#there had to be one taylor swift song. that woman has me by the hair | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

straylightdream · 26 days ago

Text

…ready for it?

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭: kwon soonyoung x curvy!f.reader

In the middle of the night, in my dreams. You should see the things we do, baby. In the middle of the night in my dreams

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: non-idol au, friends to lovers

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut warning below.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.3k

𝐚𝐧: inspired by the Taylor swift song of the same name Let me know if you’re interested in any other boys stories mentioned in this. You can also fill out this form helping me pick songs for the other boys. here. Vernon might have a connecting story this one. Please let me know what you guys think about his role. The rest or the boys stories will be in my svt m.list.

here is my SVT taglist if you’re interested being add please fill out this form.

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: intercourse (p in v) oral (fem rec), soft dom soonyoung, so much dirty talk, sex dreams, rough and passionate sex, a little hair pulling, spanking, soonyoung is boob obsessed like this man is obsessed, body worship, body insecurities, the mc is soft and has curve, the mc and Soonyoung are down bad.

Kwan Soonyoung the man that haunted you in the best way possible. From the moment you met him you had a feeling deep down inside that he would turn your world upside down.

Your first time you saw him was at a friend's birthday party. Watching from across the club you watched a pretty girl with red hair fall at his feet, clinging to every word he said. All your encounters that followed went the same way. Each night another girl would fall for his charm. Who could blame them? He was beautiful and had a body that looked like it had been sculpted by the gods.

The fifth encounter was when you were properly introduced to him. The moment he shook your hand as you were introduced you knew instantly you were going to fall head over hills for this man.

Things took an unexpected turn when your dinner plans you had one night with Vernon were interrupted but Soonyoung and another one of their friends Seokmin tagging along. That was the night that your friendship with Soonyoung started to bloom. From that night on your grew closer and even found yourself hanging out with him one on one. The problem was the closer you got to him, the more you started to fall for him.

Your new friendship did nothing to detour his “playboy” ways. You would often find yourself out with your group of friends and it wouldn’t take long before you watched him leave with a different woman each time. The closer you got the more it hurt to see him with new women each night.

There has been a new problem in your life since you’ve grown close to Soonyoung. He just doesn’t take up your waking thoughts, he now even haunts your dreams. Many nights you’ve found yourself having vivid sexual fantasies about him.

He has you on your hands and knees as his rough hands grip your soft hips. He thrusts into you at a quick pace. Glancing over your shoulder you see his lust filled eyes focused on watching his length disappearing in and out of you over and over again.

“Fuck-“ you moan.

“You’re so tight-“

You’re so close to falling apart you can practically taste your release on your tongue.

“I wanna- I wanna,” he’s fucking you so good you can’t even form proper sentences. “Cum.”

“But you can’t,” he laughs.

Before you can even respond everything fades away. Your eyes snap open and you look at the dark ceiling above. Once again you're dreaming about your friend.

Sighing your roll onto your side. Looking at the clock to see it’s only three in the morning.

Sitting in a crowded bar Vernon is rambling on about some girl he’s crushing on that has a boyfriend and you can’t help but lose focus as he’s speaking to you. Your eyes keep wandering across the bar when Soonyoung is attempting to “teach” some skinny girl with quite large breast how to play pool. The feeling of someone kicking your shin instantly brings you back to reality.

“Do you ever listen to me?” Vernon glares at you.

“I was listening,” you lie.

“What was I saying?” He gives you a look letting you know he doesn’t believe you.

“You were talking about your neighbor who you have a crush on.” That was about the only part of his story you were fully listening to.

“What about her?” He rolls his eyes, leaning back. Your best friend is tired of your bullshit and you honestly don’t blame him. You haven’t been the best friend to him right now. You often find yourself distracted whenever Soonyoung is around.“Do you think if you finally fucked Soonyoung you be able to focus around him?” You practically choke on your beer you had just taken a sip of.

“Excuse me?” Your eyes must be huge. You’re completely caught off guard by his statement.

“Whenever he is around you barely pay attention. You seem like you're wrapped up in Soonyoung. It’s clear you want to fuck, so please just get it over with so I can have an actual conversation with you when he’s around.”

Silently you stare at him not even sure what to say. You can’t even deny what your best friend just said to you. He’s right, you can barely focus when Soonyoung is around.

“I’m not his type,” you sigh before taking another sip of your beer.

Vernon looks over at Soonyoung who is leaning over the table still playing pool with the same girl. “Soonyoung’s type is pretty girls with tits. You check off both those boxes.” You instantly glance down at your own quite large boobs. They go with your soft curvy body. You aren’t skinny like all the girls you’ve seen him leave with.

“I’m not a twig last time I checked,” you sigh.

“God you’re dumb sometimes,” Vernon is once again rolling his eyes at you. “Princess, I'm gonna say this nicely. You’re hot, men like women with soft bodies. If you want to hook up with Soonyoung you need to make it obvious to him you’re interested. He’s not gonna make the first move because he thinks I have dibs on you.”

Your eyes once again go wide. “Excuse me, you have dibs?”

“It’s a long story but once upon a time I had a big crush on you and Seokmin told Soonyoung.” You’ve known Vernon since you were a teenager and you were absolutely clueless to the fact that he had a crush on you.

“When?”

“Back when we were in college and you were dating Sunwoo.” He left you in complete shock. You weren’t in love with him but you had no clue at one point he liked you. You absolutely would have dated your best friend in college. “I don’t want you to freak out or let that stop you from trying something with Soonyoung. I’m just letting you know the reason he hasn’t made a move.”

“When did you stop liking me like that?” You feel like you definitely need some answers.

“Before our senior year. I started dating Liz and fell in love with her. Listen before you overthink this. You didn’t break my heart and you clearly didn’t return my feelings.” He seems completely unfazed by the fact he let out the fact he had a crush on you in college.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you were in love with someone else the whole time. Listen stop asking questions and try to hook up with Soonyoung before he takes that girl home,” Vernon once again kicks your shin.

“Stop that!”

“No. Now go,” he waves you off.

Sliding out of the booth you adjust your skirt. You aren’t normally the type to pursue a man like this. But you now know nothing will ever happen with Soonyoung unless you make the first move. The moment he sees you as walking toward him he stares at you. Something tell you that Soonyoung might have known your intentions suddenly.

“Soonyoung,” say confidentially.

“Hey?” He gives you a crooked smile.

“Can I talk to you?” The pretty girl sets the pool stick down and instantly looks annoyed.

Of course.” He smiles.

“He’s helping me,” the girl says.

“Sorry I need to talk to my friend.” Soonyoung responds to her. “It was nice meeting you.”

You lead him away from the girl. Walking towards the bar. You know you’re gonna need something a little stronger than beer to maintain your confidence. You order a cranberry and vodka as Soonyoung leans against the counter studying you. “So princess, what did you want to talk about?” You almost lost your train or thought of him calling you the nickname Vernon gave you in college.

“I was curious what a girl has to do to get an evening with you?”

Biting his bottom lip he holds back a smile. “What do you mean?”

“I always see you leaving with different girls and I’ve always been dying to know what the Soonyoung experience is,” you aren’t used to being this bold but there is something about it that’s so exciting.

“Oh I see.”

“Are you not interested in showing me?” You aren’t sure you can take the rejection if he says no to you. Especially after Vernon told you that you’re his type, and made a big deal about encouraging you to pursue him.

Placing his hand under your chin he gently tilts your head back. “Princess, I’m very interested in showing you.” The way he’s speaking to you turns you on more than you ever thought it would. “When did you suddenly get interested in me?”

“Since the moment I saw you the first time.”

A cocky smile crossed his lips. “Do you think about me often?” You blink slowly. You aren’t sure if you should lie and say no or let him know about fantasies with him that invade your dreams. “Your silence says a lot.”

“I dream about you often.”

His eyebrow raises as he studies your face, “are these innocent dreams?” You shake your head. “Do I take good care of you in your dreams?”

“Yes,” you step back from him and take a sip of your drink.

“Something tells me I’ve been fucking you really good at night. I’ve been noticing for a while you can barely look me in the eyes when we’re together. Is that because I do the dirtiest things to you while you sleep?”

“Yes.” Your body feels like it’s been lit on fire. He’s turning you on in public with very little effort.

“Should I bring some of those fantasies alive tonight?”

“Please,” you practically sigh.

“Finish your drink I’ll tell Vernon I’m taking you home.”

Walking into Soonyoung’s apartment you realize you’ve never been here before. He’s been to your place before for a wine and game night but you’ve never been here. You look around noticing his minimalist style. Stepping out of your shoes you step more into the living area. He must notice you're a little nervous now. He walks behind you placing his hand on your lower back leading you away from the front door.

“Your place is nice,” you feel awkward attempting to make small talk.

“Thanks. Did you want anything to drink?”

“Why does this feel awkward?”

He sighs, “I’m trying to be respectful and not strip you right now and fuck you on my living room floor.”

Your cheeks burn feeling embarrassed. You weren’t expecting him to be that blunt. You know right now is your chance to be confident. “What if I want you to fuck me on your living room floor?”

“I was hoping to make it a little more romantic and do it in my bed,” he chuckles stepping towards you.

His hand rest on your cheek. He drags his thumb just below your bottom lip. “What if I don’t want romance our first time? I want to know what all those other girls experienced.”

“Our first time?” He tilts his head.

“Is this supposed to be a one night stand?” You don’t want this to be a one time thing but you don't want Soonyoung to know right away you’re practically in love with him.

“Absolutely not. I promise Vernon if I have sex with you it has to be because I truly like you.” It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes at the mention of your best friend.

“Of course Vernon talked to you.”

“He did it when I told him I was taking you home. Don’t be mad at him.”

“He’s the one who encouraged me to talk to you.” You sigh.

“I guess I’ll have to thank him later.” He gives you a cheesy wink that instantly makes you smile.

“He doesn’t need the ego boost so please don’t.”

Without saying another word you crashed your lips into his for another searing kiss. Both his hands hold your face as your lips move together.

“So you like me?” You ask with your lips ghosting his. There is no way you can let it slip that he said he likes you.

“Was that not obvious?”

You shake your head, “could have fooled me.”

“Let me show you how much I like you.”

His lips press to yours for another searing kiss. The way he’s kissing you it’s like he’s undressing you with his lips. There is this thought that won’t leave your mind. Is this what the other woman experiences when he takes them home?

One of your hands grip his hip pulling him closer to you. You’re instantly met with his growing erection nudging your stomach.

“I know how much you want me to fuck you on the living room floor. I’m gonna be honest I want you on the bed so you’re comfortable while I fuck you from behind,” if you weren’t wet before you definitely are now.

“Take me to bed then.”

Walking into his room he wastes no time swiftly removing your clothes. You’re standing in front of him bare except for your tiny cheeky underwear. You want to feel insecure in your body, but you know you need to be confident. Soonyoung had made it clear that he’s into you and how your body looks.

“Are you going to get naked too?”

He just smirks and pulls off his sweater. The rest of his clothes soon follow. He’s standing there in front of you completely naked. His body looks like it was carved by the gods.

He drops to his knees and pulls your panties down you legs. Sitting back on his hunches he looks at you like a man starved. A first kiss starts on your knee and he makes his way up to your most sensitive area.

“Spread your legs.” Blindly you listen. He kisses the top of your mound before spreading your lips. He laps at your sensitive clit earning sweet moans from you. He clearly knows his way around a woman’s body. He brings his fingers into the mix first starting with one finger. He continues to practically make out with your clit while pumping two fingers into you. Your fingers tangle in his hair holding him close to your core.

“I’m gonna come-“ you whimper. He glances up at you, watching as you fall apart. You practically see stars at the orgasm that washes over you.

Pulling back from your core he sticks fingers soaked with your release in his mouth. “Amazing,” is all he says.

“Get on the bed.” Pulling away from you he walks over to his night stand and grabs a condom from the top drawer. He rolls it down his hardened length before joint you on the bed.

He has you on your hands and knees. He runs his length through your wet folds. “Are you ready for it?”

“Absolutely.”

He pushes into you slowly earning a gasp from you. He doesn’t give you a moment to even process what is happening. He starts thrusting into you at a brutal pace. You practically see stars each time grazes that perfect little spot inside you.

With each of your whiny moans, he bullies you with each thrust. He is not gentle by any means, and you love that. Your first time together you didn’t want roses on the bed and candles. You wanted him fuck you until you can’t think straight. You wanted to live out one of your dirty fantasies you have about him. His hand tangles in your hair instantly pulling your head back. Another whiny moan leaves your lips.

“Fuck-“ he groans.

He thrust into you a firm pace splitting you in half. Biting your bottom lip you try not to scream his name. Your body trembles as his large hand slaps your ass. This is the roughest anyone has ever been with you before and you can’t get enough of it. He leans over you, taking your large breast in his hand. His fingers instantly find your sensitive nipple.

“Fuck next time I’m going to need you to ride me. I have been thinking about sucking on these since I met you,” he tweaks your nipple earning another moan. “Princess is so responses.” He helps guide you back so he sitting on his knees with you pressed up firmly against him with his dick firmly inside you. “Princess, I need you to help me here for a minute. Keep bouncing on me while I play with your tits.”

You try your hardest to keep the pace he set, but the way he’s playing with your nipples leaves your mind feeling fuzzy. Soonyoung must have grown tired at your sloppy attempt to keep the pace. He guides you back down to your hands and knees.

You couldn’t even say anything in response to him changing the position. Reduced to nothing more than a mess of whines and moans.

Your wildest dreams couldn’t live up to the experience Soonyoung was giving you.

“Can I come?” You beg on the edge of falling apart. You don’t think you can handle it if he tells you no.

“Princess is so polite,” he snaps his hips into yours again

“Please-“

“You’re such a good girl,” he groans.

The white hot wave that washes over you, makes you feel like you’re about to black out. Dropping to your elbows your face rests on his bed while continuing a brutal pace chasing his own release.

The moment he find his own release he moans your name like a prayer. He continues at a slowly pace riding out his high.

A gentle hand slaps your ass as he removes himself from you. Instantly you fully lay down on the bed fully exhausted.

Rolling into the bed next to you he removes the used condom tossing into the bin next to his nightstand. Leaning over he presses his lips to your cheek for a soft kiss. “Let me clean you up. Can you lay on your back for me?”

“Yeah,” you mumble.

Crawling off the bed he disappears to the bathroom before coming back with a washcloth. He finds you laying on your back with your legs spread. “If I didn’t wear you out so badly I would fuck you again right now.” You give him a sleepy smile. He gently wiped down your used pussy, cleaning up your release. He tosses the cloth in the hamper before reaching up and squeezing each of your breasts. “I’m gonna have to find time just to worship theses.”

“Vernon wasn’t lying when he said you’re obsessed with boobs.”

He just rolls his eyes before crawling in bed next to you. “You won’t be complaining once I get to full play with them.”

“Have fun. They’re all yours to play with,” you take your breast in your hand giving it a squeeze while you stare at him.

“Do me a favor and if you can avoid wearing a bra please do.”

This man clearly doesn’t understand the struggles of being a woman with heavy boobs. He doesn’t realize bras help prevent back pain. “I need to wear one when we go out. But we’re in private. I'll take it off.”

“I can deal with that.”

Laying close to him you glance up at him to find him smiling. “You seem happy.”

“I think we have a good connection,” he responds.

“Is that because you just blew my back out?”

He laughs. “Yes, but I think we should also try going on dates.”

“I would like that.”

360 notes · View notes

imsandra · 2 months ago

Text

HE SEE

Pairing: Azriel x Female reader

Summary: Love and promises don’t last forever, but guilt and remorse do.

Warning: Angst, sadness. Let me know if anything happens.

Word Count: 4962

Notes: We have the continuation of “I See”. I’m proud of this. Thanks to those who asked for another part; you make me very happy. My friend told me that this second part has the song “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” by Taylor Swift, it’s just a recommendation.

I hope you enjoy it. Please leave your comments on what you think, suggestions are always welcome as long as they are meant to teach and with respect.

English is not my native language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors.

Original story, written by me. Please do not copy or plagiarize my story.

I appreciate the comments, reblogs, and likes that I receive.

Happy reading!

I see (1)

Velaris, the City of Starry Light, was illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. Azriel stood in the room of his new home, gazing through the window as the rain soaked the city streets. Sleeping had not been an option since he left the home he had shared with Y/N for the past centuries. It had only been a week since he did so, since he left his heart bleeding.

In the bed lay his mate, Liria, fast asleep. He had met her a couple of months ago, and of course, they had had their first date. She had joined as a new spy for the court, alongside Nuala and Cerridwen.

Liria was absolutely different from Y/N. She had dark blonde hair, her eyes were a sea-green color, and her lips were thin. At times, she was cold, and when her work took up too much of her time, she became distant. But with Y/N, she always found time to talk to him; she was sweet and the perfect mix of a woman who knew she wanted to be with him. Sometimes, at dinner, Liria simply ignored his trivial day-to-day conversations, or sometimes, neither spoke.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way for him. He had imagined that with Liria, he could have an even deeper connection than he had with Y/N; that they would embrace the bond, talk about getting married and having children in the future. But everything was turning out the opposite.

The Master of Spies couldn’t forget the feeling of wanting to be close to Liria on the day they met.

It was just a training session, training the next spies who would serve the Night Court, and then he would return home to his beautiful and sweet girlfriend to kiss her and catch up, as he always did.

Liria and Azriel were in fighting positions, assessing each other as opponents.

“This time, Liria, you need to trust your instincts,” he told the blonde.

“I always do, Azriel. Do you doubt me?” she replied with a flirtatious smile.

So when Liria attacked, it was directly at the feet of the Shadowsinger. The blonde slid across the training field floor to strike Azriel's right ankle. It was an unexpected move for him, and he fell to his knees. With the same determination, Liria lunged to throw him onto his back and ended up on top of him, their faces inches apart, about to kiss.

Azriel was astonished by the energy enveloping them both. He didn’t expect that just before the sea-green-eyed girl attacked, the bond that connected their souls would shatter. He could only watch as their faces were a breath away from kissing, and though he wanted to, he didn’t. His girlfriend was waiting for him at home, and he had plans with her. But the beautiful blonde girl was his mate , not Y/N, whom he had always thought their souls were destined to be together, whether or not there was a mating bond. Perhaps it was at that moment that he realized, no matter what, he longed for that bond with her, with Y/N.

And the mother was wrong about them.

Azriel sighed and decided to take flight, while the rain was just a kiss on the skin and a sigh in the night.

Sometimes, the people who heal you are the same ones who break you.

Y/N barely had the energy to avoid neglecting her work. Part of her was dedicated to designing costumes in a small boutique in the city center. Her busy life kept her occupied most of the time, but sometimes it wasn't enough. Azriel crossed her mind at the most inopportune moments: while designing, during conversations.

So when Mei, her coworker, told her that she had received a letter from the Dawn Court as a sign, Y/N decided to share the news with Feyre. They had agreed to meet at their usual café, right in the artist's quarter, in the Rainbow.

When Y/N arrived, Feyre was sitting by the window as always, sketching in a notebook.

“Sorry I’m late, Fey,” Y/N greeted her friend.

“Don’t worry, darling, I just got here,” Feyre replied.

The two women ordered their usual drinks while catching up on their work.

“Az hasn’t shown up at the River House or the Wind House,” the blue-eyed brunette informed Y/N. “Rhys has been worried, but his work hasn’t allowed him to take any time off,” Feyre continued.

“I don’t think Rhys should worry about Azriel,” Y/N responded. The name of the Shadowsinger came out in a broken whisper. “He must be with his mate,” she continued.

“Y/N,” Feyre called her friend, “Rhys isn’t worried about him, not right now or about his partner,” she confessed with tender eyes, while looking at Y/N, who was lost in her thoughts.

It took 10 seconds for Y/N to understand what her friend was telling her.

“Rhys wants you to come to the house to spend the afternoon. He misses his friend, Nyx misses his aunt, and I miss you too,” the brunette admitted. “Actually, everyone does,” the fae continued.

“I’m not his aunt anymore, not anymore,” Y/N whispered with a hoarse and broken voice.

Feyre stood up from her chair and moved closer to Y/N. She sat beside her, pulling her close to her chest as she hugged her. Y/N couldn’t resist, so she hugged back, burying her head in her friend's neck and letting her guard down. She cried as her adventurous mate held her tight and whispered that it was okay, that she had her, and that she wasn’t alone. Nothing else mattered, neither the fae watching them nor the coffee cooling on the table. Only the two of them, only Y/N was Feyre’s concern. She was her friend, and although she had met her through the Shadowsinger, she knew enough to assure that she would always be her friend.

After a while, they slowly pulled away, and Feyre wiped the few tears from Y/N’s cheeks. She took her hands and looked into her eyes.

“You will always be Nyx’s aunt. He adores you, and I know you adore him too,” she said with the kindest voice she had for her friend. “Besides, I’m sure you miss him too,” she added, smiling.

“Yes, I miss my mischievous boy,” Y/N choked out with a hoarse voice. “And I also miss the others,” she continued.

“I knew it,” Feyre said with a small laugh. “So... will you accept coming to the house?” she asked with a calm and hopeful voice.

Y/N thought for a while. If Azriel hadn’t shown up at her friend’s house or the house where he used to live before meeting her, what were the chances of running into him?

“Alright, I’ll go,” she agreed.

“Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll prepare your favorite meal. Maybe Rhys will want to share some of his cherished wines,” Feyre mentioned with a smile.

Both women laughed, knowing it was hard to convince Rhys to share some of his wines, but it was no secret that there were always two people who took them without permission from the great lord.

A new day, another day at work. Y/N finished one of the designs she had been working on for a week. She asked Mei to pack it up, as they would pick up the dress later. With that, she ended her workday and returned to her apartment. She hadn’t moved into a new one yet; she couldn’t, not yet. So she decided to keep her mind occupied preparing for the meeting that afternoon.

Y/N was in her dressing room, surrounded by clothes she used to wear with Azriel, and it was a difficult decision. She had designed some outfits for their dates, family dinners, anniversaries, or special nights. Maybe she should have just bought something new and avoided this debate she knew she wouldn’t win.

In the end, she opted for a simple pair of pants and a shirt that had been shoved at the back of the closet, low heels, and understated yet carefully done makeup, trying to hide her dark circles and signs of exhaustion. She finished with her favorite perfume, no jewelry, since Azriel had been the one to gift her small collection since he entered her life. She couldn’t help but imagine going to this meeting with him, as they had done so many times before: her sitting at the vanity, finishing applying her lipstick, and the Shadowsinger behind her, watching her through the mirror. It would only be a moment before he would approach to fasten the necklace he had returned, kiss her cheeks, and tell her how beautiful she looked. She wouldn’t arrive late just because Azriel decided to take Y/N and lay her on the bed, just to kiss her and tell strange jokes. She wouldn’t arrive with wrinkled clothes from struggling to get them both up.

They would never again arrive holding hands.

Y/N stood at the entrance of her friend’s house, looking at the garden where Azriel and she had played with Nyx, a garden that had witnessed so many happy moments, and now they were just that, moments. The house that had scared her so much the first time Azriel introduced her to his family. The fae took a deep breath, preparing to knock on the door, but paused for a moment when she heard the boisterous laughter of Cassian, followed by Mor’s laughter and Nyx’s small chatter, her nephew. She couldn’t help the soft smile that appeared on her face, so she knocked on the door.

She was met with Cassian’s fierce hug when he opened it. He might have stopped her breath if he had hugged her a little tighter. She hugged him back, and little steps echoed as Nyx appeared at the door.

“Auntie! Auntie!” the child shouted, jumping up and down so she would pick him up.

“No, I saw her first,” said the general, too loudly for the little heir to hear.

“Lies, it was Uncle Az!” the child babbled, pushing at Cassian’s legs.

The general slowly released her, whom he considered his sister-in-law, to see her face and make sure she was okay. Y/N greeted him with a forced smile, silently assuring him that she was fine.

The woman bent down and picked up Nyx, who squealed and hugged his aunt. She couldn’t blame Nyx; he didn’t know yet. That his Uncle Azriel and Auntie Y/N were no longer together. So she showered him with kisses all over his face, tickling him, and the child burst into laughter. Cassian smiled at the scene until he felt someone else’s presence behind him.

“Are you going to let her in, or are you going to wait until the three of you freeze out here?” the father of the little black-haired boy questioned. “Nyx, darling, let go of Y/N, it’s my turn,” Rhys continued.

“No,” Nyx grumbled with a pout as he clung to Y/N’s neck.

“Then it will be a group hug; just try not to kill me,” Y/N attempted to joke.

The two adults laughed and moved in to hug her. She felt a part of her heart warm with the love of a family. A moment later, the four of them entered the house, leaving the cold weather behind for the warmth of the home.

Everyone greeted her: Mor, Feyre, Elain, Nesta, and even Amren hugged her, which was unusual for her. The table was decorated with her favorite food and even her favorite wine, courtesy of the High Lord, just as Feyre had said.

One more task to complete. It would be the last of the afternoon, and then she could have dinner with Liria, and maybe, just maybe, cuddle together. He had postponed some of his reports since he left Y/N and had also not visited his siblings’ house. He needed time.

Liria entered Azriel’s small office, where he was sitting reading one last report. She approached quietly and kissed him on the cheek. The Master of Spies shivered from the sudden affection and tensed his wings. It was one of the few times his mate showed affection, and almost always his body reacted the same way. Even his shadows didn’t approach her; he was sure they missed Y/N. And how could they not, when the woman with whom he had shared almost everything would enter his office in the loudest way, with a radiant smile that could light up an entire universe, his universe? She would shower him with kisses and hugs, then sit in his favorite sofa while keeping him company, creating new designs for her shop. And just now he noticed she was wearing one of the robes she had made for him.

He responded to the blonde with a tense smile.

“Are you almost done?” he asked.

“Yes. Where are you going?” she asked, noticing Liria’s outfit.

“I’m going out with some friends; I just came to let you know,” she whispered close to his lips and gave him a kiss. “Don’t wait up for me; you should rest,” she advised him, and with that, she left through the door of his office.

Another night added to the many nights he would spend dining alone, once again.

The doorbell of the river house echoed inside the property. Rhysand frowned and turned to look at his mate . “Are we expecting anyone else?” he questioned mentally to Feyre, who simply shook her head. Everyone had settled in the living room of the house to continue their conversation. Nyx was in his room with his aunt Elain; he had fallen asleep.

Rhys got up from the couch and walked to the door. He did not expect to see the person on the other side, at least not today.

“Azriel,” he said his name as if afraid they would know he was there. “What are you doing here?” he asked his brother.

“I came to deliver… Y/N,” he whispered, his breath catching. “Is she here?” he asked.

There was no way to lie. Her scent drifted into the Master of Spies’ lungs just as he remembered it: so soft, subtle, and sweet. The High Lord could see the agony on his brother’s face and how his eyes filled with tears. Was it guilt or mourning?

Azriel could have died in that moment. There was no way to say he didn’t miss her, because he missed her to his bones. His heart ached as if a dagger had pierced it. The sound of her laughter reached his ears. The melody had changed; it was no longer loud and full of life. It was all his fault. He should have been there with her and not with Liria. He had made a mistake, and his error would cost him his entire life.

“What did you come for?” Rhys asked, cutting through the thread of his thoughts.

“To deliver the reports,” Azriel muttered in a hoarse voice.

His brother let him into the house, and as he walked down the entryway, he saw the huge vase with strange figures that they had given Feyre for her birthday two years ago. It had been brought specially from the Winter Court, a trip they had taken together. He could still hear her voice with feigned annoyance telling him to be careful not to break it. The memory struck him like a stab to the heart. He arrived in the living room just as Y/N delivered the worst news he could have heard.

“I’m going to the Dawn Court. I’ll be away for at least a month,” she told her friends.

“No,” Azriel whispered with a broken voice. “You can’t go,” he shouted, alerting everyone to his presence. His shadows separated from him and approached her.

The fairy shuddered at the contact of the shadows on her skin. She hadn’t expected him to show up. Azriel saw the smile of his beloved falter the moment their eyes met. Her face grew somber, sad, and he wished that Prythian would swallow him whole at that damned moment.

Silence fell over the room. Everyone was tense from the unexpected arrival of the Shadow Singer.

Cassian was the first to break the silence.

“Az, we weren’t expecting you,” he muttered through gritted teeth, angry at the situation. His wings flared, ready to defend Y/N if necessary.

Azriel ignored him as he crossed the room to where Y/N was sitting. She stood up instinctively, wanting to flee, just wanting to forget him for a while. It wasn’t fair. The moment he reached her, he took her in his arms and began to cry.

“Y/N, darling, please don’t go. Forgive me,” Azriel whispered in her ear.

She couldn’t move. Her breathing became ragged, her throat tightened trying to suppress the sobs that wanted to surface. She swallowed hard to clear the knot that had settled in. A shiver ran down her spine.

“Let me go,” she whispered back. “Don’t touch me, Azriel,” she shouted, disappointed.

He continued holding her close, and she squirmed in his arms, pushing him as far away as possible. Where she had once felt safe, now she felt suffocated. When they were a few centimeters apart, she saw his clothes; it was one of the garments she had made for him, and it carried a scent that wasn’t his. Her heart sank to her stomach.

“I know you’re angry, please, listen to me. I know it was wrong, and I’m deeply sorry,” the Shadow Singer pleaded, as he moved his hands to her face. “I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back, to make you believe in me. I promise. I’ll do whatever you want, just say it,” he begged again, this time on his knees, holding her hands and kissing them.

“And what will you do?” she laughed sarcastically. “Will you promise that you won’t hurt me again?” she continued, with her fists clenched. “You hurt me, Azriel, and you didn’t care. While you were sticking your tongue in another woman’s mouth, I was at home, waiting, begging for you not to be hurt and to come back to our home safe,” she hissed with pain, as her gaze met his. “I would have ripped out my heart for you, no matter the reason, but I know you wouldn’t do the same for me,” she went on. “Do you know what I want?” she murmured.

Azriel had red eyes as she spoke. He remained on his knees, crying for the pain he had caused, and although he had a sliver of hope, it vanished the moment her eyes met his. There was no way to repair the damage. Her eyes, which had once looked at him with love, with the kindness and softness of a feather, with the adoration he didn’t believe he deserved from her, now looked at him with the coldest gaze, disappointment swimming in them, and sadness clinging to them. He didn’t even need to answer; nothing would heal her heart.

“I want my heart to stop bleeding, I wish it would stop singing your name,” she whimpered. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks. “But I wish it wasn’t you who nearly ripped it out of my chest,” she said, collapsing to the floor, hugging herself.

Azriel, who was closer, didn’t even have the chance to reach her in time. Instead, it was Cassian who appeared to hold her against his chest, crying like he had never heard her do before. His shadows tried to calm her as they once did when she was scared. Even they were there for her.

Cass, his brother, was the one holding her in his arms, against his chest, and Azriel wanted to tear her away, but he had no right.

“It’s best if you leave,” the general said through clenched teeth to Azriel.

His voice, filled with pain and disappointment, had never spoken to him like this in the centuries they had been together. Azriel understood. Y/N had developed a relationship with him, supporting each other, and he also knew that Cassian would never have done this to her.

