#there’s two beds tucked away behind partitions

[impossible-rat-babies]

obssessed with the suite eyrie has in radz-at/han that I’m building in my mind

[pseudowho]

The Stairwell

(help me find the Higuruma artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

A "fuck around and find out" incident with Higuruma Hiromi, as you tease him relentlessly during the workday.

Warnings: No surprises to spoil, but 18+, MDNI as always

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It's early in the afternoon when you decide to send Higuruma a dirty text while in the office together. Your co-workers and clients rattle around you. Papers rustle, printers whirr, and you know Hiromi is working to a deadline.

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You'd been deliberately teasing him since you woke up. You had set the alarm clock just a little too late. You stretched languidly against him in bed, pressing yourself back against his crotch, faux-innocent, before jumping from bed as his hands began to ghost over your hips. You kept the bathroom door open while you showered in a hurry, the soap suds in turn clouding and unclouding your nipples as they rolled down over your curves. Hiromi passed you your coffee; you received it, grateful, in his favourite lingerie set. You kissed him just a bit too softly behind the ear, a thrill running through you as he whimpered, hooded eyes fluttering closed as he leaned back into your lips.

"We're late! Come on, Hiro," you called, padding to the door, pulling your heels on, satisfied as Hiromi grabbed the car keys (tie a little wonky, shirt tucked poorly, cheeks pink, shoulders tense-- check, check, check, check).

His hands were white-knuckled as he drove, heavy brows furrowed; you thanked him for driving, with a hand on his thigh, a kiss on his jaw. You got out; Hiromi took a moment to press his forehead against the steering wheel, and readjust his rigid cock against his thigh with a low groan.

Hiromi sat in his office now, thoroughly ruffled. You watched him through the glass walls, the pen behind his ear being taken off and repeatedly clicked as he tried to focus on case notes. You pulled out your phone, thought for a moment with fingers hovering over the screen, and typed. Done. Sent.

Hiromi glanced to his phone as it buzzed on the desk. You watched as he picked it up, and read it. His eyebrows shot up, mouth dropping open, and his hands fumbled, dropping the phone like a hot coal. You ducked down behind the clouded partition, as he leapt to his feet, staring, furiously blushing as he searched for you. He smiled apologetically to a passing secretary who jumped in alarm at his predatory manner.

You laughed to yourself, giggling and wiping tears from your eyes, co-workers giving you funny looks as you crouch-walked away behind the partition. You spent the rest of the afternoon grinning to yourself, knowing Hiromi was too busy to visit you.

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Meet you at the car.

You texted Hiromi as soon as the clock struck six, grabbing your things and scooting down the corridor. Your co-workers packed up around you, chatting weekend plans, lingering, anyone want to go for drinks?

As you approached the door to the stairwell, you felt eyes burn through the back of your head, prickles rising on the back of your neck as the presence got closer and closer footsteps pounding as your hand pulled the door open slipping through the narrow gap which was gripped by a bigger, longer hand and you were followed through by Hiromi, who loomed over you, hot eyes hungry, moving to block your exit.

You squeaked and giggled, ducking under his arms as he tried to lift you by the waist, and ran down the stairs two at a time, laughing as he spat obscenities and chased you. You made it down two flights of stairs before he caught up to you, your heart pounding.

You were spun, lifted and pressed against the wall and you wrapped your legs around Hiromi's waist and hips. One of Hiromi's hand cupped your arse, the other wiggled a finger into his tie as his teeth gritted into a snarl.

"You, you, are an absolutely filthy little tart," Hiromi bit, jacking your skirt up around your waist, and yanking your damp panties to the side to rub two desperate fingers between your folds. The sudden intrusion had you squealing again, and you lied instantly to Hiromi-- "I didn't mean to--"

"I didn't mean to--" Hiromi mocked in a high-pitched trill, before slapping an open-mouthed kiss to your lips, "--bullshit, my dear, utter bullshit." Two long fingers pressed into your pussy and you pressed back into the wall with a long moan, letting Hiromi work inside you, humming to himself in thought.

"Hiromi-- people will see--" Hiromi scoffed at you, pulling his fingers free from your pussy, unzipping himself and hooking his heavy, weeping cock out, lining himself up immediately.

"Nobody here uses the fucking stairs--" Hiromi spat, wiping your arousal on himself as lubrication. He grinned at you, a wicked glint in his eyes, as you whined and moaned at his cockhead stroking over your clit. He pressed a long, deep kiss into you as he teased himself against your entrance.

"Let's consider all of your flirting today to be foreplay, hmm?" You opened your mouth to protest, before Hiromi slammed his cock into you, slapping a hand over your mouth as you shrieked, Hiromi laughing under his breath, drawing out into a keening whimper as he pulled out and pressed into your fluttering plush walls again.

Hiromi hooked his arms under your thighs, planting his feet hard against the floor as you went floppy, hands clawing at Hiromi's tie and shirt as he paused for a moment, adjusting before beginning a relentless slap of his hips against yours.

Hiromi's head dropped back with a sandy gasp as he fucked you deeply, his cock ramming against your cervix, wet squelches and Hiromi's frantic moans echoing around the stairwell while you babbled apologies to him. Hiromi laughed again, lost in the filthy, sinful relief of your wet heat.

"Oooh, I'm sorry I'm sorry--" Hiromi hooted to you, as you blushed at his ceaseless good-humoured mocking, "--tell it to the judge." Hiromi's chuckles tapered swiftly into hurried moans and whimpers again, feeling your pussy clench around him as your eyes rolled back at the incessant slam of his cock into you. You felt his pre-cum and yours trickling down your arse as he gripped your thighs with bruising force, his face contorted in divine bliss as he chased his orgasm.

You were limp in his grasp, one arm draped over his shoulder and the other tugging his tie, mascara running, lipstick smeared. You hovered on the edge of an orgasm until your hips slid down, Hiromi now rutting into you at a deeper angle, his cockhead rubbing deeply, feeling him in your belly. You reached down to stroke your own clit, Hiromi drinking you in with blown-pupilled eyes as you tumbled over the edge. Hiromi felt his balls clench as you pulled his tie again, feeling the tug like a hook behind his navel.

"Thorn in my-- hhaaaaah shit-- fucking side today-- dirty little flirt-- ahhhh fuck, 'm gonna cum--" Hiromi came with a strangled whine, fucking his seed slowly into you as it spattered against your walls, so much after a day of constant teasing. Hiromi bit into your neck, with short little moans as his cock twitched weakly inside you, his last spurts of cum dripping down you to soak your panties.

As Hiromi leaned back, his smile soft and goofy at you with post-nut ecstasy, you pulled him back by the tie as he giggled, hands pit-patting fondly against your bum as he rubbed his nose against yours, foreheads pressed together, dark eyes embering into you.

You both jumped as you heard a timid little voice from the doorway two flights of stairs up.

"Uhm...are you...are you guys done? It's just...the lift's not working so we've all been, uhm...waiting here."

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Tehehe, Higuruma ♥️🤭🧎‍♀️

[arcielee]

dōna riña

Summary: You are enraptured by the prince and princess.  Paring: Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 2053 Warnings: Kissing, fingering, oral (female receiving). 18+, MINORS DNI. Author’s Note: Thank you to @aspen-carter​ for being my beta reader. Her stories are amazing, so go and enjoy her work! This is one of the poll options and it didn’t win, but I couldn’t help but write this anyway. I was inspired by @sapphire-writes​ (The Au Pair) pieces they have been working on and it literally would not leave my brain alone. Anyway, this is dedicated to @howyouloveyourdragon and @evattude for voting on this in that poll ♥ Italics are High Valyrian.  Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel 

The prince and the princess as newlyweds were insatiable, by all accounts.

The chamberlain of Dragonstone had advised to allow the space their unbound passion ceaselessly demanded, as their fervent dam broke and the outpour spilled into every corner, every crevice of the castle.

Rhaenyra had a shyness at first, with her cheeks pink from the salacious affection from her new husband and her whispered plea to take her to the marital bed, but Daemon would not be abated. The staff learned to recognize the lingering, lustful gaze of the Rogue Prince and would be quick to clear the room.  

While the others scurried away from the fire that bloomed between these two dragons, you could not help but be drawn to their flame, with an awe that radiated from your face whenever you caught sight of their fervor. You dared allow your eyes to dawdle past what was deemed appropriate for your station, just captivated by their beauty and mesmerized by their actions towards one another, the intimacy of their touch and the beauty of their old language that spilled from their lips in soft, honeyed tones. 

On this day, your steps were nimble towards their bedchamber with the clean bedclothes held against your chest. You had been informed that they were bathing, together of course, and it permitted a window of opportunity to tidy their quarters and change the linens. 

Inside the bedchamber, you saw the royal garments strewn across and the sheets bundled, with the musky scent of sweat and sex that was heavy in the air. You walked to draw the curtains aside, allowing the light and sea air to pass through; you then began to sort  the clothes and separate the ones that had been damaged with their removal and required mending and the ones that needed to be washed only. As you stripped the bed and gathered the soft silk, your eyes fluttered with the intoxicating smell of their lovemaking, and its potent smell made a warmth curl within your core. 

Gods, you sighed, setting the soiled linen on the velvet settee and began to place the fresh sheets. Your mind fluttered to another night when you had this same task and you had been late to come; your hands had trembled as you tried to tuck the corners, quickly, when the door had banged open. 

You had muffled a squeak, ducking behind the woven partition wall and peering carefully at the noise. 

It had been, of course, the prince and the princess, once again in an impassioned embrace and their lewd sounds filled the room; the suckling noises on the bare flesh from their ardent undressing. 

Your eyes widened as you watched them, your tongue wet your parted lips and you felt that same warmth, almost as ache to your core. You heard their hushed whispers exchanged between and your fingers began to trail your dress, dared to press over your clothed cunt and it caused the softest moan to spill. 

Everything stopped. 

The prince pulled away from Princess Rhaenyra, shirtless and flushed, with long strides to throw aside the partition and find you. You fell back, stumbling over the velvet stool and pressing yourself against the vanity. 

The fury etched on his brow lifted, aware that you were as white as his long tresses that spilled onto his shoulders. Behind him, you saw the princess move, who was still wearing her corset and shift, peering curiously. “What was she doing, husband?” She asked him in their foreign tongue.

“I believe we have a pervert amongst us,” he replied, a smirk on his lips. “I can smell her cunt from where I stand.”

You did not know what was being exchanged, you were only aware of the dark gaze of the prince in that moment; you fell forward, your knees bruising against the cobblestone. “My prince, my princess, forgive me,” you cried. “I was only changing the sheets and you…you startled me…and I…”

“Stop scaring her,” and the princess pressed from the bed, coming to your side with purposeful steps. “You may leave us,” she said to you, her voice sweet. 

Your eyes strained to focus on her, aware of how her nipples pebbled beneath her chemise; you focused on her blonde lashes, so light they seemed a golden halo around her lavender eyes that keenly watched your reaction. “Thank you, your grace,” you whispered and you were quick to leave. 

The days passed and reprimand never came from the chamberlain. You did not speak a word about the encounter, remaining dutiful to finish your chores assigned and trying to ease the small hitch of panic in your chest as you finished their bed. Your hands fluffed the feather pillows and your fingers traced the sheets, stopping at the edge to gather the old sheets and, before you could stop yourself, took a deep inhale of them.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

You jumped, the flutter of silk around you as you brought your arms sharp to your sides. You turned towards the voice and saw Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned against the doorframe, a smirk to his lips. 

You curtsy, your head bowed and your eyes bore into the silk spill on the cobblestone, unwilling to make eye contact. “My prince, forgive me,” you stammered for words, “I was only changing the sheets and I will be on my way-” 

“Must you frighten every handmaiden in Dragonstone?”

You had to look up, dared to turn towards the musical tone of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her silver curls were still damp at their ends, the wetness made them seem almost golden, and her skin was flushed pink, she was wearing only a chemise and no corset. Freshly washed, perhaps waiting for another one of the girls to help her dress but you knew they would not come unless summoned, unwillingly to disrupt them. 

“My princess,” you rasped.

“I believe this is the same handmaiden as before,” the prince responded and you saw how she tilted her head towards her husband, the curl of her pink lips to whatever he was saying to her. “I can smell her cunt from where I stand.”

The focus returned to you and you felt the burn in your cheeks from her gaze. “Indeed,” she murmured and began to walk towards you. 

You held your ground, eyes wide and forced yourself to swallow, but your throat was desperately dry. As she came closer, you cast your eyes downward and enjoyed the floral scent that wafted with her queenly presence. She leaned forward, her arms crossed behind her back and catching your eyes with her own lavender ones, with the same sweet or mischievous smile splayed on her face. “My dear girl,” her voice was low and sultry, her lilt clenched at your core. “You seem so very devoted to your queen to-be, is this correct?” 

You nodded your head quickly.

“And you would serve your queen however she requested?” 

“Of course,” you breathed, straightening to look at her. 

She hummed and pressed closer still, the warmth radiated from her and seemed to meld with the passion that churned in your lower abdomen. “Then allow me to kiss you.”

Your eyes widened still, your lips parted with shock and she gently cupped the back of your head, tilting her head and bringing her lips to touch yours. Her lips were soft and your hands trembled before they rested on her hips, your soft moan allowed her tongue to curl against your own with a languid pace to savor your taste. 

She pulled back and peered past you, only then did you remember that Prince Daemon was still present. You looked back at him, your pupils blown and your lips red, and he returned your gaze with a steely one, a fire burning behind his eyes as he moved towards you. 

The princess slipped her hand into your own, pulling you towards the bed you had just made and stopped to cup your cheeks, bringing your lips to hers again. 

You were bolder with your touch, one arm curling around her waist and pulling her closer against you, your other hand grabbed the back of her neck and your fingernails were gentle to scratch her skin. She almost purred in your mouth, her tongue running along your bottom lip before she nipped into it and broke away again.

You saw that the prince was laid across the bed and the princess pressed another quick kiss to your lips. “You may leave now and without any ill will,” she offered you an escape. “Or you may stay and serve your liege.”  

Your hands moved to untie your apron and the cotton fell to the floor; the princess smiled and helped with your laces until you both wore only your chemise, hers was silk and yours was cotton. 

She guided you to lay on the bed, until your back was pressed against Daemon, his bare chest warm on your backside, and you watched as Rhaenyra crawled onto the bed and towards you.

Your heart was aflutter from the soft touch of her hands on your thighs, her gentle nudge to spread your legs and you obliged her. There was a shiver of pleasure as her fingers traced the insides of your legs and you felt a shift behind you, the prince’s large hand grabbing the fabric and rucking it around your hips. 

The princess looked up through her lashes at you, her fingers slipping into your smallclothes and pulling them down; you lifted your hips so she could remove them, her exhale a tickle on your wet cunt. She watched you carefully for a moment and your own breath caught in your throat when she dipped forward, the touch of her tongue bloomed the blood to your cunt. 

