouded by tears; the world reduced to a haze of pain and anguish.

The others, your companions, had surrounded you, and eventually their presence had become a comfort amidst the chaos. Their words of reassurance and support had washed over you, their soothing voices attempting to ease the torment that had consumed your mind. Though their words had been barely audible through the fog of your despair, their presence alone provided a sense of unity and shared strength.

Sighing inwardly as you nestled yourself in the crook of Astarion’s shoulder, you remembered that back in that tavern on that night, time had seemed to lose all meaning to you. You had continued to tightly cling to Halsin as he cradled you, and your body had gradually succumbed to exhaustion.

After what had felt like an endless stretch of time, Astarion had finally returned. You recall that the room had been dimly lit by then, and the dancing candle light had cast long shadows on the worn wooden floor. You had heard the faint echoes of his fervent apologies, his voice trembling with remorse. The weight of his rage, which had been directed solely at you, had torn through your heart like a sharp knife. Truly, you hadn’t blamed him. It had been a battle within himself, a struggle to maintain control. Nevertheless, it had still shattered your already delicate heart and mind.

And then you recollected, amidst the heaviness of the situation, he having expressed his gratitude. The words had hung in the air as he had thanked you for rescuing him from the brink of losing his very self. You had saved him from becoming a reflection of the one he despised most in the world. Cazador Szarr.

Late that same night, under the glowing moonlight, he had guided you through the calm silence of the local cemetery. After having reached a secluded plot, he had unveiled a tombstone that had been crafted for him upon his ‘death’ as a mortal elf. The tombstone had stood there, adorned with weathered vines, a testament to the passaging of two long centuries. The air surrounding you both had carried a hint of mustiness and an earthy scent, mingling with the faint aroma of decaying leaves. A chilling breeze had whispered through the graveyard, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Astarion’s voice had broken the silence then, and he described how this tombstone represented not only the end of his previous life in Cazador’s clutches, but also the death of the creature he could have become had he ascended. In that moment, he had realised he was no longer a mere spawn, but finally, truly free.

And as he often reminded you, even now, it had all been because of your unwavering perseverance, infinite patience, and resolute devotion. Your enduring devotion to him. For that, he had fallen profoundly for you and had not hesitated to confess his adoration right in front of his grave. He had not hesitated to guide you down onto the mound of earth, where your bodies soon intertwined with an intense fervour, either.

You remembered the fierce emotions that had flooded your body. Every touch and every caress from Astarion had sent shivers down your spine, electrifying your skin and loins with an unbearable ecstasy. The air around you had seemed to crackle with an intoxicating energy, as if the gods themselves had acknowledged the depth of your connection.

Your breath had hitched with each movement, the anticipation coursing through your veins. The taste of passion had lingered on your lips as a mix of desire and a hint of rebellion. The gritty texture of the earth beneath you had only heightened the rawness of the moment, grounding you in the physicality of your love.

You bit your bottom lip with the memories which now overwhelmed your senses. You felt it all again. With each feverish thrust, the passion had intensified. The heat between your bodies had grown to burning new heights and had wrapped you both in a cocoon of shared desire. Astarion’s touch had ignited a fire within you as his hands had explored every inch of your body with a frenzied hunger. The world around you then had faded into a blur, leaving only the two of you entangled in a dance of unbridled passion.

In that moment, the boundaries of time and place had ceased to exist. Moans and gasps had mingled in the air, a symphony of pleasure and longing as you had moved together with an unspoken understanding.

It had been just you and him in that graveyard, your souls entwined as one. The world could have crumbled around you once again, yet you would have remained oblivious, lost in the sheer intensity of your love.

You trembled at the memory of the last echoes of ecstasy fading away, and the intense heat between your thighs after he had filled you. You had found solace in the knowledge that your devotion had been reciprocated with equal fervor.

As your mind floated back to your present time, you shivered again at the sudden delicious tingle at your junction, a soft moan escaping your lips. You froze, glancing up at your sleeping lover, hoping you had not been loud enough to stir him, but he was as still as the tombstone that adorned his grave. Which brought your salacious thoughts back to that night. That night had cemented your relationship once and for all. He was now yours and you were now his and the both of you had been inseparable since that night two years ago.

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate fanfiction #astarion daddy #Astarion as a daddy #Astarion and Tav have a child #Nightfall heir #bg3 #dadstarion #astarion x halsin x tav #astarion x dark urge #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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justwinginglife · 4 months ago

Note

Hi! I absolutely loveeeee your writing!!! Hopefully you’re still doing requests hehe…

Maybe reader and Hoshina were childhood bffs and then the reader’s family sent her abroad (maybe to serve in another county’s defense force???) but now she’s back in Japan and assigned to the Third Division. And ofc they still make an amazing team and know each other by heart and maybeeeee some feelings start to rise now that they’re adults and all that???

HELLO I'm so happy you love my writing! Of COURSE I'm still doing requests, I'm having too much fun with everyone's prompts so thank you for sending me more suggestions!

No Matter The Distance

You were dreaming of Soshiro again. This time you recalled the memory of when you were eight and you'd tripped and scraped your knees so he carried you home on his back. You were such a crybaby back then. You nearly soaked his shoulder, sobbing from the pain. He sang to you the whole way home so you'd focus on his voice and not your bleeding knees. He surprisingly sang rather well.

"Sing to me again." You mumbled in your sleep as you rolled over onto your side. "I like when you sing... to me..."

When you woke up in the morning, he was neither singing to you nor carrying you, in fact, he wasn't even in the same country as you. It was a rude awakening every time and you still hadn't gotten used to it.

You knew it was naive of you to cling to memories from your past, but when you relived them every night it didn't seem so long ago. But now that you counted, it had been about six years since you'd seen him. You'd known each other since preschool and you'd parted ways when you both turned 18. Your parents thought you'd make a better life for yourself in America so you were shipped overseas, never to see his smiling face again.

You wondered if he dreamed about you too. You wondered if he was even the same person you remembered. It'd been over half a decade- a lot could change. You hoped he was still the same. You knew that was naive too.

You try to quit sulking and you finish getting ready for work. You clock in at 0800 and report for duty. You are surprised to find that your commanding officer has been waiting for you to arrive. She takes in the sight of you as if it's the last time she'll see you. Then she smiles. "Good morning Vice Captain."

You nod to her. "Cap'n. Mornin'. What're all the long looks for?"

Her weight shifts and she clears her throat. "Well, it seems the General has made an alliance with the Japan Anti-Kaiju Defense Force and as a show of good faith, he's sending one of our best soldiers to their side."

You raise an eyebrow. "The Director General himself? Who could be important enough from our team that he'd send so far across the seas?"

She coughs.

OH.

"Maybe, I don't know, the youngest female to make Vice Captain in the shortest amount of time? Maybe someone with, I don't know, Japanese background?"

Yup.

You can't decide if you're honored, nervous, scared, or excited. You haven't been back home in so long. Will it still be the same? The same restaurants, the same stores, the same people. Will they still be waiting for you?

"You fly out at 1200."

Your brows furrow. "You're giving me 4 hours to pack up all my things and say goodbye to everyone? That's ridiculous."

She nods sympathetically. "I know. But he wants to get this show on the road, it seems."

You sigh. "Alright. I'll head back to my place, please assemble the squad before I go so I can give everyone my best wishes."

You pack up your entire apartment in two hours. You have less things than you thought you did. You guess that some small subconscious part of you kept you from collecting too many things that would keep you grounded here. Maybe you always knew you'd return home.

It takes even less time to say bye to everyone. You're ready to ship out in just under three hours and the pilot shrugs, saying you're his only passenger anyway and he can afford to leave early. The Director General lent you his private plane after all.

You can't do anything about your nerves so you make the best of this trip, ordering lavish foods while you read. Your favorite book is one that Soshiro bought for you and the ink from the personal message he wrote on the inside of the front cover is so faded from you constantly rubbing your thumb over it nostalgically.

Soshiro. You'll be there soon.

You sleep through most of the flight. You dream about him again, to no one's surprise at this point.

This time you're both 17, you both snuck out of training together to attend a typical high school party. You were in agreement that the two of you wanted one normal high school experience before you both went off and joined the Defense Force and became stiff, disciplined officers. Of course, you'd tease Soshiro that you couldn't see him ever being stiff or disciplined.

Anyway, you'd been playing spin the bottle and Soshiro's spin landed on you and the both of you ended up in a closet together.

"Well this is a stupid game." He grumbled as he searched for the light to the closet. He would never make you do anything against your will and he found it ridiculous that that's exactly what this game was made for.

But you didn't find it ridiculous. You found it lucky. Your heart was beating loudly in your chest. You grabbed his hand before it reached the light switch and you kissed him in the dark.

He hesitated and then he kissed you back, gently pressing you up against the wall.

When someone knocked on the door seven minutes later, he locked the door and stayed in there with you until he was ready to leave. He must've known if the two of you stepped outside, you'd both go back to acting like nothing happened. Like you had plenty of time to figure out these messy feelings of yours. But neither of you could predict that you wouldn't even be in the same country as him a month later, so you both kept ducking the topic and pushing your feelings for each other down. And then it was too late.

Six years too late, you thought to yourself as your eyes fluttered open. The plane was descending. You were arriving in Japan as last.

You wondered who you'd be serving under and if Soshiro would be in the same platoon. The JAKDF had several divisions, it wasn't guaranteed that you'd even be in the same one as him. You'd been told that the position of Vice Captain had been recently opened at one of the Divisions and you were there to fill that spot. You'd do your best to fill the shoes of whoever came before you and make your team back in America proud.

As you step out of the plane you're greeted by your new teammates in the Third Division. Your eyes scan the crowd and they finally find the person they're looking for.

Your breath catches in your throat and you freeze on the last step of the plane.

He holds a hand out to you to help you down all the way.

"Welcome to the Third Division. I'm Captain Hoshina."

You take his hand and step down the last stair. You don't let go of his hand even when he's introducing you to the troops. You think this might be you dreaming about him again and you don't dare let go just in case.

He doesn't seem to mind. He keeps a firm grip on you and when you've finally greeted everyone he tells them he needs to discuss more matters with you privately.

The two of you enter his office and he closes the door behind him. Before you can speak, he's wrapped you up in a warm hug. "Vice Captain, huh? Impressive." He whispers, still holding you close.

You close your eyes and just soak in his voice. "Not as impressive as you- Captain Hoshina. And here I always thought I'd beat you to Captain when we were kids."

He chuckles and the familiar rumble of his laughter makes your heart skip several beats. He releases you from his arms so he can get a good look at you, but he still holds your hands tight in his. "I really never thought I'd see you again. And look at you now. Gorgeous as ever."

You blush. "Still cheeky I see."

He grins widely. "Still me. Always."

You're relieved. He doesn't seem to have changed at all, just gotten a little taller. And a little more... you gulp, a lot more muscular. You didn't realize it when he was holding you close because you were so focused on the way he smelled and the way he sounded. But now that you were getting a full view of him, you could see the efforts of his training peeking through his shirt. You blush deeper. Thank god he's a little dense and doesn't notice. He's just excited to see you again, he doesn't care if you're flushed or not.

"Hey- dinner on me later? We can go to that diner we liked." He nudges your arm.

You smile. "Yeah? I'm game, especially if you're buying."

He walks you to your room and then leaves you alone to unpack your things. You wish he wouldn't go but you know he has a division to run.

"Captain." You say to yourself, shaking your head. You hoped he would be in the same division as you, but you never could've imagined he'd be working this closely with you. You'll have to pay a visit to the shrine later and thank the gods.

You finish unpacking and you meet Soshiro for dinner in the cutest outfit you can find. You wonder if he'll notice.

He notices.

"So you don't wear the combat suit 24/7?" He teases.

You roll your eyes thinking he's not going to say anything else but then he looks away for a moment.

"You, um... you look real good."

You wonder where his confidence from earlier went. He can get away with calling you gorgeous but now here he is making the word "good" look difficult. You almost laugh.

He opens the door to the restaurant for you and then when you're led to a table, he pulls the chair out for you. You don't remember him being such a gentleman but he was still a teenager last time you saw him. It seems he has grown some after all.

As you eat dinner, you fall back into old rhythms- you steal food off of his plate and he does the same to yours. You even sword fight him with your chopsticks and he laughs the same familiar laugh that you love so much.

Then the drinks start to hit harder and the air seems to change between the two of you.

"So listen..." He starts, cautiously. He seems to get caught up in his own thoughts because he doesn't finish his sentence.

"I'm listening." You nudge him.

He gives you a small, pinched smile. "I don't know how to say this actually." He admits.

You wonder if he's thinking what you're thinking, but it's been so long you can't be sure. "You can say anything to me, you know that." You try to reassure him so that he continues.

He sighs. "Do you... remember going to a party? Back in high school?"

Ah. So he is thinking the same thing as you. You nod slowly.

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Do you... remember what happened at that... party?"

You nod again, your cheeks starting to heat up at the thought of that mind-blowing kiss.

"It's just... we never... we never talked about it. And then you were just gone- just like that. And I know it's stupid to be bringing it up again so many years later, but you're the exact same as you've always been and I'm the same as I've always been and I just thought..." He trails off.

"You just thought...?" You lean in, hoping to god he finishes his sentence.

"I just thought... maybe now we could... talk about it? If-if you wanted."

"Okay, what do you have to say about it?"

He laughs at that. "Boy, you really don't make this easy do you? You never have."

"Sorry. I'll go first then, okay?"

He nods and waits for you to speak.

"I regretted it for six years."

He winces.

You backtrack. "Wait, sorry that's not how it was supposed to come out. Now you're making this hard."

You both laugh. Then he takes your hand.

"I think what you meant to say was you regretted leaving it the way we did?"

You nod. You're glad he's still able to understand you so well even after all these years.

"I do too. I thought, god, if I could just get one chance to tell her how I felt I'd do it. And now you're here and I'm stumbling over my words. But I need to say this. Because I can't wait another six years for you to find out that I love you. Because I love you. Always did, and still do."

You start to cry before you even realize it's happening. He immediately rushes over to your side of the table to brush the tears away.