A hand rested on the spy’s shoulder. He looked up and met the violet gaze of Rhys, his other brother, and the eyes of the rest of the people he considered family, who were in the dining room; they had left them alone a while ago.

The weight of his decision was on his shoulders, in his heart, and in his soul. His brother was indicating that he should get up, but Azriel's ears were ringing; he heard it from a distance. He didn’t know when he got to his feet. Rhys guided him to his office. The reports had been forgotten on the floor of the living room. But he decided he couldn’t stay there, not while he could hear her muffled sobs. So he left the house and went to the only place left for him.

The door opened. Liria entered; it was night, and she found Azriel slumped on the sofa, in the darkness. She could see the tears streaming down his cheeks, even though he was asleep. In his dreams, Y/N’s muffled cries tormented him.

The blonde approached to comfort him. She grabbed the blanket from the sofa across from him but stopped inches from his body when the scent hit her. A scent she had noticed on him when she first met him, which she had discovered belonged to someone else soon after. But still, she continued; he was her partner, their souls were bound.

If “I love you” were a promise, would it be broken if they were honest?

The next morning, Azriel woke up to the sound of clashing weapons. He got up from the sofa, rubbing his face with his hand, and saw Liria in the hallway, where the noise was coming from. The woman could feel her partner’s gaze, so she turned around.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she greeted him.

“What are you doing? Why the suitcase?” the dark-haired man asked.

“I’m leaving,” she replied vaguely, turning back to continue packing her weapons.

“I don’t want the bond,” the spymaster's words slipped out.

“I know,” Lyria said. “Don’t forget that I can feel your emotions through the bond,” she reminded him, seeing his look of confusion. “Last night, you were murmuring her name and how much you love her,” she revealed in a hoarse voice.

Her mate passed by him, perhaps gathering the last of her belongings. He could only watch; he thought it would hurt, but it didn’t.

“Two days ago, I found a small box,” Lyria continued. “By the way, nice ring. She would have liked it,” she confessed.

Azriel tensed at the mention of the object. He remembered having carefully hidden that ring, a proposal ring for Y/N. Before meeting Lyria, he had been planning to propose marriage; the only ones who knew were Rhys and Cassian. He had ruined everything.

“How did you find it?” he finally looked at her.

“I made a mistake with you, with us, Azriel,” she evaded his question. “I wish I hadn’t left,” she continued in a hoarse voice. “I don’t want the bond, I reject it,” she said finally.

They had heard stories that if someone rejected the bond, they would die. But the bond cooled on both sides and neither of them died. The rejection of the bond didn’t hurt as much as Azriel’s soul ached from having left his girlfriend. It didn’t tear his skin as it did that day when he saw her cry. He didn’t wish for Prythian to swallow him for the rejection.

“I’m sorry, Lyria.”

The decisions of the two had brought them to this point: bringing together two people with the same energy could make them implode. And they understood it too late.

“I’m sorrier for us,” was the last thing she said before leaving through the door.

Although they both had hope, dreams, goals, loves, friendships, and families, they had all shattered.

The journey to the Dawn Court was supposed to last only a month. Thesan, the high lord of the court, had requested in the letter that she be the one to make his tunic for the most special day of his immortal life and that of his lover.

She had done it. That was five years ago.

The rays of the sun filtered through the white curtains, reflecting the face of her beloved, who was sleeping peacefully beside her. He, with brown hair, had his arms wrapped around Y/N, holding onto her as if his life depended on it. And so it was.

A few years ago, Y/N left the Night Court for the Dawn Court. Her small boutique in her friend's court was left in Mei's capable hands; she trusted Mei to run it and might soon give it to her as a birthday gift. During her time in the Court of Sun Rays, she opened a new boutique, where she currently works, although she designed for both. Mei handled most of the workload at the boutique on the other side.

During that time, Azriel never stopped sending her letters, flowers, and her favorite things to reach out to her, always without success. Until one day, she responded to one of his thousands of letters, where he kept apologizing, making it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him ever again.

Darius and T/N were at the market, doing their shopping, holding hands, stealing kisses from time to time, and joking around. She had met him when she arrived at the court, with her heart still in pieces. He was a warrior of Thesan's royal guard. They became friends, then started flirting, soon became a couple, and now were married. He was always patient with her; her heart wasn’t ready at that time, but every time she spent time with him, the pieces came back together. He had also had his heart broken a few months before they met, so they understood and supported each other, respecting each other’s pain.

Darius loved his wife so much that he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to tear apart anyone who decided to hurt her. Anyone who made her shed a tear would find their own heart ripped out before causing her any pain.

Liria and Azriel were not exempt from sharing work. They had a court to protect and a high lord to respond to. Both were in the Dawn Court, searching for new leads on a minor commotion.

Azriel managed to distinguish a woman's hair. He walked, trying to get as close as possible to her to confirm that his eyes were not deceiving him, that it was indeed her, the woman he loved.

And even though she had told him she wanted nothing to do with him, he was unwilling to stop searching for her. So, when he confirmed that it was Y/N, the air escaped his lungs. At a respectful distance, he saw Y/N holding hands with a man, a warrior. But what struck him most was the bulging belly against which the woman rested her hand, adorned with a wedding band and the engagement ring. The love of his life had found her mate, was starting a family, and it would not be with him, as he had dreamed many times. Azriel would not be the father of her children. He had not been chosen, and he never would be, just as he had not chosen her first.

Liria watched the scene with the same sadness. On the day her bond with Azriel was broken, Darius, with whom she had shared a century of her life, had proposed to her. She had no doubt that he loved her deeply. However, she had rejected him and now bitterly regretted it. She knew she could have been the one to receive those tender kisses and those looks overflowing with love. Liria deeply regretted ending her relationship with Darius for Azriel and losing the chance to be his wife.

Such is the smallness of the world. The people they had hurt ended up finding each other to make each other happy and complete, like puzzle pieces that belong together.

Azriel had nothing more to offer. He never had a right, and he realized that his fear of not deserving Y/N's affection had come true. He did not deserve her, and he would carry that weight throughout his existence.

And if dreams were to come true, they would have been the ones.

The sun shone and embraced Y/N. Darkness dragged Azriel into the depths.

Tags: @janebirkln @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @blessthepizzaman @rcarbo1 @saltedcoffeescotch

@nikt-wazny-y @oceandiors @whosmys

Guys, it won't let me tag everyone, I hope you can read it.

I red them!

#azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel spymaster #azriel #acotar fandom #fanfiction #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel angst #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #shadowsinger x reader #night court #sarah j maas #sjmaas

270 notes · View notes

eloves-writes · 3 months ago

Note

💜 with carlos sainz!! could you make it spicy? it's ok if you don't want to as well it's your choice :)

fun fact! i can see you was one of my surprise songs at the eras tour and it is very near and dear to my heart😌😌 is this secret relationship trope overdone? yes. will that stop me? no!

song lyric prompt: “i can see you waiting down the hall from me, i can see you up against a wall with me” i can see you ~ taylor swift💜

warnings: kissing, reader n carlos being cute, slightly suggestive, oblivious charles leclerc

————————————————————

the whole press conference, you kept finding your eyes wandering over to carlos opposite you on the large sofa. he looked so beautiful today in his ferrari shirt with his summer break tan and messy yet perfect hair; this was the first time you’d seen him since the last race in spa, not managing to align your vacation plans but mostly not wanting to rouse suspicion if you were caught a beach together somewhere. the secrecy was fun and adrenaline pumping, it made you feel like you were in high school again sneaking around behind your parent’s backs- of course, the stakes were much higher due to your on track ‘rivalry’ with the spaniard. at least, the battling for positions and pushing each other off track was interpreted by the media as such; in reality, it was playful, teasing foreplay that you both enjoyed so much that the thought of getting caught and letting everybody else in on your little game disappointed you both immensely.

when the floor was opened up for questions from the journalists, hands shot up as usual and a question headed straight for you.

“this is for y/n and carlos,” the woman started, respectful in her tone which you appreciated after the shit men had asked you in the years since you started racing. “we’ve all liked watching your on-track battles so far this year, but we wonder if you two are coming in just as hot to the second half of this season, or has the rivalry cooled off over the summer break?”

she posed a valid question, but truthfully it was one you wondered the answer to yourself. had the heat between you cooled in each other’s absence? and if it had, was there an on-track rivalry without the off-track affair?

after a beat of silence allowing you both to think, carlos spoke.

“i don’t know about y/l/n, here,” he answered, connecting his big brown eyes with yours and making your stomach flip. “but i’m coming in just as hot.”

you knew what he was really saying. you paused for a second before answering yourself:

“me too,” you responded playfully. “carlos is a great driver, but i’m better.”

as you walked off the stage back to your team’s garage, a hand grabbed your waist and carlos leant down to level his lips with your ear.

“i’m good, but you’re better, huh?”

you turned to look at him, trouble in your eyes. “that’s what i said, yep.”

he grabbed your hand and swiftly dragged you into the ferrari garage without anyone seeing. pushing you up against the wall of the corridor, he kissed you feverishly and you kissed him back, welcoming the taste of his perfect lips on yours again and the gentle pull of his hands tangled in your hair.

“i missed you, cariño,” he breathed, pulling away from the kiss to take in every inch of your face as you did the same to him. you would never tire of seeing him so close up, admiring each feature like it was carved from marble. but it wasn’t; he was so, so real.

“mhm, you’re coming in just as hot,” you teased, quoting his answer to the reporter earlier.

carlos chuckled and nodded his head. “oh yeah. i’m definitely hot for you.”

his sarcastic tone made you laugh, leaning up to kiss him again. the kiss turned from sweet to rough in an instant, and your arms which had been previously draped around his neck dropped to hem of his shirt so your hands could explore his toned stomach under the red fabric as you continued to kiss him. his own hands fell to your ass, grabbing it in a way that pushed your hips forward into his crotch, earning a groan from the taller man.

footsteps down the hall took you out of your intimate moment, immediately removing your hands from each other and putting some needed distance between your bodies. you snorted when you noticed the semi forming in carlos’ jeans, and he lightly hit you on the arm for laughing.

“not my fault,” he said quietly through gritted teeth.

“you dragged me in here,” you whispered. “so kinda is.”

he hit you on the arm again as the source of the footsteps approached and carlos’ teammate came into view. he looked from you to carlos, suspicious.

“think you’re in the wrong garage, y/l/n,” charles joked, going in to hug you. “you alright? carlos hasn’t been trying anything with you, has he? can’t keep his hands to himself,” he continued, clapping his teammate on the back. carlos silently begged you not to start laughing.

“no,” you replied, using all your self control to sound calm and unbothered. “i thought i’d just come and inform him that i’m going to absolutely smash him this weekend.”

you smiled at carlos, milking the double entendre for all it was worth before leaving them both and quickly heading back to your own garage.

“you totally like her, mate,” charles laughed at his teammate once you were out of earshot. and carlos could deny it all he wanted, but he totally did.

158 notes · View notes

storiesfromafan · 19 days ago

Text

Chaos - Draco x Reader

A/N: so I am finally posting a Draco one shot. Thank the lovely Sabrina Carpenter for this, as Taste inspired me 😂

I am feeling really inspired by both Sabrina and Taylor Swift. I have an idea for imgonnagetyouback for Mattheo, which will have a choose happy or f' you ending haha.

If anyone has any songs that could inspire me, or have you coming up with an idea, please share them and I'll give writing them a go 😊

Warning: use of the word shag, not really language but bitchiness. Mean spirit. Sass is real.

Slytherin's are known for being territorial. And if you so much as touch, speak to or glance to long at a Slytherin's partner, you better get out of Hogwarts asap. Or deal with the consequences. The worst being the females. They are never to be trifled with, because those girls aren’t afraid to use their fangs. Either you will be physically dealt with, or your reputation would become null avoided. You will be the low of the low, a blimp on a social map. Moaning Myrtle will have more social standing then you.

But put female Slytherin vs female Slytherin, and it is pure chaos. And you like chaos. Live and breath to deliver it. Which brings us to current events. Draco and Pansy had broken up a few months ago. Of course being one to despise the annoying leach, that Pansy is, you were there for Draco. And in the process got to have your fun with him. Which in fact was fun for him too, as I quote ‘Pansy was always clingy and annoying. She barely did anything for me, I hardly wanted to touch her' end quote.

You obliged poor Draco. Sneaking off to snog in empty classrooms or halls. Light and heavy petting. Not to mention some interesting places to shag. He might not have been number one in that department – cough Mattheo Riddle cough – but Draco was top three. And you just know there were rumours flying around – maybe partially from your own mouth – and dear, dreary Pansy had to have heard about them. In fact you hoped she did. You welcome the chaos that will bring. She needed to be brought down a peg.

You woke up this morning, showered, done your hair and make up, like usual. And you chose today to drop the shit storm that you had been scheming. The day before Pansy had been a royal c you next Tuesday. The tipping point being making you fall from your broom, thankfully you hadn’t been too high off the ground. Prior to that it had been a lot of passive aggressive comments. So, you knew you had to finally give it to her.

Moving to your uniform on the bed, you smiled sweetly as you imagined how this was going to go down. One of your room mates called out you would be late for breakfast if you don’t hurry. Without missing a beat you up on the skirt and button up shirt, followed by your tie, socks and shoes. Choosing to for go your cardigan, you needed your choices to have full effect. With one last look at yourself, you grabbed your bag and headed to the Great Hall.

You noticed the looks you got from those in passing. And when you made it to breakfast, the looks you got only intensified. Yet no one said anything. Your room mates looked to you, then each other and then back to you. But remained quiet. They knew there was a reason for your uniform today. But decided to not ask questions, this way they wouldn’t be implemented in your scheme.

You knew people were whispering to each other, but never addressed you about it. Not even from your walk from the Great Hall to your first class; Transfiguration. By the time you arrived to class everyone was there except for a couple of late shows. You walked into the room, eyes looking to you as you walked closer to the front were Professor McGonagall stood.

The older woman cast a glance to you, eyes moving on till they flew back to you. She took a couple steps forward, gaze analysing you. The way her face went from blank to slight annoyance seemed to go noticed by you. But you were about to be addressed.

“Miss (L/N)” McGonagall began, making you look to the woman just before you took your seat, and all attention on you. “What in Devils are you wearing!? Where is your uniform!?”

You faked embarrassment. “I’m so sorry Professor. I was in a rush this morning and looked to have put on the wrong shirt". Such a lair you are. But it was part of your plan.

She tsked. “Not good enough Miss (L/N). After morning classes you best change into the correct shirt".

With that the Professor turned and went to the front of the room. By now all students were present. You took your seat, feeling curious eyes upon you. Along with the whispers around you at the elephant finally being addressed.

Transfiguration was lack lustre. McGonagall just rambling on, and the persistent whispers about you. Finally free, you exited the classroom with your room mates. Unfortunately, yet perfectly planned, just down the hall was your target: Pansy. She was with both Draco and Blaise. As you approached, about to pass, did she make her presence known.

Turning to her two companions, yet gaze on you, Pansy spoke rather loudly. “How scandalous to be wearing a males shirt. I wouldn’t dare advertise my escapades".

Perfect. She took the bait. You smiled, stopping to turn to the three. “What escapades would you have to advertise? From my knowledge you weren’t one for really that much".

The students who just happened to be around for the interaction snickered. Pansy's face flushing in embarrassment. Ah, how you felt some satisfaction. But wanted – needed more, hoping she would fire up. And you got your wish.

Turning to glare at you, hands on her hips. Pansy relied, “what I get up to is no ones business!”

“Hmmm" you mused. “Really? Again, I know first hand you don’t get up to much dear".

If smoke could have come out of ears, Pansy's would be going off. She sputtered with words before finally getting out, “well at least I don’t wear some random guy’s shirt!”

Ah, the magic words you had been hoping for. Leaning in, biggest grin on your face, you said; “oh it’s no random guy’s. I know exactly who's shirt this is...”

Pansy looked to you with baited breath. So you went on.

“Maybe you should check Draco's closet sometime. Either he’ll be missing a shirt, or he may have one of mine. I don’t know, I haven’t counted my shirts lately". Your tone was sickeningly sweet, like honey.

If looks could kill, you’d be dead. Pansy looked like she wanted blood. Draco stood behind her, having watched and heard it all, looking fearful of the two of you. For you see, it had been almost two weeks since they’d gotten back together. Though you didn’t believe for long.

“Why you-" Pansy began before you hushed her.

“Now, now Pansy" you slightly sang, leaning in so she could hear you. “Every time you close your eyes, and feel his lips, you’re feeling mine. And every time you breathe his air just know I was already there”.

Pansy watched you, taking in your words. It was simple truth you were spilling. And she hated it.

You stepped back, wicked smile on your lips. “You can have him if you like. I’ve been there, done that once or twice" you shrugged. “I know I’ve been known to share". Finally sealing it all with a cheeky wink.

With that you turned around and began to move on to your next class. Letting your words sink into the retched girl. And when you reached the end of the hall did you hear her shrill, angry cry. Ah, music to your ears. The sheer joy you felt right now. Knowing how you burst Pansy’s bubble was the perfect chaos for the day.

You know she would come for you. Physically or verbally. Either way, you were here for it. Ready to go to battle. Only downfall was poor Draco, being collateral damage. But you know he would get over it, or you’d let him get over you to make up for it.

Unbuttoning the collar button to Draco's shirt and loosening your tie, you kept making your way to class. A shit eating grin on your face, and pep in your step. Chaos really was one of your best past times.

#Draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #Draco x reader #draco one shot #Draco x Fem!reader

94 notes · View notes

guiltyasdave · 8 months ago

Text

constellations in his eyes

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: Your fiancé stands you up on your birthday. Dave doesn’t.

word count: 736

tags/warnings: infidelity, shitty boyfriend, angst, fluff, kissing, able-bodied reader, reader has hair, no use of y/n

a/n: this is based on the song high infidelity by taylor swift and written for @beskarandblasters’s taylor swift drabble challenge. i love taylor and this song and dave, so this was very fun 🫶🏻 check out the whole challenge masterlist here!

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my whole masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

It’s your birthday, April 29th.

Rain is soaking through your dress, the drenched fabric clinging to your skin, wet strands of your hair sticking to your forehead. Unfamiliar lips are pressed against yours. You don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this happy.

You’re supposed to meet your fiancé for dinner tonight. When you call him, you’re already seated at the table, waiting for him to meet you there.

“Give me a break,” he sighs at your demand for an explanation, “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to buy you dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean. None of those guys from your office available tonight?”

“Fuck you.”

You slam the phone back onto the table, swallowing down the angry tears that are starting to well up in your eyes. You have been dealing with his unreasonable bouts of insecurity and jealousy because you’re working in a male-dominated field for way too long. You had hoped that he would get over it eventually, but it had rather gotten worse, mixed with remarks about how he made more money than you and how thankful you should be that he took care of you.

After staring down at the table for a few moments, you pick your phone back up again. If this is what he thinks of you any way, you might as well give him a reason to.

“Hey. Can you come and pick me up, please?”

Of course Dave could. You’re often assigned cases together, are often huddled up in the office when it’s already dark outside and your colleagues have gone home. You like working with him, like how quiet but straightforward he is, how he understands your way of thinking. You like him.

You’ve been out for drinks before, to celebrate successfully solved cases, but nothing more, no matter how many times he hinted at being interested in more. Because you’re not that kind of woman, despite what your fiancé apparently thinks.

Until now. It’s your birthday and you’re gonna spend it with someone who actually likes being around you.

When you walk out of the restaurant, he’s waiting for you, his brow furrowed in concern, immediately asking if you’re alright. You nod, mumbling something about a change of plans, nothing to worry about. You can tell that he doesn’t buy it.

He’s walking you down the block to his car, one hand at the small of your back. You feel yourself melting into him and his calming presence beside you, into the self-assured way he’s taking charge.

Neither of you had expected the sudden downpour, soaking the both of you to the bone within seconds. You stop in your tracks, staring at him in surprise for a second, before you burst out laughing.

You stumble over your own feet as you try to keep walking and instinctively grab his arm. He turns in your direction and steadies you, an amused smirk on his face, his hands a heavy weight on your hips, his touch burning into you.

You lean in and kiss him before your mind catches up with your actions. He stills for only one moment before his lips start moving against yours with a caressing urgency that makes your heart clench with longing.

Your hands cling to him, to his shirt underneath your fingers that’s just as drenched as your clothes, to the broadness of his shoulders that’s sending a rush of excitement through you. The absurdity of the whole situation makes you giggle against his mouth and you feel the rumble of his own laugh more than you hear it while his arms are wrapping tighter around your waist.

You don’t care that you’re in the middle of the sidewalk, that rain is still pouring down on you, that this is not the man that you’ve agreed to marry.

Because when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you, the lights of the city reflecting in his dark pupils, like constellations that you want to get lost in. For the first time in forever, you feel seen. Your fingers burrow into his hair and you pull him closer again, connecting your lips with his once more.

When you reach his car, he opens the door for you and asks if he can take you home with him. You say yes.

None of it feels real, but you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a long time.

thank you for reading! if you liked this, please consider reblogging, commenting, sending an ask or interacting in any way. it’s really what keeps writers going <3

#janas fics #dave york #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader #pedrostories

293 notes · View notes

captainsimagines · 2 months ago

Text

the albatross || B.B || One-Shot

Summary: "Locked me up in towers, but I'd visit in your dreams. And they tried to warn you about me..."

Pairing(s): Winter Soldier x Vampire Fem! Reader

Trope(s): Unlikely friendship; Forbidden vibes; Awkward tension

Based on the Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Total Word Count: 17,000+

Warnings: This one-shot contains explicit language, an identity crisis, graphic depictions of violence and blood loss, trust issues, cigarette smoking, and depressive thoughts/ideas. You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is purely fanfiction.

If you would rather read this fanfic on AO3, here is the link.

Author's Note: I really liked this idea and surprisingly, it just spilled out of me. The ending is pretty open-ended because I do imagine a part 2, but I won't write it unless there's demand for it. Either way, I love this one-shot. I hope you guys do, too. ---xxMoni

The Soldier enjoys watching the stars.

The Captain likes to tell him these stories about Bucky Barnes, about how he also liked watching the stars when they made camp in war-torn France. Bucky Barnes would pretend to know the math behind it all, and though the Captain said the math was a load of bullshit, he swore up and down that Barnes did know how to read palms, however.

The Soldier doesn’t know how to read palms, but he does know how to calculate the stars now.

Hearing about his past self always put him on edge. He has another man’s name, another man’s face, another man’s life story. The Soldier was expected to relearn this, to find that lost part of himself that is “deep down, Buck, I know it.” Sometimes he’d remember that he liked strawberry jam, but only if he tried it out of pure coincidence. Sometimes he’d remember the voice of a man called Gabe Jones, or of Dum-Dum—Dugan—and it reminded him that he was two people at once. Those memories were no longer his—they were—but not really.

He was not—is not—Bucky Barnes anymore. In his head, at least.

He knew two things with absolute certainty though, two things the old Bucky Barnes would be happy the Soldier is keeping alive: Steve Rogers is his friend and it is the Soldier’s job to protect him, and that a thousand conversations are said in comfortable silence if you simply listen.

He passes the cigarette to the woman beside him, blowing the smoke out slowly into the frigid air. He hates the cold, but it’s better than a freezer. Freer up here on the roof of Avengers Tower. A chosen solitary. She takes the cigarette carefully, her grip extra tight since they’re hanging over the ledge. Legs swinging, hair rustling in the wind. Dropping the cigarette would cause no harm, only annoyance. They only bring four of them to their nightly meetings.

She inhales deeply, her decaying lungs inflating just the bit, her mouth doing most of the work. She doesn’t need to breathe, he’s found. On the rare occasions he is in her presence during the day, she never does. Not even to comfort those around her who watch her warily. He likes that. Placating others was tiresome, and the Soldier had refused to do it for anyone besides the Captain until he asked. For some reason, the crease between his brow makes his stomach turn and he knows Bucky Barnes would hate him for not smoothing it over.

The Soldier studies the woman at his right. He detects hints of dust—old cardboard, maybe—in the smoke she exhales. Her skin hadn’t paled in the way popular media suspected, nor did her hair turn white. Her skin looks ashy, her cheeks a little gaunt. The only proof she’s undead are the red eyes—he’s never seen her smile to verify the fangs.

They never exchange words out here. No one knows they’re out here at all. He had come out for fresh air after a particularly nasty fight with Stark a year ago and found her leaning upside down on the ledge. If she had jumped, he doesn’t think he would have leapt after her. He didn’t know her and would not miss her. Let her fall and his world was unmoved.

A year of nightly cigarettes and no more than a hundred words between them. They had built a sort of camaraderie—after a long day of pretending to be alive, they would sulk in peace together.

He knows her name, and she his. They have never called each other those names, but he suspects she would call him James before anything else. She doesn’t seem to want to be called anything. She’s content to sit in mutual silence and bask in her invisibility.

But the Soldier has seen her every night for a year, and everytime she is still solid. Everytime she is still dead.

The team has forbidden anyone from being alone with her. The Captain has forbidden him from being alone with her. Stark and Banner have a fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is uncontrollable. The Soldier wonders why she was invited to the team in the first place if she was going to be locked away and hidden from the world. He wonders why the Captain even rescued him if he was going to be a red stain as well. She refuses to answer their questions, refuses to show them how she feeds, and refuses to put a single limb in the sun for experimental purposes. The team is not sadistic enough—Stark isn’t sadistic enough—to force her to burn so he can scribble the results in a notepad. So unless she’s willing to be a science experiment, she cannot be trusted.

Unless the Soldier suddenly remembers the memories of a man lost to time, he cannot be trusted.

So he watches as her painted lips delicately wrap around the cigarette, their last one, and allows the strange delight to roll over him at the sound of her soft sigh.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, her voice resembling the rustling of leaves in the dead of night. She has the same unsettling demeanor as he, perhaps more loose but still as real. The Soldier is meant to unnerve people. If they are terrified of him, they understand the depth of the mission. They will fall in line. As she rises, she grows in stature and dwarfs him. He finds he likes being the second most frightening creature in the room. He likes having a twin, finally, one that is not screaming inside his own head.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his gaze on the twinkling city lights. Brooklyn winks at him, refusing to fade.

The Soldier hears the roof door slam shut, and he is suddenly alone.

—————

The team is arguing.

Stark and the Captain crowd the large room they use for briefings while everyone else sits patiently at the long table. The Soldier occupies the single seat at the far end, the closest person to him being the Widow. She is watching the scene unfold with a stoicism that could rival his own, but she is more susceptible to that twitch in her upper lip. When Stark takes a dig at the Captain’s two-timing morality, she speaks up.

“You’re both idiots. I don’t see why we have to go empty-handed here, guys.”

Stark does his best to not roll his eyes, opting instead to squint at the Widow. “The mission is childsplay. I just think we’d have a lot more fun and a ton more juicy stories to tell if we bring all of us—”

“The answer is no, Tony. I will not bring—”

“Say it, Cap. I’m sure our cheeky little assassin here would love to hear your reasoning.”

The Captain sighs, his large hands resting atop his slender hips. The Soldier has a vague memory of a group of men around a campfire, all singing a tune in French and sour-tasting liquor spilling from their tongues, and the Captain watching with the same stance but with a grin instead. He realizes fast that this memory is attached to Bucky Barnes, and it is better off dead.

“Buck, you know I don’t like sending you out when there is no need.”

The Soldier hates team missions. He has no issues with killing—he’s rather good at it. The issue at hand is the lack of privacy, the dependence on one another, and the trust oozing from the Captain. The Soldier isn’t the best friend he so desperately wants, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. Staying at the Tower is the best course of action in any situation. He frightens more people than he helps, and he would only get in the way.

He doesn’t respond to the Captain. He remains quiet, his brow furrowed as he looks between the two angry men.

“It’s a routine inspection, Cap. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring him and the vampire.”

His stomach clenches on itself, though he gives nothing away outwardly. He’s as still as ever, hands softly gripping the handles of the chair. He reminds himself to blink more than five times a minute, and that he needs to move more muscles than just his eyes. He’s too accustomed to being frozen for long periods of time. He is no stranger to perching for hours, to hiding in the shadows. The Captain had told him his lack of movement was uncanny.

But the mere mention of the vampire—

She had not gone on any missions yet. Her recruitment was more of a trial-run, on the basis that her input about vampires proved to be worthwhile. But it had been a year and Stark and Banner were no closer to studying the intricacies of such creatures. All they knew, or all they assumed, was what they saw from her. And since she was not allowed out of the Tower or on missions yet, they had seen little.

“What if she goes insane and feeds on a civilian?” the Colonel chimes in, shaking his head as the Captain scoffs at the accusation, “What? You don’t think she’d run given the first opportunity? I’ve told all of you that what you’re doing here is inhumane. Just because she hasn’t seen the sun in who knows how long doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see a damn bakery or a night-time play. And keeping her locked up will trigger her to hurt someone sooner rather than later.”

The Soldier had never wondered about that. She and him were so alike that he just assumed she was content with her situation. He’d much rather be here than under the tentacles of Hydra. He believed she would much rather be here than in the sewers.

And it hit him—

How did she feed now?

“JARVIS doesn’t necessarily divulge details, but she’s clean with her victims. Ah, you see that on my scrumptious arms? Goosebumps. I’ve caught her eyeing these veins.”

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. The Widow marks it.

“She’s well-fed, then,” the Captain says, though the Soldier hears that subtle shake in his voice, “How do we know she won’t escape—”

“You’re acting like she’s our hostage,” the Widow snaps. She immediately casts an apology across the table. “If she escapes, she escapes. The sun will slow her down, and she knows it. You’re all debating this as if she’s tried. She hasn’t. She has caused no trouble so far. You’re all just too scared to send her out into the wild because you haven’t gotten to know her.”

The room silences. The man at the other far end of the table, the one he usually sees with metal wings across his broad shoulders, nods in agreement. At every briefing the Soldier has sat through, Wilson was the only one to ever bring her up in conversation. Small mentions that asked where she was at that very moment, if she had shared her family history yet, if she had fed and if not, was there anything he could do. The Soldier suspects Wilson would offer his own neck if the others agreed to it.

He doesn’t like talking about her at these meetings. Everyone acts like they have the perfect read on her. They don’t—even he doesn’t. But he does have first-hand knowledge on what the strain of her lungs sounds like, and the exact timbre of her voice. The Soldier knew more than them, and it spoiled him rotten.

“This is a controlled mission, Cap,” Wilson adds, shrugging. “I think this can be good for her. For Barnes. For you.”

The Soldier loosens a shoulder—the tiresome act of placating—and studies Wilson in the few seconds he’s afforded since the Captain is debating inside his head. Wilson is around his age, give or take a year or two, and he has never spoken ill about him before. He’s heard the Widow and Barton murmuring their distrust about the Soldier in the beginning, but he believes the Captain shut it down. Stark’s jokes were endless, but he finds them humorous sometimes. He is the only person to ever pull a smirk from him. Wilson never spoke bad about anyone. He doesn’t know if he likes that or not. He’s grateful in an odd way, but confused mostly. There are countless things to hate him for. Tender hearts are so easily breakable, and the Soldier finds he does not want to bruise Wilson’s.