You mewled pitiful from the sensation of her hot mouth, how it caused a blossom of pleasure that pulsated from your center and flittered to the ends of your begin, rushing back with each lap of her tongue. 

“She likes it,” the prince spoke, his low baritone reverberating against your back.

She stopped a moment, perhaps to respond but instead you leaned forward, capturing her mouth with your own with the desire to taste yourself on her lips. Her kiss was soft and warm, and her tongue gently flit across your upper life. “Lay back,” she breathed against your mouth and you felt the thick arm of the prince snake around your waist and pulled you back against him.

You gasped as she dipped forward again, her mouth pressing on the top of your slick folds; her quickened motion of her tongue against your pearl made you moan louder, your back arching against the prince. 

He hummed and his hold on your waist relaxed; the princess peered up towards him once more. “Will you help me, husband?”

You felt the warmth of his palm press against your stomach and move to rest above the patch of your pubic curls, his fingers traced your slit and then pressed against your nub. You jumped from his touch and his chin rested on your shoulder, his warm breath tickled your ear. 

Her hands gripped into the softness of your thigh to hold you still and you felt the sinful curl of her finger within you. 

Your cries grow wanton and she added a second finger to the sensual tactician against the sweet spot within you. “Do you like this, sweet girl?” She breathed into your cunt. 

“Y-yes, my princess,” you stammered.

The prince stopped his ministrations and brought his fingers as a sharp slap against your clit. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and pain. “That is your queen.”

“Yes, my queen,” you corrected yourself, tears brimming the corners of your eyes. “Forgive me, my queen…” 

Your words trailed off as the first wave of pleasure began to crest, the simultaneous actions of both the prince and the princess brought your climax with a fury that drew the breath from your lungs, an anguished cry with your release. Your gaze fell towards the princess, who withdrew her fingers and brought them to her lips; you were enchanted by her perfect pink tongue that curled around her digits. 

She smiled at you, still sweet, still mischievous, and all she said is, “Good girl.”

[bigsharter666]

empty locket

i think i found it, squirrelled it away. noticed it's glimmer from a curb or pile of leaves, and added it to my collection of junk.

maybe i stole it from somewhere, was called to it and slipped it into my pocket. a nasty habit i picked up as a 14 year old girl, lipgloss and earrings. bras and jeans. someday ill kick it, not today.

but somehow this locket came into my possession, golden and cheap. it took me a month to figure out how to open it, to figure out it could even open. it had a little space for me to put something important. something special. a picture maybe. whatever it was, it was made for lovers.

i could never decide which photo of you to put inside. which smile i wanted to encase, keep safe and sound against my chest. which gentle eyes, messy hair, pink lips and dimples. which kiss in the morning, which anniversary day trip, which midnight conversation. there were too many moments, to pick one would be to leave the others behind. everything was important to me. i think thats part of my problem, thats i have never been able to let anything go. not a single moment forgotten, a tiny detail unscrutinized. i would describe myself as passionate, but i think this is more than that. i feel everything so deeply and in all of my bones. if a picture of you in a locket felt like a mountain to climb, imagine how i am now, with the choice youve given me.

so it stayed empty. and in my empty bed i finally think of something to put inside.

we are sitting in the basement of your house. ive only been there a few times, all of it feels brand new. book titles and authors your mother loved, boxes of dolls and old furniture stacked on the wall, an orange rug. a partition splits the room, youll tell me it wasnt always there, this used to be a flat. your brother lived down here. your whole life is a secret you are slowly telling to me, some lies are mixed in but i dont mind. its cold, the beginning of winter. i have my icey feet tucked under me to avoid the concrete floors, its uncomfortable but im too scared to move. im worried youll realise how late its gotten. every second feels like an eternity but im terrified, frozen still and silent. finally, you tell me you want to kiss me.

it is the first good thing i have ever held, the first good thing i ever got to touch. i was so incredibly alone. i know i dont have to tell you but my life before that night was ugly and sad. so i held onto that memory for far too long, and far too tightly. crushed it in my hands like plasticine, stretched it out so thin it lasted me two whole years. i have revisted it, examined it, relived and retouched it so often that someday when im old and gray it will be the only thing left.

i am putting that memory in my locket. i will keep it safe and hidden. i will not look at it anymore. the locket will live in my collection where it belongs. it will always be special to me, and you will too. but i cant hold you anymore. at least this way i can keep it safe.

[calla-celtigar]

treasures of memory

a character challenge for @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

“There, just beyond the chair. . .” Calla paused, turning her head to stare at the spot she had in mind. She put her hand in the air with an open palm.

“Pause. Behind the chair and to the left. To be level with that bookcase.” The servants promptly obeyed, softly setting the heavy chest on the ground parallel to another chest a short distance away. Calla offered them a pleasant look, and before they left the room, Prunella eagerly chattered behind them. 

“Milady, the chest looks fine there. Are you happy that it is with you?” The man beside her was one of her few captains, an older man who had seen decades at sea. He had known Calla since she could walk and visit Claw Isle’s port. He had been one of Lord Bartimos’ captains, but now he was her own.

“Yes, very much so, Edric. Thank you for bringing it with you in your latest shipment. I know that it must have created some trouble.” She turned her gaze to him as he offered her a grin.

“Not so, milady. Besides, the men always enjoy a wild night in King’s Landing.” Calla suppressed a small laugh, digging into a pouch to hand the man a small amount of gold dragons.

“Well, I still thank you and the men. Be sure to spend the coin wisely.” She smiled at him as he gave her a devious grin, bowing to her simultaneously.

“Nothing less for our lady. Be well, Lady Celtigar.” The captain swept out of the room as Calla turned her gaze to the chest, now sitting behind her desk but in front of one of her extensive bookshelves.

The chest was fine, lined with ivory-colored fabric, and decorated with plush scallops designs. The chest was made of two different kinds of wood from distant Qohor. One wood was a shade of dark red, while the other was a light tan that was nearly white in tone. The two colors made chevron patterns on the panels of the chest. It had been a wedding gift from her mother when she traveled to Westeros. Her father had found the chest some time ago, but Lady Elinor recently sent a raven asking if Calla desired the chest as her own. Calla said yes but was unsure why she had done so. She supposed that her father wanted to sell the chest for a high but worthy prize, but her lady stepmother had cautioned him against it. The chest was a relic of the past, but so was much of Calla’s chambers.

When Calla first arrived as Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting, she had a small room devoted to living quarters and her working space. Prunella came to share a bed with Umma tucked in an even smaller adjacent room. However, as her status had elevated, so had her apartments. The married ladies-in-waiting required more space for their children and household, but Calla did not need so many rooms. She chose the room with the most significant two spaces. One room was divided in half by two large bookcases that she stood in front of presently, a thickly-veiled partition between her living space and her work area. The living space was more extensive, but the office was comfortable for work and hosting guests. The other room was devoted to her wardrobe and Umma and Prunella's separate beds. Gone were the days of sleeping in one bed for her maids now, they had their own. Prunella complained that Umma snored in her ear during those days, but now she slept so at peace that Umma complained of Prunella’s habitual nighttime noise.

The working quarters were lined with bookshelves upon bookshelves. They were among Calla’s finest possessions, organized neatly and highly maintained. Calla’s most treasured times slowly came with her to King’s Landing, but eventually, they came in full force. However, not all shelves were filled with books. Some housed rare artifacts as well. Some included a rare bronze mirror wreathed in Valyrian script, a crackled glass candle, and a pair of red quartz Valyrian sphinxes. She used the sphinxes as bookends despite her suspicion that they had once been ritual objects. They were three of many more minor artifacts lining the room. They decorated the room beyond the hundreds of books, her highly organized desk, and two small chairs set before the desk. An ornate table carved with crab-like legs sat between the chairs, gilded in a thin layer of aging gold. It was more than a presentable space displaying Celtigar wealth but displayed the more intricate parts of Calla’s personality.

As her most intimate space, her innermost chamber room rarely saw anyone beyond Umma, Prunella, Moddey, and Calla herself. It was her equivalent of a sacred space. A large bed sat on the left side of the room, curtained by red swathes of nearly transparent silk. There had been mornings where Calla would turn her head and stare out the windows of the Tower of the Hand, peering out at the citing and the sea beyond. Prunella often swung the windows open on clear days, letting the sea breeze waft into the room. It was not the same as Claw Isle, where the wind smelled of salt and stone, but it reminded Calla of home nonetheless.

The rest of the room’s walls were covered with Valyrian tapestries. While they were not her most prized object, they were worth nearly an endless amount of coin. Many of the pieces had been handed down in the Celtigar family for generations, and she had only brought the smallest tapestries with her. Various patterns in Valyrian style decorated the tapestries, including an intricate weaving of blood-red crabs intermixed with white crabs. However, Calla’s favorite pieces showed scenes and images of the past. One displayed the coming of the three Valyrian houses to Westeros, the heads of House Targaryen with their dragons flanked by the leaders of House Velaryon and House Celtigar. Another depicted the keep at Claw Isle as it was being built, while another portrayed a nameless female dragonrider flying over an unknown land, her dragon a fearsome shade of dark purple with red-threaded eyes. An immense tapestry by far showed members of the Freehold of Valyria at war with the empire of Old Ghis. She had long debated with her House’s Maesters on which war the scene depicted. But alas, it was now lost to history.

Besides the tapestries, there was little else in the room. A small dresser sat by the far wall, candles illuminating the room in the night hours. Calla devoted the living space to the tapestries that hung and what they meant to both her family and herself.

Calla stood at the chest recently brought before her. The chest parallel to it had been one of the first things she had brought to King’s Landing five years previous. And now, next to it sat the one thing that Taena of Lys brought to Westeros. Years ago, it had been a wedding gift; perhaps it was meant to be hers. But now it sat amongst her priceless artifacts, all the treasures of memories long past.

[meadowlarksabove]

What’d possessed Gabban to help this man? 

The marks around his own ankles still fresh and seething, tethering him to a bed stained scarlet by his name. Frightened, always searching for eyes in the bushes, he shouldn’t have been so willing to run out of cover then, and away from the other nestling prey animals too stricken to look. But as the horses rushed past them in a gallop, and he saw the other laid broken on the ground (blood pooling beneath their waist and legs), his feet took to running. This had nothing to do with him, he barely understood what had happened or what the locals had whispered in the shadows. It hadn’t been his place to even ask, a seaborne foreigner in an arid landscape, far removed from the going ons of this western frontier. If he hadn’t offered his hands, no one would have questioned it, as no one would have known what he was or what he carried in his case. Some unfortunate passerby turned witness, tainted by a tragedy that didn’t belong to him. 

Yet he’d dashed to the street, practically leapt like a hare in a frenzy, only to kneel before the dying man and place palms over wounds. Bullets had met their mark, bitten off more than what they could spare, and his mind raced against the steady creep of death. He called out in one language at first, then the other, in a voice he couldn’t recognize as his own. Tinged with strength and authority, as if he could command the very heavens to lend their aid. Something in his tone must have struck through the terror, had reminded these people of some connection to this crumpled body as two, then three, and more, filtered out of the shadows. It had been risky to remove him, risky to do anything while he couldn’t see where the bullets had plunged and if they’d torn all the way through. The situation was only aggravated then by the discovery of the shattered leg, the missing fingers, and a lack of skilled persons at the ready. And still- 

And still- Gabban had been stubborn, out of his mind, reminding himself that he’d seen worse back home. Which he had, but most of those men had still returned to the gates of their savior in spite of everything he and his mentor had tried. Then, as if a bell were clamoring at the back of his mind, his mentor’s voice boomed from the partitions of his memory as it had often done in life. 

Chiù nniuri ri mezzannotte nun pò fari. 

He was determined to see this through, laboring at all hours with sun and candlelight as his guides. What did it matter if they were no one to each other? Was this not what he trained for? Was he not tired of soiling his tools with wretched work? Finally a chance to restore what he’d lost to the darkness…If only his soul could be saved. 

Back in the present, he stared into those dark and handsome brown eyes. Warmed by the sight, having only seen the sheriff unconscious or caught in eye fluttering fits. A strange, giddy sensation settled in his stomach, spurring him to smile as he helped the other rest back on the bed. How nice it was to see them alive. Alive! More warmth, an added flush to his face. Carefully, he tucked the blanket over them a little tighter, hoping that would be enough to deter them from sitting up again. They just weren't ready yet. 

“I’m happy to see you awake.” He pulled back, but only briefly, reaching for the case he kept at the side of their bed and retrieving a wooden cylinder which flared at the end. A stethoscope model that was already a little old by his standards, but it worked as well as anything else at hand. “Excuse me.” 

Gabban leaned his head closer to their chest, shutting his eyes and falling into complete silence as he listened for their pulse, lightly pressing the tool and searching before becoming very still. The seconds passed on in that deliberate quiet, counting, measuring, already ticking off words from a list he half envisioned behind the curtain of his eyelids. But even as he finished, he remained in place, following the little drumbeat of that organ, the flutter of a dove in its cage. How precious it was. He could easily lose himself to that sound. 

“You have a good heart.” What joy, it even poured from the curious lilt of his voice.

Though the pulse was still a little frail, he’d expected that to be the case really. What did they have to sustain themselves in the span of many days but funneled liquids. He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair…

“Does your head hurt? Does your stomach feel bad?”

It is a lot. Too much, in fact. So much that only a fraction of it coming back to him in those early morning hours, filling the empty space of a clear mind in needed catching-up and reconditioning of what had occurred and what had been, that the little he did remember and the bit that he had proof of in front of him and which he did see was entirely enough to overwhelm and render every attempt and recollecting impossible. It was as though his own mind did not want him to process it all, the reunion with a thought-lost lover, the betrayal, the fall. A fall that had come so suddenly and whose impact had hit so hard after the first moments of actual found happiness and rejoicing that in hindsight Paukka wanted to laugh at himself knowing that it had been too good to be true. He should have known better. Should have not fallen into old habits, guided by old feelings. Feelings that would cost him everything.