"Hey, hey, did I say something wrong? Tell me. What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

You can't figure out how to put the words together properly so you kiss him. He kisses you back more intensely than he did back then and you wish you can just freeze time so he can keep kissing you like this. Then he pulls away.

"You know, love, I like the way you're thinking but you still haven't given me an official answer."

You laugh. "I love you too- I should think it was obvious."

"Some of us only have half the brain that you do and need verbal confirmation."

"You got that right." You tease.

He wraps you up tight in his arms.

"So does this make us boyfriend-girlfriend?" He asks in his best "high schooler" voice, grinning like an idiot from ear to ear.

You roll your eyes. "Take me to the prom and we'll see about that."

He laughs. "Just let me date you already damnit."

You kiss him again.

"Was that a yes?"

You nod.

"Okay, again, I'm just checking."

#kaiju no. 8 #soshiro hoshina #soshiro hoshina x reader #oneshot #anime #hoshina #hoshina x reader #anime fanfic #fluff

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silverzoomies · 9 months ago

Text

Cunning Linguist

pietro maximoff x reader smut

warnings: cunnilingus, porn with (slight) plot, blow jobs, dissociative identity disorder, dissociation, existential crisis, smut, shameless smut, halloween, canon divergence

word count: 3,990

a/n: i meant to finish this ages ago. but i always overthink shit. i rewrote this several times, and it still doesn't feel worth posting. oh well !! just meaningless filth - same old story, different clothing. i wanted to play with the concept of pietro as an alter in ralph's head. again. lol

he's a little ooc here. but i'm blaming the brain fog. i'm running on three hours of sleep every night. fuck it, we ball. also, not including a tag list because tumblr's system kinda sucks for it. sorry !!

Pietro recalled the moment his consciousness came to light.

Agnes waved her spooky hands in his face, as though she were taunting him. She muttered incantations under her breath. The words of which Pietro didn’t recognize as English. After implanting sentimental memories in his mind - based on stories of Wanda’s childhood - she sent him off on his own. Like letting a dog loose, free to roam.

Pietro’s mission? Find Wanda, have a gabfest or two, extract information. Or something along those lines. Pietro hadn’t paid much attention while Agnes yapped about it. Why focus on that, when the mystery of his own sentience piqued his interest instead?

He was given an easy enough job to do. No problem-o. Pietro had a talent for pestering people til’ they cracked. That’s what Agnes told him, anyway. He wasn’t too sure why she wanted him to play undercover rat. It had something to do with magic. Pietro knew that much. There was some kinda witch-on-witch rivalry in the works. But unfortunately for Agnes - and maybe fortunately for Wanda - she might have to take a raincheck on her duel of the sorceresses.

Pietro could be a bit of a dipshit. Was he stupid? Not so much. He had brains where it counted. He could be crafty. Even sneaky. But his expert level slyness didn’t make him any less of an idiot. Pietro couldn’t refute that factoid about himself. Around Wanda, he forgot how to function like a normal person. Which he blamed on the fact that he wasn’t a normal person. Being brutally honest with himself; Pietro technically wasn’t even a person at all.

More like a conceptual incarnation of human sentience, really. Simple enough.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it, though - Pietro carried the irksome flaws of a human. Often, he acted thoughtless when he didn’t mean to. Without filtering himself first, Pietro unapologetically spoke his mind. He’d drop fourth-wall breaking quips here or there. Sometimes, his careless habits made for entertaining slip ups. Perfect for sitcom shenanigans. Other times, his blunders resulted in pain. Lotsa pain.

Halloween night, Pietro found himself whisked away by a forceful wave. Conjured by Wanda’s potent magic. The same power Agnes wanted her wiggly witch fingers on. After going aerial in a wild whoosh, Pietro got up close and friendly with some Halloween decorations. But, hey, what’re a few broken bones between pseudo siblings, eh?

Wanda sure had a helluva temper. She quickly banished Pietro from ever setting foot in her house again. Talk about a major bummer. Pietro suffered a huge loss on that front. One part because he’d have no choice but to crash with Agnes again. Ninety nine parts because he’d miss his troublemaking nephews. Those fun, lil scamps.

Tough luck, Quickie. Try and do better next time.

Honestly, he’d prefer if there wasn’t a next time. If Agnes wanted to make small talk so bad, she could do it on her own. Calling it quits for the night, Pietro wandered off to a Westview bar. To his surprise, he found the place still in operation. And despite Pietro’s memories - vague imagery of Busch beer cans crushed under his fist - he hadn’t had a beer since his consciousness manifested. Shit. Did he even like beer? Whether he cared for it or not, a subconscious instinct drew him to it.

He assumed that instinct was none other than Ralph himself. The poor dude wanted to drown his terror in alcohol. And after all the twisted shit Agnes put Ralph through; who was Pietro to deny him one of life's simplest pleasures?

The mellow atmosphere of the bar oozed Halloween spirit. Kinda unnecessary, in retrospect. Considering Wanda never stopped by for a drink. Why bother sprucing the place up with her wispy magic, if it never saw any use?

The bartender’s clever quips reminded Pietro of Cheers. Another totally bonkers concept. Pietro had memories of watching Cheers, sure. But he couldn’t decipher if they were Ralph’s or not. For all Pietro knew, they might be a part of the ‘dead brother’ package deal. False memories, meant to give Wanda someone to relate to. Making him liable to tear down her defenses when she least expected it.

But why did Pietro get the sense he was more of a Frasier guy anyway?

Sitting at the bar on a rickety stool, Pietro spun around to satiate his boredom. He cradled a beer, inhaling all of it in a single beat. Superspeed really did have its ups and downs. Consider quick consumption a positive. As far as negatives go…well…inebriation was completely unattainable. Sucks for Ralph. As Pietro flagged down the bartender for another beer, he tuned his ears to a radio broadcast. On a shelf amidst dollar store Halloween decor; a radio droned old fashioned tales of wicked witches. Subtle.

Outside interference interrupted the broadcast. Voices intermingled between buzzes of static. Whispering soft, but panicked mantras of 'Wanda? Wanda, are you there?' Pietro narrowed his beady eyes. His ignorance of the world outside Westview should’ve stayed intact. But whatever the reason, he knew exactly where those voices came from. Why he carried such knowledge was anyone’s guess. Maybe Agnes let too much her own insight slip into his psyche. Whoopsies. Oh well. Shrugging, Pietro flagged down the bartender for another beer. Deja vu.

Bored outta his mind, his thoughts explored elsewhere.

Pietro dreamt of something a little more down to earth. He remembered a cutie-pie neighbor new to Westview. A ‘next door’ kinda type, with a quirky sorta charm. They had no idea why they were in the city to begin with. Pietro knew these details, only because he gathered the what’s what on just about every person in town. It took him all of two seconds to do so. Zip around. Observe. Make mental notes. Report back to Agnes. Spill the deets.

Anyway, about you…

Call it a crush, loneliness, or even instinctive lust; whatever the case, Pietro thought you were cute as could be. You didn’t remember how you got to Westview, or where you even came from. One day, you woke up in town, and found yourself wearing unfamiliar clothes. Threads evocative of decades long past. But hey, it happens to the best of us. Pietro was well-acquainted with feelings of confusion and alienation. That mingled sense of being both lost, and born anew.

For crying out loud, he was the very materialization of sapient awareness itself. Agnes forbade him from that knowledge as well. But again, Pietro credited his oopsies and ding-dongs to her shoddy miracle work.

Whenever you questioned the reality around you, the world only stifled you into silence. The everyday citizens of Westview seemed so content with life as it was. Acting as if you had nothing to worry about. Wanda’s sitcom setup was nothing beyond sunshine, rainbows, and television tropes. But Pietro could see the unspoken terror hidden deep in their eyes. The truth Wanda kept hush hush.

Just thinking about it was enough to give Pietro the heebie jeebies. And if his intuition was anything to go by - it never proved him wrong yet - you had a bad feeling about Westview too. Way to go! You caught on even quicker than he did. Which was kinda nuts, if he thought about it. Wasn’t he supposed to be the fastest at everything? ‘Cuz speed was his middle name or something. Or…well, it wasn’t. But it could be. Who’s to stop him from seizing his own destiny at this point?

Pietro Speed Maximoff.

Eh, maybe not.

In Westview, you had no friends or family. And much like Pietro, on Halloween night; you found yourself at the bar. He caught your curious gaze from down the counter. You were dolled up in a scanty, witch's dress, leaving Pietro to wonder why witches were such a recurring theme in his life. Looking too much like a manchild goober, he spun around a few more times in his seat. His sneakers kicked against the stool’s railing. No matter what, he couldn’t sit still. He thought he might be embarrassing himself. But his antics appeared to make you smile even brighter.

Tilting your head, you shot him a look of familiarity.

You weren’t familiar with him, though. But there was a chance you saw him appearing and disappearing around town. During his impromptu stake outs, more than likely.

Bringing your drink to the seam of your lips, you stifled a playful giggle. It was obvious you were gawking at his costume. Arching a brow, Pietro grinned into the rim of his beer bottle. To be fair, he looked supremely ridiculous. The blue tights under his cut-off jean shorts rode up in the crotch a little too much. He dipped his head, staring at the frayed edges of his shorts. Yeah. It was clear he did the job cutting them himself. A hasty one too. Since he was too eager to pull pranks with his nephews.

Damn. Pietro missed those kids like hell already.

The dirty blond hair/ear-things atop his head bounced every time he knocked his neck back. As Pietro downed yet another beer, he lost track of how many he drank. A dribble of it plummeted into silver. Creating a sheen against the lightning bolt duct taped diagonally down his shirt. Pietro sighed and pursed his lips.

His outfit was an all blue ensemble. Garnished with a spritz of silver here or there. Quicksilver. His hero name, apparently. Pietro knew he’d never live up to it.

A bit of friendly conversation later, and the air between the two of you shifted. Your playful look morphed into something a little wanton, the more Pietro acted in silly ways. Holy shit. Seriously? He hoped he wasn't misreading your signals. Because really, your attraction was too good to be true. If you honestly wanted him, where should he proceed from here? How much freedom had Agnes even allowed him? And furthermore - if Wanda’s happy, dream town ran on a curated schedule; what if credits rolled just as the two of you finally got handsy?

Maybe sitcom rules didn’t apply to conscious manifestations of witch hocus pocus? Wishful thinking on his part.

Outside the bar - in an alleyway too uncannily clean, like a set straight out of Hollywood - Pietro beckoned you in with kisses. Technically, he played the role of Agnes’s deadbeat husband. And if that were the case, did kissing you count as cheating? Shit…was Pietro committing adultery right now?? In the midst of macking on your sweet lips, he pressed a palm to the wall next to your head. Pietro pretended to do so for balance, as he devoured you with his mouth and tongue.

But unbeknownst to you, he cracked an eye open. Just to double check for a wedding band.

Nothing there to prove he ever got hitched. Go figure.

You giggled coyly into his lips, letting a soft moan ease through your teeth. Bringing your hands up to the hair/ear-things on his head, you toyed with them. Your pretty voice teased him, as you played with his hair in gentle strokes of your thumbs.

“Ooooh…such a good boy, huh? Fast too.” You cooed, the same way one might praise a puppy.

Oh. Fuck yeah. To hell with sitcom tropes and bogus wives. Agnes scared the ever-loving shit out of Pietro anyway. He had no semblance of a domestic connection to her. Not that she gave much of a damn herself. With how often she threw insults his way. Agnes always used Ralph as her little punching bag, before hijacking his body for her own gain.

No wonder your simple praises got his proverbial tail wagging.

A chuckle hummed in the back of his throat, as Pietro purred into your lips, “Speed’s kinda my middle name, y’know?”

You snorted one of the dorkiest laughs he’d heard since cognisant birth. And with a sudden spark of primal urgency; Pietro felt something else spring into transcendence down below.

Sifting through Ralph’s sidelined psyche, Pietro came to realize how much of a recluse he was. The guy never seemed to get out much. In fact, Agnes might’ve even been his first partner. If one could classify her as such. So, really, Pietro was doing him a major favor. If Ralph knew he planned on using their body for some frisky fun - on an otherwise lonely Hallow’s eve - surely, he’d give his brain roomie some thanks.

Pietro’s hands were vascular like a wired-up machine, clad in arm-warmer paws. Grabbing hard onto your curvy hips with them, he pulled you in closer. He sought the friction of your crotch against his. And after some seriously sloppy making out, Pietro dropped you an invite to his place.

Or…Agnes’s place.

Uh…or…was it technically Ralph’s? Shit, this sitcom roleplay sure gave way to some mental gymnastics.

You didn’t expect Pietro to zip you off at superspeed. Moving abruptly fast, he brought you straight to his disaster of a man cave. Laying you back on the futon, he gave you little time to adjust over the blankets. The wrinkled fabrics reeked of pot, in desperate need of a wash. You got as comfy as you could on the skunky sheets. Blinking your needy gaze up at him, you tugged his white belt, pulling the band undone. Pietro grinned lazily, colliding his swollen lips into yours. His primal instincts left him wreckless with want.

Burying his tongue in the cavern of your mouth, he brought with him the flavor of cheap booze. As you tasted him, you moaned, shucking his dumb jorts down his hips. A sizable swelling twitched in his tights, squirming under muted blue. Your eyes bulged in their sockets, cartoonishly wide. The way you whirled your tongue across your lip gave off a vibe of animalistic hunger. As though you were eager for an all dick dinner. With Pietro as the appetizer.

And the main course. And the dessert. He hoped you'd rate him five stars.

Restaurant metaphors aside; this was the very first test of his capabilities as a lover, after all. If he couldn’t live up to his superhero name, maybe he could make a name for himself in other ways.

Pietro Speed Maximoff. Quicksilver. Cunning Linguist.

But first…he really should satiate your hunger.

One, generous tug downward, and Pietro’s - or Ralph’s - slightly above average length sprang out. Bouncing in your face in mesmerizing oscillation, his cock appeared pulsating and roused. Thick veins weaved like threads through his shaft, akin to his vascular hands. His balls bulged in his tights, his jorts hanging halfway down his thighs. Pietro took his blistering cock in hand. Aching for the kind of stimulation Ralph never got, his desire painted him so flush and ruby red.