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” the Captain concedes. “Buck, you up for it?”

A choice. He’s not used to having choices.

“Okay.”

—————

Clouds block the majority of the stars tonight.

On nights like these, he focuses on the multi-colored lives of the occupants in surrounding apartments. There are some setting up Autumn colors, others keeping their sleek, modern aesthetic. The Soldier thinks he enjoys a splash of color. He has a habit of draining it all, but he likes it while it lasts.

The apartments are sporadically lit. Many have retired to bed. There’s a family of four returning and passing around boxes of takeout. A woman sits up in bed and reads a large fantasy novel, her cat resting lazily at the edge of her silk sheets. A teenager adjusts his computer monitor and readies a new level on the game he’s playing, an empty pizza box on his desk. So many lives happening at once—it overwhelms the Soldier. He does nothing all day besides lay in bed and eat and bathe when he has to. He has been wanting to take up knitting—something to do with his hands. Loading and taking apart guns isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

“They are going to take you on a mission,” he says, passing the cigarette. Her expression remains impassive. She inhales deeper than usual, his only indication that his statement affected her.

“Oh.”

She’s quick to brush him off. Good. She’s not so easily rattled. “I am going, too,” he adds.

A shrug. She passes the cigarette back. He inhales, an odd flutter in his chest as he wraps his lips around the lipstick-stained stick.

There’s a bruise on her jawline. Tilting his head, he follows the length of it. It takes him a moment, but he finally recognizes the shape. Five purpling indents, one palm-sized.

He didn’t even know she could bruise.

A sudden wave of rage nearly has him marching back into the Tower, ready to interrogate every team member at gunpoint. Their distrust shouldn’t warrant violence. Then the Soldier inhales the toxic smoke again, realizing that his emotions are pointless. The Soldier does not feel, nor does he feel sympathy for others.

The Soldier questions the validity of that statement.

Still, he ponders who could have possibly injured her. The only ones able to inflict such pressure and not kill are him, the Captain, Stark while suited-up, and the God. But they had no evidence of what strength she could or could not handle—it was entirely plausible that a regular man hurt her. And since she does not leave the Tower, the man could have been one of her meals.

Her meal fought back.

“How do you eat?” he asks before he can swallow it. He used to be punished for asking questions.

She turns her head slowly. It’s unsettling to the Soldier, so much so that he averts his eyes. “You know what I eat.”

“I asked how. Not who.” She blinks at him. “You don’t leave the Tower.”

This is the most they’ve spoken in one sitting. He always assumed she’d be the one to speak first. It seems she assumed the same.

“They bring me my meals.” A quick jump of his brow indicates his surprise. “You didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. Does the Captain know? The Soldier had heard about interrogations happening at the Tower… Were these the same victims?

“The bad ones they keep alive. Captives. I get my pick of the litter,” she explains, though her solemn expression betrays the joy in her tone.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. The Soldier doesn’t care—shouldn’t care—and yet, he asks.

“I don’t care.” It seems she’ll not care for the both of them.

He wonders how often she needs to feed. If blood is the only thing she needs to survive. His knowledge of vampire lore comes from a few, mediocre clicks around the internet. Most articles or opinions claim that blood is their life source, but the exact time-stamp vampires can go without it is still a mystery. If she were to go without, willingly or not, would she wither away? Would she simply cease to exist?—How peaceful that sounds, actually. Would it be painless or would she feel every second? The Soldier did not feel time pass when frozen, nor did he comprehend it when allowed to breathe on his own.

“Are you skilled with weapons?” he asks. Invasions of privacy, like the Captain said, were not always welcome naturally. The truth was so much easier to obtain with a gun in hand, harder to earn with a fake smile. What really mattered was having the mission go smoothly. Maybe then the rest of the team will leave him alone and stop trying to make him assimilate. Maybe if the mission went smoothly for her, she’d steal their attention. He would be free. Free to just be.

“I don’t need them, but I have them.”

Irritation is an emotion that encases him fully nowadays. Irritation, agitation, resignation. Her bluntness rivals his, and it's itching at his skin. He liked it before—what is different today? “I am going on this mission, too. I need to know what you are skilled at to ensure the mission is a success.”

She flicks the dead cigarette bud over the ledge, watching as it gradually shrinks from sight. It was their last one. He will bring an extra one tomorrow.

“There are no stars tonight,” she laments. Her lips twist into a small pout, nearly invisible. She has pretty lips. “Goodnight.”

He waits until she’s gone to frown. The Soldier is confused.

—————

The team likes to get together Friday nights and watch movies in the common room. Usually the film is chosen to satisfy the Captain’s ignorance. His too, he has found. Though no one but Wilson includes him in that conversation.

The Captain, Stark, Banner, Wilson, and the Widow are the only ones present tonight. The younger agents are suspiciously absent, but he somewhat remembers Stark mentioning a Friday night outing. Figures, considering the ones in this room are easily recognizable.

If he were to walk around Times Square, would he cause a panic? The Soldier has been photographed a few times since returning from the shadows and each time the news outlets treat him like an enemy of state. He is, in a sense. There are plenty of things he knows that can crumble governments, but there’s no point in sharing them now. He’s not at war. He’s not under control. But he wonders what it would be like to walk around and enjoy life. To go out with friends, to dance, to go feed some pigeons. He could try—the Captain will definitely go with him—but he doesn’t know how. After so many years of feeling the sour depths of his soul, how is he expected to break through the surface in one day? The urge to be normal gnaws at him, twisting and peeling flesh and muscle, but it is so much easier to just lie in bed. If enough time passes, maybe it will just happen.

Time was going on, speeding past his memories and lungs. Too fast, so fast he couldn’t grab time’s dangling string to slow it down. He wanted to yank it back, scream at it that he’s trying to remember, and that his new memories are preventing him from finding the ones from before. There’s so much new information that he wanted to, needed to, slow time down. How was he ever able to be Bucky Barnes again if time prevented him?

He likes when the younger ones are around. They’re less judgmental. They actually try to speak with him. Granted, it’s stupid things like: “What was the Great Depression like?” or “Straight up, who was the harder kill? Kennedy or Stalin?” The Captain usually shuts them down, but he can’t help but chuckle from the absurdity of it once he’s alone.

“Feels weird watching this outside of a seventh grade classroom, but I promise you Steve, it’s a classic,” Wilson says, clapping the Captain on a shoulder. “The Outsiders is a rite of passage, and you my friend have not truly assimilated until you watch it.”

Sitting on a stool rather than the giant couch, the Soldier takes immediate interest in what Wilson claims. If he wants to be normal again, shouldn’t he try with the basics? Watching a movie didn’t seem all that bad.

He’s distracted by the repetitive popping in the microwave to feel the presence at the doorway. Everyone quiets, and the Soldier straightens. He marks the distance between him and the Widow, and though he’s positive she can protect herself, he debates how he would shield her with his body.

But there is no weapon pointed at them or enemy breaching the premises—it’s her.

She burrows deeper into her oversized sweater, the hood covering most of her forehead. She ducks cautiously, eyes squinted as she peeks at the overhead beams. She looks ashier in the artificial light, but no less beautiful. He’s seen her during the day before, but always when she was protected by shadows.

“Fangs!” Stark cheers, the half-drunk beer bottle in his hand sloshing violently, “We’ve already chosen the movie so don’t bitch about it like Banner always does. Popcorn’s almost finished, and we’ve got wine in the fridge. You like reds or are you like Cap here? Can’t tear a moscato from his cold, dead paws even if you were the strongest person in the world.”

The Soldier gives Stark an incredulous glare, as does the Captain. Offering her food, mentioning cold, dead hands. It gladdens him, however, that though he is the most unpredictable person in the room, he isn’t the stupidest.

“I personally like reds,” Wilson interjects, casually strolling forward to hit the light switch. She visibly relaxes. “Want me to pour you a glass? We can talk shit about Stark together as he learns how to play the movie.”

Stark mumbles something about how the cheapest technology is often the hardest to understand. Wilson leads her into the kitchen, innocently rambling about wine tours and tasting. The Soldier meets her eyes as she passes. There is simple acknowledgement, but no words. It’s as if they don’t know each other at all.

He has no claim to that anyway. He shares as much as she does.

She takes a glass of moscato, curiously. He would have assumed—and that’s just it, isn’t it? He assumed.

The others settle into their spots. She looks around, a peculiar look on her delicate face. Vampires were supposedly ageless, but he sees the age in her eyes, in how she holds up her head. He’s been told that while he wears the mask, his eyes look tortured. Like they’ve seen too much.

Her eyes held an ancient power, tainted with misery, and yet all he finds himself wondering is what color they were before she changed.

She sits on the lone recliner closest to Wilson, tucking her knees in and leaning her upper body on a pillow. She balances her wine as she adjusts, ignoring the interested stares from the others.

“I watched this movie when it first came out,” she shares, her voice an elegant whisper. The Captain watches her warily, as does Banner.

“So did I. You’re not special,” Stark responds, clicking the play button. The Soldier stands, but he doesn’t know what for. To defend her? To add to the harassment? To walk out of the room?

Her small chuckle surprises him. Surprises all of them. He takes one step forward, then another, until he too is a part of the group. He chooses to sit on the cushion just beside her recliner. If he had a cigarette, it wouldn’t be so different from all the other nights.

The Captain attempts to ignore him, but ultimately fails. The Soldier senses his relief, his hope.

They watch the movie in comfortable silence, interrupted only by Stark’s or Wilson’s personal additions. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes the movie enough to quell that poisonous irritation. It’s toward the end when he looks at her, when his curiosity gets the best of him.

There is a sunset on the screen.

Silver glistens across her waterline.

Then it’s gone, because nothing gold can stay.

The Soldier resonates most with a simpler quote. He longs for normalcy, no matter how much he prefers solitude. The voice screaming in his head won’t let him forget it. He repeats the quote several times before the end credits: "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."

He used to tell himself that pain was temporary and that being put under would limit it—he always believed that one.

He’s angry that Johnny dies and that Dally kills himself. He’s angry because the Soldier cares about the Captain more than anything and would do the same. He’s angry that he, with his contaminated past and bloodied hands, can still watch the sunset. He’s angry because since she’s dead, she cannot.

—————

“I’m guessing there’s an angle here, Cap. Why else would she make nice now?”

Sometimes Stark made him question the team’s so-called heart. He assumes the Captain had to plead his case, and has continued to do so when the Soldier showed no signs of improvement. She hadn’t put up a fight when they informed her of the mission, nor did she ask any questions. The barest of nods and she was given her orders. He would have liked to be in the room when they discussed this, but he received the automatic manila folder outside his room door.

Target: Male, 56, Hydra scientist maintaining one of eight remaining Hydra bases in North America. Assumed to be armed and dangerous. No history of super strength, night vision, or combat training.

And in each folder the Soldier is given his team and his task. Sometimes he’d argue with the logistics considering he knew more than he let on, but this seemed simple enough. He sneers at the use of their code names.

Soldier Objective: Joined by “Widow” and “Fangs”, retrieve the data on the main computer. Data pertaining to Hydra, Project Insight, Project Paperclip, and NASA is to be handled with care. The Soldier and Widow are cleared for hand-to-hand combat.

He should have received everyone’s objective. To function as a team, as the Captain so desperately wants, he needs to know each detail. Knowing in advance saves lives, and omitting this now is going to get someone killed.

As long as that someone isn’t the Captain or Wilson, the Soldier did not care as much as he should.

Now, while walking through the dimly lit hallway with two women watching his six, he understands why the team made this her first mission. The base was mostly abandoned, there was a limited paper trail that was easy to follow, and it wasn’t too far from New York. A night-time mission usually meant difficult entryways or an ambush. He finds he enjoys the quiet walk and flickering lights, and the small conversation the Widow and the Vampire make. He’s still vigilant and hyper-focused on finding the computer lab, but he allows his mind to knock over one wall.

The sound of women gossiping and giggling sounded a lot better than the complaints and curses of men.

“Come on, there’s got to be someone on the team you think is hot.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes at the Widow’s comment. He doesn’t bother looking back. It’s the same thing every single time: the Widow asks the question, the Vampire answers. Neither of them include him, but he doesn’t mind. Though he sits with her every night, he doesn’t actually know much about her. And the short replies the Widow also offers make him feel… appreciative. He’s learning, he’s retaining, he’s—

He shakes his head when he compares this lesson to a filing system, as if the women guarding his back are mere test subjects, or targets. As if the information he’s learning could be used against them.

It’s hard to rewire your brain, your thoughts. Once something has burrowed deep into each crevice, it’s hard to pull it out. Change is hard, rare, and celebrated once successful. The Soldier’s wiring needs to change if he is to ever learn anything new for the innocent purpose of being human.

“I think the Captain is good looking,” she answers, huffing a laugh when the Widow hums in agreement.

“He’s a tough one to crack.”

“But you’ve cracked him.”

The Widow waits for the Soldier to secure the corner before walking forward and punching in a code. He sees her narrow her eyes, a small smirk gracing her pale lips.

“I am cracking him.”

The Soldier has seen the Captain blush around the Widow, has seen him shield her before others, and has always walked beside her in support. He didn’t think it meant anything—the Captain was kind to everyone. But there is a… tenderness shared between them. Perhaps cultivated over the long months they were searching for him. She and Wilson were the only ones who believed there was a chance they'd even find him.

“He likes you. His heart pumps quicker when you’re around.”

It should bother him that she’s exposing the Captain’s feelings. But the Captain deserves an intimate form of companionship, something to take his mind off the fact that the Soldier has no problem drowning in solitude.

“You can hear our blood?”

“Only when I concentrate.”

The Soldier lifts a hand to stop them. There’s a soft rustling behind the door they are meant to enter. Drawers being opened. If it is indeed their target, then Wilson and the Captain are running around for nothing. His unit wasn’t supposed to engage in any arrests—he has half a mind to just bring the Widow along.

He splits them up. The Widow remains with him. He’ll confront the target as she works the computers. He turns to give the last order, but is softly interrupted.

“There’s a back door just around the corner. I can pick it and blend into the shadows.”

The Soldier thinks about it, then nods. “Do not engage unless I order it.”

A misty rogue. Stark is insane—she could be useful on more daunting missions.

Armed with two shortswords, one gold and one ruby, she pulls on the hood of her cloak and gives them a small smile. A smile that said she’d follow his directions and remain hidden forever, if needed.

He and the Widow work in tandem, noiselessly picking the lock and creeping into the room. With her red hair pulled up, she shimmies along the wall quickly, heading for the largest of the six monitors. The only light comes from the handheld flashlight their target uses to read loose papers. His frantic eyes search for something along the black, redacted text. The Soldier simply struts forward, his mask doing most of the intimidation, his boots announcing his arrival. Their target clutches a file close to his chest as he retreats. Off to the side, the Soldier vaguely sees the back door open and close.

“I’m unarmed,” their target squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

What ridiculous lies, he thinks. Hydra did not apologize, nor did they beg for ceasefires. They trained him to ignore such pleas, such excuses. And by the way the Soldier grips him by the neck to lift him, he was trained well.

“When I let you go,” the Soldier says, his voice a deadly timbre, “give me the weapon you have at your back.”

The target struggles, his gurgling embarrassingly loud. A monitor brightens, and the Widow waves as she gets to work. The target, once recognizing her, loses most of his hope. He is dropped and the weapon clatters to the floor. The Soldier does not retrieve it—it is yanked into the shadows.

“We thought you were dead,” he says, panicked eyes never leaving the mask. No one ever wanted to look him in the eyes. No one ever wanted to hear him speak.

“I’m going to reach into your coat and grab that file. Make a move and I will break the first bone I come into contact with.”

“Mm,” the Widow hums, her downloads beeping one-by-one as they finish, “Steve frowns on that if they surrender willingly.”

“Complete the download,” he orders. He doesn’t like when the Widow rambles during these missions. The more he grows to enjoy her company, the more distracted he’s destined to get. The more he avoids interaction, the more efficient he’ll be.

And lonely—

“It’s done,” she says, rolling her eyes. She stands at his side, arms crossed. “Just sedate him already so we can get out of this rusty hellhole—”

He turns to look at her. One quick glance at the red menace. That’s all it takes.

The target draws a knife and whips it wildly, slashing the Widow across her neck. It’s unlike her to be so ill-prepared. The Soldier doesn’t know whether to press his palm across her neck or kill the target. This has never happened before. The team is going to question his capabilities, his true alliances, his reflexes, his empathy—

The target yelps in agony. The decision is made for the Soldier.

He has no choice but to bend his neck to the hunter behind him, holding him close and ripping through his carotid. The Widow curses and holds her wound, her steady voice settling the awful worry in the pit of his stomach.

Worry… For his team. He would smile if the situation wasn’t so chaotic.

The spray of blood is mostly contained. Her fangs dig so deep that blood seeping from the puncture is caught by her lips. Her lipstick stains his pale neck, paler now as she consumes him whole. Barely concealed by the shadows, she hungrily drinks without remorse. Payback. Her red eyes glow brighter than he’s ever seen them, black veins crawl and stretch from the corners, and he swears there’s smoke surrounding her strong body. Like a bad omen, a demon emerging from the depths of gloom itself.

He falls limp in her arms, his dead eyes blindly watching the Soldier as she drops him to the floor. His eyes were once blue. They’re white now.

“Are you okay?” she asks the Widow, standing somehow taller, solid.

The Widow looks at her drenched hand and nods slowly. “I’m not opposed to one of you carrying me back.” The wound is superficial, but no less alarming. He picks her up and holds her close, signaling to his newly nourished partner. She gets the hint. Hauling the dead man over a shoulder, she waits for him to lead the way.

Barton takes the Widow from his arms, his laughs overlapping her own. The Captain checks on her before marching over to him and the woman with dried blood on her neck, who then drops the target at the Captain’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Anger. It’s an emotion so rare for the Captain. At least, it’s rare to the Soldier.

“Concealed knife. I didn’t check him thoroughly,” he answers, his explanation true enough. He should have known even Hydra scientists kept an extra weapon on their person at all times, especially small ones. He just didn’t think the Widow would get nicked so easily—that she didn’t see that coming at all.

“But why is he dead?”

She raises her reddened chin at him to boldly say, “He attacked. The downloads were complete. We weren’t even supposed to run into him. That was your job.”

It’s obvious the Captain wasn’t expecting her response. Immediately his face loosens and his shoulders do that guilty-drop the Soldier sees often. “You’re right. Your team wasn’t supposed to encounter him at all. It’s a mistake on my end.”

“Not that we didn’t have muscle to defend ourselves,” she lightly jokes, then kicks the pale body on the floor.

“We’re going to have to report this.”

“Do what you must.”

“And—” the Captain strains, looking to the Soldier for assistance. But he knows what he’s about to say, and gears up to fight it. “And because this is an on-duty death, you need to go to psych.”

“Don’t send her there,” the Soldier cuts in, his stomach dropping. “Say I killed him. Just don’t send her there.”

“That’s not how this works, Buck.”

“Psych is a glorified therapy session that fails to help even the lowest of street cops. It’s judgment, not help.”

“I can’t override it.”

The Soldier sighs, argument after argument swirling in the mess of his mind. The times he went to psych were all the same. Constructed in a way that made him feel like killing was always the wrong choice. Neglecting that now, he has the choice. Sometimes he’ll claim a stray bullet, but the majority of his kills are necessary. They are strategic. They are his own.

“It’s fine,” she says, tilting her head at her kill. “Not the first time I’ve been evaluated.”

“Psych can be bypassed if the kill was a team-effort. I’ll see if I can get Fury to sign off on it.”

She shakes her head at the Captain. “You wanted to know more about my life, yes? I’m assuming these things aren’t confidential to you or Stark… But when you do go talking about me to the others, make sure to mention that I drained him dry.”

—————

"Do you hate me for it?"

The Soldier offers an unimpressed look. He hands her the cigarette and blows out the smoke burning his throat. “Funny.”

There’s a quirk at her lip. She takes a longer drag than usual, trying to mask it.

“They all hated me for it back then.”

“Who?”

“Family. Friends. Enemies. Lovers.”

“And you cared what they thought?”

She shrugs, stealing a second drag. “At the time.”

Her lipstick is a brownish-maroon today, and he finds himself studying the tint before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. He doesn’t share anything nowadays besides cigarettes and a living room. The Captain offers him food, money, advice—the Soldier takes but never gives.

Her face contorts slightly, her jaw ticking. Such extravagant movements for the simple outcome of showing her four canines. The points extend maybe half a centimeter longer than the rest of her teeth. Because of her minimal overbite, the teeth slide perfectly against one another. She runs her tongue over the top two.

He wonders how his victims would have reacted if they got to see the lower half of his face. There would have been no smile accompanying the kills. He had growled from frustration, to incite fear. Teeth weren’t necessarily frightening. They’re a barrier to words, the shield for tongues, the blades against intruders. Her teeth were her life-force, the blades needed to let those intruders in.

“How was your evaluation?”

A small snort. He looks at her—her ancient grace, the absence of grays at her roots, her glaring red eyes.

“They kept asking if the smell of Natasha’s blood affected me.”

“Judging by your nonchalance, I’d say you went completely feral over it.”

Another quirk at her lip. He likes the movement.

“You believe that I wouldn’t attack any one of you. Thanks.”

He does. She hasn’t attacked him up here, hasn’t attacked anyone on the team, and has never tried to escape to wreak havoc on the city. He doesn’t tell her he does, but she feels it somehow. Her shoulders loosen.

The tension slowly dissipates from his body as well—a revelation both amazing and concerning. The Soldier should never have his guard down. He should always be prepared for a fight.

“The ones they bring me are always so happy to be led to their deaths,” she says, a small frown quickly forming then disappearing. “Sometimes I wait until they’re asleep. Or when they’re facing the other way. Sometimes I drain them when they’re inside of me.”

He blinks. “You have sex with them?”

“I never leave the Tower. I can’t leave. I’ve been living alone for so long that I don’t even think I can go into the real world and bring someone home. Would you know how?”

He doesn’t need to think about such a ridiculous possibility. He can’t even find it within himself to give Wilson a matching pat-on-the-back. “No.”

She gives a small nod. Absent of pity, filled with strange empathy. “I tell them they’re going to die. I ask them how they would like to go. They choose that most of the time.” She chuckles, “I only offer it to the cute ones.”

“They’re bad people, though.”

“They’re dying anyway. Might as well die feeding me.”

He doesn’t remember it, but the Soldier considers sex—or pleasure, really—to be too much of a gift. The people they capture and keep to interrogate are scum of the Earth, his tormentors. She’s rewarding his villains.

Anger floods his chest, violent and nasty. She snatches the cigarette from his rigid fingers.

He could push her off the ledge. No one will miss her. He will. She’ll probably survive the tremendous fall. She’ll continue the cycle. She can’t leave the Tower. He can’t leave the Tower.

“I don’t have to sleep with them,” she says, her voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear without his advancements. “But when I do, they taste a little sweeter. I haven’t had sweets in so long… Not since my birthday. Did you know I died on my birthday? My mom bought me chocolate instead of donating those five cents to the war effort. I wasn’t a child anymore but she never forgot my birthday… So, I can make it through ten minutes of boring sex. And when it’s done, for a blessed moment, I remember the taste of sugar and my mom’s smile when I broke the bar in two so we could share.”

For the first time in a long time, the Soldier is speechless. Because he sympathizes… A once frozen emotion thawed by the mention of chocolate and a mother. He tries and fails to remember his own mother’s face. After so many years of only being able to see his eyes, he prays they matched hers. After so many years of being force-fed genetically-modified trash, he has forgotten the taste of chocolate.

His anger is replaced by a solemn peculiarity that itches along his insides. He is aware of his loss, her loss, the logic in her kills. She feeds blindly in the hopes of feeling whole again. Has he done anything to feel whole again besides bury the screams lower and lower?

“I was feral today because we were never supposed to come into contact with the target and he almost hurt you. He managed to hurt Natasha. I did what I had to do.”

And she was being punished for it.

“He tasted disgusting, by the way.”

The Soldier, honest to God, laughs. Not expecting it, her shoulders tense and she jumps a little. He shoots his flesh hand out to hold her still, gripping her thigh as she pulls her gaze back up. Instinct—he does not want her to fall after all.

“Sorry,” he says, surprising himself. Then, as he allows a tendril of Bucky Barnes to escape through the walls he had forged from steel, he jokes, “I’m still stuck on the fact that when you fuck, you think of your mother’s face.”

His ill-timed vulgarity is rewarded with a sudden cackle of her own, a vicious and underutilized sound that pulls her lips back and showcases all four sharp canines in their primal glory. Crinkles by her eyes, she sits with the aftershocks of it.

He gives her the first drag of their last cigarette.

—————

He had been exiting the Tower with Wilson when it started.

Three large booms above had them ducking for cover. Debris slammed into the concrete and damaged parked cars while burnt furniture landed in odd angles after barely missing pedestrians. Smoke clouded their aerial view—there was no way Wilson was going to be able to fly through the black cloud blind. It was up to Stark and the Colonel to fly directly from the roof.

“Cap, what the hell was that?” Wilson yelled into his phone. He directed the floor staff away from the building and into the cafe next door. The Soldier analyzed each person, their expressions, the things in their hands. The smoke blocked his view of the lower rooftops. No one tried storming the bottom floor. There were no planes or helicopters around, and the glass had shattered outwards.

The threat was internal.

“It seems one of our captives managed to plant explosives before—” The Captain stops, his voice heavy with exertion. “JARVIS doesn’t think we’ve been compromised or that there are any intruders. Just good ol’ fashion bombs.”

“We’ll get everyone down here to safety. You guys handle the top,” Wilson says, wiping a nervous hand over his head.

“Ask him which type of captive it was,” the Soldier tells him, failing to keep his rising panic leveled. Wilson’s bewilderment is marked in his brow, but he asks anyway.

“He doesn’t understand the question—”

“Was it one of the captives we sent back to the police or was it one we sent to be fed on?”

Wilson waits for the Captain to clarify, still not understanding the danger of the situation. “Fed on.”

The Soldier sprints back into the Tower and clicks the elevator button, cursing when the lights flicker out. Stark and the Colonel were busy flying people out, the Widow and the Captain were securing the floor, Banner was putting out the fire with the young ones, and the God was probably doing all three things. Though all honorable, they were also clueless. Because if the explosion had happened on her floor, there was no floor left. No walls. No tinted glass. And though there was black smoke clogging everyone’s nostrils and burning everyone’s vision, the sun was still shining.

“Come outside again and bend your knees,” someone orders from behind him. The Witch tilts her red head at him, a regal seriousness twinkling in her eyes. He does as she says. She contorts her glowing hands, and he is lifted through the thick cloud and past several dozen floors before landing on the seventy-seventh.

Flames nip at his exposed arms, but the burn is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs. He limits his deep gulps and barrels through turned furniture and glass. Screams come from further down the collapsed hall, but he hears Banner amongst them.

“Rogers!” he yells, swiping at exposed wires hanging in his way. Electricity shoots up his metal arm, momentarily paralyzing it. He holds his breath and waits for the upgraded vibranium to reboot.

“Bucky! Over here!”

“Did you find her?” he asks when he reaches the Captain, dodging Tower employees on their way to the Colonel a few feet away. The Colonel flies three down at once, his return time averaging ten seconds. At this rate, ten more trips and the entire floor should be evacuated.

“I can’t see anything past this damn smoke!” the Captain explains, coughing loudly as he brushes stray ash off the Soldier’s singed shoulder. He allows the touch, feeling gratitude rather than his usual discomfort. “She’d be knocked out by now. This smoke is killing me.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have to breathe. The smoke isn’t the issue. If I was her, I would hop from shadow to shadow, but she can’t even see those. One wrong move and she could step directly into the sunlight.”

“She doesn’t have to breathe?” he asks. Fascination paints the Captain’s face before he switches again. “What do you suggest?”

“Don’t ask why I know, but I know you and I can hold our breaths for at least three minutes before we need air.”

Hydra loved their experiments. The Soldier is grateful he doesn’t have to do this underwater.

“Then I’m right behind you, Barnes.”

They stalk through the heavy smoke carefully, using the collars of their t-shirts to wipe the burn at their eyes and to inhale deeply after the first three minutes. There is no sign of their resident vampire, only debris and some of Stark’s failed experiments. The floor above had also fallen, but the steel beams were still intact. No one lived above or below her, but that didn’t mean Stark hadn’t splurged on unnecessary furniture and decorations. Each step they took was a cautious one. Only the Soldier could push and pull burning wood and fabric out of their path without risk of burns, and the shield covered their heads as glass fell through the floor above. It would take Stark approximately a week to repair this, but for now the Soldier thanks whatever entity listening that the damage wasn’t catastrophic.

He had just started to call this place a home. The only place where he was afforded solitude. Choice.

Having it burned to the ground should have sent him on a spiral, a thought that irritated him more than scared him. He doesn’t like starting over from scratch. It was hard enough to do the first time without a base. But all the thoughts occupying his head right now are about her, how this is her home too, and that she needed his help.

“Buck! Over here!”

The Captain tries lifting the large stone of concrete blocking the small sanctuary she’s hidden in, but it’s no use. The surrounding glass and heated metal are pinching and burning his palms. She does not scream for help, nor does she alert them of her location. She’s eerily quiet.

He looks around, then down at his own body. He’s wearing black, and the Captain is wearing white. They have to be quick.

“Move!” he tells him. In sync, the Soldier slides his metal arm beneath the concrete and lifts—the Captain reads his mind verbatim, stripping himself of his shirt and preparing to wrap her upper half. She screams in agony, the sound scraping along the walls of his matted skull. The Captain barrels into the small crevice, shielding her with his body.

“We’ve got you,” the Captain says gently, coughing off to the side. The Soldier can’t see her, but he trusts the Captain’s calm reaction.

“Go!” he yells, the concrete slab pulling at his shoulder. Ten more seconds and he’s going down with it.

The Captain picks her up and runs in the direction they came from, the Soldier following. He can’t see her face, but he can see her arms. What looks like silver rashes blister and boil as they hang in full view of the sunlight.

He catches up to them, adds to their shield, and dares to hold her limp hand in his.

—————

She doesn’t go to the roof the next four nights. He does not smoke without her, but he brings a pack just in case.

The Soldier sits on the ledge, scarily desperate to be spoken to, alone with his own damning thoughts.

—————

He sneaks into the Captain’s snack cupboard in the middle of the night. There are chips of all sorts and flavors, packaged noodles, and packets of sauces from various restaurants. The chocolate is in a box of its own, three or four bars already missing. It’s one of those famous brands, popular during his time and still. With a final glance down the quiet hall, he steals a bar and closes the cupboard.

The silky wrapping is familiar to both his metal and flesh hand. He has eaten this candy before. A lifetime ago. Another person ago.

He peels the wrapping and breaks off a single rectangular piece. Crisp and clean. He slides his flesh fingertips together, smoothing the chocolate into his skin. The smell is overwhelmingly intriguing, so much so that his mouth waters.

He bites the warmed chocolate, swishing it around his tongue. Vanilla, caramelized sugar—the creamy texture suits the sweetness, the aroma of cocoa soothing the tension at the base of his neck. He takes another small bite, and this time he has a vision of a woman’s face, older by maybe a year or two. The same eyes, hair color, and top lip as him.