The hands before his eyes were not his own. They simply could not be. Something was missing for them to be complete, to resemble the image he still had of them. From what he could see, at least. He went by memory alone, confused at the different length between some of the fingers. Feeling a pain that was dull and hot the same, throbbing and piercing, at the ends of the shorter fingers as they did on the flat of the palms. collateral damage, perhaps. Torn or pierced skin by whatever had damaged the rest. He does not remember the bloody mess his hands had been, among torn-off digits and bits of shrapnell sent flying towards him. He had not seen them, collapsing right then and there and lying in a pool of his own blood and still freezing on the hard stone ground; drowning, dying. From somewhere the echo of a broken breath filled his ears and he felt his chest constrict, felt his lungs constrain and his throat ache. He heard the noise of something having caught fire, the flames licking and sizzling in the background. At the forefront a what sounded like a cavalry gallop, their countless hooves hammering against the cobblestone street, around him, past him, away from him. The sound making space for the loud throbbing of his own heart matching their rhythm. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clippity-clop. Lup-dup, lup-dup, lup-dup. It slowed. Slacked off. Grew tired and weary. Dying. It was dying. He was dying. Had been--

Hands. Different hands. So very beautiful compared to the first pair yet still not his. They appeared before his eyes, moved entirely of their own. Danced, gracefully as they went, as they hovered and seemed to stalk. Those pretty hands were brave, daring to get near to something so sick, so obviously ugly, almost-touching it even, not even fearing that there would be anything they could contract. Silent he watched as the fingers moved and traced and came to rest on his wrist. Knowing they were actually his because for the first time he felt it, the touch.

If only I could read fortunes, hm?

Briefly, his entire body tensed as the voice sounded so close. Almost at the same time the hands moved to cover his sight from the grotesque image of bodily ruin, luring him to follow the sound instead, to which he raised his head only to stare at the blond man before him wide-eyed. When had he even entered the room?

Another feeling washed over him, over the bit of him that sat past his wrists (a feeling he could still not make out, not name; a feeling that his body nor his mind could connect to). Touch, perhaps. He was not sure. He did not even try to figure it out because already his mind was occupied with a new wonder. This face, this man. Paukka did not know him but remembered seeing him before. His brows furrowed slightly. Recently. More than once, yet neither name or trade occurred to him. Only one thing repeated, again and again. How soft it looked. How beautiful.

So he remained, sitting and staring, looking skeptical and dumbfounded. Something at the ends of his wrists began to feel heavy and he let the hands sink back onto his lap. Only then he felt something new, felt the fabric. Looked down and saw the blanket. He was indeed in a bed. To lie back... Had that voice not asked it of him? Without any will nor strength to object (he did not even know what to object with) he let himself lean back again until his back met the old mattress. Looking back up at the face from this angle it seemed even more familiar.

[sageworld]

Kentucky Homegrown • Jack Harlow

warnings; smut

its no secret jacks proud of his kentucky roots. one thing he indulges in the most from home? ; the kentucky homegrown women.

you danced to the rhythm of the music at the club while your bestfriend danced on you. although the club was packed you guys had managed to get a VIP section. your other female friends were all dancing, drinking & smoking in the section.

���this is for you from the man in all white in the section across.” the bottle girl announces to you, interrupting your dancing as she sits down a bottle of remy martin. you & your bestfriend look across the way, seeing a familiar face from your city sitting, staring at you. Jack Harlow.

You knew how to play this, you saw the constant videos of him saying how if a woman denied him it’d “turn him on more”, you were a smart girl. “no thank you, send it back please.” you smile to the bottle girl & continue to dance.

you try not to watch his reaction as she makes her way back across with the bottle, his face turns into a smirk as the bottle girl explains the situation.

• • • • • • • •

you weren’t sure how you ended up here exactly. legs draped on jacks lap, nibbling on his ear lob while he hands rub your thighs. your bestfriend promised you that they’d be there when you returned from jacks section but, you weren’t sure you were gonna make it back to your section tonight.

“you wanna come with me tonight?” jack said loudly in your ear to be heard over the music. “mmm i don’t know, my friends will probably be worried.” “just send em a text, you’ll be alright.” he convinces. “alright.” you agree.

• • • • • • • •

you got into the back of the car with jack. just the two of you as the driver rolled up the partition. “you always have a driver, pretty boy?” you giggle. “nah, just when i know i’m gonna be on sum.” he smiles. you attempt to put your lips on his as the car starts but he pulls away. “is something wrong?” you ask. “no, no i just need you to sign this.” he pulls a paper and pen from the back part of the seat & hands it to you.

“what is it?” you eyebrows raise. “it’s just a agreement that you won’t tell anyone about this. i just want it to be you & me baby. nobody else, not your friends, not instagram, we can do this but it’s just gonna be us.” he charms, putting his face in your neck, rubbing his nose up & down it. “okay.” you moan as he plants a single kiss on your neck. “mm, okay baby.” he lets out a breathy grown & pulls away. “just sign your first as last, date of birth here & we’re all good.” he points to the x & the line at the bottom. you quickly sign and hand him the paper. “thank you, princess.” he smiles and tucks the paper back where he found it.

he grabs your waist & lifts you onto his lap. you moan as he rubs your ass. you grab the back of his hair, pulling it. “you’re so beautiful.” he stares in your eyes. “thank you.” you whisper as your faces get closer. you turn your head to the side as your lips meet. you moan into the kiss while jack lifts your dress up, reveling your ass. he continues to rub and squeeze on it before he moves your panties to the side. he pulls away from the kiss, “open wide baby.” he smiles and you do as told so he can shove two figures into your mouth.

he groans as you wrap your lips around his fingers, sucking on them. “fuck, you are so sexy.” jack pulls his fingers out & puts them in you from behind. one hand squeezing your ass while the other fingers you. the driver turns up the music louder from the other side of the partition as your moans get louder. you wrap one arm around his neck & put the other one on the bicep of the arm that he’s using to finger fuck you. “you’re so warm.” he bites his lip and starts sucking on your neck.

• • • • • • • •

you giggle as jack threw you onto the hotel bed. you watch as he pulls his shirt off & unbuckles his pants. once he’s down to nothing but his drawls is when he joins you in the bed, crawling on top of you. “hi.” you giggle as he face hovers over yours. “hi baby.” he plants a soft kiss on your lips before sitting both of you up, pulling your dress over your head & taking your bra off. he gently shoves you back down before taking a nipple into his mouth.

he massages your tits as he continues to suck on them, giving them extra attention. you moan as he uses his tongue to swirl around your sensitive nipples. one of jacks hands let of your tit & moves down, moving your panties aside again. you feel his legs shovel around as he slides his boxers down.

your body shakes as he slides himself into you, his hand returning to your breast as he continues to suck on them.

he fucks you into the mattress as you wrap your legs around him, heels still on. “harder daddy, fuck me.” you moan as he detaches from your nipples, now looking you in the eye. “yeah? you like that shit?” he grunts and lays his hands flat on the mattress, creating some space between the two of your faces. “yea, just like that daddy please.” you whimper as his chain dangles in your face.

“j-jack fuck.” your eyes roll back & legs shake as he hits your spot repeatedly. “i’m finna nut.” he groans. “where you want it?” he asks. “on my face, please daddy.” you whine & unwrap your legs from around him. “sit up.” he says & quickly pulls out, you get onto your knees quickly & he stands off the bed.

you watch as he jerks his dick fast, chasing his high. he puts on hand on your shoulder & squeezes it. you close your eyes once you hear him grown & you suddenly feel a sticky hot substance hit your face. “fuck baby.” he groans and lets out the rest of his load. you giggle as he collapses on the bed next to you. “how do i look?” you pose with an ungodly amount of cum on your face that’s dripping to your tits. “like you need a napkin.” he laughs & puts his boxers back on, going to get a hot wet rag.

your still on your position when he returns, he smiles & wipes all his kids off you. he throws the rag in the trash & lays you down with him.

“wanna watch disney+?” he offers.

• • • • • • • •

when you woke up, jack was long gone. nothing besides a slip of papers on the night stand that read;

“check outs at 2:00, you can call & order yourself some food if you’d like.

text me when you wake up so i have your number. 502-xxx-xxxx.

-jack.”

you look at the clock, 10:01. you had time. you throw your body back into the mattress & reminisce on last night.

[ava-achlys]

The Boyz NSFW Scenarios

Lee Jaehyun (Hyunjae) - Intoxicated [Requested]

Request: dom Hyunjae + overstimulation

badboy! ceo! Hyunjae x PA! fem! reader

Warnings: petnames, dirty talk, slight degradation, a lot of grinding lol, some choking, Hyunjae is a narcissist here

Finally finished this one for @jaepocket ! Thanks for requesting, I hope you like it 💕hope you don't mind that I made Hyunjae an asshole lol

Work parties have taken a toll on your boss, and as the best personal assistant in the world, you help him home.

You kept a watchful eye over your boss throughout the Christmas party. Year-end parties were lined up back-to-back for the most influential entrepreneur under 30 in Seoul. Jaehyun was being extra charming tonight, wooing men and women alike with his dazzling smile, charisma, and powerful aura. He knew he was untouchable, and it showed in his walk. Long legs that could rival any model, perfectly coiffed light brown hair, and a designer tailored suit hugging him in all the right places, showing off his broad shoulders. He glances over to you, and shoots you a wry smile from across the room. No one else might have noticed, despite the fact that everyone who spoke to him couldn't take their eyes off him, but a subtle flush dusted his cheeks and there was a slight glassiness in his eyes that alerted you. Jaehyun has definitely had too much to drink. You stride over to him, and he politely excuses himself from the flock of older women giggling and sidling up to him, and meets you halfway on the dance floor.

He walks to you with a slight wobble, and reaches out to steady himself... by grabbing your hips. "Hey you," he grins, thumbs softly rubbing your waist through the thin material of your dress. You resist the shiver that runs down your spine, the warmth emanating from his hands a welcome sensation since the place was freezing. A mansion full of people and it was still cold? The hosts hadn't bothered to turn the heaters on. That's probably how the rich stay rich, you supposed. It definitely didn't help that you were wearing a skin-tight cocktail dress, with a little slit up the thigh. "Sir, I think you've had enough to drink tonight," you murmur, gently tucking a lock of golden hair back into place. Jaehyun grimaced. He had a glass of wine with every group that approached him that night, and he wasn't feeling too well now, considering everyone wanted to meet with the Lee Jaehyun™, one of Seoul's most prominent and eligible bachelors.

"Let's get you home then, sir, you really need some rest. Or rather, your liver does," you sigh, offering your arm for him to hold on to so he doesn't fall flat on his face in public, possibly ruining his reputation. He lets out a hearty laugh, and intertwines his arm with yours, trying to maintain a power walk out of the place, nodding at other party-goers that greet him in passing. He gratefully gulps the fresh air outside as you wait for his chauffeur to pull up in his stupidly expensive limousine, helping him to clamber gracefully into the backseat once it arrives. You're about to shut the door to book a ride home for yourself when he tugs on your arm, a blazing fire in his eyes as he looks up at you, and you know he wants you to come home with him tonight.

You glance around quickly, making sure no one is watching you get into the car with him, but really, who would question a PA ensuring that her drunken boss gets home safely? You quietly slip into the plush leather seats, leaving a space between you two just in case he feels stuffy or nauseous. Jaehyun roughly loosens his tie, and you can't help but stare at his large, veiny hands. Before you can snap out of it, he catches your eye and smirks, using those very hands to yank you closer, almost sitting on his lap. You yelp in surprise, your hands flying up to his broad shoulders. He smashes his lips onto yours, messy with tongue and teeth and a moan escapes you when you taste the sweet alcohol on his tongue. His warm hands roam all over your body, deftly pulling up the hem of your short dress so he can run his hands up your thighs and grope your plump behind. "Been staring at your ass all night, who said you could wear a dress like this?" he growls against your lips, squeezing the flesh tightly to prove his point.

You weakly push him away, and he stares at you, offended that you don't seem to want him, when you're usually so pliant and obedient for him. "I don't think we should do this, sir, you're not thinking straight," you stutter. Jaehyun barks out a laugh, startling you. "Am I? I'm not drunk, kitten, I only spoke and acted like that so we could get out of that damned party. And maybe I'm not thinking straight, because all I've been thinking about the whole time is ripping that fucking dress off your body, you fucking minx," he snarls, grabbing you again and manhandling you to straddle his lap, sounding completely clear and level-headed. He had everyone fooled; even you, and a crushing disappointment engulfs your heart.

You don't get to feel sorry for yourself though, because Jaehyun is pulling you close, grinding the obvious bulge in his slacks against your clothed pussy as he makes out with you again. You let him run his hands all over you, feeling his lips trail down the side of your lips and down your neck, smudging your lipstick everywhere. Jaehyun doesn't care, clearly, he just wants to make a mess out of you, and you gladly let him, both of you so absorbed in each other that you didn't feel the car roll to a stop. You hadn't even noticed the opaque partition had been pulled up until you heard the electronic buzz of it being lowered, and the indifferent voice of the chauffeur came through. "We've arrived at your destination, sir and miss."

Without so much as a thank you, Jaehyun flings the door open and tugs you into the building's lobby. He owns the whole building obviously, but he lives in the penthouse suite, swiping his keycard to unlock his private elevator. He wastes no time attaching his lips to the back of your neck as he presses you up against the walls of the elevator, grinding on your ass the whole way up. He leaves you panting when the doors open, and he goes to punch in his keycode. The lock beeps, and Jaehyun snarls when he's halfway through the door and you're still lagging behind, knees too wobbly to walk properly thanks to his earlier ministrations. "What are you waiting for kitten?" You shake your head, embarrassed that sloppy make-outs and grinding like lovesick teenagers is enough to make your head spin.

Jaehyun strides towards the bedroom, stripping his expensive clothes as he went, but instead of making a right turn to the master bedroom as he usually does, he makes a left to the guest bedroom. You don't have time to ponder, because he's pulling you in and shoving you onto the bed, dark eyes staring you down as he fumbles with his belt. The intensity of his gaze makes you tremble. Is it from fear, excitement, or a morbid combination of both? He finally gets all his clothes off, and his hard cock is swinging heavily with every step he takes towards the bed. He prowls, like a predator, and you're too petrified to even strip or prepare yourself, but apparently that didn't matter to him.

"You still on the pill?" Jaehyun demands, and you nod feverishly. "Good." And with that he rips your lacy panties off in one fluid motion, and hikes your dress up to bunch up around your waist. You hear the material rip, but before you could bemoan the hefty price tag, Jaehyun slides his throbbing cock inside you, making you arch your back as you moan loudly at the intrusion. He gives you barely any time to adjust, knowing how much you like taking it raw, and starts thrusting harshly. You can't help but moan loudly, almost going cross-eyed from the mixture of pain and pleasure. You clamp a hand over your mouth when a particularly shrill moan slips from your lips, but Jaehyun tugs it away, wanting to hear how good he makes you feel. It's nothing more than an ego boost for him, but you comply.

Jaehyun gets sick of missionary fairly quickly. He does enjoy seeing your pretty face contort with pleasure, and watch your makeup run. But he likes fucking you from the back even more, loves the way you get on all fours for him, loves the way your ass jiggles when he spanks you, and loves how your legs give way when he's done making you see stars. He pulls out for a moment, flipping you over onto your hands and knees easily, ignoring the surprised gasp you make when he shoves his cock back into you. He picks up the pace, hitting your g-spot dead-on with this new angle. He wraps a hand around your throat, the expensive gold bands adorning his fingers pressing delightfully into your windpipe. He squeezes lightly as he slams into your core, and you scream, climaxing without warning.