Since you looked so delighted at the sight before you; Pietro gave his cock a few strokes. He played with himself for your viewing pleasure. And as his firm grip tugged his shaft, the world pulled suddenly back. It was as though Pietro viewed life through a third person perspective. Metaphorical cameras fixed their lenses on the two of you, in an all too human position of closeness.

The weight of a cock in Pietro’s hand felt both familiar, yet weirdly foreign. Combine that with the sight of another living, breathing body below him; and his nerves buzzed uncomfortably. Frenzied in such a way that matched the quick pulsing of his heart. Focusing instead on your fluttering eyes, Pietro weaned himself out of dissociation. Your hands braced his hips, thumbs circling the fabric of his tights. The gentle gesture brought chills throughout his body. Inching forward, you teased his bobbing cock with a flick of your tongue.

Wet heat grounded him in reality. Upon racing to the forefront of his own mind; Pietro’s breath hitched with a husky groan. He held your head, massaging his fingers in your soft hair. Cute mewls spilled from your lips as you flitted your eyes shut. Swirling your tongue over his cock’s puffy head, you lapped any tearful pearls of precum. His thickness sank between your plush lips, and Pietro’s own lips parted for breath.

Of all things to happen on Halloween night, getting his dick sucked wasn’t on the docket.

Not that Pietro had any reason to complain. This? Wicked awesome. Ralph was really missing out.

You drew lazily back just to lap his balls over his tights, staining fabric with slick saliva. Rolling the tip of your tongue up the underside of his dick, you giggled in that dorkish way again. Pietro’s teeth pulled his lip as he tilted his head back. His dick twitched, throbbing while the heat of your mouth embraced him fully. He moaned, smiling wide enough to show off his dimples. You pumped his cock at the base, teasing his veins with your tongue.

Pietro’s brows turned inward. You suckled his head like you longed to guzzle anything he could give. He sank his fingers deeper through your hair, holding on tightly as he rutted his hips. With each slam of his weeping tip into your throat; he hoarsely grunted. You really did try your best, just for him. Even as tears spilled down your cheeks and your lips began to swell. Plush and puffy, circling his slick length. Pietro kicked up the speed at which he rutted.

Fighting his instincts, he was cautious enough not to choke you. Or, he wanted to be cautious. He braced his hands on both sides of your tear stained face, his arm warmer paws soft against your cheeks. Sinking his dick even deeper between your lips, he accidentally went balls deep. The wet fabric of his tights smothered your chin. You sputtered on his cock, which made your throat wring him so tight. As your tongue curled, sliding under the thrum of his veins; Pietro cursed. Playful chuckles and shameful apologies fell from his lips.

Bitter heat coated your tongue in sweltering jets, thick and explosive down your throat. Pietro’s groin twisted in a blossoming surge of pleasure. And as he ruptured your esophagus with his sticky load, he found himself that much more grounded. As if such a bombastic nut somehow tethered him to reality - securing Pietro from any further derealization.

Righteous. His first big O since Agnes blessed him with the gift of consciousness. Significantly more electrifying than any sad, jerk sesh Ralph had in the past. And since you so humbly took him like a champ - giving Pietro a most euphoric experience; he saw it fit to return the favor ASAP.

Neither Pietro - nor Ralph, it seemed - had any experience toying around with partners. But he did have a vague knowledge of how to do so. Thanks to the backlog of not-so-safe-for-work memories deep in his subconscious. Raunchy porn, mostly. Magazines. Tapes. Jesus, Ralph…why’s there so much dirty stuff in there, huh? Lots and lots of it. Pietro would have to do his own research later.

He gave you no time to prep for his oncoming nose dive. Perched on your knees, coughing and clearing your throat - you found yourself abruptly resting on your elbows. Your upper back pressed into the futon. Pietro lifted your hips, using his strength to hike your thighs over his broad shoulders. As you parted your swollen lips to protest, blinking your reddened eyes; Pietro pulled your panties to the side. He kept the soaked lace pinned under a thick thumb. Burying his lips in your cunt, he lapped up your honeyed heat.

A sudden addiction, triggered by something carnal, overtook him instantly. Pietro became hooked on your fragrant flavor, swirling your cute bud in high-speed circles. He worked your stiff clit like a microscopic joystick, flicking wet heat in a spastic whirlwind. Alternating between drawing patterns, and sucking your precious pearl hard. Pietro so easily made you squeal - even without any prior experience - until you scratched your fingernails deep into Ralph’s sheets. Kissing your cunt, he let his thirst take over, and dove deeper.

The tune of his name melting through your moans made him wish the night would last forever. A small fraction of him hoped Ralph would never take over again. If consciousness offered rewards this scrumptious, Pietro wanted to stay sentient into eternity. Not to be selfish or whatever, but he almost considered playing minion for Agnes again - if only to secure the lifespan of his psyche.

Your supple, pussy lips parted as he wormed his tongue through your slick walls. Smooth, bumpy heat squeezed the fuzzy ridges of his tongue. In milliseconds, your fluttery love gushed over his taste buds and leaked down his chin. Tears teased the edges of your eyes. You cried whines of sugary bliss. Pietro’s thumb kept your panties pinned, his other hand locked around your thigh.

He smirked into your pussy, deep chuckles burning hot on your mound. And since the position wasn’t exactly the most comfortable; he allowed you some reprieve. Pushing you past your breaking point at light speed, Pietro bashed the sopping slickness of his tongue into your clit. You trembled, shuddering through powerful waves of orgasmic intensity. White-hot flashes of light flooded your vision. Under Pietro’s zippy tongue, your sweet pussy quivered.

Totes mcgoats. If he learned anything tonight - aside from the obvious lessons in subtlety; Pietro now understood why the everyday man lost his doggone marbles over puss.

After your first release, he eased your tired body into the futon. Your back met cozy blankets, engulfed in that skunk weed scent. Before you relaxed, he edged you even longer, drawing out your pleasurable suffering. Pietro sank his fingers deep into your heat, pumping the length of them inside you. His digits curled perfectly, finding every spongy spot that made your core burst with a desire to cum again. His tongue teased your swollen nub until you grabbed at his hair. You mussed the funny looking ear things atop his head, pressing your palm into his forehead to try and push him back.

You begged him to stop. Pleading in disoriented whimpers, your noises went straight to his limp dick. A few more hot, wrathful waves of pleasure later - he finally stopped. Only after your cunt erupted in one more, wet burst. You leaked like a fountain into his lips, soaking his chin, even making a mess of his makeshift costume. More than worth it. Pietro sat up on the futon, admiring his handiwork. He wiped his mouth with one of his arm warmer paws. Your mouth fell agape as your lungs begged for air. More tears sparkled on your flushed cheeks, mirroring the twinkle of your pussy. Pretty as a rose in a rainshower.

With your sluggish arms, you gestured for Pietro to climb over you. And once he did, you pulled him into a lazy kiss without a single care. You paid no mind to the taste of your sweetness on his lips, or the scent of your musk on his chin. Sleepily blinking, you bravely asked if you could stay the night. Too tuckered out to even consider a long walk back home.

Pietro could just as easily speed you over to your place. But even at the risk of his not-wife catching him in bed with someone else - he felt too adverse to loneliness. Besides...your company brought him more delight than he ever expected of anyone. Settling into the futon, he popped on Ralph’s old TV set.

Cheers was on. Pietro snickered to himself, rolling his dark eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, snuggled up against Pietro’s strong form. He’d changed clothes at some point in the night, finally foregoing the tights. Oh, and he lended you one of Ralph’s shirts too. A Grateful Dead t-shirt, of which you were very grateful. Hah, “You don’t like Cheers?”

Pietro shrugged, sipping a beer. A Busch beer. He scowled at the taste, curling his lip.

“Eh. More of a Frasier kinda guy.”

#peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff x you #peter maximoff #pietro maximoff #wandavision #txt #sorry for dropping this in the main tags !!

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vashs-ass · 6 months ago

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TRIGGER WARNING // SA

Analysis of Vash and His Assault in Trigun

Now that I’ve finally finished the manga, I want to discuss why I believe the fifth moon incident in Trigun is supposed to represent sexual assault. Apparently this interpretation is somewhat controversial so I’m going to go over how I see it. If you have a different interpretation that’s completely fine, I’m not trying to say one is more correct than the other.

One other thing I will preface this with, is that I do not think Knives canonically SAed Vash. I think the situation is supposed to be metaphor for sexual assault.

So anyways, why do I think it’s supposed to represent sexual assault and not physical assault? In my opinion, Knives’ main objective is not to physically hurt Vash, his goal is to force Vash into preforming non consensual acts.

The symbolism in fifth moon is very heavy handed. This is the first time we see Vash be assaulted. Knives is depicted as completely naked. Yes, there is an explanation for this in the plot but I do think it was a deliberate choice.

Prior to the fifth moon incident, Vash has no memories of what happened at July. This is unusual because Vash does not have a pattern of shutting out distressing events in his life. He’s able to remember his childhood and Rem’s death in great detail. So something about what happened was particularly disturbing and violating to Vash in a way he’d never experienced before. Even Knives notes that this is unusual, apparently expecting the incident would have ‘after effects’ for his brother.

During this initial discussion Vash begins to recall some of the memories of what happened, or rather, what he felt. He describes the feelings surrounding what happened as ‘something horrifyingly sick’.

Now we will get into the meat of things.

The visuals of the actual assault are horrifying. Nightow uses some great body horror to amplify the severity of what is happening to Vash’s body. During this assault, Knives is constantly grabbing at Vash’s body, forcing it to do what he wants. This one particular panel I don’t see talked about much really hit me in the gut, with knives standing naked between Vash’s legs. This is kinda what solidified everything for me.

Knives is almost always seen holding a hand over Vash’s eyes and his heart. This is a very intimate gesture and I think this can have a lot of different reads depending on who you ask. For me covering his eyes further takes away Vash’s control over what’s happening to his body, Knives’ hand clawing at his heart representing his desire to violate Vash’s very being and take it for himself. To possess him. To objectify him.

He asks Vash how it feels, and Vash can be seen sobbing in what I think is emotional agony rather than physical pain. Having this happen to him again seems to have triggered the memories he had tried to burry.

Other people have pointed out that the angel arm can be seen as a phallic symbol. I’m not really sure where I fall on this idea but I thought I’d mention it at least.

I will also point out one more instance of assault after fifth moon because this is not the only time Vash is assaulted by his brother

I think this takes place towards the middle of the manga if I remember correctly. This scene (to me) represents the ‘loss of self’ victims often feel as well as the physical aspect of sexual assault. Knives briefly attempts to force Vash’s body into his. He stabs Vash through his arm, pinning him down in attempt to ‘merge’ Vash with himself. When it doesn’t work he rips it out of Vash which seems to cause him horrific pain.

The fact Vash goes on to use his angel arm to save people later on in the story is very powerful. It was once a reminder of the violations he had endured but he reclaimed it as well as his bodily autonomy.

After this there are a few other more minor instances of Knives violating Vash, but I won’t get into those because I feel I’ve made my point. If you have anything to add I’d love to hear it!

#trigun 98 #trigun manga #trigun #trimax #vash #trigun maximum #trigun spoilers #tristamp #vash the stampede

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kinardsevan · 5 months ago

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spare parts

(this is only part of a concept. who knows when i'll find time to actually write it.)

He falls asleep at some point. He’s not entirely sure when; he wasn’t really keeping track of time. But the sound of the front door opening rouses him, and when he sits up, Tommy is coming through the door.

“Hi baby,” he greets. His voice is weary, but cheerful. He drops his duffel beside his shoes and leans down over the couch, pecks Evan on the lips. “How was your day off?”

He doesn’t answer at first; lets the idea that he’s still waking up fill the moment instead as Tommy comes around the couch and sits down next to him. The sun is setting, but there’s still enough light left in the room that they can still see each other.

Still, they’ve been together long enough now that they’ve memorized all the nuances about each other. Which means when Evan doesn’t start offering up an answer about anything, Tommy can tell something is up.

“Evan, what’s wrong?”

He inhales a deep breath.

“I had a doctors appointment today,” he admits after a tick. He’s staring at his hands, wringing them tightly together. Tommy reaches out and slides his fingers between Evan’s, forcing him to stop. It makes him look up at his husband.

“Tell me,” Tommy replies, his own tone gruff, but patient. Cut the bullshit and just tell me.

“M-my leg has been acting up,” Evan continues. “Thought maybe I pulled something, but it didn’t feel like it was getting better even after I took extra time off last week. So I called.”

Tommy nods, watching him intently.

“And?”

He inhales another deep breath.

“And it’s not good,” he replies, his voice trembling. When he manages to look up at Tommy, the tears in his own eyes are welled so high that half of his husband’s face is blurred, and his chin is quivering. Tommy just keeps watching him, waiting.

“Th-they did some x-rays, a-and then an MRI, and-and a CT,” he explains.

“And they found,” Tommy prompts him. His tone is tight and gravelly. It’s like he knows what’s coming, but still needs Evan to say it.

“Cancer,” Evan rasps when finally finds the strength to say the word. “Osteosarcoma, they think.”

His tears fall then, and Tommy nods as he wraps his hand around Evan’s head, pulling him and pressing his lips to his husband’s temple. Evan cracks at that, unable to stop the silent sobs that fall out of him then.

“Dr. Benton transferred me over to one of the orthopedic oncologists,” he continues, even as the tears keep coming. “Sh-she wants to do a biopsy in a few days.”

“Okay,” Tommy replies, like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Then we do that.”

Evan lifts his head up, a pained expression in his eyes. “Tommy-..”

Tommy shakes his head, his fingers still in his husband’s hair.

“No. You are not somebody’s spare parts anymore, Evan,” Tommy tells him. “You do not need to operate on someone else’s schedule, especially if we’re facing a fight like this.”

Evan doesn’t have the words to respond then. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about the whole process yet. It’s been almost three decades since Daniel passed away, but he still remembers enough of his childhood in hospitals to recall the pain of being the access point for anything his older brother needed while he was still alive.

#spare parts #fic concept #drabble #bucktommy #tevan #kinley

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homelanderbutbig · 4 months ago

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Your Heart Beats For Him (G/T Homelander x Reader)

2332 words. Hurt/comfort, and a bit of angst. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander doesn't know how to handle you getting hurt. Inspired by an ask from @chocolate-floof.