Bucky Barnes had a sister. He had a sister. She liked chocolate. He bought her a bar with his first paycheck. He remembers something other than bloodshed and angry voices. He remembers his sister’s eyes and the fact he was a working man when it counted the most. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his metal hand, wincing from the scratch.

“I had the same reaction when I tried chocolate again after I woke up.”

The Soldier doesn’t move a muscle. He watches the Captain approach the counter with a good-natured smirk. He holds his hand out, waiting. The Soldier hesitates—and it hits him then that he wouldn’t be able to share the chocolate with her anyways—but he breaks a piece for the Captain. Whether it’s because his whole opinion on the Captain has changed after he protected her with his own body, or because the Soldier wants to take one cautious step forward on the path to healing, so be it. He doesn’t make a fuss about the sharing, just brings the chocolate to his mouth and enjoys the piece just as the Soldier did.

“Dernier used to rant about how French chocolate was elite,” the Captain chuckles. He lifts himself onto the counter. His sleep attire consists of gray sweatpants and those tight, white t-shirts the Widow buys him. As he rakes his eyes further, the Soldier nearly cackles from the sight of the Captain’s black and yellow socks depicting small, alien-like cartoons with goggles and overalls.

Steve Rogers used to sleep in socks all the time. The Captain does the same.

“Did we ever eat chocolate during our time on the front line?” he asks. The Soldier uses the roof of his mouth to somehow spread the flavors.

“They sent us some packaged kits but it wasn’t the same. This chocolate is made from cooked milk, not powdered. We didn’t complain, though. It was nice to taste something from home, even if it didn’t exactly match Ma’s baking. But Falsworth found some real chocolate in a bombed bakery right outside of Poznań—”

“It was Morita.”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

“Falsworth pointed out the bakery, but Morita was the only one with big enough balls to actually go in there and bring us back the sweets. He grabbed some flour and sugar bags, too.”

The Captain chews his piece slowly, his gaze never leaving the Soldier’s. Fascination, sorrow, elation—all of it fighting to overtake one face. He doesn’t like that he can’t pinpoint the exact emotion attacking the Captain, or that they don’t match the four primary ones.

“Yeah, Buck. You’re right. It was Morita.”

That screaming voice in his head quiets now, opting for a more subtle cheering. Pride, he realizes.

The Soldier shares the rest of the chocolate bar with the Captain, and then another, all while they reminisce about the Howling Commandos. It’s equal parts warped memories and clear ones. But that doesn’t matter, because what he doesn’t remember the Captain clarifies, and vice versa.

—————

A week after the attack, the Soldier is the first one to arrive on the roof, cigarette box in hand. He has gone every night, and every night he has sat alone. The absence of the undead shadow he’s come to expect is odd, almost as if his presence alone unsettled the unnatural balance of things. Death was natural, but she defied it.

This felt too normal.

The roof door opens. He hasn’t opened the new pack yet. She takes small steps to the ledge, wincing slightly as she swings her right leg over. He watches her and says nothing—the team doesn’t speak about their injuries unless they’re serious, and she doesn’t speak to anyone at all.

He’s never asked her about her relationship with the others. He only knows how she is with him. It feels unbalanced somehow. She knows more about his character now than anyone else, besides the Captain, because he doesn’t speak with anyone else. He doesn’t know what she does with the other twenty-one hours of her day. He feels he’s allowed to ask considering just how vulnerable he’s seen her. A small part of him feels like that’s taking advantage.

“You could have started without me,” she says, the low timbre of her voice still strong enough to raise the hair on his arms. Not even the upcoming seasonal chill has succeeded in that. He doesn’t get cold often. Unless he’s dreaming.

“They don’t taste the same if I do.”

It’s bold, what he says. She’ll think he means a cigarette is best shared with a friend and conversation. He won’t tell her the two reasons he smokes at all: It elicits a soothing, guttural response that sends him back to midnight campfires serenaded by distant stories of home, and because he’s come to enjoy the taste of red, of brown, of pink, inked at the white base.

She hums lightly and finally swings her left leg over. Again the movement seems to hurt her. He notices her skin is ashier, cracking where her laugh lines would be, and her red eyes emit a soft glow. Her lips are nearly white and her hair refuses to hold in any natural moisture. She’s drying up, and yet she takes the cigarette he offers and inhales until decayed lungs inflate.

“You look terrible.” The trapped voice within him curses at him relentlessly, probably begging to be sent to the front lines to take over this battle for him. Flirting was Bucky Barnes’ thing, not the Soldier's. Then again, the Soldier doesn’t think he’s trying to flirt. But he doesn’t want to dismiss her either.

“Yeah, that happens when I go a few days without eating.”

“They’re not bringing you food?”

“They’re repairing my floor. Their minds are elsewhere.”

“But… You look terrible.”

He shuts himself up by taking a long puff, avoiding her amused gaze. He’s not trying to be funny, but it does make him feel a little better to know she isn’t taking his careless words seriously.

“I haven’t left the guest room. The windows on your floor aren’t made for my condition.”

How could the team, how could he, be so clueless? He should have checked on her when she didn’t come the first night. Should have knocked on her door and checked if she had enough damn pillows. Banner should have visited and taken the opportunity to ask those subtle but obvious questions.

“How long can you go without?”

“Forever. I won't die from it.”

“But how long before it hurts?”

The question surprises her. She takes the cigarette from his fingers cautiously, as if the question was tied to a physical one. He’s aware that she’s physically weak, vulnerable, open to prodding—completely exposed.

She thinks for a moment before saying, her shoulders hunched and eyes glowing softly, “It hurts right now.”

He does not think before saying, as he snatches the smoke back and gets a little lost in the brown lip stain he can now taste wholly, “What would happen if you drank from me?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Both curiosity and outright distaste floods her once calm expression. He should be offended by that, but instead he waits. Strangely… excited for her answer.

“I’ve never had a true, willing victim before.”

“Don’t call me a victim.”

“I’ve never had a true, willing supper-plate before.”

“Better.”

She huffs a short laugh. “As hungry as I am, drinking from you would be a poor decision.”

Because of the serum, because of the bite marks, because they barely know one another—the reasons are endless, really. But the Soldier wants to help, and wanting is rare.

“Do you have to kill?”

“No.”

“Will it leave a mark?”

“A little one.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as the typical person would donate.”

“Have you ever gotten sick from someone’s blood?”

She takes a long drag, contemplative. “Once.”

He realizes that for the first time in a long time he knows more about the science portion of things, rather than the brutal aspects, before Banner and Stark. Not even psych got these specifics. He is truly two steps ahead, and something like… greed, envelops him. A peculiar type of greed—a fanatical smugness at the fact that he of all people has taken the time to learn something the others have given up prying for.

The Soldier, for once, is being considerate. Elation pools in his empty stomach because of her hesitation—because she is considering his well-being.

He nods, his decision final. “Drink from me.”

“Quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re killing yourself because you won’t ask for help.”

“Asking for help,” she drawls sarcastically, frowning. She flicks the dud into the aerial abyss and reaches for their second cigarette of the night. “Have you asked for it?”

He lights the end for her. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re just as isolated as I am. According to Natasha, we’re unhealthy.”

“My seams aren’t unraveling as we speak.” Even as he says it, he knows she’ll counter it.

“That’s the difference. You can see mine. Your seams are in here,” she explains, pointing at her own temple. “I’ve accepted my death a long time ago.”

His brow draws together. “If that were true, you would stay here until the sun came up.”

Shaking her head, she blows the smoke out in two short spurts. “Mostly everything about being human is dead to me. My heart no longer beats. If I don’t mask it with perfume, you’ll start smelling rotting meat. I sleep, maybe, ten days of the year. Wine is the only human thing I can consume without vomiting. I am a dying paradox, forced to pretend. But my mind is my own, and though my heart is frozen, it’s still there. I may be dead, but I don’t want to die.”

The Soldier wakes each morning, his mind finally his own, his heart somehow intact. He has a team who tries to support him, a friend who would destroy the world for the memory of him, and a vampire companion he has never thanked for simply being there. His heart beats the same as it did in 1945, he sleeps a full night through one-hundred days of the year, and he hasn’t drank wine since moving into the Tower. He is living, and yet he has no life. He is forced to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, forced to automate the husk of a living paradox. They tried to kill the human part of him, and when they partially succeeded, he wanted to die along with it. His memory is dead, slowly reviving, and he doesn’t want to die now.

He makes an apathetic noise, unwilling to reveal just how much her vulnerability burrowed into his own. “The offer is still on the table.”

The cigarette is halved.

“It’ll hurt a little bit.”

“As long as you don’t kill me.”

She considers once more, even studying his neck as she does. The Soldier has been at the will of others before, but this is different. He chose this.

“Then get comfortable. I don’t want you falling over.”

Their feet hit the roof at the same time. It’s the first time he notices how much taller he is. The second cigarette is flicked away, the third—for now—stays in the pack. She dusts the back of her sweatpants off, cleaning her arms next. She’s nervous, he realizes. That funny smugness comes back, stronger than before.

“Take as much as you need,” he offers, his smirk widening when she rolls her eyes. She crosses her arms and inspects him head to toe, a smirk of her own to match his. It’s suddenly intimate. Her eyes glimmer and shine so bright he no longer wants to lift his head to see the natural wonders—the two brilliant rubies taking him apart piece by piece are the most unnatural wonders in the world. What does he look like to her? Is there a scarlet glow outlining his body? Can she see the way his index and thumb tap together, the only physical sign of nerves he’ll show anyone. Can she hear his steady heartbeat, trained to combat adrenaline, and through the ruse can she see how desperately Bucky Barnes is banging on the walls to escape? Not to oppose the incoming bite, but to be the one to feel a woman’s mouth on him again. The Soldier apologizes to him, promises that it isn’t anything sexual, and whispers that he’ll break him out soon. Little by little, he’ll help pull the dead man inside of him to the surface.

“Tilt your head for me,” she gently instructs. She swallows hard. He does as he’s told.

Slowly, she creeps forward. Close enough that he should feel her hot breath, but there’s nothing at all. Her cold palms rest on his cheeks, scratching against his stubble, the pads of her thumbs near the corners of his parted mouth. Boldly, she traces a hand down his angled neck—pauses—then hooks his hair behind his ear. The Soldier involuntarily shivers, but he does not reprimand himself.

“Ready,” she murmurs, excitement glimmering in the swirl of crimson. Are his gray ones just as potent?

“As I’ll ever be.”

Just as they did back at the Hydra base, the skin around her eyes deepens in color, black veins extending far down her cheeks. Her fangs, once hidden by her tempting lips, nudge his neck. Four needle points, though the two on top are the first to puncture him. He hisses softly but quickly relaxes into her strong hold, their chests pressed together. Before he can encourage her, she bites down.

It’s…

Otherworldly. Bizarre. Erotic.

She moans as she drinks, and he—matches it.

One hand delicately holds the other side of his neck, the other trailing to his waist. He can’t trust that she knows exactly what she’s doing, lost in her bloodlust, so he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the serum rushing to heal his wound and the once dormant, primal reaction of his blood rushing south. But she drinks plenty, greedily, and he’ll offer her more still.

She detaches herself, licking at the injury. He shuts his eyes and suppresses a groan. She takes this reaction as pain, however.

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Was that enough?”

“Can you handle a little more?” He nods, and she punctures him again.

He gets lightheaded the longer she drinks, but it’s worth it. Her skin is returning to its natural shade, her eyes are dimming, her lips are moistening. Even her grip feels stronger. Unlike the last time, there is no smoke circling them. She is simply feeding, visible to the elements. Visible to him.

And apparently, visible to their first ever trespassers.

“Three seconds, Fangs! One, two—”

The Soldier throws a knife backward just as she removes her bloodied teeth, landing a perfect stab in one of the crevices in Stark’s suit. The Colonel sneaks up behind her and hauls her up into the air. Stark flies behind him, holding his arms to his sides.

“I always knew you were into some kinky shit, Sergeant. But unsupervised? BDSM one-oh-one, make sure your partner can be trusted.”

“Let me go,” he warns. Then, deeper and more brutal, “Let her go.”

Stark scoffs, but lets him go anyway. “She was just eating you. I think your sympathies are leaning toward the Axis—”

“She wasn’t hurting me! I let her feed because you bastards haven’t fed her in days!”

Stark and the Colonel pause, their eyes meeting. The latter seems more surprised. “Shit, Tony. Is that true?”

“Hold on, hold on, back up. Let me think about this.”

The Colonel interjects, his brow rising. “What’s there to think about? Did you feed her or not? Did you let her starve?”

“I’m not in charge of it!” Stark makes a small hand motion to tell the Colonel to let her down. The second her feet hit the roof, she’s wiping his blood from her jaw. He wants to tell her not to. It was her claim, her right. She need not be ashamed for simply surviving. “But I can see where our wires have gotten crossed,” Stark concedes.

The Soldier leaves his neck as is. Blood slowly trickles to his collarbones and into his t-shirt. Stark follows it, the slightest twinge of curiosity flashing across his bearded face.

The Soldier steps closer to him, his gaze enough to unravel even the strongest of men. “How can you forget one of your own?”

Still, Stark persists, his self-assurance unrelenting. “If you haven’t noticed, Barnes—You two are the most reclusive, secretive, stone-faced people on this team. I avert my eyes whenever one of you even enters the room.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

They all turn to her. He hates how small her voice sounds, how modest she makes herself. To defend herself.

“Yeah, we see that,” Stark says, rubbing his temples. “Don’t know why we bothered. If he wanted you dead, I’d suspect you’d be… deader.”

“Then leave,” the Soldier grinds out.

“Barnes—” the Colonel sighs. He extracts himself from his suit, the silver absorbing the moonlight. “We just caught her feeding from you.”

“With permission.”

Stark mumbles, “Glad to know the Winter Soldier is all about consent—”

“We need to report this. She’s never… She’s never done that before,” the Colonel decides, though his expression tells him he’s in battle with his own words. “And if it’s because we’ve made her recruitment mirror captivity, then we need to re-evaluate the ethics, Tony.”

“For now, no one is allowed on the roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I put you in danger and they saw what they saw. If I want to be a part of the team, they need to know everything, right?”

The Colonel steps back into his suit, the closure of his mask unsettling something within the Soldier. Masks function as detachment, as a lie. He knows the man underneath, but he is forced to make peace with the myth.

“Meet us bright and early in the lab,” Stark orders her, masking himself as well. He motions for her to follow.

Before the door shuts, she looks over her shoulder. No mask in sight.

“Smells like cigarettes up here,” Stark mutters, coughing dramatically.

—————

She is restricted to the lab for the next two days and ordered to complete another round of psych. No matter how often he threatens to put a knife in Stark’s neck, he doesn’t budge. The Captain swears that no invasive procedures are taking place, that he is present for any and all questions Stark and Banner are throwing at her. He says she is cooperating, even telling them how and how often she needs to feed in order to be effective in battle. They find that the serum did not affect her at all.

But when he sees her at the end of her imprisonment, her red irises no longer hold an excited or even tame glow. They are void.

They remind him of his own.

And he is terrified.

—————

He awakens with a jolt, immediately pulling the gun from underneath his pillow and aiming at the intruder with sleepy eyes but steady hands. The shadows do little to conceal her, especially with the slight glow from her eyes and the fact that the moon shines upon her. She’s forgone her usual black clothing tonight, and instead dons pink—a cotton two-piece night set. Slight collar on the shirt, shorts for bottoms. Pockets. If he didn’t recognize her shadow like his very own, he’d wonder who exactly was standing at the edge of his bed, watching him sleep.

“Shoot me. I want to see what happens.”

He lowers the weapon, glaring at her playfully. “Funny.”

“Never been shot before. Curiosity kills me daily.”

“Can you bleed out?”

“I can bleed. But no, I can’t bleed out.”

“Is it your blood?”

“No. It’s the blood I consume. I use it for energy.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

She smirks, shrugging her shoulders as if her unannounced presence is normal. “I knew they were going to bar you from the rooftop and were going to send me my dinner around this time, so I took the opportunity.”

He draws himself further up the bed, his naked chest on display. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pats the space beside him at the same time. He hears her snicker, the accidental innuendo making him blush. It’s a weird feeling—to be thought of in that way. To think in that way.

She hops in beside him but stays above the blanket. He raises a brow.

“I would only make your bed colder.”

It truly is like lying beside a cadaver. She produces little heat when she feeds, but this… This is her natural state. He feels it all, distinguishable from the natural chill of night and three feet of distance.

“Do you like being cold?”

“It makes summers easier.”

“You’re inside all the time.”

“In general.”

He hums and brings a pillow up to clutch against his stomach.

“What are you really doing here?”

She shrugs. “I’m public enemy number one right now. The Captain and Wanda may still like me, but I don’t talk to them. Not like how I talk to you.”

“I’m not the friend you want to talk to about your feelings, or have braid your hair.”

“Damn, and I was really looking forward to that.”

He rolls his eyes. The moonlight slices through the curtains of his bare bedroom, cutting right through them. They are separated by the light, and in a peculiar turn of events, he envies the moon for it. The one constant that brought them together, now splitting them in half.

“When do you think they’ll calm down?”

“Depends on how willing they are to listen to me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ever wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Hardly. So, I guess what you say is good news.”

He chuckles, the barest of brushes with their shoulders igniting an ache in his stomach. He wonders if she is similarly affected. If she, too, feels the odd connection between them blossoming into something stranger. He is used to feeling nothing at all—conditioned—and yet, skin-to-skin is like learning a whole new language. Fluent in many, the Soldier believes this language of silence is exclusively their own.

“I’m sorry Stark and Banner kept you in the lab for so long.”

“They let me wander.”

His lip quirks. “Did you give them what they wanted?”

“Do you mean, did I break?”

“Were they trying to break you?”

She opens her mouth to say something, something witty he assumes, but she chooses not to. Instead, she shakes her head and bares honest eyes. “No. But I told them what they needed to know. Over time, they’ll start feeling like teammates. And I, a part of the team. They need to know about my condition, and when I’m ready, they’ll know me.”

He realizes why her impassiveness used to irk him so—she is him, he is her. They are carbon-copies. He is speaking to himself, and he sees and feels what the Captain does. Sadness. Emitting from her, growing within him.

“Do you enjoy being excluded?”

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

“Same thing.”

She rearranges her legs, crossing the right one over the left. “It’s not the same thing. Being alone is for peace of mind. Exclusion is… forced.”

“Isolation, then. Like what Stark said. Basking in our reclusiveness.”

“I’ve been alone a long time. I find comfort in it, but I don’t like being lonely.”

“I’m not following.”

She smiles, turning to look at him. He meets her eyes—there’s a shimmer of gold in them. “I came here tonight because I don’t like being alone at this hour anymore. I like our silence. Our proximity. I’m not lonely when I’m with you, but we can be alone together.”

“Ah,” he sighs. Nervously, he holds her stare and says, “I like our time together, too.”

It’s refreshing, being open. Usually he delivers truths bluntly, honesty with a punch, and information without remorse. With her, it’s easier to be the Soldier. It’s easier to try and reach deep into the pit of what’s left of his soul, and pull out Bucky Barnes.

“Natasha’s nice. We can invite her to smoke with us.”

“No.”

She laughs. “Noted.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He wouldn’t smoke, but he’d be fun in conversation.”

“You speak to him often?”

She hums, considering. “He always speaks to me if I’m in the room. The Captain, too.”

He likes that—people he considers friends treating her kindly.

“What do you talk about?”

“The weather, mostly.”

He snorts, the sound completely unflattering. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Idiots. Do they describe the sun to you, too?”

She laughs again, the original melody caressing his skin. “I don’t blame them. I’m pretty closed off during the day.”

“You should come train with me sometime. The windows can be covered.”

“I forget you’re the expert with knives around here.”

“Knives, yes. Daggers, no.”

She moves to sit criss-crossed, facing him. “It’s not all that different. Plus, what I use are more like shortswords anyway.”

“How old are you again?”

She grins, fangs and all. Beckoning him, his blood. He sits up higher.

“Never ask a lady her age.”

“I see times haven’t changed.”

“What else do you remember from those times?”

A little, he wants to say. Barely anything at all, he wants to scream.

“I remember ladies wore more than this to bed,” he teases, pinching a loose thread at her shorts.

She raises a brow. “What nuns were you dating?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she breathes, the air she expels completely artificial, “they wore nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

She bounces as she gets off his bed. Her smile remains, and he finds that he’s been sporting one of his own the entire time.

“Liar. One of my top five pet names.”

He watches her walk away, and before he can stop himself—

“What do you like being called? By your first name? A nickname?”

“I quite like being called Fangs.”

Damn Stark to all the Hells. He gives a playful scoff, “Your first name will do.”

“Call me Fangs.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Get out of my room.”

She rolls her eyes, and checks the hallway before squeezing through the slight gap of the door. “Goodnight, Barnes.”

“Call me James.”

“Your last name will do.”

—————

The Soldier grips the handles of his chair and limits his air consumption to a whopping ten breaths a minute. Any more oxygen and his adrenaline will spike. He does not want to cause a scene, no, not when the Colonel and Banner are doing that for him.

“I think we all need to calm down and look at this situation from all sides,” the Captain reasons, the strong timbre of his voice carrying over Stark’s.

“Cap, your bleeding heart is showing.”

The Colonel sighs, “See reason, Tony. She was starving because of our carelessness. And because we never initiate conversation with her, we didn’t ask!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t group me in that shit. I talk to her whenever I see her. I was with my sister all week so I’m excluded from your witch-hunt,” Wilson declares, leaning back in his chair, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

“Buck, we believe her when she says she wasn’t hurting you. But what in the world made you think that it was safe for her to feed from you—not even considering the serum—at all?”

“There you go, treating him like a kid again,” Stark grumbles with a heavy roll of his eyes. The Soldier turns his head slowly, his glare half-hidden behind his hair but deadly enough to make Stark clear his throat.

“Oh, shut it, Tony. Which is it then? He let her because he’s such a kid, or he shouldn’t have let her because he’s such a kid?” the Colonel argues.

The Widow leans her head back and brings her feet up to rest on the table. “And there you guys go again, acting like he’s not in the room.”

Banner interjects, massaging his hands together as he stutters, “Drinking his blood could have made her even more super than she is. We had no way of knowing for sure because she had rejected every test before this week.”

“And did you find anything different with her blood?” Wilson asks.

“Ah! That’s one thing we discovered. She doesn’t have any,” Stark shares, clapping his hands together.

“Considering the lack thereof, there was no blood to intermingle with his, so to say. She can’t absorb it permanently,” Banner explains further.

“Something we should have known when she first joined the team!”

“Tony, are you afraid that she’s going to be addicted to his blood now? Or any of ours?” the Widow asks, raising a trimmed brow. She looks around the table, her gaze softening slightly as it lands on the Captain. Still, she moans, “God, you guys are stupid.”

Stark makes a rattling scene as he pulls a chair out and sits down. He intertwines his fingers, mimicking a student. “Elaborate, then.”

The Widow stares at him for longer than the Soldier ever has. Her silence is as deadly as his, but more cutthroat. Where Stark would pinch until the Soldier either swung or bolted, he submits for the Widow. Be it that he’s known her longer and has more respect, he doesn’t know.

“Did any of you read my report about the mission a few weeks ago? Or did you just send your own to Fury and call it a day?” No one answers her. “Of course. If you did read mine, you would have read where I elaborated on the capability of her self-control. I bled first. It was my blood out in the air. The target hadn’t seen her. Barnes would have dealt with him first and given me the second look. She had the opportunity to go toward my open neck and have a feast. But instead, she tore into the man who hurt me.”

The Soldier can’t help the smirk that forms when it clicks. “You let him cut you on purpose.”

“Glad to know my work is being appreciated.”

Stark leans forward, actual shock painting his face. “You jump started the experiments? That was your idea?”

“Well, you and Banner were getting nowhere.”

He turns to the rest of the table, his smirk replaced by a frown. “She wasn’t going to hurt me because I trust her. And she trusts me. We’ve met every night for the past few months to share cigarettes and conversation up on that roof. Not once before did she even look at my neck.”

“Makes sense for those two to be close,” Banner mumbles, somewhat apologetic. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me or Tony operate on your arm after T’Challa gifted you it?”

“Look, if she’s angry at us then we will all apologize and try to understand where she’s coming from—”

He abruptly stands, cutting Stark off. He marks the Colonel and the Widow reaching for the guns at their hip. Stark looks offended for a second—

He’s had weeks to learn how to show… empathy. Weeks to learn how to look at someone and have his eyes speak for him. Stark closes his mouth, his brow relaxing, his gaze intense. Decent. Human.

“It’s not some competition between her and I. She’s not trying to be angry, or angrier than me. She’s sad. She didn’t let you into her world because you never asked! Never got to know her. You’re terrified of her not because she looks like she can kill you, but because she looks three seconds away from killing herself. You see nothing in her face—the same nothing like in mine. It’s a hazy type of nothing, and soon you will realize you shouldn’t have been afraid of her, you should have been trying to help her.”

“Buck…” the Captain breathes, restless.

“I’m not about to kill myself, Rogers. Don’t worry. But everything would be a lot easier if you all just… asked what you wanted to ask. The more you tip-toe around what you think is happening, the longer you build up this scenario that ends in flames. I like my silence, and sometimes I like when it’s interrupted. If you listen to my advice, you’ll know when to bother me and when to leave me the fuck alone.”

The Widow snickers, but there’s pride in her look. Praise he never asked for, and never will. Though, he’s glad his argument is supported. He’s glad the red-haired menace of a woman was creative enough to seek answers herself. The only one with a spine, it seems.

“I trust her,” he repeats. He really needs them to know that. “You’ve asked questions about her condition and you got your answers. Now, ask about her next time.”

—————

They get the call late into the night. Rousing them from sleep, the Captain tells the team to suit up and board the quinjet in under fifteen minutes. The flight to Moscow will be a long one, and the chilly descent won’t make anyone happier. They are expected to land when the moon hangs high again.

The Widow cannot return to Russia. The Soldier can’t either, but he’s better at evading. He knows how to navigate the icy forests. Wilson, Stark, and the Colonel are grounded for risk of being shot down. The only ones cleared for this mission are himself, the Captain, Barton, Maximoff, and their vampire companion.

They split into two teams. The Captain and Maximoff head east. Barton accompanies him, and though he does not explicitly say it, he is watching just how close the Soldier walks near the woman who drank his blood three nights ago.

The mission is to infiltrate and leave no hostages. Killing on a team-effort. They succeed. On record, the Avengers weren’t in Russia at all.

The Captain calls an all-clear and the Soldier corroborates. Sunrise is nearing. They need to return to the quinjet immediately.

He doesn’t hear the high-tech drones flying at ground-level. But he does hear the rustling behind the trees, the regular breathing from trained lungs. He orders Barton back but it’s too late. He steps on an explosive and is sent into the air. Stark’s expertise extends to their suits as well so it’s a miracle Barton doesn’t lose a limb, but their position is known. He calls for assistance over the comms. Smoke billows at his side, then disappears altogether. As he deals with the men sprouting from hiding, she deals with the ones still crouching. Blood sprays and his legs tire fast without Barton there to help. He doesn’t even know where he landed.

He tries calling for the Captain again with no luck. It’s an ambush with their best combat agents, and they are sorely outnumbered. If it was just guns and knives, even arrows, he could beat them all. The weapons they have are electricity-based, some fire. He’s battling his own men while also checking at the corner of his eye that sparks and heat aren’t one of her weaknesses. Because if she’s downed, he can’t go for Barton. She is a priority.

If no one helps her, she’ll burn.

“Go find Rogers!” he screams to her as he smashes his metal fist into the stomach of a man much larger than him.

“I’ll go for Clint! He couldn’t have landed far—”

He’s struck by a bullet before she finishes her sentence. Her terrified gasp is perhaps the saddest part about this whole ordeal. She doesn't need to breathe, she doesn't need to gasp. He lands on his back, his stomach branded by lead, directly in this morning’s first ray of light.

“James!”

The Captain confirms Barton’s safety, then his panicked questioning bombards the comms as he is informed of the Soldier’s condition. Her voice sounds different over the earpiece. Somehow lighter. Frightened, but lighter. Shadows attempt to cover him from afar, but they can’t reach. She’s not close enough. She digs into necks and plunges her gold shortsword into the other available meat she can find. The Soldier has been shot at many times, but shot? Once when he was Bucky Barnes, twice during his seventy year prison sentence, and once more since arriving at the Tower. Only the wound during the war had been in the stomach, and he had miraculously healed in three days then. He hadn’t thought twice about why that was.

These are the worst injuries—get shot in the middle and suddenly every part of your body hurts. He can’t think, can barely breathe. If he isn’t helped soon, the serum will battle his natural adrenaline to the point he could die from shock.

There are hands on his shoulders, then under them, lifting poorly. She screams and screams and screams. He smells burning flesh. He is dropped momentarily and sees the flash of a gold dagger, then the crimson of the enemy. Again, he is lifted, dragged. Again, she is screaming.

They take cover in every shadow she can fit in. She waits, whimpering under her breath, then does it all over again. He can’t fully open his eyes.

She does this twelve more times until they are far enough from the enemy. She shoves them into an empty cave and immediately begins removing his leathers.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

—————

The unmistakable scent of cooking rabbit hits him before the stabbing pain in his abdomen.

“You owe me,” he hears a cranky voice mutter, the voice he’s come to expect whenever the sun disappears and the moon kisses the stars. He’s on his back, his metal fist practically fused to his stomach. When he opens his eyes fully there are branches blocking his view of the night sky. There’s a campfire to his left, flames growing higher as it cooks the animal hovering over it. He moans in discomfort when he turns his neck a little more, but it’s worth it.

There she is—skinning a second rabbit and skewering it a second later, frown on her beautiful face, cloak torn from the bullets that grazed her. Without the hood, the injuries from the sun are on full display. Scattered, silver patches mark her natural tint, slowly healing but obviously causing discomfort. She pauses her cooking to scratch at herself relentlessly, cheeks and neck bearing her lashes.

“What do I owe you?” he croaks, coughing automatically. She abandons the dead animal to grab their emergency water containers. She holds the back of his head as she gently pours water on his lips first. Once moistened, he takes the container from her with his flesh hand.

“I don’t like killing animals,” she says, helping him sit up. He winces and lets her move him to the base of a wide tree.

“Sorry,” he replies absentmindedly. “You should eat, too.”

“I already did. You’re getting my leftovers.”

He eyes the fire, then the surrounding forest. “Is it safe to have one burning so high?”

She steadies the second rabbit over the wooden grill and turns the other one. She gives an unimpressed hum and remains facing away. “I dragged you for miles. I doubt they will catch up soon.”

“Miles?”

“The Captain was ambushed, too. Going to him would have put your life at risk.” A pause, then a twinge of distress. “And I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and fight anymore.”

“This had nothing to do with your strength or competence. The sun—”

“The fucking sun,” she grinds out, her usual low tone rising, “Because of the fucking sun, it made me incompetent. I am a hazard in the field when I have to cower in the shadows while my teammates are getting their asses handed to them.”

The Soldier pinches an eye closed, fixing his position slightly. “I can handle my own ass, thank you—”

“I was a nurse in the war.”