The sudden clench around Jaehyun's dick has him swearing lowly. "Did I say you could cum, kitten? You know you have to ask for permission," he grunts, fucking you through your orgasm, maintaining his relentless pace. Your head is foggy, and you try to apologize, but every sharp thrust Jaehyun makes cuts your words off. He doesn't let up, using you to chase his own climax, slightly aggravated by yours. He presses down the middle of your shoulder blades, pushing you down further into the sheets so you're not holding yourself up with your hands anymore. You're grateful, because you can barely support yourself anymore, and you need a break. Except he doesn't give you one, hoisting you up by the hips to pummel even faster and harder into you, and your upper half is practically dragging along the sheets with every snap of his hips.

The delightfully torturous graze of silk sheets against your raw nipples, and the rough pads of Jaehyun's fingers relentlessly abusing your swollen clit sends you teteering close to the edge again. You can't cum, no, you won't cum until he tells you to. You want to be good for him, even though you're so close to climax again that it hurts. You hold out, gripping the sheets so hard that your knuckles turn white, when a particularly hard press against your clit and a low growl of "Cum for me now, kitten" sends you screaming once more, vision turning white as your searing-hot orgasm rips through your body.

You barely register Jaehyun's groan as he continues grinding into your g-spot, your pussy clenching almost painfully tightly around him, milking his cock dry as he blows his load deep into your warmth. You collapse forward onto the bed, trembling from exhaustion, chest heaving desperately to replenish your lungs with oxygen. Your whole body is sore and you know it's probably going to be worse tomorrow, and dark fingerprints are going to decorate your skin too. Above you, Jaehyun is still holding your hips up, pulling out of you with a grunt, cock hanging limply as he pants harshly. He watches idly as his cum drips out of your abused cunt, trickling down your legs, and drops your legs unceremoniously.

He stretches his legs, and gathers his sweat-drenched, possibly cum-stained designer clothing off the floor as he walks towards the door. "Clean yourself up, you know where everything is. I need you in the office early tomorrow morning." Jaehyun utters without so much as a glance back at your naked body, and the door shuts behind him with a loud click that echoes through the suddenly cold room. You hear him humming to himself and drawing a bath, and you shut your eyes, trying to suppress a sob at how horrible you feel, both physically and emotionally. Sex with Jaehyun was always hot, rough and mind-blowing, but recently you realize you always felt empty afterwards. Because he'll immediately turn cold once he's gotten his fix, leaving you to clean up after yourself and sometimes even make you hail a cab to go home afterwards. At least tonight he let you stay over, even though it's in the cum-stained bed in the guest room, without any post-coital care.

As you lay there, fresh hot tears stream down your cheeks, and you wonder if all the alcohol in the world could wash away the pain you felt of being used as Jaehyun's personal fucktoy; manipulating you into catering to his every whim and then carelessly throwing you aside once he's done.

[batwritings]

Would you be able to do a request with an afab reader or gn reader getting absolutely railed by c!dream in prison because they haven’t been able to visit him in a while and they are both touch starved and it’s so urgent and needy and if you could throw in some overstimulation and a hint of fluff that’d be great :))

Yesss this boy just needs a hug I swear /hj Enjoy~!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The minute Dream came into view, you were practically bouncing onto the blackstone. You could see emerald eyes watching you in disbelief, like he didn't actually think you were standing on the other side of the partition. You barely register Sam telling you that you have a half hour and the lava falling behind you.

You're slow to approach him, not wanting to spook your partner. Gently and carefully you take Dream's scarred and calloused hands in your own watching his eyes widen further as your warmth seeps into his skin. In a blur of motion, the blonde is pulling you into the tightest hug you think he's ever given you.

You smile sadly trying so hard not to cry; you knew why your boyfriend had to be locked up but that didn't mean you liked it. You pull away just enough to kiss his cheek and eventually kiss him properly. With building desperation the two of you are a mess of clacking teeth and sloppy tongue swipes but neither of you could be bothered to care.

It's no surprise when he pins you to his bed, teeth and lips remarking old bruises as you both shimmy out of your pants and underwear. "Missed you so much," Dream whines against your collar bone. He's practically rutting against your entrance like a dog in heat.

You take his freckled face in your hands, looking into his blown wide eyes. "Show me," you whisper, kissing him deeply again. Dream whines, lining up with you and shakily pressing in. You revel in his gasp when he finds you already prepped, having honestly anticipated this interaction.

It doesn't take long for him to start fucking you frantically, touch starvation having left him eager to be so close to you again. You litter him in praise between gasps and moans. "That's it Dreamy, right there." "Such a good boy Dream, so good." "More baby, show me more, give me more!" amongst other pleasured words fly from your lips as he fucks you quicker, more humping you to fullness.

With a quiet curse, huffed into your shoulder Dream comes undone, filling you. He continues long after he's done, whining at the overstimulation but letting you find your own pleasure before he dares pull out. He flops beside you with panting breath, taking your hand and holding it close to his chest.

You smile sweetly an tuck yourself up against him, head under his chin. You're not sure when you nodded off, but you the next thing you hear is a soft "oh". Sam was standing at the opening to the cell, beyond the partition, watching you and Dream curled around each other in sleep.

The warden knew his prisoner didn't deserve it, but for your sake? Another half hour visit wouldn't hurt.

[expectingtofly]

finally free, they drive

2k

day 1 of @thiscastielhasflown and i's follower celebration

prompt: diners/roadtrip

Twenty-four years ago in Mankato, Minnesota, Dean killed a wendigo with a bottle of Jack and a lighter. He told Cas this, how the flames lit the inside of the cave and his dad had to drag him out because he suddenly couldn’t move, how he stayed silent for a week even though his dad begged him to speak.

Seventeen years ago, in Monte Vista, Colorado, Dean burned the bones of a malevolent spirit that sliced a gash through his chest before he could swing an iron crowbar through her foggy figure. As he and Cas passed by the cemetery where he and his dad had dug up her remains, he could almost picture himself standing between the tombstones, his dad tossing him the lighter. Do the honors.

In Evanston, Wyoming, he and Cas stopped to eat at a diner that looked vaguely familiar. As they sat down at a booth in the back, waitress handing them their menus, it hit him.

“Pretty sure Sam and I went through here before.” He couldn’t remember what they'd been hunting. “Years ago. After dad. You know. Passed.”

And Cas was silent a moment before replying, "I wish I’d known you then."

Then he declared he wanted the French onion soup from the specials of the day, like he hadn’t just spoken Dean's thoughts aloud in his uncanny way of knowing exactly what Dean wished for before Dean knew it himself.

Sometimes, while passing semi-trailer trucks on the freeway, when the setting sun glinted off the metal partition between west and east-headed traffic, he wondered what life would’ve been like if he knew Cas when he was twenty-six. When he was so lonely, his chest felt like a vise at night, and he slipped out of mildewed motel rooms to gasp in chilly night air. When he sought out crowded bars because accidental nudges and jostles were substitutes for caresses.

What might’ve changed if he'd known Cas when he was twenty-two, when Sam left for college and Dad left with a cutting, Don't look for me. If, confronted with an angel then, he would’ve been able to believe in good things, if he would've kissed him to not feel so alone.

The radio played Dolly Parton at a diner in Des Moines, a young couple sat at the counter, Cas stacked small containers of strawberry jelly and orange marmalade into a tower, and Dean imagined sitting across from him when he was nineteen. But then Cas looked up at him triumphantly over perfectly balanced preserves, and the what-if's dissolved in a growing warmth in his chest. Cas had been right after all. Good things did happen.

They drove without a destination now that they didn’t need one, changing course frequently, turning off exits to follow signs for roadside attractions, homestyle meals, and scenic overlooks.

Prairie and forest, coast and desert. He'd traveled these roads before, but he was paying attention now. Everything looked different with Cas sitting by his side, when every glance to his right revealed Cas already looking at him.

Re-heated diner leftovers and slices of pie for breakfast, crumbs on the bed, brown bags in the backseat, lunch breaks at rest stops, sitting on the hood to unwrap grease-stained burger wrappers, kept warm from the sun coming through the car’s windows.

Baby had been his home for years. He'd learned her nooks, her curves, how best to settle on the benchseat and tuck his jacket against the door to wake without a crick in his neck.

Moving into the bunker, he'd claimed a room, made a space for every item he owned: a hook for every weapon, a box for every photo, a hanger for every jacket. The concrete walls and sterile bathrooms meant order, control.

He used to be afraid that if he let one item fall out of place, he'd lose his grip on the delicate thread which held him together.

Crackling radio in Omaha, searching for a station. Cassette-tapes pulled out of a box that he hadn’t rifled through since a time when angels were still a myth, god didn’t exist, and death was always close, but not someone they knew by name. Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica. Then, out of Cas' pocket, his own “Top 13 Zepp Traxxs,” which he was surprised to learn Cas still kept, the words on the label faded.

“It was a gift,” Cas said, tucking the cassette into the deck and turning up the volume.

Busy diners where their food took ages to come to their table and Dean doodled on napkins to pass the time. Stuffed them into his pocket and forgot until he pulled them out while looking for change to pay for gas. A tiny Impala, a sun with dashes for rays, sigils, tiny flowers which Cas had added to the corners.

An argument on I-70 and sixty-two miles of tense silence. "If you don't speak to me, I can't understand," Cas said, voice quiet under the whir of tires on the road.

Dean changed lanes, watched a tarp flap over the bed of a pick-up truck. "I don't know how," he admitted.

Cas let out a breath that sounded like relief. "We'll learn."

He learned Cas liked brightly colored shirts labeled with the names of locations they visited, oversized because tight sleeves made him itch. He learned that the strangely named items on diner menus had backstories that owners behind counters were all too eager to share when Cas prompted them. He learned Cas hovered in doorways as if he was waiting to be invited inside, learned Cas knew every upbeat song playing over the radio in gas stations, had nightmares too, could stay silent for seventy miles then speak a thought aloud that left Dean stunned for seventy more.

He taught Cas how to pass the time on roads that stretched to the horizon. Name a movie for every letter of the alphabet. Name three items you'd take to a deserted island. Name everyone we've lost along the way—he didn't mean to begin talking about them, but they seemed closer than ever before on the open road, under a vast, cloudless sky. The wind whisked their names from their mouths, and Dean liked the idea of them still existing, here, around them.

A map open on his lap, Cas circled every town they stopped at, traced their route with a red pen. Folded and unfolded the page until the creases made the snaking lines nearly illegible. "I want to remember," he told Dean, and Dean traced the creases to feel their route under his finger. The steering wheel was warm under his palms, the diner floors sticky under his boots, the motel sheets stiff when he pulled them back from the headboard, and he told Cas, "Pinch me," in the dark of an eighty-dollar-a-night room. Cas touched his face and kissed him instead.

The rocky coast off of Oregon delighted Cas. He rolled up his pant legs, clutched Dean's hand as they walked unsteadily over the slippery rocks to step into the Pacific Ocean. The wind whipped his hair over his face and he pushed back the strands, grinning back at Dean. Sometimes at night, when Cas slept curled into him, Dean looked at the photo he'd taken of him and wished he had a place of their own to frame it.

Long phone calls to family and friends who told them to take their time, do not disturb signs hung on motel doorknobs, winding backroads and detours. He grew out his hair and told Cas he needed a cut. Cas twisted his fingers through the strands, and mused, "I like it." Dean kept it and noticed the strands curled at the ends.

A sign on the highway in Ohio read, "Hell is Real." He still had nightmares. As cornfields passed, Cas recounted seeing his soul for the first time, and sometimes Dean imagined he remembered the safety of Cas' wings as he pulled him out of the depths of Hades.

Cas got sick in Idaho, complained, voice echoing in the toilet bowl, "I told you that diner was not sanitary." Dean rubbed his back and told him he'd write a scathing review. In West Virginia, over a pile of spilled salt and stale fries that were probably nuked behind the counter, Cas told him he loved him. It wasn't for the first time, but his breath still caught in his throat.

They ate fried okra in Oklahoma City, beignets in New Orleans, and Dean requested Earth Angel on a jukebox in a vinyl and chrome diner in Wisconsin. Slid into the booth to press against Cas' side and watch him fill out postcards. Did you know dinosaurs once roamed where the Rockies now stand? Don't know when we'll be back. We bought new cassettes to add to the collection and I convinced Dean to let me choose the music. Still so much we haven't seen.

The magic fingers bed at the King's Court Motel cost four quarters for fifteen minutes—three more than when he was younger, he griped to Cas. The vibrating massage didn't seem quite as relaxing as he remembered, but maybe he was just used to more magical fingers—this he accompanied with an exaggerated wink which made Cas roll his eyes.

The Impala broke down on Route 66, and the asphalt radiated heat as he ducked under the hood. Cas hovered at his side and he realized he didn't have the tools to fix her.

They ate lunch at a mom-and-pop’s restaurant as they waited for the mechanic to finish, and Cas gave him the pickle from his sandwich. "I'm sorry I never asked you to stay," Dean told him and wished he'd said it earlier. "I never wanted you to leave."

Cas gave him a sad smile. "It's in the past." He tapped his foot against Dean's under the table, and Dean hooked his ankle with his foot.

Cas parted the curtains in every motel they slept in, tilted his face to the sun beaming through the windshield, urged Dean to stop for a cardboard sign reading Fresh Strawberries $2. Reruns of The Three Stooges made Dean laugh until he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, had to catch his breath. This happiness didn't seem so fragile, this time. When they turned on the TV tomorrow night three hundred miles away, The Three Stooges would play into the morning, and when he told Cas he loved him, Cas would say it back.

Crossing over rippling water or curving through wooded land, he and Cas spoke a cabin in the woods, a house on the coast, a home. Dean's head filled with the future instead of the past. Every mile that passed under their tires brought them closer to this dream—or so he thought, until he stopped at a red light, and Cas took his hand, and he realized home sat beside him now.

In a diner in Arkansas, Cas read from a menu, plastic corners curling, and commented, "No matter where we go, every place serves an iceberg wedge salad."

Dean replied, "I think I'm ready to stop driving."

He didn't know where they'd park the Impala for good, but he pictured somewhere with windows, patches of sunlight on the floor. The details didn't matter so much, though, not so long as he had Cas.

"For you to me are the only one," he sang over Robert Plant, glancing at Cas as he turned up the radio, wind whistling through the open windows, road humming under their feet. Happiness, no more be sad, happiness, I'm glad.