It all happened so fast. One moment Homelander was irritatedly pacing endless circles in the Seven's meeting room, waiting for you return his calls. You were supposed to be on your way to Vought Tower, but you were late. He expected you would tell him where you were. You always call him back when he phones, and yet you had all but disappeared from his radar. Not a word or trace of you, every minute with no response fueled his growing anger. His ego began to rip chunks out of its own flesh, torn apart by his unrestrained suspicions. You were leaving him, you had to be. You probably packed up all your belongings are were on your way to another state by now. Why else would you refuse to speak to him? You know how he is, you must be doing this on purpose. You were sending him a message. You must be upset at him, you must hate him.

But in the next moment, his assumptions were swiftly shattered when Ashley ran into the meeting room to inform him that you had been in a car accident.

What happened next is all a blur in his mind; he doesn't remember leaving the Tower. He doesn't even recall himself rocketing into the air to fly to the hospital. But he did, as currently everyone in the building scurries at the sight of this eight foot tall superhero barely managing to fit himself in the corridors. He is moving like a frantic bloodhound, desperately attempting to find you. However, once he's finally located you, he's refused entry into the operating room by a single nurse.

Homelander attempts to maintain an outer façade of nonchalance, despite having just plowed through the hospital doors minutes ago. He can see you in there with his X-ray vision, surrounded by doctors as they cut you open. The nurse's words barely register in his ears as she explains your condition, that the impact of the crash created a tear in your rotator cuff and you are being surgically treated by the best doctors in the city. He can sense her fear as he towers menacingly over her, having to bend over to avoid breaking through the ceiling. She is so miniscule to him, so pathetic. Like an ant beneath his feet. He wants to intimidate her further, force her to apologize for stopping him, maybe even laser her worthless mudperson head clean off. Regardless of his homicidal urges, he swallows his pride, acquiesces to her request and silently backs away.

Sitting down on the floor, he rests his arms on his bent-up knees and mindlessly fiddles with his fingers. He hasn't felt this level of helplessness his whole life. He is the Homelander, the strongest man in the world. There isn't anything anybody can do to stop him from getting what he wants. He has no vulnerabilities to break through his skin, no limitations to what his powers can achieve. Nothing can hurt him.

Except, now he has one weakness… it's you.

You are the only person whom he truly cares about, the only one who's ever loved him for his true self. Yet he was not there to save you, so your life is now entrusted to complete strangers. Meanwhile, he is forced to stand down like a useless mutt waiting for its master to release it. And even worse, he allows it. He can't save you from your injuries, logically he knows that. This isn't a situation that can be solved with his powers, as mighty as they may be. He has to put his faith into the hands of doctors… human doctors.

His anxiety begins to suffocate him as the world around him begins closing in. The sounds of scalpels slicing through body tissue, the sterile smell of the hospital, and the sight of doctors in white lab coats… it all invokes painful memories of his childhood in the lab. He was running on pure adrenaline when he barged into the hospital, so this traumatic association hadn't quite hit him yet. But it is now.

His eyes shut tight as he fights back tears, biting on his gloved index finger as he does his damndest to cast his nightmares aside. Flashbacks hit him in unrelenting waves, of the scared little boy in the 'Bad Room' crying out for someone to save him. Nobody ever did, nor did they give him any sort of care. That little boy was all alone, just like Homelander is currently.

He wishes you were here next to him right now, you'd know what to do. You always know just what to do to calm him down, to bring him back when he dissociates. Yet thankfully, a little voice in his head reminds him that you are here. Using his super hearing he easily pinpoints your heartbeat, still strong despite your condition.

You've soothed him so often by putting his head to your chest, letting him listen to your steady pulse while you guide him through some deep breaths. You've always told him that no matter where you are, if he hears your heart beat, then your heart beats for him.

Gradually, he feels his agitation drain as he fixates on the sounds of you, the sole thing on earth keeping him grounded. The agonizing experiences of his youth dematerialize from his psyche, replaced by the cherished memories he's gained since you've come into his life. Everything about you overtakes his senses, from the way you laugh to the way your skin feels when you caress his face.