He pauses, his heart clenching. “Our war?”

Our war, he says. Like he and the Captain owned all the pain, the consequences, the deaths, the aftermath.

“I didn’t even know I had… died. I woke up in the middle of the night surrounded by the corpses of my men. I walked for miles until I found the gods-awful British army.”

He chuckles at that, even if his stomach begs him not to.

“I guess the enemy had a predator on the field. Makes sense… There were a lot of bodies to feed from. I stayed in the tents and worked well into the morning. And when my refuge was attacked, I left the tent so I could help.”

She doesn’t see the pitiful look he gives her.

“I burned so badly. And while I burned, I couldn’t reach the downed soldiers. When it was all done, instinct won… I fed for the first time that night. They all tasted like bile. When I finally found my own base again, I had a birthday card and chocolate waiting for me. I ate the entire bar even though it made me sick, even though it tasted like dirt. I was questioned about how I survived when so many died, why I kept giving my rations away, why I refused to work during the day. So because of the fucking sun, I let good men die. I could not have that happen today.”

Silence hums between them, the gentle crackle of the fire speaking for them. It occurs to him that she does not need the warmth it provides, but that she built it for him. For the sole purpose of feeding and comforting him. Something liquid figuratively drips into his stomach, swirling chaotically.

She removes the darkened rabbit from the fire and hands it to him. He thanks her with a nod of his head, and bites into its thigh. The meat is dry, but he has half a mind to thank her for removing its head so he doesn’t have to stare into dead eyes.

“Clint’s alive, by the way. Idiot landed in a gods-honest haystack a mile from the rest of the team.”

He laughs as he chews. She nods her head at his stomach.

“I’m fine,” he assures her, lifting his metal hand to showcase the dried blood. The bullet went right through him. “I’m just sore.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his meal half-eaten. She’s handed him the second rabbit already.

“Thank you,” he says honestly. “I’m not used to being saved. I find it odd that so many people want to save me. It was a calculated sacrifice, and I owe you my life.”

“Calculated,” she drawls. “I didn’t think much about it. You give me too much credit.”

“Well, if you didn’t think about it, then you’re just as much of an idiot as Rogers.”

The first smile of the night graces her face, now mostly healed from the silver patches.

“It wasn’t your fault. Someone took advantage of—” he pauses, the words too familiar. “Someone took advantage of you when you were helpless. When you were left for dead. And when you tried to help, you got the short end of the stick.”

“Some dull stick.”

He steadies his breathing, then takes another bite. The ache in his stomach feels less burdensome as he eats.

“You’re a veteran.”

“Do nurses count as veterans?”

“Fuck yeah they do.” They share a laugh, a moment. It’s as intimate as can be, the most intimate they’ve ever been. Even more so than when she had her teeth in his neck.

“Thank you,” he repeats, though the sentiment means more now. “For being a friend.”

“Thank you for not dying on me. And for trusting me,” she says, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Do I surpass the Captain?”

He chuckles. “He’s my closest friend. I think you’re my best friend.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters, her quip a balm over the entire night.

They speak for the next few hours. It’s the most he’s spoken since coming home. Where his tongue would dry out and his head would turn hazy, he finds peace and urgency instead. Peace in her voice, in his mind. Urgency to tell her everything and nothing, all at once.

The Captain finds them before sunrise, and the Soldier—for the first time since reclaiming pieces of Bucky Barnes—hugs his closest friend because he simply wants to.

—————

Three weeks later, they are allowed back onto the roof. She brings the cigarettes this time. A different brand, one he vaguely remembers Dum-Dum complaining about. Said they were lady-smokes. He considers their taste, a memory for Bucky Barnes and a new experience for the Soldier. Those truths can coexist.

He quite likes their flavor.

“If you could take a bite out of anyone on the team, who would it be?”

He chokes on the smoke, fanning it away as he tries to control his laughter. “It’s actually insane of you to ask that question—”

Her mouth splits into a wide smile, her fangs showing. “Aw, c’mon! Indulge me! Who would it be?”

“Who would you want to taste?”

“Well, I’ve already tasted you.”

His chest tightens, suggestive of a lot more than he is ready to admit. She’s transitioned to blood bags instead of the vein, and some archaic part of himself is glad for it. He doesn’t necessarily want her mouth on anyone’s neck, besides his own, ever again.

“Yeah, you have,” he says quietly, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want to say who I’m thinking.”

She takes a short drag, smiling around the cigarette. “You’ve thought about it?”

“You want to hear it or not?”

She passes him the stick, her eyes glowing momentarily. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry.”

He waits a moment, savoring the taste of her on their smoke. He wonders if one day they’ll upgrade to joints—if it would affect either of them at all. He clears his throat before admitting, “Thor.”

Silence. He takes another drag.

“I’ve thought about him, too.”

He doesn’t choke on his laugh this time. It’s loud, flowing down into the crowded streets and mixing with reality. For so long his silence has placated his mind and unnerved others—he’s becoming human again, resurrecting.

She matches his volume, taking the cigarette from his steady fingers. “Seriously! If I were to bring up the question of whether I need human blood or humanoid blood to sustain me to Tony and Bruce, oh! They would call him down to earth to find out immediately.”

Is it possible to bring someone who’s undead back to life, too? Were they living all along? Were they just suspended in an unmoving abyss and once something sparked, they chose to climb again? Is it ever that simple? It took him years, then months, weeks, and suddenly, days. He hasn’t broken through the skyline just yet, and neither has she, but that sliver of solace, that sliver of knowledge that it’s possible… That’s what makes him want to continue on. To hold hands with time itself.

“I have no doubt they would,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. He breathes in the crisp night air, and feels absolutely no remorse as he asks, “What did mine taste like?”

She considers, eyes crinkling. “Sweet. Like toffee, or more what I remember toffee tastes like. When people are happy, they taste like sugar to me, remember?”

“I was happy?” he says doubtingly, but his mind doesn’t believe his own uncertainty. It’s been a long time since he’s been happy, since he was his old self. Maybe the moment her teeth met his skin, he was Bucky Barnes. Maybe he was a new rendition of his old form—with one new emotion. Learning, retaining, earning this new life. “I’m happy,” he repeats because it’s true.

“I think I’m happy, too.”

God, she’s magnificent.

“You know what makes me even happier, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Thai food,” he says honestly, ignoring her playful scoff. “I’m serious. Let me take you out tomorrow night. And… when we return… you can taste it for yourself.”

She tries not to smile, but it splits gracefully. “That sounds so weird—”

“Hey, I’m trying here!”

She passes him the cigarette, only their second of the night, and scoots closer on the ledge. “Fine. You can take me out. But there better be wine or else I’ll complain the whole time—”

He grabs her hand, flesh on flesh, warm and cold. Intertwining their fingers, they both study the connection. Again, silence breezes through them. There is no longer a gap, no longer just smoke being shared.

She does not pull away, but instead leans her head down and rests it on his shoulder. He savors the weight, high on the prospect of time itself, and rests his own head over hers.

A/N: Let me know if you guys want a part 2, if not then this is a perfect one-shot for me! --Moni

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #by moni #captainsimagines #bucky barnes fanfic #reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #vampire reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine

77 notes · View notes

theafterglow83 · 5 months ago

Text

RECLAIMING THE MUSE

To anyone who thinks that Karlie Kloss was PR to cover for Diana (or Lily- who like Dianna -has been out of the picture for years.)

What ? Are there 7 photos combined of both of them (and 2 of them aren’t even Lily)

please seek help.

Karlie Kloss has had gay/ bi rumors circulating about her since …forever.

It was kind of known /unspoken knowledge among her inner circle and folks in the industry.

She’s been connected to Toni Garrn, Jourdan Dunn, Leigh Lezark among others before she was involved with Taylor.

Karlie Kloss and her androgynous self is definitely a woman’s woman if you know what I mean.

She’s never really dated men

Her best friend Derek is gay.

Derek introduced her to Josh

Josh was rumored to be involved with Mikey Hess…it goes on and on

Let me remind you of one of Karlie’s hilarious early slips of the tongue and gay panic that followed…

…”my exxxxxxx, well SHES a top manicurist now”

Now please tell me why Taylor Swift and her PR machine would get a rumored gay woman ( kk) to cover for the fact that Taylor was gay or involved with another woman.

Hiding a secret gay relationship with another secret gay relationship?

ARE YOU FOR REAL?

It makes absolutely zero sense not to mention how in most of Taylor’s discography the songs are clearly about Karlie.

If that was PR they need about 7 Oscars awarded to them.

AND…

New York City wasn’t screaming Diana’s or Lily’s name nor are they “tall and handsome as hell” or” fit like a daydream.” Or the West Village” “Argumentative, antithetical dream girl” “ the one I was dancing with in NY” Gold Rush” etc …

Karlie Elizabeth (Betty) Kloss

Who else besides Karlie Kloss had a garden gate ????

I could go on but you get the point

Seriously whoever “thunk” this one up needs a day or two off.

STOP TRYING TO REWRITE HISTORY BECAUSE YOU DONT LIKE KARLIE.

ITS ALWAYS ANYONE BUT KK WITH THESE PEOPLE WHO HAVE LITERALLY ACCUSED HER OF MADE UP WAR CRIMES WITH ABSOLUTELY ZERO EVIDENCE.

My money is on “Karlie Kloss is a better human than most …” Taylor actually told us…”Dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief in the good in the world”

And for the record I’m not saying Diana ever happened. Of course it did but it was over before the 1989 era began.

You can not make up lore or change the timeline. Stop creating a false reality. That’s called delusion.

Karlie Kloss. Say her name

#karlie kloss #kaylor #taylor swift

139 notes · View notes

freelancearsonist · 8 months ago

Text

in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought.

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable.

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you.

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to.

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him.

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him.

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. “I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too.

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant.

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike one shot #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist one shot #cece writes

162 notes · View notes

tightjeansjavi · 2 years ago

Text

Tie Me Up Like I’m Surprised

Sex Escapades With Agent Peña

(Javi Peña x f!reader NSFW)

A/N: thank you to the lovely anon who sent in a request for Javi to tie you up with his tie. This one is for you, babe <3

Summary: Your boyfriend Agent Peña invites you as his +1 to a cocktail party at the U.S Embassy in Colombia. You can’t get enough of the way your boyfriend looks in that tie.

~word count: 4.2k~

Warnings:established relationship, smut with no plot, semi public sex, office sex, Javi is the dom in this one, reader is 100% sub, consent consent consent, slight power dynamic (if you squint) teasing, edging, some degradation, nicknames, huge fucking praise kink, cream pie, cum eating, oral (male and female receiving), unprotected p in v, pussy play, cock warming, mentions of smoking and drinking. Once again, this is straight up filth/porn and is NSFW. Do not open this around your boss, or coworkers please. (+18) minors dni !

Songs used:

Tuyo by Rodrigo Amarante

needy by Ariana Grande

Dress by Taylor Swift

Pussy is God by King Princess

You never had said yes so fast in your entire life when your boyfriend Javi asked you to be his +1 at the U.S Embassy cocktail party. The only two people that knew that you and agent Peña were dating were Steve and Connie. They both did a pretty damn good job of keeping yours and Javi’s relationship on the down low. Excitement flooded through your system at the thought of attending this event with you around Javi’s arm. His arm candy. God, the other receptionists were going to be fuming. Almost every woman in the office had a crush on agent Peña. You had nothing to worry about of course. He was all yours, and vice versa.

You had just finished clipping your earrings in when Javi knocked on your apartment door. “It’s open Jav!”

He pushed the door open then when he got a first long look at you and his eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. “Are you ready cariño—holy shit.”

You were wearing a sinfully red cocktail dress. The length was work appropriate, but still flirty. The bodice was tight and hugged your curves beautifully. Just enough cleavage was peeking out for it to show your wild side while still appearing classy, professional. The hem of the dress fell at your mid knee and there was a small slit going up the side of the fabric. You paired the dress with nude, strappy heels that had just a touch of shimmer on the fabric.

“Eres tan hermosa. ¿Te has puesto esto para mí?” (you are so beautiful. Did you wear this for me?) Javi rasped as he strode into your apartment. He wasted no time to back you up into the nearest surface he could find, which happened to be your kitchen countertop. “You’re so fucking beautiful querida. You’re killing me in this fucking dress, baby.” He grasped onto your hips, burying his face between the sliver of skin visible between your breasts. He licked a sinful stripe with his tongue—

“Jav! Baby, we can’t! We’re gonna be late and you know how Murphy gets!” You threaded your fingers through the back of his hair with a giggle.

“Don’t care. He and Connie can wait five more minutes for us.” He drew his face from between your breasts and despite the fact that he knew you’d get upset at him for messing up your lipstick, he kissed you anyway.

“JAV!” You slapped his bicep playfully as you pushed him away.

“I’m sorry, cariño. You just look too damn kissable right now.” He chuckled and swiped his thumb over his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipstick from them.

“Yeah, and now your lips are cherry red Javi.” You shook your head with a grin as you placed your hand on his chest and pushed him away from you playfully.

“Just means I get to carry your kisses on me all fucking night querida.”

Just when you were about to respond to his vulgarity, Steve had honked the horn from where he was parked on the street below.

“C’mon agent Peña, I need a dirty martini stat if I’m going to make it through this event.”

“You and your dirty martinis.” He chuckled, bringing his hand to your lower back as he nudged you towards the front door of your apartment. The hot, humid Colombian air was already causing the fabric of your dress to stick to your skin and you wondered how your boyfriend wasn’t dying in the tailored suit he was wearing.

He held the door open of Murphy’s car for you, letting you climb in first. He may or may not have given you ass a little pinch before he climbed in after you, pulling the door shut.

“Took you both long enough.” Steve grumbled from the driver's seat. “Was about to leave your ass here, Peña.”

Javi was already reaching into his suit pocket, pulling out his cigarettes and lighter as he placed it between his lips. “Sorry, Murphy. Had to ogle at my lady real quick.” He rolled the window down, reaching over you to roll yours down as well before he lit the tip of the cigarette.

“Oh, I’m sure you did just that.”

Javi looked over at you as he took a long drag from the cigarette and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively in your direction as he brought his arm around the back of your seat, resting his fingertips along your exposed shoulder. “It’s not everyday I get to see her in a beautiful dress like this.” He shot you a wink.

At the event, in one of the U.S Embassy’s many large conference rooms, Javi was quick to head to the open bar for your dirty martini with extra Olives. He returned to your side and handed you the glass, his fingertips brushing yours as you watched him closely. The rim of the glass was perched against your lips as you took a sip. Christ, he looked so fucking good.

Much to your disappointment, your boyfriend was pulled away to engage in mindless office chatter. However, despite the distance between you, his eyes always found yours in the room.

You were specifically watching the way his hands would move to adjust his tie. The tendons in his hands would flex under contact as he placed his hand on his hip while his elbow rested alongside one of the high tables. You could tell by the expression on his face, that he was bored of the conversation he was un-actively participating in.

Your glass was nearly empty as you swirled the remaining contents around mindlessly. You caught his attention simply by pushing your hair over your shoulder, exposing your neck in the most casual fashion. Your legs crossed over one another, heels glistening in the lighting as your fingers delicately held the stem of the toothpick. You wrapped your lips around one of the olives on the toothpick and sucked it into your mouth.

You heard the scraping of Javi’s chair before you caught sight of him approaching you. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing cariño?” He hissed, leaning down over you as you gazed up at him innocently, lashes fluttering.

“Eating these olives and trying to get your attention. Think it worked?” Your lips curved up into a cherry red stained grin.

“Oh, it worked alright. C’mon.” He grasped your wrist in his warm palm, pulling you up from your seat. He didn’t care if anyone was watching the two of you at this point. He knew that people would gossip regardless.

“Jav what are you—”

“Shh. Just follow me. Don’t ask silly questions querida.” He tsked under his breath as he released his grip around your wrist and let his hand rest at your lower back.

Soon the two of you were outside the conference room. The echo of your heels clacking along the smooth tile could be heard, followed by Javi’s heavier footsteps behind you. After turning down a hallway, you knew exactly where he was taking you. Straight to his office.

He was quick to open the door and nudge you inside before he pulled it shut and locked it behind him. He reached under the back of his suit jacket, pulled out his gun and placed it along his desk with his badge next to it. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off me all night, cariño. I was looking for a perfectly good excuse to depart from the conversation I was having. You gave me just the excuse I needed.”

He had you backed into his desk with zero hesitation. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you because you look so fucking good tonight Jav. Not sure why, but that tie is doing things to me.”

“My tie, sweet girl? What about it?” He was already effortlessly slipping off his suit jacket, tossing it down alongside where you sat upon the edge of his desk. When he moved his hands up to loosen the tie around his neck, you reached up to stop him.

“No no. Let me do it.” Your hands were around his, ceasing his movements as the fabric slipped between your fingers.

Javi was dipping his head down, nudging his nose against yours before he was closing the gap and capturing your lips between his. “What do you like so much about my tie, cariño? Don’t be shy.” He mumbled into your lips while his hand ghosted around the outside of your thigh as he hiked it up around his hip, causing your back to lay flat across his desk. You could hear papers and pens clinking to the ground from the movement but Javi didn’t seem to care.

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways you could tie me up with it.” You breathed out against his lips, tasting the warm whiskey on his tongue wrapped deliciously in faint cigarette smoke. You were quick to grasp the buttons of his shirt, popping them open so his glistening tan chest was exposed.

“Jesus fucking Christ. That’s what you have been thinking about? You’re so unbelievably filthy baby. So filthy for me.” He mumbled against your lips as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, letting out a deep exhale as he gripped onto your thigh tightly.

Your fingers skated across the exposed skin on his chest greedily as you kissed him deeper, your tongues actively exploring one another’s mouths. Your kisses with Javi were never short of filthy. You loved the way he completely took over your lips with his. “Yes, Jav. Please tie me up baby and have your way with me.” You scraped your nails down his chest, eliciting a groan from the cavern of his throat.

“You don’t have to ask me twice, cariño.” His lips detached from yours. They were smeared with your cherry red lipstick and swollen with your kisses. He didn’t waste another second before he slipped his tie from around his neck as he leaned down over you. “I could blindfold you. Or gag that pretty mouth of yours. Hmm..” he pondered while he stood between your legs. He couldn’t help but let his hand that was gripping the outside of your thigh, dip inwards before his thumb was brushing lightly across your clothed clit. He could feel the wetness pooling through the fabric as he let out a deep chuckle. “This turning you on already querida? Your pretty little pussy has soaked through your panties.” He hummed as he applied a bit of pressure to your covered clit.

Your body lurched forward from his touch alone as you took your lower lip between your teeth. Your thighs instinctively spread open for him as he cupped your aching cunt with his warm palm. “Fuck, Jav. Please. I can’t handle your teasing tonight.”

“No? Oh, my sweet girl. You want me that bad, huh? Oh my poor poor greedy little baby.” He stroked his thumb across your clit once more. “Be a doll and grab the box of smokes from my jacket cariño.” He rasped.

You nearly cursed under your breath from how fast you were reaching for his suit jacket and pulling the box of cigarettes and lighter from the internal pocket. You placed the cigarette between his lips, holding in your soft moans as he continued to play with your clit. Your fingers shakily lit the cigarette for him as he took a drag, blowing the smoke off to the side. “Arms behind your back sweetheart. Be a good girl while I play with your pussy, okay? Just want to hear those pretty little sounds from you cariño. Want to make sure that you’re nice and ready for my cock.”

You tossed the box of cigarettes and lighter down onto his suit jacket before bringing your arms behind your back as he requested. “I’m always ready for your cock Jav.”

“I know my sweet girl. You’re always so good for me.” He kept the cigarette pursed between his lips as he removed his thumb from your clit and reached around you. You felt the smooth fabric of his tie wrapping around your wrists as he tied them together in a bow. “Now, if only I had some proper rope to tie you up completely. I think this will do for now. How’s it feel? Not too tight?”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you tried to wiggle your wrists but they wouldn’t budge. “No, not too tight baby. Just enough that I can’t move them.” Your lips were held in a pout as you looked up at him.

“Perfect. I love seeing you like this cariño. Always looking so pretty for me.” He brushed his thumb across your lower lip, dragging it down slightly. “You want my cock now, pretty girl? Ask nicely.”

“Please, Javi. Can I please have your cock now?” You breathed out, feeling the ache between your thighs continue to pulse.

“Of course you can, baby. It’s all yours.”

With his cigarette still expertly pursed between his lips, he quickly undid the button of his dress pants and pulled the zipper down and freed his cock from the restraints. He loved the way that your eyes would widen slightly every time you saw his cock. It’s like you were amazed by the length and girth of him, no matter how many times you had seen it.

You watched the way it slapped up against his stomach, the ridged head was leaking with precum and you were nearly salivating at the sight. “Can I taste you, please Jav?”

“You want to suck my cock baby?”

“Please.”

Your lips were already parted open, eagerly waiting for him. He brushed his tip across your lipstick stained lips as your warm, inviting mouth wrapped around him. Your tongue swirled around the ridged head, tasting his salty precum. You watched with an innocent look, your mouth filled with his cock as Javi’s eyes rolled back into his skull.

“Fuck cariño. You’re going to fucking kill me with that pretty little mouth of yours.” The tip of the cigarette dipped down slightly between his lips as his hand found purchase on around your face. His thumb was gently stroking your cheekbone as you hollowed your cheeks out to take more of him in. “Oh fuck, you’re so beautiful, mouth full of my cock. You love this don’t you cariño? Look at you, filthy girl.” He hissed under his breath when the tip of his cock nudged the back of your throat.

You gagged around him, feeling tears prick the corner of your eyes as you looked up at him. Each time you bobbed your head, Javi could feel himself stretching out the soft, fleshy interior of your cheeks against his thumb.

More praises began to fall from his lips as you continued to suck him off greedily. Javi was in complete bliss, having you beneath him like this, mouth filled with his cock. He couldn’t wait to fill you to the fucking brim.

He reached down, tapping his cigarette out before he slipped out of your mouth with a ‘pop’ before you could speak, his lips were on yours kissing you deeply as he could taste himself on your tongue. “If you would have kept that up, I would have been cumming down that pretty little throat.” His hand was wrapped around your throat, tilting your head back slightly as he nipped at your lower lip. “Wrap your leg around my waist, cariño and prop your other foot up on my desk.”

He brought his other hand around your lower back, propping you up gently so you wouldn’t fall back. Your leg found purchase around his hip while you propped your heel clad foot against the side of his desk. His tip was firmly pressed against your clothed clit, eliciting a moan from both of you. He dropped his hand that was firmly grasped around your throat, to between your legs. His fingers pulled your thin panties to the side, exposing your pussy to him.

He dragged his tip across your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal before he slowly sunk himself inside of you. He loved the way your pussy immediately gripped around him. Your walls were wet, warm, and inviting and he could stay buried inside of you forever. He felt your heel digging into him from where it was wrapped around his waist. “So fucking tight cariño. Taking my cock so well. Fucking love the way your pretty little pussy grips around me.” He jutted his hips forward, knocking you into his desk as your lips parted open.

“Fuck me, Jav.”

“That’s the plan querida.” He chuckled as he rutted his hips into you again. At this angle, with your thighs spread wide, you could feel him everywhere inside of you. Your head fell back slightly as a moan slipped out as he fucked into you.

Javi’s hand was still firmly wrapped around your lower back, keeping you steady as his other hand gripped onto the edge of the desk for support. More things were being knocked over from how hard he was fucking you. He could see your tits bounce under the fabric of your dress with each heavy thrust.

He silenced your sweet moans with his lips where his teeth clashed against yours in a heated, desperate kiss. He drank in your sweet sounds, praising you against your swollen lips as you clenched and pulsed around his thick cock. “That’s it baby. So good for me. Always such a good girl. You wanna cum my sweet girl? Not until I say” he mumbled into your lips.

In one swift movement, he had slipped out of you and carefully flipped you over on his desk so you were bent over the side of it, your wrists bound behind your back with his tie. You were at his complete and utter mercy now.

Javi had given his cock a few quick tugs as he crouched down, and dragged his tongue across your soaked pussy a few times getting a proper taste. Your thighs quivered when you felt his tongue flatten against your clit. “Javi. Fuck. Please! D—don’t tease me you asshole.” You mewled.

“Shh. Don’t worry, my sweet girl. You’ll get my cock again in just a second.” He hummed against you, flicking his tongue a few times before he stood up. You felt his hands harshly yank your hips back against him. “You gotta learn some patience, cariño. Enjoy the moment.” His hand had harshly made contact with your left ass cheek. His open palm stung the soft skin as your body lurched forward. He leaned down over you, soothing the red skin with a kiss before he bit down causing you to let out a surprised yelp.

“Jav..” you warned.

“Be a good girl for me, cariño. Don’t make me tell you again.” His lips dragged from your ass up your spine and between your shoulder blades. His broad frame completely enveloped around you as he slowly slipped back inside of you. He was less gentle this time as he rammed into you, over and over again. The hem of your dress was bunched up over your hips as you cried out his name.

He let his hand dip under you, flattening across your stomach before dipping down between your legs where his fingers furiously began to rub at your already swollen clit. The building orgasm in the pit of your stomach had your ass arching into him, meeting his thrusts half way as you gyrated your hips back into him. “That’s it baby. Fuck yourself on my cock, just like that cariño. Look at you being a filthy little whore for me. Getting yourself off on my cock.” He flicked your clit faster, edging you to your crashing release.

“Javi—javi! Please, baby. Please let me cum!” You were nearly sobbing at this point as he continued to relentlessly pound into you.

His eyes were locked on where your bodies were connected. With each thrust of his hips, and glide of his cock, he could see you gripping him, coating his cock in your arousal. “You wanna cum, my sweet girl? C’mon cariño. I know you’re so fucking close baby. Cum around my cock. I want you to complete fucking coat me. You think you can do that for me baby?”

You replied with a strangle moan, mixed in with his name as you clenched around him.

“Ahh. That’s it. There she is, there’s my pretty fucking girl. That’s it baby. I got you.” He listened to your sweet sounds of ecstasy fill his office space and his greedy ears. His fingers continued to work your clit as you hit your orgasm with a deafening crescendo.

“Wh—where can I cum cariño? I don’t want to ruin this pretty dress of yours—”

“Inside of me Javi.”

“Are you—”

“Yes. Just fucking do it.” Your walls were still clenching around him. “I’m on the pill, and we’re both clean.”

As soon as he had your full consent to cum inside of you, nothing was stopping him as he grunted out your name. Sinking his nails into your hip as he spurted his hot ropes of cum into your pussy. You felt him coat your walls entirely as he collapsed against you, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he stayed buried deep inside of you. His cock twitched a few times before it softened but he didn’t have the strength to move yet. “Fuck Me.” He whispered against your hair, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck.

Yours and his cum was dripping out of your pussy and around his softened cock. You both were catching your breath as the post sex high set in. Javi slowly propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at where he was still buried deep inside your pussy before he gently untied your wrists. “How was that baby? You feeling good?” He softly spoke as he tossed his tie over his suit jacket.

“Absolutely turned my fucking brain to mush, Jav.” You looked over your shoulder at your proud grinning boyfriend. “If you’re gonna stay inside of me like this, mind grabbing me a smoke?”

“If you’re alright with it, and of course cariño.” He grabbed a cigarette from the open container on his desk and placed it between your pretty lips before he lit it for you.

“Mmm. Well, you’re in luck because I quite enjoy the way you fill me up baby.” You propped yourself up on your elbow as you wiggled your ass back against him, taking a long drag from the cigarette.

“This is why you’re absolutely going to murder me one of these days. Can’t just go and say that shit to a man baby. You know what it does to me? Not to mention, you look so fucking pretty, cigarette between those lips, my cock still buried inside of you after you’ve been properly fucked. God, you’re so beautiful.”

You let out a soft giggle as you took another drag before plucking the cigarette from your lips and reached back and placed it between his lips.

“Mmm. You should have brought your camera so you could have taken a picture of me like this. Oh well, next time.”

Javi took a long drag, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he slowly slipped out. He used a few tissues from the Kleenex box that was discarded on the floor to gently wipe between your thighs. He gently fixed your panties and pulled your dress back down over your thighs before he tucked himself back into his pants.

“We should probably make ourselves presentable before we head back out there. Hopefully no one has noticed our absence.” He swiped his thumb across your lower lip, leaning down as he gave you a quick peck.

You both quickly tidied up his desk, picking up the discarded papers from the floor and neatly stacking them once more. You both headed to the empty bathrooms, cleaning up your appearance as you did your best to wipe away the smeared lipstick residue from his face.

By this time, Steve and Connie 100% knew that you and Javi were up to no good as you finally made a reappearance. Your boyfriend’s hair was tousled, and his tie was crooked but at least his fly wasn’t down. Your lips were swollen and your dress was a bit crinkled at the bottom. If that wasn’t the dead giveaway, it must have also been the fact that you both had that post sex glow to your faces.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Steve had inquired.

“Wanted to show her something in my office.”

“Are you—did you guys really?”

“We sure did. Anyway, I’m parched. You want another dirty martini cariño?”

“Nah. I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks please.”

“That’s my girl.” He grinned, giving your waist a light squeeze before him and Steve went to go order another round of drinks.

“Did you guys do it in his office?” Connie asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s written all over your face babe.”

“We did, and it was just as hot as you’re thinking it is.”

“Damn, I’m gonna need to convince Steve to let me visit him after hours sometime.”

You and Connie giggled together as you glanced across the room at agent Peña. He shot you a flirty wink, causing Steve to roll his eyes in annoyance.

Damn you Javier Peña, damn you.

Taglist: @chaotic-mystery @loquaciousferret @peterhollandkait @userpedros @meveispunk @lovers-liability @atinylittlepain @777-wonders @novemberrain-writes @cutesyscreenname @korynnekorynne @bearsbeetsbeskar @beskarandblasters @yazsos @soaringcloud @soft-cryptids @pr0ximamidnight @last-girl @kirsteng42 @str84pedro @dinsdjrn @bonglorddaryl @mirasantidotes @dreamingofdaddydin

982 notes · View notes

hauntedhowlett-writes · 1 year ago

Text

the last great american dynasty

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 6.8k (whoops)

summary:

Joel Miller has loved the historic Victorian home in his neighborhood since the first time he laid eyes on it. When the elderly owner passes, he thinks he might get his chance to finally buy it and fix it up.

He doesn’t expect to find you, the granddaughter of the previous owner and trustee of her estate, standing in the way of his dream

author's note:

inspo board this work is inspired by taylor swift's song "the last great american dynasty" and is part of the folklore album anthology! if you enjoy, please consider reblogging/commenting and make sure to check out the other works by the amazing collaborators on this project.

tags/warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), explicit language, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n, work contains journal entries as part of the plot, porn with plot, pre-outbreak!joel, grandma is a named OFC, sassy reader, dirty talk, teasing, praise, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, paint as a flirting mechanism, mild enemies to lovers, pet names. let me know if there are any missing!

August 20, 1948

I have arrived in Texas. I am uncertain where to go or what to do. For so long I’ve answered only to George, but now I am my own woman and the world before me has suddenly become much bigger, seemingly overnight.