[heavenbarnes]

holding out for a hero

Carol Danvers x Female Reader x Bucky Barnes

Warnings/Contains: dirty talk, fingering, squirting, masturbation, degradation (e.g., slut, whore, bitch, the works), slapping (on face as well), semi-public sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, light bondage, dom/sub relationship, blowjobs, facefucking, little bit of spit, sex toys, hair pulling

Word Count: 2.8k

so when i was thinking this up in my head, i was carol and reader was doja cat lmao! but i know that 90% of my readers are little subs so had to tweak it for you all, hope you like x

Carol looked a dream in her suit, the perfect fit for her (it would be, it’s made for her) and her hands in her pockets as she came through the door. It surrounds her, she commands attention as she walked into any room and that wasn’t lost on you as all heads turned towards her.

Thank God for a party, you couldn’t even remember why Tony threw this one but any chance for you to put on a short dress and hang off Carol’s arm was good enough for you. What could you say, your-girl-who-wasn’t-really-your-girl looks good.

So Carol was in your bed just about every night and you called each other girlfriends, but there were blurred lines. Especially when you also end up in Thor’s bed (after you know she’s just left it), and there’s a little bit of make up sex. But it’s whatever, right?

Carol is cool in every sense, you could tell it by the way she walks. But she also dances cool, pulling your ass into her front as you both move to the music. It wasn’t until a couple of girls from another department were pulling you over to dance to the new song that Carol parted from you.

She left you shaking your ass on the dance floor to find the bar. Carol even drank cool, ordering something that’d make you screw your nose up, and taking an easy sip. She could see Bucky in her peripheral but didn’t pay him much mind.

“God damn, you really are a fucking fox, aren’t you?” The words slid off his tongue as he sided up beside her, eyes shamelessly lingering on her figure.

“Yeah, maybe I am.”

Bucky chuckled slightly, bringing his own glass to his lips. “You act all tough but I think you’re just looking for someone to bend you over and put you in your place.”

Carol shot him a look, slightly incredulous. “Maybe you’re looking for me to do the same to you?”

“Yeah, maybe I would let you fuck me in the ass,” Bucky shrugged his shoulder like it was nothing. “But whilst you’re all dominant with the ladies, I bet you’d let me hold you down.”

Carol huffed a laugh through her nose, taking another sip as Bucky’s eyes scanned the room. They landed on you as your dress hiked further up your thighs. “I know you two are a thing but you ever fuck other people?”

Her eyes landed on his, and he offered another shrug, once again like it was nothing. “Yeah, a few.”

“Like who?”

“Like Thor, Steve, Sam, Wanda-“

“Okay, so everyone but me! You must want to complete a full set?”

Carol turned and put her back to the bar, swilling her drink in the bottom of the glass. “If you think she’s going to let me go home with you tonight, you’re even crazier than she is.”

Bucky went to question what she was on about but Carol simply nodded in your direction. That’s when his eyes landed on you, finding you stood in the middle of the room with a look that said you were less than impressed.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go handle this.”

Carol pushed off the bar and made her way over to you, except she kept walking out the door you came in and let you follow behind. Once you got into the hallway, she turned to face you and all the wrath you could muster.

“What the fuck was that? Flirting with Bucky Barnes in front of everyone, in front of me?” Your voice was raising but Carol still seemed cool, looking down at you with an eyebrow raised.

“Hardly flirting, and what do you call that dancing you were doing in Scott’s lap?”

“Oh fuck off, this is about you-“

You threw your arms out in front of you to make contact with Carol but she was too quick, catching your wrists midair with a look of disappointment. She turned both ways to see a few people watching the little spectacle you’d started.

“Honey,” Her voice was low as she dipped down to your ear. “You’re being fucking embarrassing.”

She spun you around, pushing you in front of her and forcing you to walk down the hall. Carol whistled, signaling you to make a left and then another, until she had you in a slightly more secluded part of this very public area.

With one hand, Carol pushed you up against the wall, coming down till she was right in your face. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”

The best you could offer was a pout as her tone and expression was doing it’s best to make the heat rise between your legs.

Carol shook her head, pulling back slightly only to tug the top of your dress down, freeing your breasts for her. “You are such a little whore.”

Her right hand rose and delivered one slap across your face. Embarrassingly enough, your response was to tip your head back and release a throaty moan, pushing your chest towards her.

“For your information, Bucky was talking about fucking me, not that it’s any of your business.”

Another slap and another pathetic moan, as she trailed her hand down to grip your breast. Bringing her hand back, she slapped your chest, only making you squeeze your thighs together tighter.

“But you want to be such a desperate little slut, that this is where we’re at.”

Carol’s left hand slapped you across the face again, whilst her right hiked your dress up to reveal where you’d forgone panties. She tutted at you, like a naughty child. “Fucking slut, I bet this is making you wet.”

Her middle finger ran through your slit and revealed to her what she already knew. You were fucking dripping. She was quick to thrust her two middle fingers deep in you as her other hand tugged at your nipples.

You couldn’t hold back the moans, she was hooking her fingers forward right at the spot and telling you every depraved thing you needed to hear. You didn’t even want her to stop when you heard the footsteps approaching.

“Fucking Christ.”

Both yourself and Carol turned to see Bucky standing in the entryway, watching you getting wrecked on Carol’s fingers. Quickly she turned her head back to you. “You did not just grip around my fingers at that.”

Another slap across your face had Bucky swallowing at the sight in front of him. Carol grew impatient, shooting a look over her shoulder. “Are you coming in here or what?”

Bucky quickly hurried behind her, standing on your other side and watching it all unfold. Carol only sped up her hand as she went back to tweaking at your chest.

“You dirty fucking whore, honey,” She cooed, reveling in the sounds of your cries. “I can feel you fucking soaking my hand.”

You could only babble in response, hips bucking as you rode her fingers. Bucky was just staring, wide eyed and completely overcome.

“Since you seem to like it when people are watching you, maybe I should get my kicks out of this too, huh?" Carol taunted, still lent above you and vigorously rutting her fingers into you.

"Maybe I should give a good girl a call, one that doesn't try pathetic bullshit like you pulled earlier," Her words continued the floods that were headed straight to the meeting of your thighs. "Tie you up on the armchair and make you watch the kind of respect I deserve."

All that came out of you was another one of those heady cries, rolling your hips into her hand and whimpering for her. Bucky just shook his head, right hand running down the length of his face before coming to adjust his trousers.

You could tell he wasn't looking at your face, his eyes were firmly fixed on either your chest or where Carol's hand was making contact with your cunt. Her voice snapped you back to where you belonged.

"Tell me, princess," Carol's chest nearly rumbled as she raised her voice. "I have to hear it from you."

"Yes, Carol!" You cried, knees buckling and fingers grasping at the wall behind you. "I need you to teach me, see another girl treat you right."

Her laugh was so dark, almost as if she was saying "exactly."

"Bucky, get my phone out of my pocket," She spoke, not taking her eyes off you. "Call Wanda on speaker."

And another wanton moan elicited from you by something Carol said, your pussy gripping tight around her fingers. Her thumb rolled around your clit as the dial tone sounded from the phone, before a click.

"Hey, baby." Wanda's blood red voice sounded from the device in Bucky's hand.

"Hey, pretty girl," Carol chimed. "I have my other girl wrapped around my fingers because she's being naughty as hell."

"Oh, needs to be taught a lesson?"

"Of course, what are you doing tomorrow?"

"You, hopefully."

"Good girl, need to teach this one what kind of girl I deserve."

"I'll see you then," Wanda understood time was of the essence as she spat your name. "Hurry up and come, don't leave Carol waiting."

Bucky tucked the phone away, watching as Carol sped up the movements on your clit as your legs definitely began to fail. "You heard her, hurry up and squirt for me, we have places to be."

It didn't take much as she continued to hook her fingers up, one more slap across your cheek and you were done for. Hips careering forward and you felt yourself gushing down your thighs and across the leg of Carol's suit.

You opened your eyes just in time to see Carol placing the fingers that'd just left you, onto Bucky's tongue. "Isn't she sweet as candy?"

As you straightened your dress, all eyes fall to the wet patch just above Carol's knee, the sound of her tutting filling the space. "You're lucky there's a car waiting, else I'd have you licking this up."

The three of you snuck out the back to the waiting car, your cheeks and chest hot from your girlfriend's open palm. You ran your fingertips over the spots, relishing the feeling she'd given you.

As you all piled into the back of the car, you heard Carol advise the driver you needed the partition up. It did nothing for the heat coursing through you, reminding you that this was in no way done yet.

Bucky slid in first, before Carol pushed you in and went in after you. As the car started off, she looked at you expectantly. "Hurry up, get your legs up."

Shuffling back, you spread your legs for them, one over Bucky's thigh and the other over Carol's. Her hands looped in the top of your dress, re-exposing your chest. "Start playing with that pussy, if you haven't come at least once by the time we get home there'll be hell to pay."

Wasting no time, you collected slick before running your fingers back up to circle your clit. You were still so sensitive from her fingers but you knew better than to argue. Your other hand came to tweak at your nipples as you watched Carol move above you.

She lent across where you were working between your thighs, hand grasping Bucky's jaw and pulling him into a kiss just moments before you. Watching her tongue move against his, the sounds they were making, had your hips lifting against your touch.

Carol moved Bucky's metal hand to your chest, his fingers quickly tugging at your nipples as he still moved his lips against your girlfriend. The view was like heaven, the both of them looking so godly and only for your viewing.

Whilst Bucky had a grip on one of your breasts, Carol pulled at your other, rolling it in her palm. It had you arching your back and raising your chest to her touch, cooing for her as her teeth pulled at Bucky’s lip. 

“God, I can’t wait to let you live up to your words,” She breathed against his mouth. “Do everything you said, whilst she’s tied up and watching.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered to you, only slightly acknowledging your existence. “She have a seat in the room? Or would the view be better beneath us?”

You felt yourself pulse beneath your fingers, the thought of watching Bucky pounding Carol right above you nearly too much for you to take. Your cunt clenched around nothing, eager to be filled by just about anything at this point. Carol’s fingers, her strap, Bucky. Whatever was going, you would take it.

As you saw Carol’s hand slipping down to grip Bucky through his pants, you felt your orgasm closing in. He was outlined through the fabric and it didn’t take much to see that he was fucking huge. Not that he often let you forget it.

Bucky had spent a lot of his time siding up alongside you, pressing himself against your ass or your hip, whispering all the dirty things he wanted to do to you - much like he’d done to Carol that evening. You often laughed it off, maybe giving him a cheeky grip against the zipper, but nothing more.

Now all those times you’d turned him down were coming back to bite you. well and truly. Images of being tied up and tossed aside in the bedroom whilst Bucky slammed a metal palm into the center of Carol’s shoulder blades and threw his hips into hers, they were the only thing you’d be treated to tonight.

Pulling up outside your house, Bucky trailed behind as Carol kept your arm bent behind your back. Her chest was tight to you as she hushed a whisper in your ear. “You still enjoying yourself?”

You nodded eagerly, moaning in earnest as you headed up into your shared space. Carol was pleased, for a fleeting moment, before she tightened her grip on you some more. “Course you are, dirty slut.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, big thighs wide spread as he watched Carol fixing the soft-rope to your wrists behind your back. His tongue ran along his bottom lip as you sat bare-naked and ready for any instruction. Carol’s attention was on perfecting her ties but she threw a comment over her shoulder.

“Anything you want to do to her before we start?”

And he was up, quick as anything, making his way to the armchair you were draped over. His fingers skimmed along your cheeks as he watched the way you gently wiggled in your confines. “These lips are usually only good for giving me shit, want to feel them around my cock.”

Carol, who was slipping out of her suit, looked over his shoulder to you. Her eyebrow raised in a look that meant “okay with you?”, so you were quick to nod with your tongue hanging out like a dog. 

Bucky was quick with his zipper, too. His belt clattered to the floor as he shuffled his jeans down his thighs. Gripping his length in his right hand, it was flushed all the way to the tip and already dripping. This was something you’d describe as painfully hard.

Tapping it against your lips, you opened your mouth again and took him in. Your eyes occasionally fluttered to Carol and what she was doing in the background, but as they pricked with tears you focused them back on Bucky. Good tears, tears that ran down your cheeks as he stuffed himself right to the back of your throat.

The gagging noises only spurred him on, the wet sounds of you doing your best to fit him in. Sticking your tongue out, you managed to reach his balls, doing the best you could with no hands. The crop of curls at the base of his cock tickled your nose as he thrust into your face.

“Pull her hair, it makes her sing.” Carol instructed, still busying herself on the other side of the room.

He pulled what he could into his palm and tugged it tight, earning a hum from you that rattled through your throat. It hit him right where he needed it, surging his hips forward and prying a moan from him. You had to hand it to him, Bucky sounded fucking lovely when he was moaning for you. Maybe you needed to get on your knees for him more often.

His thrusts slowed until he was drawing back from you, spit covered cock leaving your mouth, and leaving you flushed thoroughly wrecked. Leaning down to you, he gripped your chin before pressing a kiss to your swollen lips, tapping your cheek gently nearly mimicking what Carol had done earlier.

Speaking of which.

“Right, you’re ready to give her a show?”

Bucky spun around, before stopping in his tracks with a trace of a dumbstruck expression. Despite the pain in your throat, you smiled at them both, leaning back in your chair and spreading your thighs.

Carol stood at the end of the bed, right hand slicking the lube up the length of her strap as she nodded to the bed. 

“Come on Buck,” She grinned. “Arch your back like a good little bitch and get your mouth on her pussy.”

[yeojaa]

GIRL we need a devil in a new suit drabble where jungkook gets jealous pls bless us😭😭❤️

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  kook being hilarious and naive, reader being a little frustrated but head over heels, smut in the form of:  titty sucking (kook is a big boob guy in this), cunnilingus, kook wanting to love you forever.  wc.  2.1k.  author note.  i am... so in love with this couple so what was meant to be a “kook gets jealous and breaks reader’s back” turned into... this.

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t get jealous.  Not because he doesn’t care, or he’s unaffected, or any other negative connotation under the sun.  He doesn’t because he’s him, too soft and sweet and silly to believe the worst in people.  (This, coming from the man who’d steered clear of dating apps and blind dates because he was worried he’d be hurt.)

Once, you’d been waiting for him to pick you - he’d been running late, dinner with his parents and younger sister - and he’d found you chatting politely to an old fling of yours.  Well, maybe not so old.  A recent fling, a friend of sorts.  Someone who’d swanned into your life during your college years and had remained there ever since, popping his head in from time to time. 

You’d always been on good terms, caught up for lunch every six months or so when he’d return home from his overseas job.  In the past, you’d found familiarity in the shape of his hands, the neon outline of his almond eyes and pouting lips.  He was good in bed, as charming between the sheets as he was on the street.

But your heart belonged to Jungkook now - had, before you’d even realised it - and Taewoo was just another guy.  Another face in a crowd.