As he relaxes, the cacophony of the hospital fades away. His mind is enveloped by his pleasant recollections of you, completely blocking out his otherwise highly-tuned senses. In fact, he doesn't even hear the nurse walking towards him, with an update on the status of your surgery.

~~~

Everything is still very hazy when you start to wake up. The last thing you can recall is driving on your way to Vought Tower, and then the rest is all just vague colours and sounds.

Your eyes slowly adjust to your surroundings. You realize that you're in Homelander's penthouse, snuggled comfortably in the silk sheets of his massive bed. You notice your right arm is in a shoulder sling, but not a normal one; there's a pillow attached to your waist, holding your arm out and away from your body. You start to piece together that something serious must have occurred.

Suddenly, you hear the all-too-familiar sounds of loud footsteps hurriedly approaching, followed by the immense stature of a supe in blue looming above. It takes a moment for your blurry vision to refocus, but you soon see your oversized boyfriend's face staring down at you. His expression is contorted with conflicting emotions, swaying from relief to what you assume is a mix of anger and anxiety.

"Hey you," you utter, your voice a bit hoarse. You still feel a little loopy from the painkillers you've been put on, but you're coming to pretty fast considering.

"Hey you? …Really? T-that's all you have to say?" he scoffs, eyes twitching from distress. He's in disbelief at how casual you sound about this whole situation.

"Sorry… still a little out of it," you smile groggily. "What… happened?"

"You were in a car accident," he retorts sharply, keeping his arms crossed behind his back as if he's scolding a teammate. "You required surgery."

"Oh," you say, the only word that comes to mind as you process everything. Which, of course, is not the answer Homelander was hoping for.

"Oh? That's it?! I-I can't believe how you aren't taking this seriously!" he exclaims in a huff, finally throwing his hands up into the air out of pure frustration. "You could have died! I should be the one taking you everywhere, you can't go out by yourself. There are too many… m-many villains out there who could hurt you!"

"But I'm not dead sweetie," you remark. "It was an accident, nobody did this on purpose. These things happen."

"No! Y-you don't understand! I-I need to keep you safe!!" he lashes out, pointing aggressively at you as he becomes overwhelmed. The heat is building in his eyes; he's never yelled at you out of anger before, never. But right now his thoughts are spiralling out of control from the stress of these recent events. In his mind he's already decided how this will be handled. You are weak, you are fragile, and he must protect you. From now on, you will not go anywhere without him by your side. He needs you to be subservient to his wishes. He needs to make you concede, to bend to his will, whether you want to or not. He will never come this close to losing you again.

And yet, as always, you must be the force of reason.

"John," you state bluntly, silencing him on the spot. One word has left him motionless, staring down at his shoes as the fire within him smolders away leaving nothing but a husk. The crimson red of his eyes is replaced by glistening tears dripping down his cheeks, reflecting back the melancholy of his blue irises. His arms are back down at his sides, clenched into fists so tight that he might rip through the leather of his gloves.

Hearing you say his birth name cuts through him like a knife, leaving him feeling vulnerable, exposed… human. You know he doesn't like being called 'John', but in moments like this you need to talk directly to his inner child, to the part of himself that he's scared to let out.

"John, it's okay baby. Come here," you coax him, gently patting on the side of your bed with your good arm. Although he's hesitant to give in, you know he's pretty much incapable of disobeying your orders, especially when there's the promise of affection on the line. Carefully, he kneels down beside the bed, keeping both of his hands on his thighs. He's afraid to touch you, now that he has to come to terms with your mortality.

"You can rest your head on my chest," you comment, lifting your left arm up to make room for him. "Don't worry, I won't break", you chuckle, seeing him tense at the mere suggestion.

As steady as he can, Homelander leans closer to rest his big head across your chest. At first he tries not to go down with his full weight, but he soon feels your dainty fingers running through his undercut. With a deep sigh, he feels himself slowly sinking into your body, made more placid by the sounds of your heart in his ears.

"There we go, all good," you console him calmly. "Now, can you tell me why you're upset?"

You already know the answer, you can read him like a book. But you want him to articulate it, and relieve him of the worries that plague his sensitive mind.

"Y-you…" he mumbles, struggling at first to find the right words. This isn't a conversation he'd think he'd have in a million years. "Y-you're human."

"And you're scared that I can get injured so easily?" you ask. Trembling, he nods, admitting to himself how weak you are compared to him. You are just a human, and he is a supe. The strongest one on earth at that. How could he ever think your relationship would work?

"Oh baby boy," you hum, stroking the side of his cheek, wet from his tears. "People get hurt all the time, that's just a fact of life. But that doesn't mean we can't live in fear, we live each day like it could be our last."

"S-s-sorry… I-I… I'm s-sorry…" he whispers, his voice sounding so small compared to moments ago when he was yelling at you.

"Why, because you weren't there to rescue me?" you question him. You sense him attempting to bury his face further into your chest out of shame. He feels that he failed you, not only as a superhero but as a boyfriend. "Sweetpea, you don't have to feel guilty. It wasn't your fault. It happened, but I'm fine now."

He angles his head up at you, his brows furrowed and red puffy eyes glaring at your last remark. You are far from fine, your shoulder is wounded. How can you even say that?

"Hey," you breathe, petting his hair. "It's going to be alright. I got hurt, but now it's over. I'm going to get better, and I love you very much, okay?"

Exhaling through his nose he nods, still not entirely convinced, but he can at least drop it for now. You're right, you are presently safe. All he wants right now is to be in your company. Softly purring at your genuine love, he lets himself melt into your tender scratches along his scalp. You whisper sweet affirmations into his ear, always babying him even through your injury.

After some time, he realizes that you've fallen back asleep. Your accident and surgery must have taken its toll on your body, so fragile and yet so perfect. You deserve the rest.

Homelander gets up from his kneeling position and meticulously lifts you up, moving your body to the other side of the bed so he can lie down beside you. Resting his head on your chest again, he removes his gloves to wrap his arms around your legs as delicately as he can muster. His long fingers caress your skin, the feeling of your soft features comforting him as he is lulled into slumber by your heart. He wonders how he will ever be able to separate himself from this beautiful sound once you wake up.

You may be human, but you are flawless, impeccable. You are a god. You are unspoiled by the cruelty of the rest of society, and you must stay that way. He will never let anything harm you ever again. Otherwise… the world will burn.

#the boys #the boys tv #homelander #homelander x reader #g/t #size difference #my writing

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flowerandblood · 8 months ago

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The Fall from the Heavens (15)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, mention of sex, violence, swearing ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

For a long time after her uncle had left her chamber she could not recover; she sat on the table top exactly where he had left her, staring dully at the floor where the rolled up parchment lay, feeling his warm spend running down her buttocks. She thought about what was written inside, about what her stepfather really wanted.

I wish to speak alone with you and my daughter, nephew, tonight at the former Vhagar liege. You know the place. Come, if you dare.

She closed her eyes, swallowing loudly, calming herself slowly, feeling that her body was still trembling with terror. Never before in her life had she seen him in such a state, so distraught and broken, and she had no idea what she should do, what she could say to make him believe her – it seemed to her that although he had finally stopped crying, he didn't trust her.

She herself wasn't sure if meeting Daemon was a hope or a trap.

She finally slid off the table, settled on the floor and hissed quietly, clenching her eyelids, feeling the discomfort between her thighs after how brutal their approach had been immediately after their nuptials and now. She sighed quietly, moving slowly ahead and lay back on her bed, staring blankly at her door, recalling in her mind the conversation between her and his mother.

When she and Haleana walked into her chamber, she was already waiting for her.

Dressed as usual in emerald green, she stood up, her hands folded over her womb, the cuticles around her nails plucked and reddened. She looked at her with her big dark eyes, in her gaze pain, regret, remorse, but she wasn't sure what they were caused by.

"So it's true." She whispered in disbelief, looking at her cut lips, at her hand wrapped in a light cloth. She lifted her chin higher, not answering; Helaena stood behind her, silent.

"Gods, what have you done." She sighed, falling helplessly into the chair, covering her face with her hand, as if all that was happening was overwhelming her.

"There's no turning back now, then." She said at last, more to herself than to her, lowering her hand, looking ahead of her with empty, tired eyes. Seeing her bent, thoughtful figure, she lowered her gaze, unsure of what she should say.

After her guards poured the moon tea down her throat, she had nothing more to convey to her.

She was only her husband's mother to her, nothing more.

"He forced you to do this?" She asked at last, and she looked at her surprised, wrinkling her eyebrows and grunted loudly.

"No."

Silence fell again, longer this time. Alicent looked down at her knees, shaking a fleck of dust from her gown, sniffing quietly.

"When Viserys announced your betrothal, I was heartbroken. When Aemond agreed, I thought he did it so that his father would finally notice him. So that he would finally hear any kind word from him. Then Rhaenyra took you away and Aemond declared that he didn't want to see you. I thought it would be better that way. I was sure you had both moved on during those eight years." She said in a trembling voice and looked at her, shaking her head.

"I shouldn't have made you do this. I shouldn't have made you drink moon tea."

She sighed quietly, twisting to the other side, thinking about his mother telling her that he really didn't know anything about what she was going to do, that he was furious when he found out, yet that they had made a mistake by marrying each other that would cost them everything.

For some reason her words did not move her.

She was not afraid of Lord Baratheon's wrath or his daughter's disappointment when they finally found out what had happened.

The truth was that some part of her had been eagerly awaiting it.

Now, however, she couldn't think of anyone but her father, and although she knew it was Harwin Strong who had brought her into this world, Daemon was the one who had truly raised her.

She knew his unpredictable nature and was afraid of what he might do.

She became concerned when her uncle did not return for a long time, guessing that he was now discussing about the letter with his family. She was sure that his mother, grandfather and Criston Cole would be convincing him that it was a trap and suggesting that he let go of the idea that their marriage was in force – that she was a spy and if he backed out of it now, things could still be put right.

For some reason she felt that even if he had doubts about her loyalty, he would not disavow their marriage.

She shuddered when he finally stepped into her chamber – the sun was leaning lazily towards the horizon, if they were going to make it, they had to leave now. The door closed behind him and he stopped in the middle of the room, looking at her with a empty gaze, tired and pale.

"My brother has given his consent for us to negotiate with Daemon on his behalf."

She asked nothing more; her husband ordered them to bring their riding attire, which they changed into quickly. They left the keep in a hurry – she felt a hit of adrenaline and joy when she smelt the pleasant, fresh air around her.

For the first time in long days she was back outside, stepping on the soft grass, hearing the sound of the trees; she felt her uncle walking beside her glance at her once in a while, pondering for sure if she would try to escape. She stopped, surprised when he turned in a different direction than he should have, not understanding where he was going.

"We need to get Larax first." She said to him, turning her head towards Dragon's Pit, which she could see in the distance.

"No. You will fly with me on Vhagar." He replied coolly, without stopping; she looked at his silhouette in pain and moved after him with her heart beating fast, disappointed, for some reason naively believing that he would allow her to ride her own dragon.

However, her whole body was quivering in anticipation, for she had never seen Vhagar with her own eyes before.

She spotted her from afar; she seemed to her as big as a fortress, coiled, sleeping a sound sleep, her scales grey and brown, hot steam gushing from her nostrils once in a while, which dissolved into the air. She stood still for a moment, stunned, wanting to look at her from a distance; her uncle snorted at the sight, amused.

"Are you speechless?" He scoffed with some kind of pride and satisfaction, as if he had dreamed of this moment all his life; he, the second son, with no dragon and no heritage, could finally show her the great beast he had ridden in all its glory.

He furrowed his brow, surprised when she approached him; she tightened her hands on his leather coat, rose on her toes and kissed him, just as she had when they were children, merely pressing her lips against his. She pulled away from him with a quiet click of her saliva.

H looked at her with big eyes – it seemed to her that he had completely not expected this, still angry with her for what had happened.

She heard his shuddering sigh as she snuggled into him, embracing him at the waist, the setting sun and a pleasant warm breeze all around them; his hands cuddled her into himself, his forehead pressed against the top of her head.

"Am I flying towards my own doom?" He asked in a whisper, and she shook her head.

"No."

He sighed heavily, pale, frightened and uncertain, knowing that he was facing the destiny he feared, surely wishing he could now look deep into her heart and know her thoughts.

Whether betrayal lurked behind them.

He let her go, moving towards his dragoness, who raised her head sensing their scent – the ground trembled around them as she caught sight of her, rising restlessly on one of her paws, anxious.

"Lykiri, Vhagar. Ziry iksos ñuha ābrazȳrys, ñuha ānogar (Easy, Vhagar. It's my wife, my blood)." She heard his loud, deep, calm voice and felt a squeeze in her heart at the thought that just a month ago, when she was just a bastard to him, these words would not have passed his lips.

Ñuha ānogar.

My blood.

She was more than his wife, and he was more than her husband.

She dared to come closer when he nodded at her, watching vigilantly the behaviour of the giant beast lying in front of her, its lizard-like, dark eyes watching her with curiosity.

She thought that her uncle had not allowed anyone but himself to approach her for years.

Her husband explained to her that she had to climb up the ropes to her back and sit in the big saddle, belaying her from below, a task that proved difficult and required great strength in her arms. He grasped her buttock several times with his hand when he saw that she was losing strength, and she wondered if he was watching over her safety and that she should not fall, or if he was simply taking satisfaction from it.

Both, she thought, sighing with relief as she finally got to the top and sat comfortably in the large leather saddle; her uncle sat behind her, breathing loudly. She felt him hesitate, his hand embracing her waist, the other gripping the ropes, his face melting into her soft cheek.

"Iksā ñuha vējes (You are my doom)." He whispered, clearly thinking she wouldn't understand; she, however, had spent hours with Daemon reading the same books he'd flicked through then, in the library, before he'd taken her for the first time.

"Hae iksā ñuhon (As you are mine)." She answered him quietly, felt him draw in the air loudly, surprised, his hand involuntarily tightening on her leather coat.

"You were mocking me. Then, when you told me to teach you." He said lowly, disappointed as if he were a small child who had been fooled.

She knew he was saying this because he wanted to put off as much as possible what was about to happen.

She sighed quietly at his words, tilting her head back, resting it on his shoulder, the pleasant, warm evening breeze enveloping her face.

"I imagined you sitting next to me when Daemon teached me. That we were children again. I was trying to get back what I had lost." She said finally, placing her hand on his, large and cold. She sighed as he pulled her tighter to him, his hand from her stomach rose to her neck, clamping around her – she felt his manhood throbb behind her, pressing against her buttocks.

"If you try to escape, if you betray me, I will kill you with my own hands." He hissed into her ear, but she felt no fear or discomfort, expecting those words for some reason.

His desperate attempt to threaten her, to stop her from whatever he was accusing her of in his head.

"I know."

Flying with him into the dark skies, feeling the wind in her hair again and that wonderful freedom, she felt some kind of relief. She pressed her body against the front of the saddle and he embraced her tightly from behind, his cold cheek pressed against hers, his hands holding the ropes embraced her waist.

They both shuddered as they caught a glimpse from below of the fortress they both remembered so well, and on a hill not far away the figure of a red, long-necked dragon – beside it a lone, white-haired figure was strolling along the edge of a cliff.

Her uncle commanded Vhagar to land; the ground around them shook from her weight as her great paws hit the ground, sand and dust rising high around them.

Her husband slid down the ropes first and she followed him, squealing loudly as he caught her before she fell to the ground, putting her safely on her feet.

"Don't try anything." He growled, checking her body quickly with his hands to make sure she didn't have a sharp tool hidden anywhere, which she allowed him to do without a word despite the fact that he had already done so before they even left the Red Keep. "Come."

She moved a few steps behind him towards her father, sighing loudly at the sight of him with emotion – she felt her whole body tremble, her lips parted in an involuntary smile.

She thought she would never see him again.

Her husband stopped, and she stood behind him. Daemon looked at her as he unsheathed his sword and dagger from his leather belt, laying it slowly on the ground. She heard her uncle swallow hard, distrustful, and after a moment he did the same, tense, letting the air out loudly as he straightened back up, looking at him expectantly.

"Speak, uncle." He ordered, however, Daemon wasn't looking at him but at her.

She realised he had noticed what was clearly visible on her lower lip.

"You married him." He said offhandedly, looking at her with a gaze that made her shudder, the one that always recognised when she was lying or trying to hide something from him. She nodded.

"He forced you?"

"That's enough. Did you summon me to mock me, uncle?"

"He forced you?"

"No." She heard her own trembling voice, looking at him pleadingly, unsure if he would understand why she had done this, or if he would see it as a betrayal.

Daemon looked to the side, pressing his lips together, and sighed heavily, as if he was very tired, a light breeze blowing his white hair partly tied back as he finally turned to her husband.