I just hope it will be good for me.

-R

PRESENT DAY

If there’s one thing you never expected, it’s to inherit a mansion from a grandmother that you’ve never spoken to. As far as you were aware that kind of thing only happened in movies, so receiving a phone call from an estate lawyer that had been trying to locate you for a whole year since this mystery woman’s passing was a complete shock.

Now you find yourself with a car full of your belongings driving cross country to a sleepy suburb of Austin, Texas. The first stop is the lawyer’s office, where a secretary eyes you warily as you sit in the lobby of the lush office suite, fingers toying with a loose thread on the t-shirt you’d been wearing for the last eight-hour leg of your road trip.

A voice calls your name from a door just past the secretary’s desk, an older man with white hair and a deeply wrinkled face smiling kindly at you. You stand, shaking his hand as you pass by him into his office. He gestures to the wingback chairs that face his impressive dark wood desk. You take in the diplomas on the wall and the floor to ceiling bookshelves lined with thick, leather bound tomes.

“I appreciate you comin’ all the way out here so quickly. You were quite the tough one to find,” the man says with a chuckle. He pulls out a thick envelope, cream colored with swooping, swirling handwriting across the front reading your name. “Your grandmother was a dear friend of mine. She established a trust in your name not long after you were born.”

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m still a little confused. I didn’t even know I had a grandmother,” you admit quietly. He nods solemnly.

“She never told me all the details, but there had been a falling out between her and her daughter. They kept their distance after that.” When you don’t say anything, mind too busy racing with the questions that you suppose only your mom can answer now, he continues. “Would you like the review the details of the trust?”

“Um, sure. I guess that’s why I’m here, after all.”

He slips a piece of paper from the folder, sliding it across the desk. The same swirling handwriting fills the page.

My Dearest,

You may not know me, but I’ve watched you grow in photographs and letters since you were born. You mean the world to me, even if I could not fit in the world that your mother created for you. I respected that choice, hurt though it may have. She had her own path to forge, just as I did, and just as you will. I am eternally grateful for the parts of her life she did share after she left.

In the event of my passing, I leave my estate to you in its entirety. I built my true happiness in those walls, and I hope you can do the same.

-R

You read the letter twice, eyes stinging with tears. A tissue box slides across the desk, and you pluck two sheets out gratefully.

“In this envelope are the more official documents. The deed transfer that will need your signature, beneficiary statements for her banking and savings accounts, things like that. My office will handle all the paperwork filing,” the man says. A few more forms are laid out on the desk, and you lean forward to read them.

“Holy shit,” you snap, eyes wide as you swipe the beneficiary statement from the wood. “There must be too many zeroes in this, right? Or a rogue comma? That can’t be the right amount.”

“I assure you that’s the correct amount,” he says with a laugh. “And if you’ll sign down there, it’ll be transferred to your name and designated account.”

Your mouth goes dry as you read through the rest of the documents. In addition to the sizeable amount of money about to hit your bank account, there’s a five-bedroom house being transferred into your name, as well as a safety deposit box. You sign each form where directed, sliding them back over to the lawyer.

“I believe this is yours,” he says, holding a house key out to you. He drops it into your open palm. “Good luck.”

“I wish they would just put that place up for sale already,” Joel grumbles from the passenger seat of his brother’s truck as they drive by the out-of-place 1920s Victorian home on their way to a job site.

“You’ve been sayin’ that for the past year since that poor old woman passed,” Tommy says with a laugh. “Give it up, brother. Your dream house is just goin’ to rot away before your eyes.”

“Don’t you say that,” Joel replies. He doesn’t need Tommy speaking his fear into the universe.

The house has already been showing signs of falling apart in the last ten years Joel has lived in the neighborhood. The roof needs work, the shutters need replacing, the lawn is overgrown, and there’s a sizable hole in the wrap-around porch that seems to get bigger over time.

He’s wanted that house since the first time he saw it while he was house hunting ten years ago, a then three-year-old Sarah on his hip as he toured a nice little house that was available in the neighborhood at the time. While the home he’s built with his daughter through long days of hard work is nothing to scoff at, he’s always dreamed of something with more character and story.

He just hopes he’ll get his chance.

You stare up at the old house in front of you, shielding your eyes from the late afternoon sun. It’s a beautiful house, though there’s no denying its seen better days – two stories with large bay windows on both floors, white wood siding and chipped red shutters that are clinging to their rusty hardware, a large wrap around porch that has vines encroaching on the banisters, a lawn overgrown with weeds. You tentatively climb the steps of the porch, peeking nervously into the large hole in the wood to the left of the front door.

“That’s private property,” a gruff voice calls out, making you jump. You turn, finding a man standing on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You ain’t supposed to be snoopin’ around.”

“Actually—”

“Why don’t you just head home, sweetheart, and I won’t have to call the cops,” the stranger says, cutting you off. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“This is—”

The man huffs, arms dropping as he digs in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a cell phone. “Seriously, I’ll give you until the count of three. We don’t need trouble around this neighborhood, alright?”

The nerve, you think, narrowing your eyes at the man. Since he clearly doesn’t want to hear what you have to say, you decide to take a different route. You reach into the pocket of your shorts, pulling out the key that the lawyer had given you earlier that day. You take a sideways step closer to the door, keeping your eyes on the man as you pointedly insert the key into the lock and opening the heavy wood door.

His mouth drops open in surprise and you smile at him.

“You were saying?”

Joel had seen the car parked in the driveway of the empty house when Tommy dropped him off after work. He’d quickly checked on Sarah, newly thirteen and fiercely independent, finding her working on her homework at the kitchen table, before making his way across the street.

He hadn’t expected to find a gorgeous woman snooping around the old house, curves hugged in denim shorts and a tank top that made his mouth water. He also hadn’t expected the woman to produce a key from the pocket of those sinfully tight shorts.

“You were saying?” You ask, lips curved in a smirk and eyebrows raised at him. When Joel doesn’t immediately reply, still too stunned that you have access to the house, you turn and walk through the door, shutting it behind you.

He finally shakes himself of his shock, bounding up the steps and knocking on the door. You pull it back open.

“I’ll buy it from you,” Joel says immediately.

“Excuse me?” You reply, your hands moving to your hips. “It’s not for sale.”

“Come on, what’s a girl like you need all this space for?” Your mouth drops open, pretty lips stretched wide in surprise and Joel struggles to keep his thoughts from drifting to sinful places.

“A girl like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re young, that’s all. You don’t need a house this big and this much of a project!”

“What makes you think I don’t have a big ol’ family I’m moving in here? Four kids and a loving husband?!”

Joel blinks. “You got four kids and a lovin’ husband?”

“No, but that’s besides the point.” You roll your eyes, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It’s not for sale. Now get off my porch before I call the cops on you.”

With that final word, the door shuts in Joel’s face again, the sound of your retreating footsteps signaling the end of the discussion.

November 12, 1948

There’s a gentleman who comes into the diner every Tuesday. He always sits in one of my booths, with his perfect hair and suit and handsome face distracting me until he leaves. Some of the other waitresses try talking to him but he doesn’t pay them any mind. They’ve whispered to me before that he comes from money - oil, or something, not that it matters.

His name is William, and I think he’s trying to steal my heart.

-R

“So, let me get this straight. First, you threatened to call the police on this woman. Then, rather than introducin’ yourself or welcomin’ her to the neighborhood or even apologizin’, you just go straight to tellin’ her she doesn’t need a house that big and that you wanna buy it from her. Did I hear that right?” Tommy says, watching Joel as he throws together dinner the following evening.

“Yeah, that sums it up,” Sarah says. Joel huffs.

“Well, when you put it like that.” He sips his beer as his daughter and brother share a look. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothin’,” they say in tandem. Joel narrows his eyes as Sarah breaks out in giggles. Tommy stands, heading to Joel’s pantry and rifling through the shelves until he finds an unopened bottle of whiskey buried in the back.

“What are you doin’ with that?” Joel asks.

“Welcomin’ your new neighbor like the gentleman I am. Sarah, watch the pasta while I show your dad how it’s done,” Tommy replies, heading for the front door, Joel trailing behind him.

Tommy crosses the street with quick steps, eyeing the porch dubiously as he knocks on the door. Joel stands beside him, hands shoved in his pockets as he curses under his breath about his brother’s stupid antics.

You open the door, dressed this time in a pretty sundress that makes Joel’s mouth go dry. Tommy flashes you a grin and Joel can’t help the annoyance he feels when his brother’s eyes trail over your body.

“Hey there! I’m Tommy Miller, you may have met my dumbass brother over here the other day. I’m certain he didn’t make the best impression, so I just wanted to come over and welcome you to the neighborhood,” he says, holding the whiskey out to you.

You introduce yourself, ignoring Joel. “Thank you so much, Tommy. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure thing,” his traitorous brother replies, stepping over the threshold. When Joel makes a move to follow, you give him a pointed look before shutting the door in his face.

“You want a beer, Tommy?” You ask the handsome man in your kitchen. You can’t help but be impressed by the genetics of the Miller family, both men tall and tan and handsome as hell. Sure, one of them could use a lesson on manners, but you’ll admit that since your confrontation your mind has drifted to thoughts of brown eyes and soft dark hair that belong to the brother you left on the porch out of spite.

“Yes, please,” Tommy says politely. You open the dated refrigerator and grab two beer bottles, popping the caps against the countertop and handing one to him. “This sure is a nice place.”

“Thanks. I just inherited it from my grandma,” you explain. “It’s a little…dated.”

He chuckles. “We call it ‘character’ in contractin’.”

“That what you guys do, then? Contracting?”

“Sure is. Miller Brothers Contracting and Construction.” Tommy scratches at the label on the bottle before saying, “Look, I know my brother can come off the wrong way. He didn’t get the social genes. But he’s a good guy, and he’s loved this house since the first time he saw it. Always wanted to buy it, fix it up, raise his little girl here. Maybe add to his family one day.”

You look around the rundown kitchen. You’ve only been here a day and you know you’ve got your work cut out for you. The electrical and plumbing are all outdated, the appliances need replacing, the floors need to be refurbished, and that’s just the first floor. You could use some help with it all, and maybe the grumpy contractor next door who cares about the house could help you with it all.

“I appreciate that he loves the house but…I never met my grandma. Never even knew who she was or that she was even alive, and it’s the only connection I have to her. I don’t know if this is going to be my forever but…I want to at least give it a shot.”

Tommy smiles. “We could help with that.”

It feels like ages before Tommy’s stepping back out onto the porch, a beer in his hand that makes Joel frown.

“Y’all were havin’ drinks while I sat out here like an ass?” He asks incredulously. Tommy throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“Yes, and if you don’t quit your whinin’ I’m not goin’ to tell you about our lovely conversation,” the younger man says as he walks with Joel back to his house.

In the kitchen, Sarah is pouring the pasta sauce and ground beef over the noodles. Joel takes over and waves her away, mumbling his thanks as he mixes the ingredients together. He sets up two plates, setting one in front of his daughter and sitting down with the other. Tommy makes an affronted sound before fixing his own plate.

“So?” Joel asks. Tommy slurps at his food.

“Was the lady nice?” Sarah asks.

“No,” Joel replies at the same time Tommy says, “Yes.”

Joel glares at Tommy. “You gonna tell me what she said or what?”

“She ain’t sellin’,” Tommy finally says. “But, she wants to fix the place up. Offered our services so you could get your grubby fuckin’ hands in there.”

“Language,” Joel says, eyes flicking to Sarah. The girl rolls her eyes. “Really?”

“Yep. Better start callin’ the guys. From what I saw we’re dealin’ with electrical from the 50s, plumbing from who knows when, not to mention the HVAC and roof will need to be upgraded, too.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin before grinning at Joel. “You up for the challenge?”

“Hell yeah.”

August 23, 1949

William and I have just been married.

I know, I know. I can’t believe it either. But he is truly the light of my life.

The wedding was charming, if a little gauche. I’m still not abreast of all these new societal expectations that surround a man like William, but I’m willing to try. Today he will be taking me around to view houses in the more opulent neighborhoods, the type of homes I used to gawk at but one of them will be mine.

I must be dreaming.

-R

Joel and Tommy start working on the house right away. Every day there’s a line of pick-up trucks parked on the curb and the sounds of construction start early in the morning and continue into the late evening. The electrician and plumber come through first, updating the wiring and pipes through the whole house. The roofers and HVAC come through next, replacing the crumbling shingles and dated central unit with a split system for each level of the house.

It’s not until the big projects are done that you get to have fun with the place, which is how you found yourself methodically painting the front door a muted lime green early one morning.

“What do you think you’re doin’?”

You sigh. Despite Tommy’s assurances that Joel is a great guy beneath the grumpy control freak exterior, you’ve continued to only get the side of the man that grates your nerves.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m painting the door.”

“You can’t paint the door that color,” Joel says, heavy footsteps stomping up your newly repaired porch.

“Says who?” You retort. You smear another stroke of paint over the sanded wood.

“Me, for one. The historical society, for two.” He pulls the brush from your hand and holds it above his head and out of your reach. The movement drags his shirt up, exposing a strip of tan belly with a trail of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. “Why are you bein’ a pain in the ass?”

“I was put on this earth simply to make your life more difficult, Joel Miller. Isn’t that obvious?” You reply sarcastically. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like you got that right. “What are you even doing over here? It’s Saturday.”

“We’re goin’ to the store. You gotta start pickin’ stuff out for the bathrooms and kitchen,” he says, tossing the paint brush into the tray. “And then we’re gettin’ a new color to cover this up.”

Joel leaves the porch and you follow behind him to the black pick-up truck idling by the sidewalk. He opens the passenger door for you and you raise your eyebrow at the gesture but climb inside.

January 3, 1950

Our New Year’s party is the talk of the town. There were so many people in the house I began to lose count. William had so much champagne ordered I swear we could fill an entire swimming pool with it all.

The ladies at the club have already begun to ask when we would host our next event. I can’t wait to plan another.

-R

“Can you please focus?” Joel begs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He’s laid out three tile combinations, one for each bathroom in the home, and he needs you to look at them but you keep getting distracted.

“You’re no fun,” you huff. You examine the tiles, pointing to a turquoise blue one he’s picked for the shower in the master. “I love that.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. She can be reasoned with.”

You giggle and Joel can’t help the smile it prompts from him, the sound of your laugh so sweet compared to your sharp tongue.

“I like the white and blue combinations for upstairs, but in that powder room I want a pink theme,” you tell him. Your eyes search the displays, landing on a blush pink glass subway tile option. “Like this!”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Joel replies without thinking, taking the sample from you and comparing it next to the floor tile he’d chosen for that bathroom. When he glances at you, you’re giving him a confused look. “What?”

“Nothing,” you reply, shaking your head. “What about the kitchen?”

“What were you thinking for in there?”

“Green cabinets. White and black backsplash, the kind with the little hexagons that look like flowers. I gotta pick out appliances now that the electrical can sustain newer ones, too.” You pause. “And how do you feel about wallpaper?”

“It’s the devil,” Joel replies.

Your grin is downright mischievous. “Excellent.”

February 2, 1956

William had a heart attack. It scared me so badly that I haven’t let him out of my sight since. The doctor said he’s been working too hard, drinking too much, and not sleeping enough. Maybe the parties have started to be too much for him.

I’ve been feeling unlike myself. Tired, nauseated. Hopefully my heart isn’t troubled, too.

-R

Joel places a hefty order for all the items you’ve picked out today from nearly every aisle of the store - tile for the bathrooms and kitchen, vanities and plumbing fixtures, countertops, lighting, and appliances. While he’s preoccupied with calculations and measurements and pricing things out, you pick out paint and wallpaper for the projects you’ll be able to do on your own.

He finds you a while later, a cart full of paint buckets and supplies. To your surprise, he grins.

“More paint, huh? You pick a new one for the door?” He asks. You smile back at him, butterflies erupting in your tummy.

“Yep. Does navy blue suffice, your highness? I thought we could paint the trim the same color.”

Joel nods. “Good choice. Look, I’ve kept you here so long for all the orderin’. You wanna get lunch?”

“Careful, Joel. I’m like a stray cat - once you start feeding me, I might never leave,” you reply with a laugh. You push your heavy cart of paint towards the exit.

You miss the soft smile he gives to your retreating figure.

September 23, 1956

Our daughter is here. She’s the sweetest little thing, though she can screech like a banshee when she sees fit. William is so besotted, he keeps looking between the two of us with stars in his eyes like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

I love them both with my whole heart and soul.

-R

Joel takes you to a retro family diner with black-and-white checkerboard flooring and red vinyl accents with a vintage jukebox in the corner. You’re delighted by the themed menu, eyes immediately zeroing in on the classic malt shakes and french fries.

Over lunch, Joel actually opens up to you. He tells you about going into construction right out of high school and dragging Tommy into it when he’d gotten back from serving his tour with the Army. He talks about his daughter, Sarah, and you can’t help the smile that stretches your lips as you watch his eyes light up while he talks about his little girl. She’s at a sleepover this weekend, which gave him the extra time to visit the home improvement store this morning.

In turn, you tell him about getting the call from the lawyer one afternoon that changed your life forever. How you’d packed up everything you owned and driven across the country to find out that you had a grandmother that your mother never told you about that left you her entire estate.

“Wow. That’s…wow,” Joel says when you’ve paused to take a sip of your chocolate shake.

“Excuse me?” A voice asks. You both look up at the elderly woman dressed in a t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo and pressed slacks. She smiles. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and ever since you sat down I’ve been wrackin’ my brain tryin’ to place your face and it’s just hit me.”

She holds out a framed black and white photo of six waitresses standing beneath the same sign that’s still out front, all of them grinning at the camera. There’s one face, however, that looks familiar despite you never having seen her.

“Her name was Rebecca. We used to work together. That’s me, right there,” she says, pointing to the girl standing to the woman’s left. “Rolled up to town at eighteen, fresh off a divorce and hardly a penny to her name. My daddy, god rest his soul, he owned the restaurant and gave her a job when she’d come through lookin’ for work.”

“Wow,” you murmur. “This is insane. Do you have any other pictures?”

She gives you a sympathetic smile. “‘Fraid not, darlin’. Just the one. But I know she kept a lot of journals. Was always scribblin’ in one and spent what little extra cash she had makin’ sure she had a new notebook ready. Maybe they’re still around?”

July 16, 1958

William…

William is gone. My light, my love, my world. The doctor said his heart just…stopped. In his sleep, right beside me.

I have to continue to live with a hole in my own heart, the piece that William stole years ago gone with him.

But I have to be strong for our daughter. Our brave girl, my little bird.

-R

When Joel brings you back to the house, you stare up at the facade, wondering if the journals the woman had spoken about could still be inside. Lost in thought, your eyes land on the little window that sits above the bay windows on the second floor, where the master bedroom is. You’ve been sleeping in that room for months now and you know there’s no window there that you can see from the inside.

“Hey, Joel?” You call out, eyes still fixed on the little window like it might disappear if you look away. “This place is only two stories. How come there’s a window there?”

He looks up at the roof. “Huh. Might be decorative?”

“Or it might be a secret room,” you tell him.

“Okay, Sherlock. Let’s go see.”

You lead him upstairs to the master bedroom, most of your grandma’s furniture still present save for the bed that you replaced upon arriving. You stare up at the ceiling, but it’s smooth - no trap doors to be found.

“If I were a secret door, where would I hide?” You ask.

Joel, who’d been poking his head into the walk-in closet, replies, “Probably the closet.”

There’s a creak of old hinges as Joel reaches up high and tugs the brass pull handle fixed in the ceiling. A descending ladder falls to the ground and you both stare at each other in surprise.

“I’ll go grab a flashlight,” Joel offers, sprinting from the room. You stare up at the hole in the ceiling, anticipation thrumming in your veins.

He returns quickly. “I’ll go up first.”

“Ever the gentleman,” you tease, watching as he ascends the ladder, your eyes shamelessly fixed to his ass as he climbs. You hear the click of the flashlight and see the sweep of the beam through the opening in the ceiling. “Anything?”

“Lots of suitcases. Hang on, let me grab one of the small ones,” he calls down. There’s the sound of something being dragged across the floor before he’s slowly lowering a leather suitcase into your hands.

It’s surprisingly heavy and you drag it by the handle to the bedroom, kneeling on the ground to pop the latches and open the dusty lid. Inside are stacks of leather bound notebooks, edges of the pages yellow with age.

“I’ll be damned,” Joel says, wiping his palms against his jeans. “We found the journals.”

Joel drags the suitcase downstairs, setting it in the living room for you while you order pizza and open a bottle of wine for the occasion. You sit beside each other on the couch and he hands you a journal that you carefully open.

May 17, 1974

We had another argument last night. She claims that I’ve been too overbearing, too protective, too stifling, but what else is a mother meant to do?

-R

May 18, 1974

Her bed was cold and empty this morning. Her piggy bank smashed to bits on the floor and her drawers cleared. Despite my tight grip, my little bird has flown away.

It appears that history does repeat itself. Imagine that.

-R

“Holy shit,” you say, sitting back on the couch with your glass of wine in one hand and one of your grandma’s journals in the other. “She ran away.”

“Who did?” Joel asks, biting into a slice of pizza.

“My mom. She just…packed up and disappeared.” You glance at him. “Guess that’s why I never knew about her.”

“Maybe you should stop uncoverin’ dark family secrets for the night,” Joel suggests. “You know, the dining room could stand to be painted.”

You glance over to the room in question. Joel must have set down the drop cloth on the floor while you’d been engrossed in your discovery.

“Sure. Why not,” you acquiesce.

October 29, 1976

I’ve received an envelope of photographs in the mail, pictures of my daughter holding a little baby. She’s written notes on the back of each one. I’m a grandmother.

My daughter looks happy. Healthy. That’s all I can ask. She didn’t provide a return address.

As for the baby…I love her so much. She takes my breath away. I keep one of the photos on me at all times.

-R

Joel turns on the radio while he works, humming along to the classic rock station selections. He’s been working on painting the wall near the wood molding while he left you with a paint roller to cover the middle of the wall. He looks up at you occasionally, admiring the way your muscles work as you wash the wall with color.

You must sense that he’s watching, turning your head over your shoulder and looking at him curiously. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he says. You smile at him, setting the roller in the tray. He can’t help but look at your ass in your tight leggings as you bend over.

You straighten up, walking over to him. There’s a glint in your eye that has Joel on high alert.

“You got a little something on your face,” you tell him.

“No, I don’t,” he counters. He’s a master at painting. He knows damn well he doesn’t have a drop on him.

“Yeah, you do,” you argue. You reach out, and your fingers smooth across his forehead. “Right there!”

Joel’s mouth drops open in surprise and he lets out a bark of laughter, bringing his fingers up to his forehead. When he pulls his hand away, they’re stained blue and you’re grinning at him like a mad woman.

“Yeah? Well, you got some right—“ He smears his paintbrush across your chest and you try to step back, but it’s too late. “—there,” he finishes.

You rush back to the paint tray and dip your hands in the liquid, brandishing your palms like weapons. He starts to advance on you, smirking as you back up.

“Stay back,” you command. Joel laughs, dodging your swinging arms as he charges, dropping low to press a shoulder into your belly, dragging you down to the ground in a heap of limbs.

He presses his body to yours as he reaches an arm out to the paint tray, covering his own hand in paint. Your eyes go wide and you squirm beneath him, your paint covered palms reaching up under his shirt to press the cold liquid to his ribs. He flinches away, giving you enough room to scramble out from under him.

Joel grabs your arm, paint smearing on your skin as he tugs you back down. You wrestle together, paint getting everywhere as he lets you straddle his waist. His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing tightly as he stares up into your face.

“You win,” he murmurs, voice low. Your lashes flutter, hips canting over the obvious bulge in his jeans. He groans, hands urging you to do it again.

“What’s my prize?”

Joel slips his fingers beneath the hem of your tank top, dragging the paint stained material up and over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze burns across your newly exposed skin.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” He says, a hand sliding up your belly to palm one of your breasts. Your head drops back as you moan.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply. He chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest as his eyes grow darker, his gaze more heated. “Come on, Miller. What’s my prize?”

With a growl Joel sits up, wrapping an arm around your low back and twisting your bodies until you’re on your back, staring up at him as his lips stretch in a devious smirk. His fingers curl into the waistband of your leggings, sliding the fabric down your legs. His touch paints your skin blue as he does.

His hands press your thighs apart, opening you up. Your cheeks heat as he stares down at you like he’s trying to commit every curve of you to his memory. Finally, he leans in and you can feel his breath ghosting over your heated flesh.

Joel’s tongue traces through your slick folds, a broad stroke that has you gasping and arching your back. He hums against your sensitive flesh as he repeats the languid motion, his stubble catching on the soft skin of your inner thighs.

You reach your hands down to tangle in his hair, paint catching on the strands as you tug and pull. He groans against you, tongue moving faster as he circles your clit before pulling it between his lips. A hand leaves your thigh, the one not coated in paint, and two thick fingers press to your entrance, sliding inside of you as you gasp out Joel’s name.

“Christ,” he groans as he presses in deep before withdrawing slowly, curling his digits against your front wall, “you’re so fuckin’ wet, pretty girl. That for me?”

“Uh huh,” you reply, breathless as you work your hips to the rhythm of his fingers. Joel watches you, his lips and chin shiny from his efforts. “Joel, please!”

“Please what?” His hand moves faster, fingers pressing harder as his lips spread in a lascivious grin that makes your toes curl. “Come on, baby, ask me real nice and I’ll give you anythin’. Ain’t that right? You know damn well you’ve had me wrapped around your sassy little finger since the moment we met, don’t you?”

You whine, nodding your head quickly. “Knew you were a glutton for punishment.”

“Could say that again,” he says, chuckling as he lands a smash to the outside of your thigh with his free hand. “Now, come on, baby. Follow directions. Tell me what you want.”

“Wanna cum, Joel. Please!”

“Good girl,” he growls, lowering his lips to your pussy to lick at your clit. He hums as he lavishes the sensitive bud with attention and it’s the final push you need over the razor's edge you’d been teetering on since he started. You press your thighs against his head as your nerves light up and your muscles go tight with pleasure, his movements slowing as he works you through your release.

Your muscles go limp, head dropping back to the floor with a thunk. Joel sits up, crawling up your body and trailing kisses across your tummy and chest in the patches of skin not covered by paint. He grips your chin, holding you steady as his lips press to yours in a kiss so deep you worry you’re at risk of drowning.

Your hands fumble with his belt, pulling the leather free of the loops in a frenzy. He stands quickly, freeing himself of his jeans and boxers in one motion before reaching behind his head to tug his shirt off while you admire his labor-toned body.

Joel drops to his knees, pressing his hips to yours and dragging the thick head of his cock through your sensitive pussy, bumping your clit and making you both groan in tandem. His forearms rest on the floor beside your head as he teases you like this, slow drags of his length through your wetness, the tantalizing catch of him at your aching hole. You tilt your hips slightly, hoping he gets the hint, and he chuckles.

“You know the drill, baby,” he says, breathless with his own desire. “Just say the word.”

“Fuck me, Joel, please.”

His cock slips inside of you with little resistance, the stretch of him making you gasp. His eyes remain fixed to yours as he bottoms out and you smile up at him, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

Joel gives a small, experimental thrust that makes your eyes roll back with pleasure. He does it again, a sharper snap of his hips making you cry out and dig your nails into his shoulder. He builds his own rhythm, one that has your hips chasing his on every pull from your body, one that has you chanting his name and staring up at him like he’s a god and you’re simply a sacrifice on his altar.

He sits back on his heels, the angle changing as your hips get lifted onto his lap. His hands wrap around your waist, fingertips pressing tightly to your ribs as he uses your body for his pleasure, pounding into you roughly.

“Cum for me again,” he demands, bringing a thumb to your clit in quick circles. “Come on, sweetheart, want you to cum on my cock. Was so pretty on my fingers.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes at the near overstimulation but you nod, wanting to give this man whatever he wants if it means he’ll keep touching you, holding you, looking at you.

You cum again with a shout of his name and he groans, deep and visceral as he presses in deep, holding your hips to his as his cock pulses inside of you with his release.

Joel slowly lowers your hips to the ground, withdrawing from your body as he does. He flops gracelessly to the floor beside you, sweat damp chest heaving with exertion. His head turns to yours, grin wide and eyes bright.

“You’re covered in paint,” he comments, reaching out to run his hand across a streak on your collarbone.

“So are you,” you reply, mimicking the gesture against his ribs.

“What do you say to a shower?”

You smirk at him before jumping up and racing to the doorway.

“I’d say last one there doesn’t get the hot water!”

You can hear his curse as you rush up the stairs, making it halfway before a strong arm wraps around you and stops you in your tracks, your laughter echoing through the house.

June 27, 1993

The neighborhood has changed so vastly. Much of the older homes have been torn down and replaced with less handsome architecture. The residents grow younger while I continue to age. Just last week a handsome young man and his darling daughter moved in down the street. He looks exhausted. I remember those days.

Not all the neighbors are lovely. Harold next door has an annoying dog that barks at all hours. He prances her around like a show pony, when she’s just a yappy little creature.

-R

ONE YEAR LATER

The house is finally finished. All the tile has been laid, everything has been painted, appliances delivered, holes repaired, fixtures installed, and wallpaper glued. You go downstairs for coffee in the morning, you take it to the parlor room you’ve made into a study. Floor to ceiling bookshelves display every journal you’d unearthed from the hiding place in the attic, each one read through cover to cover.

When you finally told your mom about what you’d been up to, her surprise and hurt could be felt even through the phone. You mailed one of her mother’s journals to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said the next time you spoke. “So much time had passed and I didn’t know how to fix what I’d broken.”

You don’t begrudge her decisions. Your grandma left you her story, and through that you’ve been able to know her.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs precede Joel’s appearance in the study, his hair messy from sleep and his eyes half shut. He drops beside you on the couch, grabbing your coffee from your hands and taking a sip of it.

“Is it everything you’ve always wanted?” You ask him, tilting your head to his shoulder. You still remember the way he’d been desperate to buy the house from you and you laugh at how the world works, given that he now wakes up in bed beside you and is tasked with the lawn maintenance every weekend. He presses a kiss to your head.

“It’s even better.”

June 29, 1993

I don’t think the dog will be bothering the neighborhood again anytime soon.

Turns out he doesn’t hold as much pride for the dog when she’s been dyed lime green.

Imagine that.

-R

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #no use of y/n #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #tlou fic #taylor swift folklore #folklore anthology #joel miller folklore

697 notes · View notes

hotvintagepoll · 7 months ago

Text

Propaganda

Grace Kelly (Rear Window, High Society, Dial M for Murder)—The literal princess of Hollywood (she retired at 26 to become princess of Monaco), her name said everything about why she was so hot. She carried herself with a grace and elegance you just don't see anymore. Her voice was sultry without being overbearing, and she had the ability to be sweet but suggest a deep sensuality at all times.

Hu Die (Sing-Song Girl Red Peony, The Burning of the Red Lotus Temple)—i haven't seen any of her movies but apparently she was China's first "movie queen" in 1933? she was also in the the first Chinese sound movie!