Still, you’d thought your beloved boyfriend would have some sort of reaction.  Maybe a quirk of his perfectly groomed brows, a certain tightness belying his displeasure in the softly peaked bow of his mouth.  You’d spied neither after extracting yourself from the hug and waving goodbye.  Jungkook had been sunshine and sweetness, opening your door for you and stamping a kiss to your cheek.  

That night, he’d loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.

Another time, you’d been at a work function.  One of those ridiculous galas you loved, full of women in their highest heels and men in their swankiest watches.  (You’d worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.)  

He’d stuck close to your side, far more interested in the way your dress hugged your figure, cut intimidatingly high over your thigh and revealed the swell of your ass at juuuust the right angle.  Yejin had been the only one to tear him away, insisting on shots that you knew she couldn’t handle.  Anything went if free booze was involved.

Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadn’t had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable.  There’d been a garden of colour creeping over the expanse of his chest, peeking around the collar of his shirt and disappearing into his neatly tousled strands.  He’d giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man that’d found you at your table and settled himself into the spot labelled Jeon Jungkook.

The imposter had been affronted, gaze narrowed at the younger man who was a little too loose, a little too smiley.  Wholly out of place at an event like this, where people spent too much time up their own asses, noses held aloft and business cards exchanged.  

(One of the reasons you loved Jungkook so much.  He was a breath of fresh air in a world you thrived in - found humour in, at the very least - carrying you high above the clouds with the sound of his laughter.)

“Hi, baby.”  Your darling boy smothered you in kisses, traced them up and over the exposed expanse of your shoulder, nosing against your skin, utterly unbothered by the man shooting him daggers, wishing him ill from the spot he’d wrongly claimed.  

Of course, he’d thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth you’d almost laughed when he’d spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover.  “I guess that’s my cue to leave, huh?”

You’d smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkook’s nape.  “Looks like it.”

(Then your idiot love - your big-hearted moron, your doe-eyed baby - had come up for air, cheek resting in the palm of his hand.  “Where’s your friend?”  He’d asked, eyes so wide you couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his question.)

Such was the kind of person Jungkook was, with an unwavering belief in the goodness of others, a silver thread outlining everyone’s silhouette.  You sometimes wondered what it would take to drive him to any sort of displeasure, any sort of emotion beyond quiet melancholy (seldom seen but heavily felt, when the rare occasions rose) or easygoing amicability (his default setting).  Not that you’d ever push to see that, of course.

You were happy.  Hopelessly in love.  You wouldn’t have traded him for the world - couldn’t even fathom doing anything to hurt him.  

And yet, you discover albeit by accident - it’s really not that hard.  All it takes is a pretty girl.

“This looks incredible,”  she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back.  It’s the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall.  You’d complimented her on it when you’d stepped into the fitting area, a handful of hangers set across the rolling rack.

Fingers smooth over embroidery, revelling in the feeling of it over your skin.  It’s a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips.  Not Jungkook’s preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a cat’s cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless. 

(You’d confirm, but he’s been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone.  He doesn’t seem very much in the mood to talk, hardly reacting with each outfit change.  A nod here, a smile there.  Not even the most scandalous of the options - a black corset decorated in Leavers lace - had elicited his usual enthusiasm.)  

“You think so?”  You’re not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up.  Still, it’s nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit.  

The sales associate nods, beams at you in the multiple mirrors.  A hand of her own drifts over the thin strap of the slip - an innocent gesture that dislodges wayward strands of hair from beneath.  “Of course— and I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to sell it.” 

You nod, satisfied.  Even if Jungkook doesn’t seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyer’s delight spilling over.  “I’ll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.”  

“Great choices,”  she hums, pulling back the curtain to the adjoining change room to allow you privacy.  Silence follows as you slip the delicate number off, returning it to its hanger.  You don’t expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend.  “Don’t you agree?” 

“Yep.”  He’s never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesn’t mean to.  

It’s a dead giveaway - a confirmation that something’s wrong.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment you’ve stepped out of the dressing stall.  “Jungkookie?”  You mean it quietly, just for the two of you, but falter when he slots his fingers between yours and all but tugs you out of the boutique.  You hardly even have a chance to toss the helpful girl an apologetic smile, imposing glass swinging shut behind you.

“Men—men are fine.  I don’t have to worry about them.”  There’s a confidence you’re so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin.  “No other man is going to love you better than me.  But women?”  A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back.  “Women are scary.”  (It’s a sentiment he’s echoed in the past.  In particular, months ago when you’d insisted he dive into the dating scene.)

Hands thread through his too-soft strands, twirl the ends around your fingers as he speaks, nearly muffled into the crook of your shoulder.  He’s being so tender, giving you all the love he has to offer as he writes his insecurities into your skin, offers them with the wet of his tongue.

“A woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.”

You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away.  It filters loudly into the baies scented candle you’d lit when you’d gotten into his apartment.  

Jungkook whines in response - a terribly endearing sound that makes you roll your eyes but only with affection (always with that) - and buries his face into your tits, sucking your nipple into his mouth with complete disregard for the tulle that acts as a barrier.  Saliva stains the material, makes it stick to your hardened bud as he laves over it with his tongue - bites surprisingly gently - and tugs it just hard enough to have you keening.

“S-s’not funny,”  he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm.  When he continues, he bites into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh.  “She was flirting with you.”  

It’s less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need.  “She was not.”

He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until it’s a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush.  “That’s what you think but she was.”  The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy.  

There’s zero hesitation when he slots his fingers on either side of your clit, catches the delicate pearl against the webbing of his hand and applies pressure that has you bucking beneath him.  It’s not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but it’s just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth. 

“She wants to be the one doing this,”  he continues, saliva pooling across your chest, slipping into the valley of your breasts only to be licked up by the flat of his tongue.  He continues even once you’re clean, skin sticky and a little gross but so erotic it makes you quiver.  Then he descends, pushes the hem of your new slip higher, and licks another stripe from the joint of your thigh up to your belly button.  Repeats it again, moving lower with each pass until he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.  “She wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.”

You reach for his hand - the one somewhere near your ribs, side of his wrist soothing against the ladder of bones - and tangle your fingers together as he drives you mad, tip of his tongue switching between sweet kitten licks and tantalising figure eights.

“Baby,”  you coax, reprimand almost.  Jungkook’s never this lenient, never this sweet on you (not inside the bedroom, at least).  It brings you to a different high, his love folded into lovely origami cranes you tuck into your pockets and the spot you’ve carved out for him within your chest.

“Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t mean literally - refers instead to the sound of your voice when it leaps three octaves, bounces between sultry and singed, burnt at the edges by the fire he brings to life. 

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.”  Despite how the words muffle, come broken between the glide of his tongue within your fluttering walls, you can hear the sincerity in them.  The earnestness that begs you to promise him this simple thing.  “Not for her.  Not for anyone.”  

“I won’t leave you,”  you answer, threading the vow between your fingers as if they’re the thread binding your love story together.  “Not for her - not for anyone.”

[author-morgan]

more halfdan, please? 🥺 he needs more love. could you maybe do something for Halfdan where he's traveling and meets and stays with a fem reader?

bless i am not alone in the simping. have a little fluff for Halfdan, as a treat. Halfdan x fem!Reader

THE HOUR IS late, but the storm raging outside makes it seem far later. Lightning streaks across the sky —Thor striking his hammer on anvil, the clash of iron echoing over the sky. The winds howl, and winds lash, shaking the planks and shingles of the wood and earth home. It’s been years since you’ve endured a storm such as this, and it shows no signs of stopping, having raged on since midday. It would be nearing sundown soon by your reckoning. You pity the poor souls who must endure Thor’s wrath without shelter and a warm hearth.

There’s a deceptive lull in the bedlam, the lightning and thunder subsiding though the wind and rain do not. Pausing in an attempt to tidy up after dinner, you take the moment to urge your daughter to bed. Þóra protests, with it still being so early, but there’s scarcely anything else to do on a dark and stormy evening. It takes a small bribe with half a honey cake and a tale of the gods for her to settle in, eyelids drooping shut —curling into the raised cot lined with wool and pelts. With a long sigh, you rise, having pressed a kiss to her brow.

Stripping down to your linen shift, you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers combing through the knots in your hair —watching water drip down into a bucket at the edge of the room, a leaky roof in need of fixing. You barely hear the knocking above the wailing wind, but when you crack open the door, you find a man looking up from under the hood of his oiled leather cloak. “Refuge from the storm?” The stranger asks. His stringy blond hair clings to his face —hiding part of the dark tattoos on his cheek and forehead— and his dark eyes are warm but dangerous.

Snapping from a trance, you move aside, opening the door farther for him to step into your home. “Of course,” you nod, offering a kindly smile. The gods often showed themselves as weary travelers. He steps over the threshold, untying his cloak, hanging it on an empty hook by the door. Out of the night and the storm, you recognize him as the brother to King Harald —Halfdan the Black— as he stands with water running off his sodden clothes and dripping from his hair. “I’ve some spare clothes,” you tell him, quickly moving behind one of the partitions blocking your bed from the rest of the home.

Rummaging around in the chest kept bedside, you return with a dry tunic and pair of britches in hand. Clothes you have no need of any longer but haven’t the strength to give away yet, so you keep them tucked away with part of your heart. “Please, take these” —you hold them out for Halfdan to take— “elsewise, you’ll catch your death.” He lowers his head in thanks and begins working the ties of his tunic and britches loose. Turning, as not to stare at the lithe muscle spanning his chest, you set the table with a bowl of the pot of stew still simmering over the hearth and a cup of ale. A warm meal always did the belly wonders after being soaked to the bone.

You motion for Halfdan to help himself to the stew and ale, taking his sodden clothes to string up to dry on a line spanning the low hanging rafters. “Far better than pickled fish and salted deer,” he jokes when you slide onto the bench opposite him.

“It’s been years since last I saw you and your brother,” you tell him, pouring a cup of ale for yourself and refilling his cup. You’ve rarely returned to Tamdrup in recent years, and the few times you had gone to market to trade livestock or buy fabric, Harald and Halfdan were scarcely around —too busy conquering and unifying the petty kingdoms under one crown. Once, you might have called the two brothers friends, but those days were long past, and many friendships were lost upon your marriage.

“Harald is why I am caught in this torrent,” Halfdan laments, none too happy about it. The two brothers are rarely parted from one another, but there are times when Harald only trusted one person, aside from himself, to deliver word and accept oaths of fealty. This is one of those times. It’s ill luck that his journey back to Tamdrup has been plagued by storms and exiles who unwisely mistook him for a simple vagabond.

“Well” —you reach across the table, resting your hand over his— “you are most welcome here, Halfdan.” His lips twitch upwards, his hand loosely curling around yours.

“Móðir?” A small voice calls, and then there’s the patter of small feet on the rough wooden floor.

“Þóra,” you sigh, knowing it was a fool’s hope to think she would sleep through the storm and night, especially given the arrival of an unexpected guest. She potters to the table dragging a ragged blanket behind her. Þóra stops, looking between you and Halfdan. Her wide amber eyes are glassy and still heavy with sleep.

“A little shield-maiden,” Halfdan notes, flicking his hair away from his eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. Þóra grins, giggling, swaying on her feet. She’s been bugging you of late about training with her cousins —pointing out if she’s to become as famous as Lagertha, she needs a sword and shield. “Or maybe a princess.”

It surprises you when she goes to him, but Halfdan doesn’t hesitate to lift your daughter onto his knee. He’s not particularly versed with children or women, but he tries his best to be decent company, at least. You see the sharp flash of light through the crack under the door; a heartbeat later, the house rattles —it sounds as though Ragnarök is upon you. Þóra jumps. “It is only Thor, little one,” Halfdan reassures her.

“Is it just the two of you then?” He queries, eyes darting around the single-room home for any signs of Þóra’s father —your husband. His quick search yields nothing besides hastily made arrows, a rusty sword, and a shield with fading orpiment and hematite paint. You glance at your hands —the first wrinkles beginning to show among rough patches from years of doing the duties of both a mother and father.

“My family is not far,” you answer, meeting Halfdan’s curious stare, smiling. It’s a rare occasion when your brothers do not come for a daily visit and to help with the farm labor. Your sister and her husband make sure to come weekly too, bringing their children for Þóra to play with. It’s not always easy, but you make do. Halfdan glances down at the little girl, holding her blanket tight as her head rests on the center of his chest, almost asleep once more. He’s met with your smile, wider than the last, and a silent thank you, though you still see the question lingering in his eyes.

“My husband was killed in the raid on Paris,” you explain, remembering how you waited in the central street of Tamdrup to see your husband return, only to hear he was taken to Valhalla. It was not a day you were like to forget, especially given the little girl holding tight to your hand, waiting to meet her father for the first time.

Halfdan nods. Many women were made widows by Ragnar’s pursuits against his brother. There’s a tingle at his shoulder as he remembers the crossbow bolt that could’ve killed him and the scar it left behind. “He waits for you in Valhalla then.” The encouragement somehow lightens a weight on your chest —that one day you and your beloved will be reunited, but until then, you must care for Þóra and maybe, in time, find someone to love as you once loved your husband.

Þóra is fast asleep by the time you and Halfdan finish reminiscing about the days when you were both younger and twice as foolish. Halfdan lays your daughter down in her small bed made of wool. “Thank you,” you breathe, lightly touching his arm before kneeling to cover her with a wolf pelt and her cherished blanket, parting with a kiss upon her cheek.

“I’ll take the floor,” he offers, reaching for the wool blanket and the pelt draped across your arms —he’s slept in far worse conditions than a warm and dry home.

You shake your head, extending your hand toward the bed. He has been on the road for many days and still has at least four more before. A good night’s rest would do him well. “You are my guest, Halfdan, I insist.”

Halfdan looks between the bed and down at himself —he’s never had the same breadth as other warriors, not even the same as his brother and given the size of the lumpy mattress. There’s mirth shining in his eyes. “I do not take up that much room,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. You laugh softly, knowing this back-and-forth banter could go on the rest of the night. Instead, you fold back the blankets, sliding between them, and gesture for him to take the space next to you.

THERE’S A GLIMMER of light and a low rumble of thunder —the storm is dissipating or at least moving farther away. You stir, feeling a heavy warmth draped across your middle. It takes a moment to remember Halfdan lays next to you, occupying a space that’s been empty for years. You’ve woken him too, or he has failed to find rest. His eyes shine with the embers still glimmering in the hearth, a warm amber —like dark honey or fresh soil. “What is it?” He asks, voice rough and low, hand curling unwittingly around your hip, warm breath hitting your neck and shoulder.