"So you know what duty is. What family is. And yet you support your brother who stole his sister's throne." He said coldly; she looked uncertainly at her uncle-husband, who clenched his eyelids and chuckled under his breath, as if something in his words amused him.

"Why should I support my sister, the same one who, when I lost my eye, wanted to interrogate me thoroughly because I told the truth out loud? Why should I support her children, who have no claim to the throne?" He hissed; he and Daemon looked at each other warily, fighting for glances, for dominance, for who would have the last word.

"You married a woman you think is worthless? Like her brothers?" He asked dryly, Aemond snorted loudly, shaking his head in disbelief.

"She is my wife. Who her father was no longer matters, for she belongs now to my family, for our children will bear my name." He growled loudly, hitting his index finger against his chest, as if he could finally get out what he really felt.

She looked at him in disbelief, surprised that he wasn't holding back, that he wasn't limiting himself to conveying his brother's will, whatever it might be, but saying what he himself was thinking.

Daemon stared at him for a moment and snorted under his breath, shaking his head, looking at him again.

"What does your drunken brother-cunt have to convey to my wife as his justification? I lost my daughter because of him." He said coldly and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling cold sweat on her back, her husband gave her a quick, horrified look.

"What?" She muttered, looking at her father, then at him. She furrowed her brow, feeling that she was having trouble breathing, taking a step back. "You knew?"

"Calm down. You were suffering. I didn't want to add to your pain." Her uncle said quickly, looking at her pale, Daemon laughed out loud, burying his face in his hands.

"Look at you two. The future of the kingdom." He sneered, his nephew's lips tightening, throwing him a sharp, warning look.

"My brother has agreed to relinquish his rights to the crown, in favour of my and my wife's future heirs. He knows, exactly as you do, that both his rights in light of previous Lords' oaths, and your wife's in light of her being a woman, will always be challenged, and by extension the rights to the throne of their children and grandchildren. No one, however, will challenge the rights to the crown of my and my wife's offspring." He said in one exhale, trying to remain calm; she looked at him in disbelief, her heart pounding like mad.

Grief, hope, disappointment and relief mixed in her heart making her herself not know what she felt.

"My wife is to pass on her rights to the throne to a child that does not yet exist? What if a girl is born? What if you have no children?" He asked with disapproval and mockery, as if he had never heard a greater foolishness before.

"Then second to the throne will be your and my sister's children. Children from the rightful bed, pure Targaryen blood. If my wife and I do not beget a son."

"That is not enough. I want the head of your mother and your grandfather."

"Then I want Luke's head. I will gouge out his eyes with my own hands."

"Enough." She said, clutching her stomach, feeling everything around her start to spin – her husband taking a step towards her, frightened, seeing the look in her eyes, blank and furious.

"Enough, or I swear I'll throw myself right off this cliff." She mumbled, burying her face in her hands, shaking her head. She felt her uncle's hand embrace her neck, cuddling her into his chest, trying to calm her, Daemon watching them from afar.

"You will release my daughter as an act of goodwill. She will return with me to Dragonstone, and perhaps I will consider passing on your proposal to my wife. A daughter for a daughter." He said impassively; she felt her husband's hand clamp painfully tight on the nape of her neck, felt his heart pounding like mad under her cheek.

"Never."

Her father looked at her, certainty and impatience in his eyes.

"Tala (Daugther)." He said in an unobjectionable tone, wanting her to choose rightly, to choose her family, her kin.

"Don't you fucking dare." She heard him hiss, his free hand clenched helplessly in her hair, his forehead pressed against the top of her head, his breathing loud, shaky, terrified. "You promised me."

Part of her longed to stay with him, and part of her craved to be free, to go home, to see her mother, her brothers and sisters, to lie in her bed in her chamber.

However, Larax would stay in King's Landing, and with her her husband, who would never again trust her, who would never again look at her as he did then, the day he took her as his wife.

Kill me or marry me.

"Tell my mother that I will always be faithful to her, father." She said quietly, lifting her head, looking at her husband, his wide-open eye red with despair and horror; her hand rose to his cheek, her thumb stroked his clearly defined jaw. "Take me home, uncle."

She didn't appear to have time to finish her sentence, and his swollen, full lips pressed against hers in a passionate, greedy kiss – she felt tears of relief, grief, anger, joy and pain run down her cheeks as she reciprocated his caresses, his hands clenched tightly on her body.

"My sweet Rhaenys." He whispered in a trembling voice into her mouth, placing a quick, hot, wet kiss on her forehead before turning towards her father, the satisfaction and confidence on his face from which her heart beat harder.

"She is mine."

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everythingelseisextra · 1 year ago

Text

Horse To Water

Part Fourteen: Come Home (Tommy's POV)

I'm too lazy to write a description, have fun. Warnings: Kind of torture, kind of police brutality, talk of war, PTSD, language Word Count: 4535 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel @ce1iat @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

You find yourself in handcuffs, sitting in an empty cement cell. Water drips slowly from the ceiling. A bucket in the corner fills the room with the rotten scent of excrement. The bar you sit on permeates cold through your jodhpurs and you shiver. When you exhale, your breath fogs in the frigid air.

You’re unsure of the details of how you got here. What you do recall is a blur of hands pressing you down or pushing you forwards, shouts of men discovering the bodies scattered through your property. The one who lasted longer must’ve called the police between the first man’s death and his. Confusion steeped through the officers, and you remember questions yelled at you, your voice failing you as usual, and your consequent incarceration.

They’ve asked you your name. They’ve asked you your birthday, your address, your affiliation, and you can give them nothing. All the words in your mind fail to move past your lips. And so you sit alone in an empty cell and every time you close your eyes you see blood. Every time you take a breath you feel the weight of life in your lungs and you wonder when it got so heavy.

There’s an ache left over from being young in you. This world isn’t quite what your soul expected. You went through childhood with a kind of awful surprise, like each repeated pain you felt was a new betrayal from God. Now, you’re trapped, hands tied, with nothing but your clothes between you and the world. The hair on the back of your neck rises, and you look up to see a policeman peering through the hatch, hazel eyes cold. You suck in a breath and pull your body as far from him as possible, pressing your back against the wall.

After a moment, he enters, closing the door behind him. “So, you’re the mute.”

You stare up at him, halfway between defiant and fearful, your blood trying to boil and freeze at the same time.

“You killed two men. One was particularly brutal. Lure him into a trap and use blunt force trauma from a height? You’re fucked in the head.” He steps towards you, slowly taking a thick, heavy baton from his side and holding it up, eyes on the black metal. “I’ve been sent in here to make you talk. I’m known for my skills, right? I make people talk. I’m good at it. I’m good at making sure people don’t get knocked out when I hit them.”

There’s a smile on his lips. You straighten in your seat, jaw tightening, and smooth out your expression. You blink slowly at him. No way in hell you’re talking, not after a challenge like that.

“I start out gentle.” He holds the baton out, the end right below your chin. “Who are you?”

You close your eyes and breathe. When you were younger, you used to play a game with yourself, when men were particularly rough with your little body. You’d pretend that you were someone else, standing outside of your own body, watching from afar. You’d sink into the role of this person. You’d make up their story; their name, their age, why they were there. And you’d sit in their head and watch yourself be abused. It made the pain lessen. It made it go faster.

Now, as the baton cracks into your chin, you’re standing outside of yourself to the left of the man, considering him. You imagine yourself with a strong, large body, without the aches you always seem to have, and you slip into that form.

“I asked you who you are!” The policeman pulls the baton to the side, resting it above your ear. “I expect an answer!”

The baton hits hard into the side of your head. You fall to the side, but you don’t feel the pain. Your mind is elsewhere, hovering beside the policeman, watching his arm move the baton again, preparing for another strike. There’s hot blood rolling down the side of your head, and you’re aware of it, but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything.

You will win this game.

“Who are you?” He waits a few seconds before drawing back and striking you again with the baton. Something flickers in your off-centered mind, and your eyes slowly slide open.

He shouts something again, but you don’t hear it. You’re focused, existing inside and outside yourself, and you’re waiting for him to draw back. He winds up, aiming for your shoulder, and you know if he were to hit, it would break your bone. Seemingly in slow motion, the baton comes crashing down, and you lift your hands, and—

The baton lands on the chain between your cuffs and breaks the metal cleanly in half. Before he registers what has just happened, you’re on your feet. You kick him hard in the groin and make for the door as he falls to his knees, whimpering. You open it, knowing full well you’re about to be caught and put right back into your cell, and shoot out, thinking somehow, maybe, you’ll get past them.

You slam straight into someone, almost falling with the force of it, and back away, looking around wildly for some way to escape. You heave, not even trying to fend off the panic as your body trembles and your eyes search desperately for a way out.

“Easy now, love.” Tommy’s voice. You look up to see his clear blue eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “You didn’t need my help at all, did you?”

Your wide eyes blink to try to clear your vision, give yourself some kind of groundedness in the familiar shape of his face, but the world spins around you and a burning sensation rises in your chest as you lose your breath time and time again.

A hand reaches out for you and you jerk away, trying to catch the breath that runs chaotically away. You continue to back away, frantically seeking freedom.

“You’re not back there. You’re not trapped. Look around, you’re free as I am.”

There are eyes on you, pinning you to the ground, scorching your skin with their seeping gazes. You shake your head, brow furrowing, wishing you could get out from this cold, dark hallway, away from the eyes on you, away from the clattering of other prisoners.

“Look around. You’re alright. You’re alright.” He steps towards you and you try not to cower. “Come on, let’s go, eh? Hold your head up and let’s go.”

You take a gasping breath, then another, trying to get ahold of yourself. He reaches out a hand to you, letting it hover softly in the space between. After a moment, you look up, meeting his eyes with a kind of feral recognition that you’ve only ever seen in spooking horses being calmed. Slowly, you reach out a trembling hand to take his.

“You’re okay.” He gives your hand a slight tug and starts to walk. Your body, pumped with adrenaline, stumbles to move by his side, falling into step with him.

Down a cold cement hallway, with eyes seeking somewhere to land through the bars of cell doors, you walk with him. Behind you, officers watch in silence, your silhouettes slowly getting smaller in their vision. He knows his way through the maze-like building, knows how to navigate through the frigidity, and before you realize it, you’re out into fresh, equally cold night air. You stop and tilt your head up, searching the sky for stars and finding only the polluted gray of Birmingham. You continue to tremble, half from cold, half from the residual fear that skewers you, a slow, painful death.

Once you’re in his car, tires rumbling down the streets, he speaks again. “Fucking coppers wouldn’t tell me anything. Said they brought in a girl from a barn on the outskirts for double homicide. Even Moss kept his mouth shut.”

You close your eyes, pressing them together, then open them again. Your voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. “That’s because they didn’t know anything.”

“They tried telling me that. Told them they needed to find out, then changed my mind.” He reaches out to gently brush the bloody side of your head and you flinch. He drops his hand, jaw tightening slightly. His voice raises. “Does anyone ever fucking listen to me?”

You hold back tears, voice breaking and pathetically small. “They were scared that you’d hurt them if they couldn’t tell you more.”

“What were you thinking, running off and killing two men?” His tone remains harsh and you suddenly realize you’re trapped, alone in a car with a very dangerous man.

“I obviously didn’t do it for fun, Tom.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a silent tear dripping down your cheek. “They found me. I don’t know how, but they did. One of them was an old client, the other… I don’t know. It was self defense. They would’ve taken me back.”

He’s quiet for a moment, blue eyes reflecting the lanterns lighting the streets, little embers in the iciness. “One man with a crushed skull, the other with his brains blown out the side of his head.”

“I had to protect myself.” Your words grow louder, hoarse. “What did you want me to do, just go with them? Is that what you think of me? Just some poor haunted girl, helpless? Is that who you want me to be?”

“No,” he says, and the word is final. “No. Everything you did, every choice you made, is exactly what I would’ve done. I don’t want you to follow down the path I did.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I’m not following any path, I’m just trying to survive.”

“In the morning, we’ll go to your house and pack your things. You’ll stay with me.”

Suddenly, the lump in your throat is gone, replaced with a kind of surprised rage that can’t fully be described. “You’re expecting me to put my life on hold, lose my independence, and move in with you, without even asking me first?”

He blinks, glancing over at you as if he hadn’t realized it might not be what you wanted. “You’ll be sa—”

“Safer? I protected myself just fine, Thomas.”

“Next time, there’ll be more men, more guns, and you’ll be alone.”

“Oh, yeah? Well then, why don’t you move in with me? Why don’t you upend your life and leave everything behind?” You turn your head to look at him, glaring. “How does that sound to you?”

“It’s not the same.”

“What, because you have money and I don’t? Because I have less to lose?”

“You won’t be losing anything.” His hands tighten around the wheel and he straightens. “We’ll bring your horses to my stables.”

Your jaw almost drops. “Tommy, do you have any idea what it means for a woman to move in with a man? Do you realize that I’d be losing my financial and physical independence? You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” He glances over at you. “There are no rules that say you must give up your independence. Doesn’t matter what everyone else does. We can do it differently.”

You look away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I can’t rely on you for everything.”

“You can rely on me for protection.” He nods.

“I’m not— I hope you realize, Tom, that I will never belong to you. I will never be owned by anyone. I need space. I can’t be so close to you that there’s no room to breathe. If you want another possession, another trophy, you need to find someone else.” Your voice grows steady, strong. “I’m tired of belonging to a man. I’m tired of being told that I can’t exist without being attached to someone. I can. I exist, despite it all, and I refuse to do it again.”

“I’m not asking you to belong to me.” He sighs, a subtle sign of frustration. “I’m asking you to keep yourself safe. Let me help you. Even just for until this is over.”

“I can protect myself.”

“You can. But even you can’t be so strong.” His eyes flick down to his hands on the wheel, then back up to the street. “Even you can’t do it alone.”

You let his words fade into the cool night air. You try to siphon through the conflicting thoughts that flit through your mind like hummingbirds. You want to be yourself, separate from everything around you. You want to be where he is, wherever that may be, a constant yearning for the companionship he brings. You want to learn who you are without being caught in someone else’s orbit, without being owned. You want to teach yourself how to love without the constant fear of loss, and there he is, asking for nothing in return. There he is, and he has never done anything to you that was not good, and he has never tried to lead you astray.

You lean your head back against the rest and stare out into the now clear night, the stars showing now that you’ve moved from the city. “You would take in all twelve of my horses… let me live with you… for nothing?”

A faint smile appears on his lips. “It’s a big house. Needs someone else to fill all the empty space.”

You manage a small, watery smile in return. “Thank you.”

“No need.” He turns into the driveway of Arrow House and slowly pulls up. He stops the car but doesn’t get out, simply stares down at his hands and lets them slowly fall from the wheel.

“What?” You shift hesitantly closer to him, trying to read his expression, trying to peer into those blue eyes and decipher the depths inside of them.

“I know you take care of yourself,” he says slowly. “I know you always will. I want you to let me help. With everything. I want us to take care of each other.”

You take in a small breath. This, you think, this is when I hurt him. This is when it ends, all the softness and care, all the pieces of each other shared back and forth.

“I don’t know how,” you say. “It’s always been me. I’ve never learned how to help and be helped.”

“You do know.” He looks over at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I’ve seen you do it. Care for the horses every day.”

“Then I don’t know how to let someone help me.” You reach up and touch the side of your head; you can feel it now, the throbbing, swollen pain pressing through your skull. “I don’t know how to give up that kind of control.”

He considers you, expression soft and quiet. “I know I’m not the man you imagined, but I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you to be ready, and I’ll wait for you to learn.”

You smile a little. “I didn’t imagine any man. You’re quite the plot twist, you know that?”

“Will you try?” His head tilts slightly, a faint, wordless acknowledgement to your statement. “Will you take the time to learn how to be helped?”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Yes. I’ll try.”

“Good.” He lucks up at the house, tone accomplished, as though he’s checked off another task on his to-do list. He slips out of the car and into the night, and you follow him. The cool wind batters at you, burns the broken skin at the side of your head, and you stop for a moment to watch him walk, head down, hands in his pockets, silhouetted in the grand light of Arrow House.

When you were younger, you made a promise to yourself that you’d live long enough to have your own place. You’d survive until you could create a home, where you weren’t alone but weren’t taken advantage of. Where no one yelled and threw things, where there was no such thing as saying something wrong, a sanctuary of warmth and light and quiet appreciation.