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Grace Kelly:

flawlessly beautiful and a literal princess

Her facial structure? Flawless. Her eyes? Stunning. Her hair? Gorgeous. Her style? Immaculate. Every second she’s on screen, she just exudes this elegance and sophistication. It’s no wonder she ended up marrying a prince. But she’s got this mischief in her eyes that is compelling.

She was so elegant, so beautiful and perfect I could cry for real. A fairy disguised as a woman.

the most beautiful of Hitchcock's "icy blondes". elegant, glamorous, she left hollywood to became an actual princess, I mean, COME ON

she's so pretty and refined and elegant! I'm pretty sure taylor swift's blonde hair red lip look is modeled partly after her

She's just so elegant, look at her all dressed up like a Barbie doll in the latest fashions. There's a quiet dignity about her.

Not only was she princess of Monaco she also is Stéphanie de Monaco's mother and yeah, vote for her she's soooo pretty That red dress in Dial M.... hot damn

To me, she is the first and only blonde. She earned it. Paired with Edith Head's costume design she is unstoppable. I dare anyone to watch her as Lisa Carol Fremont in Rear Window and not be completely blown away by her hotness.

SHE IS SO PRETTY AND FASHIONABLE!! Not only that but she has an alluring aura to her in whatever film I've seen her in! Rear Window is just one of my personal favorite films she was in, especially for her costumes in that. And how many actresses can you say was a princess consort in addition to being a famous leading lady?

Hu Die:

#hu die #grace kelly #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 3

98 notes · View notes

fluffysucker · 1 year ago

Text

4. In my defense, I have none

Bucky Barnes x Reader (AU)

TW: Talk about miscarriage. illusion to smut.

A/N: Written in Third POV. No use of Y/N. However, the reader is referred to as a female.

If you can't tell already, this chapter is heavily influenced by Folklore by Taylor Swift. I used so many song lyrics throughout the chapter. Lmk if you found them all.

PS: it's folklore. Get ready. Also, I'm NOT defending Bucky

Likes, comments, reblogs are VERY VERY highly appreciated. Opinions really matter to me

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

You should have never let it reach here. It should have been just a one-time thing. A mistake. A slip.

However, you found yourself stuck in this dilemma more times than you wanted.

After that day in the house, it happened more frequently. Whenever the kids were asleep. If the kids were having a sleepover at either of their aunts or uncles. Even as far as when the kids were at school.

Both of you were missing each other too much. It was making up for lost time. All the time, you should have been holding each other, but you weren't even talking.

The fire between you was burning flames. Not caring, it might burn you instead.

You were happy to have a part of him back. Every time, you would tell yourself, This is the last. Yet you would fall in bed with him.

And he wasn't helping at all. Saying all the things you want to hear. Fulfilling all your needs Knowing exactly how to get you so pouty in his hands.

"You're doing so good for me, doll."

"Look at you. So beautiful and pretty."

"The best mama, my woman."

"Mine. All mine."

All the stuff you so desperately missed from him

And it wasn't just this. Every time you were done, he wouldn't leave right away. From the first time, he would stay for a bit longer. Holding you. Cuddling you to his chest Drawing circles on your skin Praising you.

He satisfied every need you had. The need to be touched. The need to be loved. The need. to be taken care of. The need to be with him.

Despite not having any real conversation about your current situation, you fooled yourself into thinking that it was Bucky's way of telling you to start over. That he always belonged to you.

It was just so pretty to think that all along there were some invisible strings tying you to him.

However, whenever your mind took control again, you would see how messed up the situation was. You were divorced for a reason. He didn't want you anymore. So why were you keeping his bed warm?

That is why every time you said you would stop, you would reserve some of your dignity. You would end it, but he would show up and look at you like you had hung the moon and the stars. You would fall again.

Bucky didn't know any better either. Letting his feelings take over. His primal need to have you be his

He was aware of how selfish he was. But the reason he left was never you. He never stopped loving you. He could never stop loving you. He would die for you in secret.

Would it be enough if he could never give you peace?

This predicament was what led you right where you are. lying on his chest after he tore your body apart at his new apartment. Rebecca, Bucky's sister, planned a trip for her kids and yours. You suggested tagging along, but she refused, telling you that you needed the break. She didn't think you would spend your break with her brother.

If you closed your eyes right now, you could imagine what would happen if nothing had changed. Bucky was still your husband. Your man. The intimacy was so familiar. The feeling of his arms around you and his breath over your face, the soft kisses on your hair Your own little heaven

The buzzing of the phone scattered your peaceful bubble. Bucky reached for his phone, and a little laugh erupted from him. You shouldn't have asked him about it. Nothing could have prepared him for his next words.

"Clint is making sure I won't stand this girl he has been so bent over setting up together."

The blood ran cold in your vessels. Dreed filled your body. You could hear the sound of your heart breaking into a million pieces.

Have you really meant so little to him?

Bucky was the love of your life, and he was planning dates while you laid with him. How did it get here?

Bucky had the audacity to pull you closer to him after putting his phone down. With what little is left of your dignity. You pushed him and got up to dress up and leave. Every fiber in your being was begging you to crawl on the bed and cry, but now wasn't the time.

"Where are you going?" Bucky asked, confused about the change in mood. He wanted to hold you a bit more.

"I'm leaving. So you could get ready for your date." You were proud of yourself for disguising the bitterness in your voice. You had shown him enough.

"It's not until 7 in the evening." The audacity was infuriating. Is he acting stupid, or is he really clueless?

You couldn't be in the same room with him anymore. You took your bag and rushed to the front door.

"Doll, what's wrong?" He followed you and reached for your arm, but you moved away quickly.

"Nothing. Have fun on your date." This time you couldn’t help it.

"C'mon, doll. I'm just going for Clint. I already plan to tell her it won't work." This was your last straw.

"And why won't it work?" You turned to him, hurt in your eyes and venom lacing your voice.

"Because you're sleeping with your ex-wife and your kids' mother." The pain was too much for you to stay quiet for longer.

"Well, in that case, you should try to make it work because it's not happening again." You finally said it.

"Wait. Why?." Bucky never wanted this to stop. He didn't want to lose you. Again.

"Can't you really see what's wrong here? Do you really think what we are doing is normal?" You couldn't believe him. Is he that delusional?

"But I want you." It was the truth. But it was a harmful one.

"You want me, or do you want to keep sleeping with me?" The question, which you tried so hard to keep at the back of your brain, rushed into your words.

"Of course not. I only ever wanted you." Bucky never meant for you to doubt yourself. His actions weren't helping, but his intentions were to never hurt you.

"You left me."

"Not because I stopped loving you."

"And that's way worse."

You were finally having this conversation. The one you delayed for so long

"You left because you got bored. The role of the husband got too much for you."

"And how do you expect me to believe you loved me when everything tells me you were going to leave anyway?."

"I wasn't. I just couldn't do it anymore. I thought I was able to get over my old issues and keep going, but I couldn't."

"You couldn't talk to me. Couldn't reach out. Couldn't try to figure out a way to solve it. No, you chose to walk out on me because you couldn't commit anymore. Yet here we are. Look at us."

"Because I can't let go."

"But you can divorce me."

Bucky had no answer to this. His commitment issues got the better of him. He shouldn't have married you in the first place if he was going to leave anyway. He shouldn't have promised to stay forever and then walked away. And he was aware of it all. He could hear it all. But nothing could have prepared him for your next words.

"I was pregnant."

It fell from your tongue. It's so hard to say. So hard to listen. But he had to know. He had to know the sacrifices you made for him.

"I was so happy. I thought this was our chance to mend what was broken. And I didn't even know what was broken. When I went to tell you, you said you were busy and left. When you came back. You didn't even bother to ask me what I wanted."

"I thought you learned to read my mind. You noticed nothing. Not the morning sickness. Not the fatigue. Not the mood swings. Not my first trimester meal. Nothing. I gave so many signs. You didn't even see the signs."

"So when you brought out the divorce, I agreed. I was so hurt."

Bucky didn't want to believe you. He knew he was distant in the last months of your marriage. But was he really that bad? To the point he couldn't hear his wife's distress calls? He was so focused on his own problems that he almost neglected your presence. The only person who truly loved him

"If you had told me, I..."

"You would have stayed. Because you got tired of being a husband and not a father. You would have stayed for the kids, but you would have hated me. We would have been miserable. I had to make the choice. I had to choose for my kids to have a good father over anything."

It was no surprise how selfless you were. Choosing him and the kids over yourself was second nature to you.

"I was going to tell you after the divorce. I was going to tell you that I just found out. So even if you asked, I would turn down getting back together."

"But the pain was too much. The stress of losing my husband The self-doubt. There were too many questions I didn't have answers to. Along with the act that I was fine with the divorce. It was so hard. I lost it."

Maybe if you had told him, it wouldn't have happened. You will never know. And it will always haunt you.

All you knew was that either way, you weren't going to win.

"I had to go drop the kids off at Nat's first before going to the hospital all by myself. I couldn't call anyone because no one knew, and the last thing I wanted was fake sympathy."

"You know what I needed, my husband. I got back to an empty house. I had to get through this all by myself. Alone. "

"I wanted you to hold me. Let me cry. Let me grieve. I needed you. And you weren't there. I had to pick up the pieces because the kids needed their mother. And I did."

Bucky's heart was shattered by how much you suffered because of him. Because he let his fears control him. Hurting the person he cherished the most. Damaging the only real thing he ever had. Your marriage.

"I tried so hard to hate you. Only remember the agonizing pain. You left me broken and bitten. You, the love of my life. The man I have ever loved. You, who drew stars around my scars, and now, I'm bleeding. "

"But the moment you touched me, it was all down the drain. You are all I ever wanted. I forgot about it all."

"Every time I say this is the last time, then I still come back to you. I love you too much to have common sense."

"I convinced myself we were changing for the better. Wanting was enough. For me, it was enough. To live for the hope of it all. Maybe there is a chance for us."

"I was wrong."

"You had me wishing you were a bad father, so you would've abandoned all of us. You had me wishing you stopped caring for the kids so I could hate you. So I can stop seeing you. You had me wishing pain on my own kids. Because I can never understand how you can be such a good dad but so afraid of being a husband."

"Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me. Look at this idotic fool that you made me."

At this point, you were in a hysterical state. Tears running down your face. Sobs shake your body. Your fists collide with his bare chest. letting your anger out with the crushing pain. The last four months are finally showing. The hurt you have kept inside is out in the open.

You couldn't fight anymore. You rested your head on his chest as you sobbed. Mourning your broken heart

He hesitated to wrap his hands around you. Letting both of your tears mix together. The fact that he was the reason for your breakdown killed him.

His hold felt like a cage. Keeping you trapped because you can't let go either. You would never be free.

You stood there for a while until your sobs became sniffles. You broke from his grasp, looking at him with your puffy red eyes.

"The kids deserve better than this. They deserve the best parents. And that's where we are now. Parents. Nothing more."

You walked to the front door. You turned to look at him. Silently begging him to say something. Do something. But you got nothing. And that was it.

If your feelings for each other were too strong to handle, too complicated to solve, too damaging to save, then you never stood a chance to exist again.

Now, both of you dream of some epiphany. Just one single glimpse of relief. To make some sense of what you've seen

"See you next weekend." You said this as you closed the door behind you.

You left Bucky to face the consequences of his actions. He wanted to leave. So you left. Here, he pushed the only person who ever mattered to him. The person who loved him to the moon and to Saturn

How could he let his stupid mind get him here? He let his insecurities take over. How self-centered did he have to be for this to happen? Ruining his family and his world just for the sake of himself And he wasn't even miserable. He got into his own head. Dark thoughts that pushed him here. Thinking he couldn’t commit anymore, when all he ever needed was always going to be you.

With tears streaming down his face, all he could think about was how he got here. Why did he become the villain? His mind was running thousands of miles a second.

I didn't have it in myself to go with grace

And so the battleships will sink beneath the waves

You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same

Cursing my name, wishing I stayed

You turned into your worst fears

And you're tossing out blame, drunk on this pain

Crossing out the good years

And you're cursing my name, wishing I stayed

Look at how my tears ricochet

Taglist: @lethallyprotected @almosttoopizza @ragingrainbowshipl @dexter99 @xdarkcreaturex @nash-dara @paarthurnax59 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @unaxv @missmielyhoran @wintermischief @kandis-mom

371 notes · View notes

lowkeyremi · 11 months ago

Note

Hello Maya! Before I start my request, I just wanna say, I love your writing!!! I've been reading your things for a few weeks now (I'm new to tumbler) and I'm hooked!!

Anywho- I was listening to "Enchanted" by Taylor Swift and it gave me the idea of fem!reader meeting Satoru at some big event for sorcerers and falling hopelessly in love with him

heyyyyyy thank you for reading my stuff and i'm really happy you made a request, i've been hoping someone would bc i want to write ideas other than my own. i'm not huge on taylor swift so i had to listen to this song lol its pretty good :) you ask and i shall provide!! also i'm sorry if this isn't what you had in mind :')

Enchanted S. Gojo x fem!reader

wc: 1.1k

content: fluff, meeting and getting together

The night hadn't been going so well. You spilled some of your drink on your dress. That was borrowed from your friend might you add. Three guys that showed any potential interest were already with someone and their dates angrily pulled them away from you.

There are whispers about the oh so famous Satoru Gojo, and how he's finally made an appearance with his long time friend Nanami.

You've heard plenty about him, he's the famous sorcerer from Jujutsu High that has six eyes. He can solve any problem and he's said to be very hot. Honestly you're kind of a hater, you think people are gassing him up for no reason.

You've never personally met him but his description makes it hard to miss him if you see him; white hair blue eyes, but he'll likely be wearing an eye mask.

A sigh escapes your lips as you walk toward the bar for another drink, you would have invited your best friend but she's not a sorcerer and would not get it at all. "Hi, sorry for being back so soon, but could I get a strawberry margarita?" The woman behind the bar nods.

Before she can walk off though, a silky, carefree voice makes a request with your order, "Me too! Never tried strawberry margarita. Sounds pretty fruity." This day is already bad so you turn your head to see who just made it even worse-

A pretty white haired man stands by your side, piercing blue eyes peaking through sunglasses that look down right ridiculous at such a formal event. "Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors??" Is the first thing you ask, no 'Hi how are you?' or 'why are you ordering drinks on my tab?'

"Cuz I could make everyone faint with my pretty blue eyes." He smirks, confidence evident in every word.

You look confused and he finds it cute. A foreign feeling stirs in your stomach. "Just kidding. I'd waste my power if my glasses were off. Actually, I was advised not to wear them, but I didn't wanna wear my mask for this event. I have it in my pocket just in case though." He's so light and bubbly you almost forget what you were fuming about.

"You're Gojo right?" He smiles and gives a quick nod.

"And you must be 'girl with a stain on her dress', huh?" You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"Woo that was a good one, almost made my stomach hurt from laughter." You counter sarcastically; the moodiness coming back to you.

"Haha, my bad. Anyway when we get drinks I'll find us somewhere to sit and I'll make you laugh for real." That confidence is still there. You love funny people, they're exciting to be around.

"I'm holding you to that. I need a good laugh." His smile consists of all his pearly whites and is enough to make you, or anyone around you melt.

He goes to pay for your drink, and even hands it to you. "I have to say you are way less selfish than people make you out to be."

The man in question shrugs and smirks at you, "I am very selfish about certain things, childish even. It's only the first date though so pretend you don't know about that." He waves his hand dismissively. You couldn't even care about the fact he admitted to selfishness, you're stuck up on the part where he said this is a date.

"Who said this is a date?" He notices you're trying to play it cool, but he can see right through you.

"I did. I mean if you want, we can think of it more as a blind date since it wasn't planned." Something about him doesn't rub you the wrong way or make you angry at all. He's definitely an odd ball, but he's able to make you feel something in your gut that you haven't felt in a very long time, maybe not ever, actually.

"I- what- you can't just-" You cut yourself off, lost for words, trying to comprehend what he'd just said.

He intertwines his fingers with yours. They're cold to the touch, long and slender. He does that thing where you rub your thumb across all the other fingers. On top of that he gives you that love struck gaze. You're all kinds of confused because why is someone like him trying to flirt with you??? He could literally have any other pretty sorcerer but he's walking you over to a fancy table to sit and talk.

"Ugh, you're supposed to have warm hands to contrast my cold ones." He complains, and if you weren't already stunned then you definitely were now. He's swinging his arm back in forth, with you mirroring it because he's holding your hand.

"I can't help my hands being cold, maybe you should be the one with the warm hands." He shrugs at your response. The swinging stops when you two reach a table big enough for four and pulls out your chair for you.

"I normally don't do this but you're definitely worth it." a lopsided grin covers his face.

As nice as all of this is you look around for cameras. Your mind is telling you he means no harm, but you can never be too sure.

"Okay, is this some kind of joke or show?? Where are the cameras because this can't be real." The white haired six foot something giant's face contorts into something very (ugly) funny. His face scrunches up at your words.

"I can't believe you'd suggest something like that! I'm serious, I just want to be a normal guy and have a normal encounter with someone. So, can you just pretend I'm a normal date and not Gojo Satoru?" He's telling the truth and for the first time tonight you fully relax.

"Okay, hi normal guy. What do you like to do?" You ask playfully feeling enchanted by his charismatic presence. He makes you feel a sense of freedom like you never have before.

The rest of the night the two of you goof off and talk about all kinds of things. Eventually he's being dragged out by Nanami because of how drunk he is. He'd given you his number, "Call me!!!" He whines loudly while being led to the car he arrived in.

"Okay! When I do, don't forget everything from tonight." You yell back to him.

"Like hell I will!" And he was telling the truth because about two hours later when you were winding down for bed you get a call from an unknown number. Usually you wouldn't pick up but you have a feeling that the person on the other side was none other than Gojo normal guy.

"Hello?" You don't get a response for a few seconds, your stomach drops thinking you had miscalculated...

"I miss you already, when can I see you again?" He asks sleepily.

179 notes · View notes

kiss-me-muchoo · 6 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 || 𝐊𝐲𝐥𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

part one: the albatross

part two: little old her

part three: no name yet

Summary_ As the force awakens, what you know as the truth starts to crumble and the sudden change of emotions for Kylo Ren also interfere with your destiny.

Warnings_ age gap? lol (reader 20, Kylo 28), slowburn, ? to almost lovers to enemies to lovers xd, eventual angst, fluff and dramaaa

A/N_ this is exactly how I imagine myself in the Skywalker Saga bye. song recs: the albatross (Taylor Swift) and psycho (EMM).

♪ ♫ my Adam playlist (awful) ✰ index (masterlist/ other works there)

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺

There was a crack in the glass. A straight line was visible in the glass separating you from the stars. Was it dangerous enough to break the whole thing with pressure? Not your business. You had been part of the First Order long enough to know that by the next days over, that crack was going to be gone. They cared a lot about their surroundings. No wonder why their floors were always shiny and squeaky.

A pair of boots can be heard. You remain looking at the glass. The pair of boots do not sound squeaky against the black floors. These are angry steps, confident and threatening.

“You were expected to lead a division of stormtroopers along Phasma. I was clear enough about meeting you in Jakku” Kylo Ren says through his well-known modulated voice. You can hear his breathing, he’s angry.

In four years of knowing him, you got used to his terrible anger control. So you remained calm. Or at least tried to do so.

“And you knew that I had an important dinner in Canto Bight. Supreme Leader Snoke said you were notified of my departure.” You respect him, a lot. But ever since you were saved by The First Order at eleven years old, Snoke told you to cover your face until you were old enough to show your face to the galaxy. Whatever that meant, you obeyed him. And refused to turn around and face the masked man. On rare occasions, you had seen his face, as well for him. It was a weird dynamic.

“Supreme Leader Snoke might have the last word, but you always come and report to me first, not him.” You sigh, tired of never being able to get a compliment from him. Four years, and you feel like time has slowly passed. You have so much to give, but nothing to rely on that thought.

“This is the last time I want to hear about you not following my command. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master Ren.”

There’s more. You already know that little pause he tends to make before adding more.

“Dinner is over, get changed and ready. The map to Skywalker is in a droid, it should be back with us soon.”

He leaves and you finally turn, looking at his tall and imposing figure walking away. Then you look down, checking at your dress, all black and covering you. You liked feeling dressed up, wearing heels, using exotic makeup, and letting your hair free. But you weren’t a fancy woman of Canto Bight, you were a force user with a military ranking in The First Order. You were a young woman who knew nothing other than lies, which remained unknown to you. But not for so long…

…

You look at General Hux and your master arguing once again. The BB unit droid being unable to be found was transforming into a big issue for everyone. You hadn’t had time to train, you just looked at your superiors sending daggers through each other’s eyes. When Ren left, you walked towards Hux. You notice how tense and tired he is, holding his serious and professional facade as long as he can.

“How can you stand him after all this time? I’ve been here longer than him, but I haven’t known him long enough like you” The red-haired man makes a face of disgust at your words.

“I’ve learned to not care enough, I just care about Snoke preferring my techniques rather than his. After all, he is just the Supreme Leader’s puppet” You frown, but you then remember. Snoke took Ben Solo under his wing, there was no Kylo Ren before. You were still eleven when he joined, he had killed the original leader of the knights of Ren and everyone started fearing him. Except for Hux who was just starting to lead his father’s legacy at the time.

“Do you think I’m a puppet as well?” Hux shrugs, then looks at you. He has known you since you were a teenager and he was a young adult. For some reason, he knows you very well.

“I cannot tell what you are to Snoke. But you are Ren’s albatross” he says, making you smile. You avoided causing trouble, but it was evident that all you did was annoy your master, instead of bonding with him like you wanted. Because Phasma was not mean to you, Hux was something like a friend, but you wanted to not feel alone. You wanted to feel the warmth of a bond.

“All I want is from him is to not make me feel like a burden”

“Stop caring about what he thinks. Your goal should be to prove yourself to Snoke”

Maybe he’s right.

…

Hux's advice keeps coming back to your thoughts. You shut your thoughts to your master, who is sitting beside you, piloting a ship.

“Was the next step in my training necessary to be outside of the Starkiller base?” Later that day, Ren and you met with Snoke. His hologram assured you were ready to take another step in your training. Then your master literally dragged you to a ship and quietly started a route unknown to you.

“Yes.” He says uninterested, mask fixated on the control of the ship.

“Oh.”

He takes a small glimpse of you. Your black attire partially covers your face with a delicate transparent fabric, it was difficult to see if he had given you bruises over the years of training. You have sad eyes, and he can’t help but feel a little like the cause of it. He doesn’t hate you like you believe. It just was so fucking difficult to have someone under his mentorship when Kylo Ren himself still felt like his training wasn’t over.

“Can you still see your surroundings if you cover your eyes with that thing?” He suddenly asks, making you frown in confusion.

“Uhh… yes. Why?”

“It’ll be better if you cover your whole face when we get to our destination?” He made you believe it was to be in disguise but actually, it was because he was taking you to a place that was used by ancient Jedis. Snoke couldn’t know where the mission happened, just that it was completed. He was taken there by his father when he was a kid. Ren knew he shouldn't be there, but something from the place was calling him.

“Oh, okay.” You limit yourself to say. He nods and you know you are in Dantooine once he enters the planet. There is an orange sunset covering the empty land. It was only a field that you saw after your master carefully and perfectly landed the ship.

“Master Ren, this is beautiful.” You say as soon as your boots touch the yellow grass, breathing the fresh and almost pure air.

“This isn’t the reason why I brought you here”

He can see some strands of your hair flying around the edges of the fabric covering your face. He can sense you are in a state of pure relaxation. It surprises him to see you like this. Even he feels… peace?

“Aren’t we gonna train here?” He sighs under his helmet.

“Follow me.” He guides you towards the little mountain. It’s a simple hike. At the top, there’s a curve and the entrance of a cave. He gestures for you to walk inside. It confuses you enough to frown and stop moving.

“You want me to go in?” You just know he is rolling his eyes inside the helmet.

“Correct. You go alone and pick a crystal. Remember… you’ll know once it’s calling you” You can’t hide your surprise. But knowing who your master is, you just nod, entering the cave. The day you would build your lightsaber was coming, but it shocked you to know it was already happening.

As soon as you start venturing inside the cave, some crystals start sparkling in blue, yellow, dark green, purple, and indigo. The force feels incredibly strong inside the cave. And you know that isn’t how the dark side feels. It was peace, balance, order. Some blue crystals shine brighter than others. But finally, one starts pulling you towards it. It’s a bright green, like lime and mint mixed. It was beautiful, it transmitted a feeling of wisdom. Your hand touched it, and a shiver ran through your spine. The voice of a man clearly echoed suddenly.

The light is closer than you know, y/n.

You pulled the crystal quickly and looked around, the cave became dark, as all the crystals stopped shining, except for the one in your hands.

That wasn’t the voice of Ren. Perhaps it was just the cave. But it felt very personal. Almost like the voice knew you.

When you get out of the cave, it’s almost dark. What you thought it was a couple of minutes had actually been almost an hour. And Ren is there, holding his helmet in his hand. His face takes you aback. Sometimes you forget he is also a human like you.

He glares at you and starts looking, probably for the crystal. So you show it to him.

You know what's next, and honestly, you weren’t ready.

“This is where I suppose I have to make it bleed” Kylo almost wants you to keep the crystal-like it is, it was certainly beautiful. And your happiness was resulting infectious.

“Do it when you’re alone. It’s not easy to do so, you need to concentrate…”

“And let the pain take over me, I know, master,” you say, almost angry at him suddenly. You just hated the process. It was enough to feel alone already.

“I can help you… If you want.” The fabric in your face had been brushed aside, showing most of your features. Ren sees each mole, the dryness in your lips, the hope in your eyes. And he understood you just wanted someone to bond with. He felt it a while ago, a little after you two officially met and started working together, but he wasn’t just ready to share anything of himself. Yet, when you stare at his full lips, sad eyes, and non-expressive face, he knows he can have a potential ally staring at him in that empty valley.

“I would like that…” he nods, starting to go down the little mountain once again.

“Wait, master Ren” he turns to face you.

“When I touched the crystal, I heard a voice, it was a man. I thought it was the cave, but it just felt weird, like it was meant to be for me”

“What did the voice say?” He asks you to stay quiet. He senses you are unsure whether to tell him or not. He walks back again, staying just inches away from you.

“You can tell me…” he meant it, staring through your lashes, he expects your answer.

“That…that the light was closer than I know” you admit looking at the hem of his black robes.

“I’ve felt it too, a pull towards the light” his words leave you shocked. You gulp, blinking a few times before staring at his brown eyes again.

“We can’t fail…” the way you said, it made him feel like… he wasn’t alone.

…

The room is cold, and dark and has a peculiar smell of humid rocks. Snoke appears in a hologram form, sitting on a throne that makes him look impossibly taller.

“Dear child, What is it that has your thoughts running unstable?” His raspy voice echoes everywhere, you focus on his face, trying to see anything, but Snoke has never shown signs of emotion.

“We haven’t received any news from the ambush in Takodana…” Your voice trembles a little bit, and Snoke notices it.

“You are quickly caring too much for your master suddenly”

Busted.

“I want to care for him… and as much as I hate to admit it, I want him to care for me” you accept, looking down, embarrassed.

“But of course, you need to build a connection with your master. Is there anything conflicting with you?” You certainly don’t want to tell him about the incident in the cave. But you know the supreme leader must’ve already sensed it.

“When I was searching for the crystal for my lightsaber, a voice called me, saying that light was closer than I knew. Supreme leader… What could that possibly mean?”

“When I found you, my dear child, your home was already a living hell. But the lands where you came from were once filled with so much light. Your roots will always call you, it is in yourself to keep being on the right path” It might have been a comment, but it felt like a threat. A warning that you had to remain faithful to the dark side.

“Go and find your master. Gain his trust and guide each other towards your mutual goal; finding Skywalker and destroying the hope of the Jedi.” You nod, lowering your head as his hologram disappears.

In the silence of that empty room, you meditate on what just happened.

Your inner voice was clear; Snoke was keeping some details to himself. You never thought of your past. You lounged a family because you knew you had one, but… it didn’t matter anymore. Only that the curiosity was inevitably growing.

Quietly you leave the room. The hallways of the base are filled with troopers walking and moving in different directions.

They came back from Takodana.

You start walking faster, pacing till you stumble upon a dark tall known figure. Kylo Ren looked incredibly intimidating with the mask and hood together. He gestures to you to go inside an empty planning room and you open the door. He was looking for you too.

He follows quietly, closing the same door. His hands remove his helmet and place it on a table. You are just analyzing each movement he does.

“Did you get the map?” you ask straight to the point. Ren actually wanted to ask if you had finished building your saber. But you had other questions.

“In a certain way, yes.” You cross your arms, confused at him.

“Can you be more specific?”

“The scavenger, she has seen the map.” you huff in disbelief.

“What? You brought a dirty scavenger instead of the droid?” his face covered in moles sighs, quickly losing patience, you can tell.

“I’ll take the map from her”

“Don’t underestimate that girl. She has been able to get away so far, she might be more dangerous than we thought” he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it.”

“This is nonsense. We were supposed to have the actual map with us and-“

“ENOUGH!” He yells, his hand rises and you are quick to suppress his use of the force, making him bend half of a chair that was near.

Shocked, you realize he was going to choke you. Anger quickly builds up, and Hux’s advice rings into your head; Stop caring about what he thinks. Your goal should be to prove yourself to Snoke.

“You are my master but I will never be tired to remind everyone I’ve been here long enough to know what is convenient for us and what isn’t. You just might have invited the whole Resistance to the base and it won’t be my fault, Master Ren.” You push past him and you leave the room slamming the door. You take off the fabric in your face out of anger.

Some minutes pass and you are still mad. He was such an asshole. Always giving you the cold shoulder instead of listening to you. You were younger, but you had almost the same training from Snoke as him. Ren was difficult and very stubborn. Whoever was the famous scavenger, you could feel she was going to be a problem.

Out of nowhere Phasma appears, holding a blaster and looking down at you.

“Lieutenant y/n, your command is required by General Hux” You nod, calming yourself as you start walking with the woman. You pass near the throne room and you are able to hear Snoke and Kylo’s voices. You stop Phasma and she seems taken aback, but soon you tell her to hear and she relaxes.

“We’re going to get caught” she whispers. The woman was known to be on her business and on no one else’s.

“I’ll be quick” you whisper back.

Then Snoke starts saying Kylo is going weak. He reminds your master about his father; the infamous Han Solo. That the scavenger resisted him and that he isn’t putting your training on his priorities.

You hear Kylo say he always thinks back on you. And you know you shouldn’t have blushed or felt your heart racing, but you did. He made it sound like he cared for you.

“There are many mysteries surrounding us that she must not know,” Snoke says and it triggers you. Thankfully Phasma pulls you away and forces you to keep walking. Probably just in time so Kylo wouldn’t see you overhearing.

Snoke isn’t telling you everything. Ren knows something too.

“Everyone heard your argument with Commander Ren,” Phasma says teasing, but also commenting to warn you. It didn’t surprise you that the argument was loud. Any argument with Kylo ends up being in the news of the First Order. Also, Phasma doesn’t say anything about the conversation you two just overheard.

“I’m getting tired of being his apprentice. I want to succeed by myself, not by being his shadow.”