Your heart leaps at the thoughts crossing your mind, but you’re quick to shake them away —it would be improper. “It’s silly,” you whisper. Halfdan raises his brow, and though it’s dark, he can see the flush on your cheeks. “I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since my husband left for Paris,” you admit, eyes flicking down, unable to hold his intense gaze. A piece of him finds it difficult to believe —if he recalls, you had a fair number of willing suitors. He imagines the number has not dwindled should you wish to remarry. Halfdan’s fingers uncurl from your hip, tracing a long line up your arm until he pauses, cupping your cheek —thumb running just under your bottom lip.

He’s so close and warm and handsome, and you can’t help the fluttering in your chest or how your stomach twists. You press your hand against the bare skin of his chest exposed by the tunic’s open neck, unwilling to back down from the newfound boldness. “Halfdan?” He moves closer as if anticipating your next words. “Will you kiss me?” His dark eyes flit down to your lips, and he does. The hand on your cheek slides back into your hair until he leans your head back and kisses you, softly at first, then with a swift increase in intensity that makes you cling to him. His lips are warm and soft, opening you to his insistent mouth, parting your shaking lips, sending wild tremors racing through your veins, and you kiss him back with the same fervor and longing.

You part with a hazy smile —it is good to know you remember how to kiss a man. He presses his forehead against yours, fingers still trailing through your hair. For a moment, you draw back, tracing the intricacies of the blue-black tattoo on his brow and down his cheek, until Halfdan pulls your hand away and draws you into his arms, repaying your kindness by taking away the deep-seated loneliness plaguing your heart, if only for the night.

HALFDAN SLIPS FROM your arms at first light and dresses in his dried clothes, laying the borrowed tunic and britches at the foot of the bed. When he turns back, Þóra is awake and staring up at him with eyes that mirror his own and blond hair to match. Is this what my children will look like? He wonders, crouching down, level with Þóra, and lifts a brow as if to question her intentions. She grins, shoving him back and off-balance, and so begins a silent tussle with kindling stacked by the hearth as swords. “Our battle cries are heard,” Halfdan proclaims from the floor, seeing you emerge from behind the partition. He sits up, brushing back his dirty-blond hair. “This one is a fighter,” he says with no uncertainty. “She should have a sword and shield.”

Þóra clambers over to you, giggling, and you scoop her up into your arms as Halfdan rises, brushing the dust from his shoulders. “We’ll have to see if one of her uncles can fashion her a sword and shield that’s her size,” you concede, seeing no use in denying her dreams. She could be both a farmer and a warrior —just as her hero, Lagertha. Þóra wraps her arms around your neck, hearing the decision.

You share a simple breakfast of smashed berries and brown bread and soft sheep’s milk cheese made in yesterday’s morning hours. And afterward, Halfdan readies to leave, buckling his sword belt and replacing the cloak on his shoulders. He musses Þóra’s hair, leaving her laughing and grinning. “Maybe another storm will bring you back,” you think aloud, leaning against the doorframe, each of you looking at the clear skies left in the wake of the gods' anger.

“Only the gods know,” Halfdan tells you, a glimmer in his dark eyes. He steps toward you, his hand extended —the backs of his fingers brushing across your cheek. It’s unspoken when you both move at the same time, closing the distance. His lips brush yours, hesitant then firmly —unwavering. You draw him closer, hand at the back of his neck, thumb following a raised scar wrapping around his neck. “Though, I do not think it will take Thor’s wrath for me to return,” he whispers upon parting. Smiling, you watch him step back, turning down the path that will lead him to his brother and Tamdrup and the same path that will lead him back to you.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @charming-merlin (because i know you like Halfdan) ]

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Double booking

Word count: 3934

You just want a night in peace at the hotel, after travelling for hours, but alas, it's not to be. Inspired by a dream I had a while ago, though that was not as coherent or logical by any means.

Obligatory English is not my first language.

Please let me know what you think.

_______________________________________________________________________

The bed is soft as a cloud and you crawl under the blanket with a satisfied sight. The chill of the luxury fabric feels divine against your weary body, and you pull our tee off to get the full experience. Goosebumps erupt over your back, and you wiggle down into the mattress. Letting out another sigh that morphs into a yawn, you close your eyes. After hours on the road, a good night's sleep will do wonders.

You turn for a bit, trying to find the ultimate sleeping position, settling for a half side, half stomach that provide that sweet, sweet relief for your achy back. With your free hand, you pull a corner of the blanket between your thighs, longing for the extra soft pillow you have at home, but that you just couldn't be bothered to bring with you. At least this way you won't chafe.

The linen caresses your bare skin, the cool of the newly made bed pulling you closer to dreamland, and then you're drifting off into the vast nothingness.

What feels like only seconds later, you wake with a start, from the lights turning on. Fumbling for your glasses and feeling your heart in your throat, your brain scrambles to make sense of what's happening. Is the fire alarm ringing? No.

Once the glasses are comfortably on, you glance around, only to notice a man standing in front of the wardrobe, mouth half open and a bag slipping from his shoulder. He's tall and menacing looking, and he's wearing gloves and a leather jacket, and you let out a strangled scream as you tumble off the bed, knocking the book from the nightstand and trying to wrap the thin blanket around yourself with trembling hands.

The fabric feels way too flimsy now, letting the draft from the open door wash over your body. There are goosebumps again, but this time they're not pleasant at all, and they wave back and forth over your scalp, making your ears buzz. You're painfully aware that the blanket is the only thing between your skin and the open air, and you pull it even closer as you back into the window wall and pull your knees up in front of you.

Your heart pounds like a bass drum, and you're pretty sure the stranger can hear it across the room. He still hasn't moved, and without conscious thought, you scan the room for an exit. But this is the fifth floor, and there's only one door that doesn't require you to go past him, and that leads to the neighbouring room. Not that it is, in any way, shape, or form, possible to get that far in your current condition.

Your breathing speeds up, and you crouch, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The coarse curtain prickles against your shoulders.

The stranger looks between you and the white key card on his hand, his mouth trying to speak, but managing no sound. Finally, after what feels like years, he looks away and stammers. "Sorry. Sorry. I must have gone to the wrong door." His neck has turned a deep shade of crimson, and he hunches his shoulders a bit, like he's trying to make himself smaller too. "I… uh, sorry." He picks up his bag and disappears through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

On the floor, you're barely aware that he spoke; the shock has practically paralysed you. It's not until the door smacks shut you manage to move again. Slowly, fighting the galloping heart and breathing, you get up and sit down on the edge of the bed. It's no longer tempting to crawl under the covers, and you don't have the courage to cross the room to put the security chain in place just yet. The encounter has spooked you so much, adrenaline is coursing through your body.

"I need a drink!" you mutter, voice croaking and airy at the same time, and pull on the discarded shirt. There's no chance of sleep for a while. That much is clear! "Idiot!" You berate yourself, mentally slapping the back of your own head for forgetting to fasten the chain, but you had been so busy worrying about the twin door that it completely slipped your mind.

The selection in the mini fridge is limited, but at least there's a couple of bottles of cola, and a small vodka. After mixing them, you down half the glass in one go, and the burn of the alcohol on your tongue makes your face scrunch, but you immediately relax a bit, and your thoughts clear somewhat. What the hell just happened? This is supposed to be a good hotel. Not very fancy, but better than the bug infested dumps you usually have to stay in.

You make a mental note to talk to the management. Tomorrow. Right now you're to riled up. Nothing good will come of it. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and focus on the buzzing in your ears. Slowly it fades until your hearing is back to normal, but there is no getting rid of the uncomfortable sting in your shoulders, or the occasional THUMP-THUMP in your chest.

As you finish your drink – you've almost decided on a second one to keep you company while you read for a bit – there's a sharp knock at the door. That makes you jump and spill the remains of your glass down your front. That doesn't register, though, because the door opens again, without waiting for a reply. You groan at yourself for once again not fastening the safety chain.

A stern looking woman enter, followed by the stranger, who, you notice, looks almost ashamed. "You're in this gentleman's room." It's a statement, but she might as well have yelled why are you here, you creep?

"Um, what?" You desperately try to jump-start your brain; this is definitely enough excitement for one night. After all, it is past midnight, and by all means you should be sleeping now.

"This is not your room," the woman says, in a voice that shows clearly what she thinks of you.

A frown appears on the man's face, and you squint between them. "What, yes it is." Your voice is breathy, and with a sigh through your nose, you grab the folder on the desk and pull out the papers from the check-in. "See, here? This is my name, that's the room number –" Suddenly your stomach plummets. What if you are in the wrong room? But the key card worked… A glance at the still open door – no, right room. You let out a small breath.

The woman grabs the papers and studies them, while holding out her hand to the man, wiggling her fingers when he doesn't respond. He fumbles with his bag and produces a set of identical papers. She compares the two, the furrow between her eyes deepening every second.

Finally she looks up. "My apologies. It appears there's been a misunderstanding," she says, her voice a lot softer than earlier, tired. She turns to the man behind her. "The room has been double booked or something."

That much is obvious. He nods. "Yes. Will you find me another room, please." He speaks softly too, and the panic that threatened to overcome you earlier subsides a little. He is just another weary traveller – of course he isn't here to hurt you. That thought seems quite silly now, or maybe that's the drink talking.

"Sorry," the lady says flatly. "There are no vacancies." She winces slightly, as if she prepares to be yelled at.

His shoulders slump, and he lets out a small groan, looking at you, then at her. "But…"

You smile apologetically and take another sip of your drink. It is empty, and you grimace from the embarrassment.

"However," the woman says after a pause, visibly relieved that neither of you seems to be the shouting types, "since it's so late, and you probably won't find a room anywhere else tonight, what with the festival and everything, I can probably set up something in the lobby. We have a few partition walls and –"

He scrunches his eyes shut and grimaces, and you feel sorry for him. He is a stranger, and you were in the room first, but it's not his fault that the hotel screwed up. Sleeping in the lobby is not an alternative. Your mother raised you better than that.

"Wait," you interrupt her, and they both turn to look at you. This is probably a bad idea, but the man looks nice enough now that the shock has diminished. His eyes are kind and tired and though he holds himself with authority, he keeps a respectable distance from both you and the other woman.

Gesturing to the unused bed next to yours, you try a smile and sigh when you feel it's just a grimace. "If… if it's okay with you, it is with me. You can have that bed tonight. And then we'll sort it out in the morning."

The woman's face relaxes, and you wonder how many rules she offered to break to keep you happy. The man frowns, as if he doesn't quite understand what you're offering. Maybe he doesn't, maybe he doesn't speak English very well. Then he gives you a flat smile. "You sure?"

Are you? "Yes," you answer, not at all sure, but it's too late to change your mind now.

"Well then, I bid you both a good night, and I'll leave a note for the morning staff, Mr Barnes." The woman leaves the room and shuts the door with a soft click.

"Y/N." You nod, hoping you look relatively normal, though you feel everything but, with your glasses askew on your nose, a tattered t-shirt and no bottoms. Awesome. At least the shirt is long enough to cover your butt.

The man remains by the door, looking forlorn and confused. "Bucky." He looks everywhere but directly at you, and for that you're grateful.

"Please," you say with a small nod, gesturing to the bed and the light switch on the wall beside him. "I'm really tired…"

Carefully you get back into bed and tucks the blanket tight around yourself, feeling a bit dizzy from what just happened. But you are really too tired to care at the moment, and the soft pillows are screaming your name.

Turning over on your side, with your back against the windows, you pointedly yawn and close your eyes to give the stranger some privacy. Seconds later you hear the soft thump of a duffel bag hitting the carpet, and a small click. Then the bathroom door opens and the man shuffles in.

As the door shuts, you dare to open your eyes again. He's switched off the light, but there's a small sliver leaking under the door, and you see shadows move over the floor. There is something soothing about the noises of running water and the clacks of his belongings on the marble countertop, and it suddenly occurs to you how much you miss travelling withsomeone.

Once he's done and the bathroom door opens, you close your eyes again. The bed creaks under his weight, and the sheets rustle as he gets in. Something heavy hits the headboard, but not long after, he settles.

You sneak a peek through half-open eyes. The man is handsome. Sharp, but gentle features, a calm face, but he's lying on his back, stiff as if he's unused to the luxuries of a bed. His arms are on top of the blanket, and in your sleepiness you wonder why he's keeping his gloves on when he's sleeping.

"Good night," you offer gently, before sighing and pulling the blanket over your ears. The warmth and muted sounds give you a sense of safety, though it is minimal.

"Good night," he replies. "And thank you."

You wake up earlier than usual. The red numbers on the alarm clock blinks 06.38. Something feels off in the room, and for a fraction on a second you feel panic rise in your chest, but then you remember the night's events. The panic fades into a vague discomfort, and you grab your glasses. The man, his name is Bucky, hadn't he said so, is still sleeping, his gloved hand under the pillow and one foot dangling over the edge of the bed. It's kinda adorable.

As quietly as you can, you get out of bed and tip-toe to the bathroom, collecting your clothes on the way. You quickly change and put on contacts, leaving the glasses by the sink, not really daring to take a shower with the stranger in the room next to you. Instead, you splash water in your face and drag a brush through your hair, and with a short glance in the mirror, you deem yourself presentable.

Careful to bring your wallet and your key card, you exit the room and walk briskly to the elevator. The trip down to the lobby only take half a minute, but it feels like an eternity, and once you step out of the door, you're met with a buzz of voices from the lobby. Oh, yeah, the festival.

Luckily there's not much of a queue. Most people are on their way out, or to breakfast. The staff are too happy and smiling for it to be this early, and they're chatting and laughing with the guests, pointing their way to the restaurant or showing places of interest on the map on the counter.

"Good morning, what can I do for you?" one of the receptionists chirp.

You wince internally and focus on bringing a neutral expression to your face. It's not easy, as you'd rather be back in bed. "Yes, uh, I don't know if the night employee let you know, but there was a mix-up with my room last night."

The receptionist frowns, then smiles apologetically. "Ah, yes. There's a note here. Room 508, right?"

You nod. "Yeah."

He calls over his colleague, and motions for you to wait a moment. They talk silently together, sometimes gesturing to the screen, and then he starts typing and scrolling. "Looks like," he says, interrupting himself. "Yeah. Oh god. Lisa, will you look at this?"

His colleague looks at the screen over his shoulder. "Oh, jeez. Really? She's so gonna get fired, for sure," she mutters, then look up at you. "Yeah, so there's definitely been a mix-up. It looks like housekeeping accidentally marked Mr. Barnes' room as occupied when they had cleaned it. It shouldn't be possible, but to me it looks like… a glitch in the computer system –" She lets out a guttural groan, most likely thinking about the amount of work she now faces.

The one behind the screen clears his throat and gives you what is probably supposed to be a disarming smile, then continues to type. "So, I've updated the database with Mr. Barnes' new room, and yours of course. Would you accept a refund of the night, and a meal in the restaurant, free of charge, of course?"

You nod again, unable to find the words to express how not okay this whole thing has been. "If you offer the same to Mr. Barnes," you say, not sure where that comes from, though when you think about it, he's probably had just as rough a night as you.