It was a child’s dream of paradise, and now, as an adult, you know that nothing is that simple. But, as he stops and turns, waiting for you to join him at the doorstep, you think that, maybe, you’re taking a step towards keeping that promise. Maybe you’re reaching out a hand to that young, desperate self, and showing her that there is kindness, and there is warmth, and there’s somewhere out there for her.

And that younger self smiles, knowing that though there are battles ahead, she has made it home.

Your eyes are closed as Tommy gently uses a washcloth to remove the blood from the side of your head. The pain throbs dully with each touch, but you somehow don’t mind it. There’s a raw, open gash underneath your hair that he drenched in alcohol a few minutes before. He’s quiet. You’re quiet. The bathroom you sit in is cool and the light is soft on your eyelids.

You’ve seen him dream at night. His closed eyes move with nightmares, his jaw clenches, his body tenses, trembles, sometimes jolts as though in pain. All this time, and you haven’t been brave enough to ask. All this time, and you haven’t known how to ask him to talk about that wound without reopening it. Now, though, as he cleans the blood from your neck, you think, maybe the air is stable enough. Maybe the softness is steady enough.

“You have nightmares,” you say quietly. “You never talk about them.”

“No. I don’t.” He doesn’t seem to want further questions, asking you to allow the conversation to end there.

“Sometimes you talk in your sleep. Did you know that?” You keep your eyes closed.

“Grace never told me.”

“You do. It’s always indistinct. I catch names, sometimes. Someone called Danny, or Freddie. Sometimes you count. You’re quiet, but I can hear it in your voice. You’re scared. I’m never sure if waking you up would help or not, so I stay quiet, let you ride it out.”

He doesn’t respond. You open your eyes to find his face a little paler than usual, his eyes covered in a momentary, hazy film that slowly melts away like ice. He blinks, and gives you a small nod.

“I’m not proud. It’s no treat to relive it.” He goes back to cleaning your blood, his hand steady, his voice the same. “I get stuck in the mud again.”

“I can help,” you say quietly. “I’m not going to let you get trapped in your own head because of me. I will never let you fall apart.”

His jaw tightens, then relaxes. “I’ll tell you. Only if you promise not to ask about it again.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes again, waiting, giving him the space to take his time.

“I was the sergeant major of the 179th Tunneling Brigade. I spent most of my time fighting underground. Won medals for surviving what others couldn’t.” His voice flattens out, low and even, emotionless. “What else do you want to know?”

“You were… underground?”

There’s a pause before he responds. “Yes. It was small. The cold bit our feet because shoes weren’t allowed and we couldn’t drain the water. The light came from candles that wouldn’t stay lit. Sometimes the air got thin. Sometimes the canaries and rats died before us.”

You stay as still as you can, as quiet as you can, unwilling to break the sacred silence around you as his words settle around you. “And the nightmares?”

“A cave-in. We could hear the Germans digging above us. They sent word to get underneath them and set up enough charge to stop them getting to our trenches. Maybe it was an accident or maybe they heard us. All I know is their mines went off before ours did. I felt it before I heard it and—” He pauses and clears his throat, then continues, tone a little softer, a little more worried. “Then the ground shook and fell to bury us in a grave we’d dug for ourselves. It scared me more to realize I was alive than thinking I was dead. I remember trying to get air, get some of the weight off me and thinking: Fuck. Alive. I have to keep going. I have to get out. Five of us found a space large enough to get some air. I never heard about the rest of them”

It seems he had holds it in, grappling with the memories that swirl around his mind, intoxicating and bewitching, and, once you ask, it’s all he can do to stop it from spilling out. There’s a weight on his shoulders that never lets up, and he stays quiet about it, never complaining, never even mentioning it. You squeeze your eyes, kaleidoscope patterns of color sparking on your eyelids, and think you should’ve asked him sooner.

“How did you get out?” You match his tone with a steady, quiet voice.

“We dug up for a day and a half till the fixed air took our consciousness. Even before then the five of us accepted we would never see the sun. Some men dug down and got three of us out. There was another still alive underneath. His legs had broken and tangled in the apparatus for clay kicking. One of my comrades stayed down with him. The roof collapsed. Their corpses will never be recovered.”

He sounds tired. The words he speaks seem to barely leave his throat, as though the low growl of them remains confined to his vocal cords. Finality rings from his voice like an order, or perhaps a plea. He seems to beg you, in his own silent way, not to ask for more. You can only be so selfish, so brazen in how much you push him to fake steadiness. Any further now and his façade would melt fully away. Thomas Shelby came home from war to test how many times he could ignore the broken parts of him till they shattered, and this conversation has forced him to see the cracks.

“That’s what you dream about. The cave in. The ones you left behind.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes the tunnel gets broken through and we have to fight and kill and leave the bodies to rot. Sometimes all it is is the sound of picks and shovels at the other end of the tunnel, coming towards us, and the only thing to do is wait.” His voice grows emptier, hollowed out, and you open your eyes to look up at him.

“Tommy,” you say quietly. “Look at me.”

He does as you ask, haunted blue eyes searching for something in you that you’re not sure you have.

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t hurt you.” You watch his hand as it shifts from steadiness to trembling, then back to steadiness again. “I can hear in your voice that you’re faking it to protect me. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you if you’re hurt. I am, too. Remember our promise?”

He nods blankly. “Yes. I do.”

Like a horse to water, you try to coax him to step out of the darkness and bring the parts of him he hides into the light. You know he’ll refuse. You know he’ll consider it, over and over, and then back away. Or, maybe, you’ll get lucky, and some trust will glow like an ember, and you’ll see him lay himself down in front of you and show you who he is.

“You still feel like a soldier, don’t you?” Your tone is slightly sad.

He nods again, curtly, but his eyes are almost sleepy, exhausted by the task of remembering and acknowledging.

“Have you been trying to forget?”

Another nod. He looks like a boy, spooked late at night by some horror story spoken by his friend, eyes glassy and tired but, underneath, so, so afraid. The hand that holds the bloody cloth lifts and presses against his chest, over his heart, protective.

“You wanna know what I do? With the memories that are too big for my body?”

His eyes flick down to you, acknowledging, giving permission.

“I sort of… sit with them. I do it alone, and I give myself time. Sometimes I panic and can’t breathe, and sometimes I fall out of myself, like I’m not quite me, but not anyone else, either. But, always, after I think about it, after I let it take me over, I can call it back without having such a strong reaction.” Slowly, you stand from your seat and turn to face him. “It hurts. I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done, worse than when it happened the first time. But after… It's catharsis. It’s being reborn. And you’re exhausted, but you survived it, and you can do it again.”

His eyes latch onto yours, helpless, and you reach up to caress his cheek. Slowly, he caves to you, his eyes closing.

“And you just did it. You called back a ghost, faced it, and now, here you are.” You bring him closer to you, pressing your forehead against his. “You survived, Tommy. You survived, and I survived, and there’s something to that. There’s something to the fact that we never deserved what happened, and yet, we’re still alone, together. And now I know that I need to wake you when you have nightmares.”

He releases a slow breath. You close your eyes, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

“We’re gonna be okay. I think you’re right. I think we’re meant to take care of each other. You’ll teach me how to let you help me. I’ll teach you how to love again.”

He swallows hard, and you feel a faint tremble run through him, subtle, barely there. You reach up with your other hand and take the cloth from him, setting it down on the counter, and then take his hand. You feel your heart settle into your body, and you feel something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Hello love, your invincible, hopeful friend. For a moment, you forget where you are, and you squeeze his hand and start timing your breathing to his. You have so many words to speak, so much bubbling up in you, but you hold your cliches and just stand with him, waiting out the memories, holding him quietly. He squeezes back, and you smile faintly.

“There you are.” You drop your hand from his cheek, open your eyes, and step back.

He watches you, eyes soft, then looks away. “You were right.”

“I was?” You blink, surprised. “About what?”

“It’s better, after, if you… sit with it, like you said.” He lets go of your hand, picks up the cloth, and walks casually to the door. “Won’t be doing it alone. I need you with me.”

“Apparently I’ll be here.” You follow him. “I live here now.”

He shakes his head, and you catch a small smile on his lips. “Not yet. That could change.”

You chuckle. “You would never.”

“I would never,” he agrees.

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fluffysucker · 1 year ago

Text

Desperate People find faith.

Bucky Barnes x reader

An accident mends your broken heart.

A/N: Written in Third POV. No use of Y/N. However, the reader is referred to as a female.

I read this amazing oneshot, and I couldn't stop thinking about this idea. So I added my own twist to it. Thanks to the wonderful writer for sharing it and for inspiring me.

Likes, comments, reblogs are VERY VERY highly appreciated. Opinions really matter to me

TW: Bullets and blood. Mentions of torture but nothing explicit

Main Masterlist

You knew you shouldn't have done it. You should have stayed home. What could barely be described a home. You should have minded your business. You should have acted like the civilian you are now. You shouldn't have done it. But your loyalty to Steve wouldn't have let you

The image of the cheap copy so-called Captain America holding the shield blasting all over the news was a hit. A gut-wrenching hit. There was a guy who was taking the place of your childhood best friend, the man you called brother, the fearless leader. And he looked happy doing so. Then the blond had the audacity to say that Steve felt like a brother to him. You felt physical pain that you almost threw up.

Rationality went out the window. Before you knew any better, you were tracking down the man who was handed your friend's legacy. The man who gave it away when there was nobody more deserving than him. It wasn't hard to know exactly where Sam Wilson was. You were aware he joined the Air Force once again. So you hijacked the location of his next mission, demanding answers.

But it appeared that you weren't the only one who had the same plan. As you were talking to Sam, trying to be as nice as you could, giving him the benefit of the doubt, telling him you weren't here to judge or pick a fight. You just wanted an explanation. You heard him.

"Shouldn't have given up the shield."

His voice was filled with anger. But you could hear the sadness hidden in his tone. Sam scuffed, walking away from you as well. You turned around and you saw him. The love of your life. Quite literally.

You fail to recall a time you weren't in love with James Buchanan Barnes. Growing up together, your trio was inseparable. You would never see one without the others. From the age of three till your twenties, the three of you were more than family.

Despite loving Steve like the brother you never had, the same couldn't be said about his best friend. Your feelings for the brunette were never platonic. Neither were his. In the second grade, he promised to marry you once he got older. And he did. He kneeled to the ground with a beautiful golden ring for you once he secured a job. It was the easiest yes in your life.

Loving him came to you naturally. Stolen glances. Sweet words. Fast heartbeats. Shy smiles. Gentle touches. You were each other first everything. It was like you were made for each other. Like you were born to love him.

And he was your perfect man. Every woman envied you. Every woman hoped to have someone look at her like he looked at you. Every woman wished for a man who treated her the way he treated you. Every woman prayed for a man to love her that much.

Bucky Barnes was head over heels in love with you. And he made sure he showed it.

You were the luckiest girl.

Up until your luck ran out. War knocked on your door like a hurricane, destroying your life.

You remember the night before Bucky was shipped. When you went home after what couldn't be called a double date at Stark expo. The promises the both of you made. Your dream wedding. Your house. Your family. Your kids. All of it. Your future. And you believed him. You couldn't fathom any alternatives.

So when Steve walked in your tent where you did your job as a journalist, who was asked to cover The Howling Commandos missions and subject their heroism to the public, you knew. The look of utter defeat in his face, his glassy eyes, his red nose, the way he was trying to shrink away in his new huge body, you knew.

Your heart was ripped and broken to pieces. The pain was suffocating. You were drowning. You felt like the world ended. Life stopped.

You don't remember how things went after that. You don't remember if Steve ever said the words to you, but you remember his promise of revenge as he held your sobbing body against his chest.

And he did. He ended Hydra. But it came with a price. Very high. After Steve's sacrifice, life became meaningless. You weren't living. You were barely breathing. You were alone.

So when the government asked you to write the final article about the war, the winning announcement, you were about to turn it down. You found difficulties in everything. Leaving your bed sounded like a tiring task. Eating felt like a punishment. Functioning like a human became a burden.

But you remembered how supportive Bucky was of your career. When every man let women their abandon their dreams, Bucky helped you fight for yours. And he gave his life for this victory. Your fiancée and bestfriend. You owed it to them. To be the one to report the triumph tinted with their effort and blood.

So you put in all your strength and travelled with the small team to write the most important piece of work in your life.

However, only a number of people of the team and the article made it back. You didn't.

On your way back, you were ambushed by unknown soldiers. They took you to unknown quarters. You were so confused until you saw that cursed symbol. They weren't gone. Neither was your fiancée.

And that began a lifetime of torture and pain. They brainwashed Bucky but left you with your memories. So when they threatened to hurt him, you caved and let them do whatever they wanted to you. It was a trap they built for you, and you fell in it every time. They would hurt both of you at the end.

You endured it all. You survived it all. Except the moment they made Bucky look you in the eyes and fight you. They erased you from his mind. You saw the love of your life, and he saw nothing. He looked at you and saw either an enemy or a mission partner. And that was the most painful torture Hydra put you through.

As if this wasn't enough. You had to face a hindrance you never thought of.

After Steve rescued the both of you, after him running away from you, after spending two years making amendments with the government and helping Steve search for him, after the accords and Zemo's predicament, after he remembered you, after Princess Shuri was able to give him back his freedom, after you hugged him as he cried, after you decided to finally have that wedding, Thanos happened.

You believe you did something so terrible in another life, and you were getting punished for it in this life. There was no logical explanation as to why this kept happening to you. Why were you robbed of any chances of happiness. Why did you have to watch your man disappear right after having him back. Why you could only feel ache and misery. Why was the world so cruel.

So you kept your hopes to minimum when Steve came to your shared apartment one night, telling you that they had a plan. You agreed to join them in the time heist, ready to be disappointed.

But the second you saw Bucky standing on the sides with his machine gun, you wanted to cry. You thought it was an illusion, but these blue eyes said something else. Now, you were fighting with a strong drive and purpose.

You thought that was it. Your happy ending. You finally had him. But Steve leaving tore you apart. You were happy for your bestfriend who finally did something for himself. However, you couldn't help but feel sad. At least you and Bucky had each other.

Bucky had another thing in mind. Because, a couple of weeks after Steve leaving, Bucky broke up with. He said he needed to figure himself out and work on his pardon. You understood. But it didn't make it any easier.

So you left, giving him all the space he needed. You hadn't seen or spoken to each other since. At least he is alive. That's what you kept telling yourself to find any sort of comfort or condolence.

So this was the first time you had met. He looked different. He cut his hair. He had a scruff. He was wearing an all black outfit. He had gloves on. He had little bags under his eyes. He looked good overall. That's what mattered to you.

"Good to see you too, Buck." Sam said as he walked with intentions to move away from Bucky.

"This is wrong." Bucky didn't give him the chance as be walked beside Sam, without batting you an eye. You couldn't say that didn't hurt but you followed them anyway.

"Look, I'm working, alright. So all this outrage is going to have to wait." It was clear that Bucky wasn't here to have a civil conversation like you.

"You didn't know this was going to happen?" Bucky accused Sam.

"No, of course I didn't know that was going to happen." Sam was quick to deny Bucky's accusations.

"You think it didn't break my heart to see them march him out and call him the new Captain America." This was more directed towards you, following up to your conversation before Bucky cut in.

"This isn't what Steve wanted." Bucky wasn't going to back down.

"Oh my god. So what do you want me to do? Call America and tell them I changed my mind. " Sam's sarcastic reply did nothing but annoy Bucky's more.

"Like I told your wife. There is nothing we can do. You just couldn't wait for her to get home." You looked at Sam. It didn't appear to you that he wouldn't know.

"We broke up."

Another wave of pain hit you as you turned to look at Bucky, who was still not looking at you. How easy could he just say it with no emotions at all. You were fighting to get by every day, and he looked like he didn't care.

"What?!" Sam stopped suddenly once he heard Bucky's words, turning to the both of you.

"You,two lovebirds who literally broke laws to be together, broke up?" Sam couldn't believe his ears. He thought you would have gotten married by now. Your love for each other more epic than all the novels he read.

"Were you asked to give it up?" You changed the topic quickly, refusing to answer Sam's question or talk about your tragic love story. It hurt bad enough, and you didn't want to show it.

"Of course not." Sam heard you loud and clear. He also knew your question had pure intentions. You weren't here to offend him.

"Right, great reunion, guys. Be well." Sam turned to walk out, ending this conversation.

"You had no right to give up the shield, Sam." Bucky was angry, and he was showing it. In the wrong way.

"This is what you aren't going to do. You aren't going to come here in your over extended life and tell me about my rights." Three of you came to a stop.

"It's over." Sam added, looking at you as you came to stand next to Bucky.

"Besides, I have bigger things to deal with."

And you hadn't rest since.

It was, indeed, big thing to deal with.

You had no idea what you were getting yourself into when you impulsively followed Sam and Bucky into the plane.