“Your time will come. A little treason wouldn’t hurt. Everyone here is dying to escalate in ranking” she admits. You look at her chrome helmet with curiosity.

“You seem happy with your position forever”

“I am.” Phasma must’ve been smiling under the helmet.

She disappears as soon as you both reach the command center.

Hux is there, along with other officials who monitor the aftermath of the weapon that had just attacked the Republic.

“The girl escaped and Ren must be angrier than ever,” the red-haired man says looking straight at you, with his hands behind his back.

“She is force sensitive…” Hux nods.

“I knew this was bad. I told Master Ren, but he didn’t listen…” An anxious feeling starts creeping into your stomach.

“Yes. And thanks to his little outburst and obsession with the girl, we are closely monitoring if we have a sudden attack from the Rebels” Once again, you sigh.

The feeling in your stomach grows, making you frown. Hux also frowns, caressing your shoulder.

“Are you alright?” You feel a sudden pain in your chest and you describe it. It was Kylo, someone he loved who died. It had to be his father or mother.

“Something's off, I can feel it” you manage to say. At the same time, a loud explosion is heard, the floor is assaulted by a little tremor and alarms start sounding.

You exchange worried looks with Hux and both run to see what just happened.

The chaos quickly envelops the Starkiller base, there are troopers moving everywhere, officers getting in and out to report things to you and Hux. And still, you are only thinking about your master. Was he safe?

Your guts were telling you he wasn’t safe.

With the invasion of the Rebels, everything was getting trickier.

“We need to evacuate. The base is about to collapse, lava is going to consume the surroundings at any time” Hux says hurriedly.

“I won’t leave without Ren. I will go for him!” before you can leave, the man grabs your forearm.

“Be quick, a boarding ship will be waiting for you both… but not for long” You nod, offering a serious smile before leaving.

The base was enormous, you had no idea where could Ren be. Each step feels unsure because you don’t know where you’re going, you try to concentrate but the constant explosions and screams from people entering in panic don’t help at all.

Master Ren, please, guide me towards you, you repeat in your head, hoping he’d hear.

Through the wide crystals, you can see TIEs and X-Wings flying around, and you grow impatient.

You stop when another tremor comes. Holding onto a wall, you close your eyes, trying to reach for Ren one last time.

You call him. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want your help, or if he’s mad at you for yelling, you just know you don’t want to leave the base without him.

Snow, droplets of blood in the white snow. The scream of a woman and the sound of sabers colliding.

He answered.

…

The lava makes you hurry, time is running out. The snow is fresh, it makes your boots sink and turn your steps slower. The beating of your heart grows as you distantly see a purple light, created by a blue and a red lightsaber.

They don’t notice you yet, but you are able to see a man unconscious near the woman fighting your master; the scavenger.

She’s skilled, fearless and you have to admit it impressed you. But the thought is quickly gone when you arrive, witnessing how the woman sliced your master’s face.

“KYLO!” You scream in horror when he falls, dropping his saber. The woman turns to look at you and you send her flying, making her skull collide against a rock. You run towards the man and kneel beside him.

His face was covered in blood, it was a deep wound, part of his attire was ripped, and you could see his shoulder bleeding.

“I’m here… I’m here.” Your desperate attempts to make him gain stability fail. But he slowly blinks, holding onto your hip to clear his vision and stop feeling like everything is spinning. His face hurts, his head pulses and he feels on the verge of fainting. But he’s able to clearly see your face. You came to help him.

“I’m not leaving without you.” You say touching his chin, trying to calm him.

A lightsaber ignites and you know the scavenger was still there. Your little moment of vulnerability was enough to make her recover.

You stand, turning to face her. She looks pissed, desperate to run, but so you are.

You grab your freshly made lightsaber. It’s dark chrome and with tiny details that resemble constellations and stars. And it’s cold, but soon turns warm when you ignite it, revealing a red double-sided saber.

The scavenger runs, confident that she will attack and target you. But you’re quick, you remember Kylo saying you had the ability to use your reflects too quickly.

The double sides of your weapon trigger the young woman, who is already tired. You can see how she huffs annoyed. But you take that to your advantage. You keep hitting her blue saber until she starts giving up. She is conflicted, she is a nobody, and you can feel how alone she has been.

Her weaknesses are your strength, and in the blink of an eye, you have burned her leg, making her scream and fall. And before you can do anything, a trail of lava appears, and the whole base is about to disappear. The scavenger gives one last curious look before running away. And finally giving you time to run back to Kylo, who is still breathing and wants to fall unconscious.

“Stay awake, hold onto me. We need to get to the boarding ship to leave” he seems to have nodded, his strong arms feel heavy and weak. It’s difficult to walk with his massive weight relying most of it on you.

With each step, he keeps leaving a little trail of blood. You need to hurry, the snow is slowly melting, drenching your boots.

Kylo is in shock, he tries to process everything but he can’t, because it isn’t over, he needs to get to that ship. But somehow, he holds onto you. He feels slightly better knowing that you came for him. That you are guiding him through the woods.

To him, the sudden change of getting closer to you was abrupt. He wasn’t used to talking much or looking out for someone. Not even with his knights.

He succeeded for a long time having no issues with you. But now, you dragged his body into the ship, his body lying and a droid immediately checking him. He hears distant voices and through blurred vision, he sees you talking with Hux.

He overheard the annoying General saying how much of a trouble you were for him. You started twisting his thoughts, the need to feel closer to you, the attraction towards the light. Hux was right.

You were Kylo Ren’s albatross.

_______________________________________________

To keep going with this mini series or not lol

#kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo x y/n #kylo fanfic #adam driver x reader #star wars x reader #star wars fanfiction

56 notes · View notes

ewanmitchelll · 10 months ago

Text

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XIX): This Is Me Trying.

Imagine Aemond Targaryen imprisons you during the late civil war.

Warnings: long post, drama, angst, light smut, fluff ending.

***

• Before the War.

I've been having a hard time adjusting. I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting. I didn't know if you'd care if I came back. I have a lot of regrets about that…

When Aemond meets you again circumstances are about to erupt in an event that most involved wish to prevent. He’s lost an eye, and though for gaining something more important, his pride never amended for the loss.

You, on the other hand, are his cousin via his uncle Daemon’s first marriage to Lady Rhea Arryn. In theory, you should be ruler of that House, but women hold no rights there so that is why you are there with your family.

With your dark hair and darker eyes, you attract your cousins’s attention. It’s a week before the fatidic dinner when he spots you, dressed in dark blue, ignoring the rising tensions between the already formed green and black parties.

“You look as if this is the place you wouldn’t want to be”, you hear him address you.

In all fairness, last time you’ve been there he was a child and so were you. Hardly surprising it is to find the quiet boy a taller and handsome man.

“Lord Aemond”, you smile when recollecting his name. “It’s been years…”

“Indeed. Many events have transcurred since we last spoke, Lady Arryn”, he side smirks, eyeing you intently, pleased to make you blush.

As children, you were playmates before your father remarried to Lady Laena of House Velaryon. She took you as one of her own and under her care you remained until she came to past away. And then your father espoused Princess Rhaenyra, whom also took you as her daughter.

And here you are.

“They have, yes”, you nod, transfixed by his enigmatic presence. “I’m sorry about your eye. I wasn’t there when this happened.”

“You’d think I didn’t notice?”, he raises his eyebrow. “Where have you been?”

Silence hangs in between the two of you. Aemond resents your absence, how out of reach you’ve been when you were once close. How on earth have you become strangers?

You look down at your wrung hands, but when carefully lifting your gaze you still find his good eye glued on you, trying to understand you.

“I tried to reclaim my inheritance at the Eyrie right after my stepmother’s decease. I couldn’t do so earlier as I was too young, but now…”

“Are you their lady now?”, Aemond softens.

You smile almost unconsciously as the tension between you two dissipate and the prince leads you to the gardens.

“No. They accept no woman as their overlord”, you sigh. “My father doesn’t take it nicely, though. He intends to reclaim it on my behalf, refusing the proposal of my maternal uncle.”

“Oh?”, he furrows his eyebrows, fearful of the response. “What that’d be?”

As you two move towards the gardens, you barely notice how your arm slides to his, distance now shorter than before.

“Marriage. What other proposal would be?”

Aemond chuckles lightly, but you spot no amusement in his good eye.

“It is the way, is it not?”

“For us women, usually is. A duty that requires plenty of sacrifices.”

As he looks at you, Aemond doesn’t resist the urge of asking:

“What would you be prepared to sacrifice, lady Y/N?”

As you two lock gazes, you are reminded of the time spent together. As children, you were both so alike in temperament, in likes and thoughts. What has changed now?

You open your mouth, but you do not know what to say. Aemond gently parts of you, hands behind his back, expectation somewhat filling behind his good eye.

He knows the answer. He can tell by your heavy breathing, the light shake of your hands, how your bottom lip trembles… what will come out. Sensibility rises behind your coal eyes like darkness pulls him into it.

He waits.

You won’t say it. You won’t say it.

But you do.

“You.”

To your dismay, the prince smiles. Taking your hand in his, he says:

“I’ve always thought about you. I’m glad you haven’t forsaken me, Y/N.”

You blush, moving your gaze instantly away. A torrent of words are being held back. Aemond, who knows you so well, gently makes you look at him.

“Do not slip out of me. I ask you this.”

“Even though I am the elder sister of the twins who attacked you?”

Aemond chuckles.

“No one is perfect.”

That being said, he takes your hand and there presses a kiss.

***

• The Dinner.

Pulled the car off the road to the lookout. Could've followed my fears all the way down and maybe I don't quite know what to say…

Right before the expected meeting at the King’s table for the evening meal in a familiar gathering, you are found at Lord Aemond’s company. You see he’s been acting weirdly, even though nothing on his face betrayals it.

“Why are you in a glooming mood?”, you inquire, your face rested in his lap, looking up at him as his long hand strokes your hair.

“I am not”, he says in a dismissive tone. “This is who I am, you know.”

“Do not play me a fool, Aemond”, you stand reluctantly, but never too far of his grasp.

Aemond likes how wild your hair is, mirroring a tempest that is forming behind your eyes as you stare at him. He strokes your face, prompted to succumb to his desires if circumstances were different.

“Will you force me speak my mind?”

“If I must, yes”, you narrow your eyes.

Again, he chuckles.

“You can be stubborn when you want to be, Y/Nickname.”

“A trait you also have, if I recall well.”

Aemond leans so close to you now that you fear you are about to lose your balance. Especially when his lips are pressed against your forehead, there lingering in a gentle, but intense kiss that spreads fire over your body.

A sentiment that you think wise to ignore.

But when his slander hands slip from your face to your long hair, resting around your waist, you find yourself holding your breath.

“Always beautiful, my sweet Y/N. I could never let go of you, nor hold you accountable of others’ sin.”

You realize the feud between him and your half siblings are deeper than you’d judged.

“My sweet”, you hold his face gently. “Do not feed these grudges. I understand the pain of losing what is dear to you, by no chances I mean to demove you of this sentiment. However, vengeance is not changing what happened.”

It is as if you are twins, one knowing the other so well, able to feel what other feels, to think what the other thinks. As if your soul is made of the same material as his.

Even if where he is fire and you are water, a perfect mix has always tied each other.

“Aemond…”

He takes your hands and there presses a kiss.

“Come, we better not get late to the dinner.”

To your disappointment, Aemond stands, waiting for you to take the arm he offers you. But the moment you take it, it feels as if you are growing apart.

***

“Where have you been?”, your father asks you the moment you slide to your chair, next to Baela’s seat.

“By a certain somebody’s side”, you hear your half-sister grumble.

“Would you please mind your own business?”, you snort at her.

“Girls”, interferes Rhaenyra. “This is not the place nor the time.”

“Indeed it is not”, agrees Daemon. “And I pray you have not been randomly wandering around with him again.”

You raise your gaze only to meet your father’s inexpressible pair of lilac eyes studying you. Praying you are able to hold back your emotions enough not to blush, you smirk.

“Oh please, father. As far as it may be difficult for you to accept, I have other companions to spend my time with besides my relatives”, you lie blatantly at his face.

“Right… If that is what you are telling me, I have no need to preoccupy myself then”, he reclines back at his chair, ignoring how the small conversation has captured Aemond’s attention.

Though he sits at the other side of the table, the prince monitors you. He can tell you are lying by how you close your first around the glass, how you cast your eyes to the plate, chewing your bottom lip nervously.

He can tell you are upset at some sibling provocation by the blush that paints your cheeks and the air of impatience that makes you roll your eyes. The discomfort at it is crystal clear as you feel an outsider as your twin sisters talk nonsenses with the Velaryon boys.

You do not belong there. Your looks outstand the Targaryen looks, that itself makes you uncomfortable. He wishes he could tell you many great things—amongst which the depth of his affections for you.

As you raise your eyes, you meet his gaze and for the first time during the dinner both of you smile. He wishes to reach out for you. But then something changes.

It all happens very fast. The food and mutual implication of Aemond’s loss of an eye lead him to subtly stand.

“I would like to have a toast…”

You barely blink. Tension is in the air and you see by their faces that everyone is holding their breaths.

You know Aemond is up to no good. You try to convince him not doing what he’s about to, suspecting this has something to do with his long standing rivalry with the Velaryon boys.

To your disappointment and not entirely surprise, vengeance takes his best. Aemond sees the moment he speaks unwanted words how aghast you look.

“…for these three Strong boys.”

And what happens next prevents him to reach out for you again.

***

• War.

Wind howls violently at the top of the hill. You stare at your dragon with silver eyes and black scams. It’s time, you know it.

Your hair is tied in a long braid and you dress for your first battle at this disgrace war that has been waged since your sweet prince has caused the death of your half-brother.

You could not forgive him for this atrocity, even if part of you doesn’t buy the narrative that Aemond chased Lucerys and purposely ended with his life. You recall how that day you and Rhaena entered in a fight because you were accused to stand for such a kinslayer, an accusation you refused to absolve her for.

“Are you sure you are ready to do it?”, you hear the voice of your father not long as you prepare to mount your flying beast.

Clouds clash, resulting in electric storms. Not the most propitious skies to fly. Daemon looks at you with fatherly concern, reading in your impulsiveness the need of proving your worth.

“I ask you not to fight this war unless it’s absolutely needed to. You should not do it because of your sisters. What Rhaena has said to you…”

“I care naught about what she said”, you turn your head at him. “This isn’t about me or her, but our cause. I will not disappoint you, my father. You’ll be proud of me.”

“I am already proud of you”, says Daemon with his greeted teeth. “I see myself in you. There is no need to have Targaryen looks to be one. You have the dragon blood in you, Y/N. Listen to me, this is not the time…”

“I am a woman now, father. As capable as anyone else to stand for the Queen.”

You swallow your tears, smashing your childhood fears down to your throat. And you fly with your dragon without further waiting, wishing to wipe off your thoughts the nights spent with Aemond at the library or running the corridors or when each confided insecurities to the other.

You wish you had not in mind the envy you felt when seeing your twin sisters sharing the Targaryen looks. You wish you were not mocked upon because of that.

You rise, aiming to fly higher. And your dragon feels your angst, howling through the air. As electric as it is, you seem immune to it.

But of course when you play the game of thrones you either win or die. What shall be the destiny gods hold to you?

Nothing of it comes to your thoughts when you spot Aegon, the Usurper, mounting his dragon. He flies right against you. The battle scene is prepared and you promptly join it.

The dragons dance and your temper takes the best of your reasoning. Nevertheless you hold the advantage of having a dragon bigger than Aegon’s.

But inexperienced.

A fault that will come at you when Aegon commands his dragon to fly right into you. It’s a violent battle to see. He tries to attack you wearing his sword, but his blows are useless.

So suddenly you wish you have heard your father. You are not prepared to fight your cousin on your own. And when a greater dragon casts its shadow below, you have realized you fell to a trap.

***

Aemond doesn’t take pride in taking you with him as his prisoner. Your silence is a harder blow to take, unprepared he was to face it.

“Do not, I ask you, make these matters worse to you.”

He takes you to Harrenhal with him, reclaiming you as his war prize, against his brother’s will, who certainly had other plans for his uncle’s daughter.

You are still processing the trauma of losing your dragon to those beasts you share your blood with. Perhaps it’s not a misfortune to look such an Arryn this time.

You answer him not. Aemond knows this is a difficult battle to fight—and what’s worse, his conscience tells him this is the result of his doing.

“You shall stay in these chambers”, Aemond tells you. “It used to belong to…”

He’d say these were his mistress Alys’ bedchambers before she came to pass after a hard labor, but to avail should he remind you that he supplanted you in his affections?

Or did he plan to say so as a form to plague you with remorse for daring to fight his brother alone?

Such thoughts are slipping out of his mind before the sight of your distress, already plagued by traumas of a war… caused by him.

“To your whore?”, you cut the silence by saying what he could not. “How thoughtful of you, Aemond. Thank you for being considerate.”

Your sharp remark leaves him astonished at your bluntness. It hurts him more than he admits, but as you turn your back at him, entering the bedchambers and there locking yourself in, Aemond realizes that what you two once shared is no more.

***

You sob violently when being left alone. Your imprudence brought you such tragedy and at times you consider going to the window and jump to death at long last and put an end to your misery.

As your father’s daughter, however, your inclination to life speaks louder than letting broken pride taking the best of you.

However, for how long will your spirit resist this? You were never someone to be easily caged.

And yet, here you are…

***

• Reproach: the aftermath…

They told me all of my cages were mental so I got wasted like all my potential and my words shoot to kill when I'm mad. I have a lot of regrets about that I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere. Fell behind on my classmates, and I ended up here pouring out my heart to a stranger, but I didn't pour the whiskey…

Like strangers you meet. Dressed in a green silk gown with hair loose behind your back, a sign of resistance, you join the prince in an awkward dinner.

“Will you not eat?”

“I lost my appetite”, but your mouth is dried and you eventually take the silver glass poured with red wine to your lips.

Aemond softens before you.

“We have started wrongly. Again time steals you from me. I, who possess all that gold and titles can purchase, was deprived of the luxury of having you.”

How openly and crudely he speaks these words make your eyes go wide open at him. You down your glass, skepticism stamped in your features.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I mean every word I say.”

You do not answer, fearful of being brought to the edge of your tears. The old signs Aemond sees: you chew your bottom lip, you close your wrist in a fist, your shoulders remain tense.

Your body screams resentment when you spirits locks in silence.

“You don’t.” After a while you add. “Has Lady Alys been what then?”

“A replacement of you.”

You promptly stand.

“Stop it. Stop right there, my lord prince. Do you take me as a toy you can play at your will? Have you not taken enough of me to satisfy your thirst for vengeance?”

So does he stand.

“I lost a lot for the wrongs I’ve done, lady.”

“You have never missed me!”, and you at last explode. “You’ve forgotten me long ago! You took that woman to your bed, making her your wife in all but name! What have you sacrificed?”

Aemond shortens the distance as he holds your wrists, pulling you closer to him. When removing his eye patch, he hisses:

“I sacrificed you! Us! All that we could have been! Caged my own shadows, I was misled to believe I would earn no peace until they paid for the wrongs I suffered!”

You weep violently, drowning in your sobs as he holds you against him.

“Do not torment me more than I am tormented myself”, he whispers in your ear. “This is me trying, Y/N, to exorcise my demons and be a better version of me to you.”

He buries his head against your neck, smelling your scent, being reminded of peaceful days that now look old, ancient ones dusted in the wind.

His long fingers bury his nails tightly in your waist, nearly provoking physical pain as impatiently begins to unlace your gown.

You shiver before his touch, not hissing away of the pain you two inflicted each other. Now the only sound you hear is of his small sobs. Your hands go to his head.

Two souls harmed, pained in long term angst. You lift his face with scars exposed.

“How did we get here? I used to know you so well, Aemond. My sweet Aem, what have we done?”

“I swallowed vengeance as a medicine and had me poisoned. Never wanted to get you involved in this.”

Fireplace warms the prince’s chambers and soon you and him are sitting on the ground, close to the flames that warm the cold there is in either of you.

“Will you be the death of me?”

“Never”, he takes your face with his face and finally kisses your lips. “I will not let you go.”

As much as you want to be kissed, as much as your lips devour his in a fervent kiss, as much as your gown starts to slip out of your shoulders and your hands get to remove his shirt, you pull out and Aemond knows he should be more clear.

“There is a plan.”

“Then share it with me.”

“I’ll make you Lady of the Vale. You will sit at Eyre as their only lady. I’ll be by your side as you reclaim your inheritance.”

You can barely believe in what he’s saying.

“Aemond…”

“No more wars. No more tragedies. No more blood spent. This I promise you. I will make you my wife.”

When his lips twitch at a small smile, that sweet smile that has always melted your heart, you know what he speaks is true.

“Make me yours.”

That being said, Aemond, more than willingly, rises to claim your lips. And right there, before the flames, two dragons meet in flesh.

***

• Lady

And it's hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound. It's hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is you. You're a flashback in a film reel on the one screen in my town…

A feast is thrown at the Capital. Civil war has come to an end and you are told there had been no survivors of the black party. In spite of the plans secretly arranged with Aemond, you’d still have to go through the humiliation of being seen as a trophy to the green cause.

For him, you try. To conceal your grief, to mourn underneath a well masked emotionless face.

For him, you try. To dress in the colors of his house, to act composedly even when Aegon laughs at you, even when the usurper mocks at all you know.

But Aemond keeps his word. He stands for you, refusing to let his victory to perpetuate wounds that should be closed, that must be cured.

It’s when the Dowager Queen comes at you.

“There has been many losses to our sides”, she plays the diplomatic role that is expected of her position. “I lament it deeply how this ended. She was dear to me, you know.”

You cast your dark coal eyes to see a pair of green ones plagued by vicious sadness staring back at yours. There are many things you want to say, but no words make to your tongue.

Instead, you opt for the cold, silent treatment. However, when seeing how Aemond has stood for you—as he has always done, once you’ll learn-/, you eventually say with your dry throat:

“Your condolences are welcomed, Your Grace. I assume this is where I should congratulate you thus.”

“Congratulate me?”

Oh her cynicism prevents you try further to be genuinely polite.

“Indeed. Your schemes came to fruition and here your son rules uncontestedly, notwithstanding his father’s wishes in keeping Princess Rhaenyra’s his heiress. But what do I know?”

Leaving the paled queen prompted to another access of tears, you excuse yourself to the gardens.

A film of past, merry days is relived behind your eyes. Lady Laena educating you next to her twin daughters, only two years younger than you. The tutors, the moments spent with your father, who somewhat was distant but always caring to you.

The sadness of losing Lady Laena being replaced as you witness your father marrying Princess Rhaenyra. You remember her kindness and her favours. The dragon egg she gifted you in your late teenager days…

You sob as you miss your black dragon. A hole in your heart is open and your knees go weak. You can hear Rhaenyra telling you this is not your fault for Lucerys’ demise.

“This is not your war to fight.”

But you fought it, didn’t you?

“Don’t go”, your father’s eyes cried out to you when his words attempted to pull you down.

But you wanted to prove his worth… And that was the last time you ever saw him.

Here you are, hardly free. A trophy for all those victors to exhibit. And in this cruel circumstance, you miss him coming at you, standing by your side.

“Come”, he says, taking your hand to his.

“Where?”, you do not mind disguising anymore.

Your castle tumbled and you are nothing but the ruins of days that are not going back.

“To reclaim your inheritance with me”.

Aemond senses your reluctance and stands with you, now out of others eyes. And right under his gaze you sob violently, and he takes you in his arms, feeling your pain as if it’s his own.

“It shouldn’t be this way. I cannot apologize enough for what I’ve done to you.” And leaving his pride aside, he takes your face with his hands and wiping your tears, so he says: “Please, forgive me.”

Underneath grey clouds, out of the bloody feast, it’s just you and him. Trying.

“I forgive you”, you concede genuinely, forgiving yourself too for the impulsiveness.

“I shall never leave you. Ever”, he vows it.

And this is the start of a new journey to you. Where you are neither trying it, but making it. It’s time to amend the wounds of the civil war.

***

You regain your strength, your old self the moment you land at the seat of your mother’s house.

You are not entirely surprised that the local noblemen welcome you reluctantly, as if prepared to engage in war.

“Peace”, you tell them. “I come in peace.”

Aemond leaves you to settle it. He is by your side, hand resting in his sword. Having claimed Blackfyre, he wears it proudly. Not to mention the grand beast behind them.

Although calmly, Vhagar stares at those pair of eyes as if she’s about flame them all.

A dark haired young man comes at you. He could easily be a lost sibling, but the similarities end there.

“Lady Y/N Targaryen. I thought we’d not meet.”

“How kind of you, cousin. A very warm welcome on your part”, like your father before you, snark remarks are something you do well. Aemond himself doesn’t conceal a smirk.

“What are you here for? You have no right here.”

You really forgot how the people of Vale could be ruthlessly straight to the point. It’s when Aemond Targaryen comes in the scene.

“You either bend your knee on behalf of my lady or else you’ll face consequences in the name of King Aegon, Second of His Name.”

Those present still remember from stories when Vhagar last came there. Her rider was lenient and they prayed you and Aemond remain so.

But your maternal cousin, Lord H/N, doesn’t seem prudent. Silence hangs.

“Well? What is your choice going to be? Westeros has bled for more time than it needed. Will you be the reason why the Vale will meet blood and fire on the wrong way? It’s not shameful to bend the knee.”

“I shall never bend a knee for a treacherous whore as yourself.”

It’s enough for Aemond unleash his sword and… let its blade kiss the man’s neck.

“No one who offends my lady walks out free.”

Just like that you reclaim your inheritance and you barely conceal your satisfaction at it. Who’d else dare to resist you after Lord H/N’s unwelcoming reckless?

You are dressed in the colors of your mother’s house. How ironic it is that your father’s enemy helped you to obtain what he could never achieve not even as his widower’s alleged claimant to Lady Rhea’s inheritance.

You look at your prince, who stands at the higher table as your Arryn’s relatives welcome you with a proper feast.

“Thank you”, you smile at him and Aemond is pleased to find no sadness behind your eyes.

“It is only right to amend the wrongs”, right under the table he takes hold of your hand and there squeezes it. “It pleases me more to see your kinsmen and the folks here did not provide any sort of resistance.”

“Despite my surname and whom I take after, they remember my mother well even if I don’t”, you sigh shortly. “They see how diplomatic and reasonable I am. No matter how tied I am to this new regime, they want and need the peace these years took from them.”

Aemond smiles at you and you are content for finding peace at last behind his good eye.

“Thankfully you are. I don’t see how this could be otherwise.”

Earlier that day, before the ceremony of your rise as Lady of the Vale began, you and Aemond were lawfully married before the Seven. This feast intends to celebrate both occasions with tons of merriments. The next day a tournament will be given on behalf of their new overlords.

“My lady”, he kisses your neck and bare shoulders, his hands already removing your line nightgown.

Sitting behind you at your bed, your husband stands all bare as you let him take his time to contemplate this new state both of you are.

No more childhood sweethearts. No more lovers parted due to war. But a husband loving his wife.

You tilt your head to the side, already feeling a heat ache in the between of your legs. Your nipple is already hardened as he exposes it, and you’d gladly touch yourself to ease this burden had he not held your wrist.

“Leave it to me”, he bites your neck, there leaving his bruise.

You arch your back in silent protest.

“You are torturing in me”, you moan, turning your head as you make sure to remove your nightgown and begin to climb on your nude consort when he turns you to be laid under his body.

“Am I?”, he smiles, his hair a mess as you bury your nails on his shoulders, pulling you to him. “Am I torturing my beautiful wife?”

“For years”, you grumble before breaking in a loud whimper when he inserts a finger in between your legs. “Oh, husband!”

His tongue now slides to your chest, path trailing before reaching your nipples. There, the night finally begins to you and your prince gladly takes his time.

Until you begin to reach the climax, he climbs back at you.

And not entirely unexpected…

“Ah, yes!”

He groans as he slides inside you. Raising your legs to fit better his moves, he matches the pace of his hips with yours.

Locking hands with you, he pursuits your lips and in a very passionate kiss you give all you have to him.

***

Some years later.

You watch from your scribe quarters how Aemond trains your son, Daeron, with his sword. You are writing a letter to your sister-in-law, the Queen, to ask a favor on behalf of the Vale when the lovely scene captures your attention.

Your son is now four years old. He has silver hair with some dark shades, a trait you’ve once seen in Lady Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was. His eyes are painted lilac, likes his father’s. Your boy is every inch Aemond’s son.

But his temper is quiet, like yours. He possesses attentive, fierce eyes. He has a quick wit, and some say he’s a precocious boy. He’s indeed very healthy.

The scene is adorable. Whenever Daeron mishits a blow, he pouts.

“I am terrible at it, daddy!”

Aemond chuckles, very patient and says:

“Take your time, young man. You have to go back to our lessons when holding a proper sword.”

“If you gave me a real sword, I’d do better.”

You laugh quietly at the sight, especially when Aemond reprehends him for this thought.

“Nay, son. You need to uphold a wood sword or else what’s the point in holding a true blade? And even if you did, your mother would kill me.”

He then lifts Daeron and ruffles his hair.

“Come, let’s see what your sister is doing.”

Not too far from where he is, your daughter Rhaella is climbing a tree under the supervision of your trusted maid. When seeing her father, the dark haired little girl with purples irises beams at him and promptly goes down the tree to run at him.

“DADDYYYY!”

You get emotional at the sight. Aemond and your offspring. Your children, your heirs. A family you never thought you’d have to call yours.

And there’s a third one, a newly born baby who now reclaims your attention. The maid brings little Aemon to be breastfed as you insisted you do so.

“My little boy”, you turn at him, stroking his silver locks. You once joked to Aemond how the Gods amused themselves by sending a child with silver hair and another with dark locks. “My prince. Come, you are hungry, aren’t ye?”

You are doing so the moment the door is open and your husband comes in with the two children.

“My lady”, Aemond greets you with a kiss on your temple. “How is our son?”

“Healthy and hungry, praised be the Gods”, you chuckle. “And our children?”

“Mama, I must tell you what I did today!”

Suddenly your husband is pushed aside and Rhaella and Daeron begin to compete for your attention. Aemond, as amused as he is by the dispute, has to intervene.

And here’s how the rest of your afternoon is spent: surrounded by your family you love.

But there’s a surprise that might come to shake the grounds of your hard worked for stability. Before you get to dine with them, a lady of your trust comes at you in a hurry.

“What is wrong, my dear?”

“Someone wants to meet you. I am forbidden to share his identity and he wants to see you alone…”

It’s when Aemond has a glimpse of the conversation and he promptly entrusts his children to your lady before saying:

“She shall not meet this stranger alone, regardless of the conditions he imposed.”

The said woman messenger only gives you a look before doing as said. You and Aemond shoot glances, but neither dares to speak.

What surprise it is when, opening the door, you spot Daemon Targaryen completely weary standing before you.

“Dad?!”

He gives Aemond a long look before looking at you.

“Greetings there, daughter of mine. I’m alive.”

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #house targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell #aemond one eyed #aemond targaryen fic #prince aemond #aemond the kinslayer #taylor swift #evermore #this is me trying

137 notes · View notes