It was a constant mess. The flag smashers. New super soldiers. Karli Morgenthau. Isaiah Bradley. Zemo. Madripoor. Power Broker. And the worst of them all. John Walker and Lemar Hoskins. It never ended.

All that chaos was a good distraction. You didn't have time to think about your broken heart nor to think about the current nature of your and Bucky's relationship.

It was complicated and confusing.

You fought very well together. Your combined sets of skills were lethal. Your collective training and ability to work together kicked in when needed. Away from that, the both of you barely talked. You acknowledged each other existence. That's how you would describe it.

However, you couldn't explain why Bucky refused when Raynor asked you and Sam to join them in the session in the police station. Or why he always made sure you stayed at least an arm distance away from Zemo. Or why did he choose to be the Winter Soldier for the night instead of you compromising your identity that you kept a secret all these years. Or why, that day at Madripoor, he almost took multiple bullets for you. Or why whenever John showed up, his hand would always find yours.

You were thankful you didn't have the time to think about all of this because you were sure you would have lost your mind. You barely had your emotions in checks. And there was a lot going on.

Then it all went crushing. You would never forget this day.

You followed Sam and Bucky, running out of the building into the street, only to see the calamity that just occurred.

John Walker stood proud with the blood-tinted shield above the man he just slaughtered.

Instinctively, your hand came up to wrap around Bucky's bicep, looking for any comfort for the both of you. This scene would forever be engraved in your memories.

Three of you gave John some time. You stood outside of the warehouse he was in right now. You knew if you all went angry, the results would be catastrophic.

But it was anyway.

You let Sam do most of the talking. He was the best in this. If anyone could convince John to hand over the shield, it would be him. So you stood and watched. But it appeared that the time you gave John Walker to cool down only drove him more over the edge. So, with the three of telling him to give up the shield, John Walker lost his mind.

It should have been an easy fight. A veteran and an avenger and two super soldiers. It shouldn't be hard. But neither one of the three of you was fighting was the intention to hurt John. Unlike him, John was fighting to kill. With his new powers, he was uncontrollable.

You let out a high-pitched scream once you saw John throw Bucky away, electrocuting his arm, making him lose consciousness. Then you watched as he straddled Sam on the ground. You needed to act quickly.

You groaned as you got up from the floor, looking at the cut in your arm. Nothing too bad. You told yourself as you ran toward John tickling him away from Sam.

It was just you and him, now.

And it was brutal.

You were still trying not to hurt him too much. However, he was unstoppable. So when he figured that he would lose combat with you eventually, he retrieved to other options.

Picking the shield and throwing it at you for it cause a cut in your chest was enough distraction for him to take out the gun he kept in his suit and shot you.

The bullets found their places in your stomach and legs. He aimed for places that you wouldn't recover from. You fell to the ground, coughing blood, feeling the bullets rest so deep in your body.

John walked towards you with the shield. He looked at you. His eyes were showing insanity and rage. He lifted the shield up and hit you in the chest. The pain was like no other. And you knew that was it.

It felt ironic in so many ways. Your bestfriend's shield. The shield that presented all of Steve's values and beliefs. The shield that helped once save your life. Now, it was going to be the weapon to kill you.

Of all the ways you thought you would die in, this wasn't even close. But when was life ever fair to you? At least you would have peace now. Your dying wish was for Bucky to know how much you loved him and how you wanted him to be fine and happy. Because you loved Bucky more than life itself.

You tried to distract yourself from the excruciating pain by counting how many hits of the shield would it take to end you.

You counted two.

You started coughing violently as you felt a weight got lifted off your chest. All your body going numb for seconds.

You saw Bucky was up once again, and he managed to corner John with Sam, trying to break his arm to take away the shield.

You desperately tried to get up and help them, but your whole body was on fire. Why was the serum not working?

A breath escaped you once you heard the sound of bone breaking. Only to realize breathing hurt. Everything hurt so bad.

With cuts on your arms and face, bruises on your ribs, wounds in your chest, bullets in your stomach and legs, you gave up, closing your eyes.

Because of your agonizing pain. You didn't hear Bucky beating the life out of John after taking the shield. He didn't stop until John passed out.

Bucky turned around and saw a sight that came straight out of his worst nightmares. He had seen it too many times. Woke up scared and sweating because of it. A sight that he knew would haunt him more than it already did.

Your lifeless body in a pool of blood.

He took careful steps towards you, praying it would disappear, and this would just be a nightmare of his. But the sound of your faint heartbeats made it real.

"Doll." Bucky got on his knees next to you, holding your motionless body in his arm.

You hissed in pain as you felt a movement that caused all the pain in your body to stir awake again.

"Bucky." Your voice was a whisper. You were too tired to open your eyes, but the feeling of the metal around you was familiar.

"I'm right here, doll." Bucky may not let it show in his voice, but if you opened your eyes, you would see the fear and tears.

"I need you to stay awake, okay. Can you do this for me? Please, stay awake." Bucky never felt this desperate before.

"Help is on the way." The three of you had already arranged with Torres to have an ambulance on stand-by. You had a feeling things would go bad. But not that bad.

"I'm tired." The amount of blood you were losing was making you too dizzy.

"I know, doll. But you will be okay." Bucky didn't care about the blood getting all over him as he pulled you closer to him.

"You will get better. Because you have to." He was saying it more to himself than you.

"I prayed for this." Talking was getting too hard, but you had to tell.

"What did you pray for?" Bucky was doing anything to keep you awake. He needed to listen to your voice.

"To die in your arms."

Bucky felt the tears escape his eyes, falling down freely on his face.

"You aren't dying. You will be okay." You heard it. The shakiness of his voice.

Fighting the great pain you were in, you opened your eyes to look at him. You wanted to see him one last time. This is why you prayed to die in his arms. So his face would be the last thing to see. This voice would be the last thing you heard. His arms the last thing you felt. Your farewell to the cruel world would be with the man who had been your heaven on Earth.

You lifted your arm with a moan of pain before you placed it on his cheek. You needed to say it. You needed it to be your last words.

"I love you, Bucky. I loved you my whole life."

With that, the world went dark.

You didn't get to see the mess that Bucky became as he heard your heartbeats slow down. His screams and desperate calls of your name to wake up.

He was so blinded by pain that he didn't let the paramedics near, protecting your body until he realized who they were. They didn't try to fight him when he insisted on getting in the ambulance with you.

All the time you were in the surgery, Bucky was inconsolable. He didn't care that Sam and Torres saw him as he sobbed, sitting on the floor waiting for anybody to tell you were fine. All he cared about was that he didn't say it back. You could die not knowing how much he loved you. The thought brought new tears to his already puffy red eyes

He prayed to God and anyone that would hear. If you were standing close enough, you would hear him. "Please, don't take her from me." "Please, let her be okay." "Take me instead of her." "She deserves so much better, please."

In his long life that was filled with hardships, torture, and wars, this was the worst pain he ever went through. He could feel his heart twisting and breaking. Every cell in his body was hurting. The emotional pain turning physical.

His eyes were dried up. Cheeks stained with tears. His mind going through all the worst scenarios. None of them he would be able to survive.

He jumped up from the floor when the door opened, and a doctor walked out. His heart was beating a thousand miles a second. All these prayers never leaving his mouth. His last hope.

"She is okay."

Tears of relief fell from his eyes. You survived it. You made it. The doctor talked about your injuries. With medications and the seurm, you would heal properly. Bucky didn't pay attention. His mind focused on one thing. He needed to see you.

After knowing your room's number, Bucky didn't leave your side. The doctor told him it might take a bit for you to wake up, but he didn't mind. He would stay forever.

It wasn't long before you woke up.

You opened your eyes slowly, adjusting to the bright lights. The last thing you remember was the intense pain. It didn't hurt as much now. You just felt so exhausted. You tried to move your hands, only to be blocked.

You looked down to see Bucky holding your hand so tightly and his head resting next to it. You could tell his eyes were swollen and his nose was red. But he looked peaceful sleeping. You missed him so much.

Without much thought, you moved your other free hand to his head, playing with his hair. It felt soft under your fingers. You blamed the serum that made him wake up from such a simple touch.

You smiled softly as you watched him, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing. He looked confused until he saw you.

"You are awake." Bucky got up from the seat next to the bed.

"Are you okay? Are you pain? What hurts? I'm going to call the doctor." He was frantic. He only stopped when you held his metal hand.

"I'm okay, Bucky." You reassured him with a smile.

You repeated it a couple of times before he finally sat back down on the chair. That's when you noticed he was still in his suit that was covered in blood. Your blood.

After he sat down, he looked at your intertwined fingers together and couldn't help the tears.

"What's wrong?" You asked as you moved your thumb gently on his knuckles.

"You scared the life out of me." He answered as he wiped his tears away.

"Though we were used to this, Barnes." You replied playfully, hands still together.

"Not when it comes to you. Never you." Bucky was fast to respond.

"Nothing I haven't been through before." You said it casually. You didn't miss the look in Bucky's eyes. It held too much depth to it. You couldn't put your hand on it

"Is your arm okay? Do you need to get it checked?" Flashbacks were coming back to you bit by a bit. As you touched his metal arm, you remembered what happened to him.

"You are in the hospital bed, and you are asking about my arm." Bucky's laugh was dry. He would always be in awe of how caring you were.

"I will never stop caring about, Bucky. Even if you don't want me." It was true. Nothing could make you stop caring about Bucky.

"Don't want you?" Bucky couldn't let your comment go by.

"Yeah. You don't want me anymore. It's okay. I understand."

"You understand?"

"I remind you of a bad time. The worst. And you had to move on. You had to cut ties with all parts of this time."

"Is this why you think we broke up?"

"Isn't it?"

You started telling yourself this after the breakup as a way to pick the shattered pieces of your heart. Of course, he didn't want to be with someone who held their bad time as a constant reminder on her body as scars. Or with someone who went through the same hell as him. He deserved someone better. Someone who wasn't so damaged.

And you understood.

"No, it isn't."

He was planning to tell you everything but not right now. But words just fell out from the tip of his tongue.

"I don't look at you and see bad time. I look at you, and I see all my failures."

You looked at him, baffled, not getting what he meant.

"I remember everything."

You still didn't know what he wanted to say.

"I remember what Hydra did to you. What they made you do for me. What I did to you."

"Bucky.."

"How they pushed you too far in the lies of not hurting me. How they made you watch as they erased you from my mind. How they made me fight you. Hurt you."

You were about to tell him how you didn't hold him accountable to any of this because it was never his fault. It was never his intention. You were sure Bucky would never hurt you. The Winter Soldier not too. But he cut you off.

"They took you because they knew how much you meant to me. How important you are to me. I was the reason you had to go through all of this."

"I look at you and remember how I failed to protect you. When that's all I ever wanted in life. To protect you. But I failed."

"Just like I failed today."

Before you could say anything, he kept going.

"I couldn't understand how you could still love me."

"I looked at the list of people I hurt, and your name was first. And you wanted to help me. You wanted to stay by my side. I couldn't live with the guilt. I still can't. I had to let you go despite how bad it hurts."

"But, doll, I want you to be sure nobody will ever love you half as much as I do."

It took years for Hydra to remove you from his mind. But what they didn't know was that they never fully succeeded.

At first, he would forget his name but remember his girl and everything about you. Then they become harsher, so he would only remember your face and name. Then, it became only your face. Then nothing. The blank paper for them to write what they wanted.

However, whenever Hydra made the both of you train together or go on missions, he would get this rush of flashbacks like a movie playing in his head once he was alone in his cell. It would be you. In different places and different ages. The Winter Soldier would convince himself that it must be his memories from past missions. Effects of being wiped too many times.

The soldier was never able to shake the feeling of guilt after a training session where he would be instructed to be tough with you. A feeling so foreign to him.

He remembers the first time he refused to hurt you. They made him watch from far as they tortured you. Then they wiped him again. Every time he showed any sympathy for you, he was wiped and handled roughly.

But all the efforts weren't enough. You were the first thing he remembered once he settled in Bucharest. That's when the guilt came in. It was you. The love of his love. His fiancée. And they got to you. And he couldn't save you.

Even after the blip, His thoughts kept going back to how he betrayed you and hurt you instead of protecting you like he was meant it.

But the worst part was how he thought he didn't deserve your love anymore. He thought you would resent him. So he decided to break his heart into two. He left.

You were the forbidden topic that Raynor wasn't allowed to go near despite how much she wanted. You were the centre of his nightmares. All of them. Past memories of both of you at Hydra. Missions and trainings. And the worst, losing you. Watching you getting killed. Nightmares that invaded him, and he was defenceless.

"I love you, and I'm so sorry." Bucky laid soft kiss on your hand.

"Let me ask a question, Bucky." He looked at you, tears still filling his eyes.

You didn't expect this to be the real reason why you and Bucky broke up. But you should have known. He was too good of a man.

"If it had been the other way you around, wouldn't you have done the same? Would you have hated me then?"

"I would give my life for you without hesitation. And nothing could ever make me hate you."

His answer was fast. That was the only thing he knew about himself. You come first, always.

"Then why are you surprised with what I did? You don't love me more, Bucky." You laughed softly, already feeling your ribs ache a bit.

You always had this running joke that Bucky loved you more than you did. And to a lot of the extent, it was true.

"You didn't deserve it."

"Neither did you."

You patted the spot on bed next to you, wanting him to be close to you. And he listened. He sat on the bed, hands never leaving each other.

"Haven't we been through enough? Haven't the world tore us apart too many times? Let us have this."

If he still loved you, then you should be together. You should be broken together. You should heal together. It was poetic how even in pain, you were still together.

Both of you understood each other better than anyone. You shouldn't be separated.

"You don't hate me?" It was Bucky's worst fear and biggest doubt. If the damage Hydra did was unrepairable.

"I can live hundreds of years and still be in love with you."

You squeezed his hand to make sure he knew how serious you were. "You are all I have ever known, Bucky."

With that, Bucky got up and moved so close to you. Your faces millimetres away from each other. His breath fanning over your face. His personal scent with dust and blood engulfing you. His blue eyes warming the inside of you.

"I got the best girl of them all." Bucky kissed you.

It was a soft, slow kiss. A sign of starting over. Of getting back.

You smiled in the kiss. Bucky used to say this all the time back then. You were known as Bucky's best girl. He used to call you that.

You broke away, feeling so much better now. Bucky rested his flesh hand on your cheek.

"I thought I lost you. I was so scared."

"You didn't. I'm right here."

"Though you will leave me before I say it back." You looked at him, puzzled.

"I love you, doll. You are the thing I live for. You are the purpose of my existence. I love you so much."

You didn't care about the pain as you moved up to meet his lips one more time. And he kissed you back right away.

"You owe me a ring and wedding, Barnes." You joked while you brought your other hand to hold into his suit to ground yourself.

He laughed before he moved away for a bit, and you already missed the closeness, and he wasn't far. You watched as he brought his dog tags out. You saw something bright with them but couldn't tell it was.

"Oh my god." You felt tears gather in your eyes as Bucky brought out the shiny thing closer.

It was your ring. Your engagement ring. The ring Bucky put in your finger many years ago. It was it. You thought it must have been lost that you didn't try to look for it, avoiding the disappointment.

But here it was. Bucky was able to find it. And he kept it with his dog tags. So close to his heart. Where you belonged.

Bucky got in one knee in his technical gear in a hospital room with you connected to IV.

"Doll, will you marry me?"

You laughed loudly that you felt pain shot again in your body. Bucky was next to you in an instant when your laugh turned to a cough.

"Third time is a charm." You said as you gave him your hand.

With another proposal in Wakanda before the snap, you managed to get Bucky Barnes on his knees three times for you.

He put the ring on your finger and pressed a kiss on your hand. "It will be. Mrs. Barnes." The name always had its sweet effect on you.

Bucky leaned in again to kiss you. And this kiss felt out of the world. Like a lifeboat before drowning. Water after the drought. Your rescue.

It was Bucky's promise of safety and security. Nothing and nobody was ever going to hurt you again. A promise of a safe home. Together.

You kept your forehead resting on his as your hand found its place once again on his suit.

"No to be rude, but you need a shower, babe." You could feel the dust on his face and the blood dried on his suit and skin.

"I will be okay. Probably going to fall asleep." You didn't give him a chance to protest.

"Plus, you know. I like my man nice and clean." You pecked his lips playfully.

The sound of the word "your man" falling from your lips referring to Bucky made his heart do little dances. Damn right he was your man.

"I won't take long." He kissed your hair before he got up and left to get himself presentable for his lady.

The world felt lighter, brighter, better. You felt happy. You were happy. You looked at the ring that held huge meaning for you. You weren't hurting. You were finally okay. You had your man back.

Who would have thought a near death incident would be the thing to give you back the man who always brought life to you.

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