"Of course. Here's his new key. Would you mind bringing it to him?" The receptionist's voice trembles ever so slightly, but he keeps the smile plastered on.

"Yeah. I can do that. Thank you for figuring out what happened." You inhale deeply, and rub the back of your neck. Your shoulders are stiff and the beginning of a headache murmurs along your temples.

Now that everything is resolved, you feel weirdly chunky. You drag your feet, your head feels like it's filled with cotton, but there's a lightness to your chest that you hadn't expected.

Back in the room, Bucky is still sleeping, and you decide to let him sleep as long as he needs, feeling almost protective over the man that sleeps so peacefully in the bed that should have been empty. Anyway, you're up now, there's no need to stay in the room. Just then, your stomach growls. Breakfast, then. And after that… Well, you'll see. You hastily scribble an explanation on a piece of paper, leaving it on his bag along with the new key card, then you hang a do not disturb on the door before you hurry down to the restaurant.

When you get back, stomach full and head light, the room is empty. His bag is gone and the only sign someone's been in there is a bed with rumpled sheets and the slightly unfamiliar, sleepy scent. You sit down on your own bed, surprised that you're not sure how you feel about being alone again. It's probably the shock still lingering in your system, you think, and shake the feeling off before picking up your art supplies and heading out into the city to work.

That afternoon, when you return to your room to change and relax before you start sorting through the day's drawings, there's a vase with hydrangeas on the small desk, along with a handwritten note that says thank you for letting me stay. The ball of blue and purple flowers makes you smile. Bucky obviously is a decent man, and you find yourself wishing you could get to know him, regretting not even peeking at the room number on the key.

It doesn't take long going through the drawings – you've been too distracted, really, to get any good ones done, and the project isn't due for another two weeks, so you don't have the pressure on you to finish it now, so you decide to take the hotel's offer and have dinner in the restaurant. It's a nice place, and you try to tidy up a bit, refreshing your make-up and putting on a clean top that feels nice against your skin.

The waiters all but trip over each other trying to please you, and you figure there's a nice note going with your name. You've always felt a bit uncomfortable eating by yourself in a fancy restaurant, but this time you're determined to just enjoy it, but you've brought a book just in case. And you're partly hidden behind a palm tree, so no staring from other guests, hopefully.

You're halfway through the meal when you feel your face tingling, as if someone's watching you. Stopping mid-chew, you look up. There's no one there. You swallow and put your fork down before glancing over your shoulder. Bucky is seated three tables behind you, but when you look at him, he looks away. Your heart speeds up a bit – christ! You'd forgotten how pretty he was.

He looks up again, and you smile before returning to your meal. At least you can let him know there's no hard feelings. Maybe, if you see him again, you'll pick up the courage to talk to him too.

The food is delicious, and the dessert is simply sublime. How the chef has managed to make the chocolate mousse so creamy and light is beyond your comprehension. Cooking has never been a strength, though you have a few signature dishes, but you know how to appreciate it. The red wine is perfectly paired, and when you're full and satisfied, you're almost ready to go talk to Bucky. But he's not there when you turn. Your heart drops for a moment, but then you remind yourself that he's a stranger, and probably has his own life. All you can do to quench the disappointment, is a short detour through the bar, where you pick up a nice gin fizz, before you head back to your room and call it a night.

The room feels too empty now. The bed is just as soft as it were before, the covers slide over your skin like water, but something is missing. You can't sleep. The room is too silent. The air is too still. You toss and turn and can't seem to find a comfortable position. In the end you roll over on your side, facing the empty bed. Hugging the pillow, you sigh and pull your knees up to your chest. It's too cold. The blanket isn't thick enough to give enough comfort tonight.

Suddenly there's a soft knock on the door. Your heart beats hard in your chest as you cross the floor to look through the peephole. The hallway is empty.

There's another knock, and you jump, bumping your head against the door. It's coming from the other one. The twin door. Slowly, you remove the safety chain and unlock it, opening it just an inch or so.

"Sorry," the person on the other side says.

For a moment you forget how to breathe. The person on the other side is Bucky, smiling sheepishy, and looking like a fucking model in his pyjamas.

"Hello," you answer, resisting the urge to smooth down your t-shirt.

"I just, I just wanted to apologise," he stutters, scrunching his eyebrow together. "For, for last night. I didn't mean to… I mean, I didn't mean to scare you, and the lady in the reception jumped to conclusions before I could explain, and…"

You blink and exhale slowly. "Not your fault," you mutter, too drunk on his presence to articulate properly.

"I know, but still. I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."

"Good. Okay." His voice drags a bit, and it looks like he's turning away. You're just about to close the door when he turns back. "Listen… Uh, it's… Can I ask you a favour?"

Not ready for the conversation to be over yet, you nod. "Of course. What do you need?"

He grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck and hems and ums for a while. "This is gonna sound… You can say no, of course, but…"

"What is it?" The buzzing has returned to your ears, and you have to focus to hear what he's saying.

Bucky mutters under his breath, it looks like a screw it. "Last night was the best night's sleep I've had in, well years. I was wondering, maybe, if… if I could sleep in your room again."

You're a bit taken back by that. "What?" Your voice is squeaky.

"Yeah, no, of course, I understand." He smiles and inhales deeply. "Good night, Y/N."

It takes a second for your brain to unscramble. "Wait. Yes, I don't mind. It's nice with some company," you wheeze, holding the door open, though a small voice in the back of your head tells you that this is crazy. Not crazier than last night, you interrupt yourself, and open the door fully.

There's uncertainty in his steps as he enters your room, invited this time, unsure if he's heard correctly, but your smile makes him warm inside and he quickly crawls under the covers.

You leave the door ajar, and with a giddy smile and a racing heart you return to your own bed, climbing in with more grace than you thought you possessed. This is nice. The room is settled, it feels natural. You exhale and turn over on your side, facing Bucky. He's facing you too, and there's a sleepy smile in his eyes. As you place your glasses on the nightstand, he closes his eyes.

"Thank you," he breathes.

"Sleep tight, Bucky," you answer, but he's already drifted off, soft snores filling the room. You feel oddly at peace.

Part 2

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

When My Back Was Turned (Ezio Auditore X Reader)

Words: 3645

Warnings/Themes: Injury, Violence, Blood, Not Quite Character Death, Angst, Fluff

Characters/Pairings: Ezio x Reader, Claudia, Mario, Maria (briefly mentioned)

A/N: This is just something I’ve been working on and finally decided to post. I almost didn’t. This isn’t the whole story that I wrote, there is more to the ending, but it felt too rushed for me to want to post it. Some background information for this one, I imagined the reader/ this character as ten years younger than Ezio. And in a form of self-indulgence, she comes from a world where AC is just a game, but I imagine it also has it’s version of Templars and Assassins that no one knows about. Thanks for reading!

They limped up to the villa, having abandoned their horses at the stables at the entrance to the village. Eyes had been glued to the battered pair from the moment they had approached. He wasn’t as badly beaten as she was, only sporting a split lip, a sprained wrist, and various cuts and bruises. He held her upright with an arm gently around her waist. He didn’t want to jostle her bruised, possibly fractured, ribs or her recently dislocated shoulder. She was bleeding from multiple wounds along her face and hands.

They were on their way to what was supposed to be a simple visit to Monteriggioni that turned into an ambush by some mountain bandits. Ezio had made it out relatively well and was already running away, thinking that his wife was just behind him. However, her shout of surprise told him otherwise.

As she had been about to follow him, a couple bandits grabbed her. And before she knew it, they had shoved her over the cliff face. It felt like she had rolled for hours when it had been mere seconds before her hand grabbed onto a young tree sprouting from the rock. It groaned and cracked under her added weight and threatened to break. Upon catching herself, her already damaged body smacked the rock and a sickening pop sounded as her arm left its socket.

Ezio had immediately jumped into action, swiftly dispatching the remaining attackers, and rushing to the cliff's edge. His heart hammered in his chest at the sight of her clinging to that sapling for dear life. She was too far down for him to grab her and she definitely wouldn’t be able to climb back up with her shoulder. Thinking fast, he stripped the cloaks and capes from the fallen bandits and tied them together into a makeshift rope. She could barely keep a hold of it as he pulled her back up to safety.

He held her close to him, petting her sweaty and bloody hair. He whispered comforting words to her as she shook against him. He knew she was scared of heights and falling, the reason for her refusing to free-run on certain buildings and to do a Leap of Faith, unless absolutely necessary. However, in this situation, she hadn’t been in control and it terrified her.

Once she had quieted down, Ezio sat her up properly and told her he needed to reset her shoulder. She had nodded somberly and let him pop it back into place without a peep. Ezio almost found it amusing how she can take the pain of a dislocated shoulder with only a wince, but she couldn’t handle heights. But now wasn’t the time to tease her.

Recovering their horses that had run off with their packs, the pair made their way back to Monteriggioni.

A doctor was already waiting for them as they entered the villa, some kind villager sending for one when they saw the two. Mario and Claudia stood with the doctor, the older female’s hands over her mouth, and Y/N was practically unconscious by the time they made it to the trio.

Mario swept up to take the woman into his arms, allowing Ezio to cradle his wrist and follow them into their shared room. (Y/n) was placed gently on the bed and the doctor immediately began his treatment. Ezio collapsed into the chair at the foot of the bed, his armor digging uncomfortably into his flesh.

“What happened?” Mario began his interrogation before Ezio could get his bearings. Shaking his head, Ezio began to carefully remove his armor. Claudia was already helping the doctor remove (Y/n)’s, who moaned in pain. The younger man’s eyes fixed on her at the sound.

Seeing that his nephew was not going to answer him now, Mario rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Until (Y/n) was cared for and out of danger, Mario knew Ezio wouldn’t speak to anyone about the mission. This wasn’t the first time this has happened, but it is the worst condition either of them had been in in a long time.

“Once you two are rested, meet me in my office to discuss what happened.” Mario placed a hand on Ezio’s shoulder, squeezing gently. The younger man simply nodded, not wanting to take his eyes off his wife.

Nearly an hour later, (Y/n)’s wounds were patched up and Claudia had changed her into a loose shirt and pants. Ezio’s wrist had been wrapped and put into a sling and his lip cared for. He had moved his chair to be right next to her as she slept, tucked into the bed and her favorite blanket pulled up to her nose, just the way she liked it. He wished he could curl up with her in that bed, but on doctor’s orders, she was not to be moved around too much or her ribs would not heal properly.

Ezio knew he should probably go find his uncle but speaking to anyone and leaving his wife’s side didn’t sound very appealing. So he sat in his chair, watching as her eyes flickered behind her eyelids. She must be having a bad dream. As she often does after a particularly bad mission.

He reached over and stroked her cheek with his good hand, smiling softly when she nuzzled into his hand. She would probably wake in the morning grumpy and very hungry. An angel when she was asleep but a terrifying beast upon awakening. Ezio smiled wider at the thought. She would definitely kill him had she known his thoughts.

At some point in the late evening, Claudia knocked and left some food on the table next to him, squeezing his shoulder and telling him to eat and rest. He nodded and picked at the food. The roasted duck didn’t quite smell or taste as appealing as it did when he wasn’t consumed with worry.

Many times has he tried to convince his wife to retire from Assassin duties, to stay safe and live life to the fullest while she was still young. But those conversations usually ended with him sleeping on the floor and her not speaking to him for a full evening. How dare he think that she would ever let him face the dangers they did alone.

After eating as much as he could stomach, he carefully stripped from his robes and stepped behind the partition in the room. A tub filled with water sat in the corner, filled earlier with hot water by a maid. By now the water was less than lukewarm, but he hardly felt it as he lowered himself in. She had already been cleaned by Claudia with a cloth and a basin of water.

The partition was positioned so he could still see her on the bed when he leaned back. On his own terms, he would have just climbed into bed after changing into a sleeping shirt, but since he began courting her, she always refuses him to enter her bed unless clean.

‘I don’t want my bed smelling like blood, metal, and sweat!’ She had yelled at him early on in their relationship. No matter where they were if there was a bed, she had to be clean before entering it. He figured it came from whatever futuristic upbringing she had.

He still vividly remembers that day, he had just brought the Apple to Leonardo’s workshop with his uncle and Niccolò for the artist to study. When Leonardo had reached out to touch it a bright, golden light engulfed the room and a figure fell from thin air. Ezio had rushed forward to catch the person.

She was unconscious and dressed in strange clothes. But he wouldn’t lie, this stranger was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. In the next few days they had found out she came from a different world, far in the future. She had been tasked by a being called Minerva to guide Ezio on his journey.

Six years had now gone by and she had since become a master assassin and his wife. His gaze fell down to his bruised knuckles. A gold wedding band laid just above one, on his left ring finger. He didn’t normally wear it on missions but seeing as how this was supposed to be just a visit back to Monteriggioni, he had worn it proudly. It had a red smudge of blood on it. Removing it from his finger, he washed it in the waters.

Finishing up in the tub, he threw on a sleeping shirt and stepped quietly over to the bed. He was always hesitant when sleeping with her when she was injured. He was either a fitful sleeper or a cuddler. Neither one is very good for her injured state. But he knew she wouldn’t rest as well without him next to her. So being cautious, he placed a few pillows between them before fully settling in. He laid on his side, careful of his wrist, and gently stroked a knuckle across her soft cheek.  

Her lips quirked up and she turned her head to nuzzle into his hand. He let a gentle smile take over his face. Even battered and weary, she still found a reason to smile. Pride swelled in his chest at being the reason for her smiles most of the time. A truly beautiful thing to behold.

“Buonanotte, amore mio.” He withdrew his hand, but let it rest on her stomach. As his eyes closed, he felt calloused fingers wrap around his.

“Buonanotte, Bello.” Her voice was raspy and quiet, but it was still the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

________________________________________________________________

A knock to the solid wood door roused him from his dreamless sleep. As predicted, he had moved a lot in his sleep. Now he laid on his back, arms sprawled out and one leg tossed over the barrier of pillows, his foot tucked under her leg. The sheets had bunched around his waist and the duvet tossed over her slumbering body. Drool was crusted to the side of his mouth and his hair was in disarray. She, of course, looked positively heavenly, despite her injuries.

Rising from the bed, Ezio straightened his appearance and moved to the door as a second knock sounded. The kind Doctor from the previous day had returned, most likely to change her bandages. Behind the elderly man was Claudia, a tray with fruits, bread, and two small bowls of soup on it.

“Ah, Dottore, Buongiorno. Come in.” Ezio stepped to the side, letting the two into the room. He excused himself to behind the partition to change into more presentable clothes. It was somewhat difficult with only one good arm, but he managed. After struggling to button his shirt up with one hand he gave up, stepping out from the partition. Claudia rolled her eyes and buttoned his shirt up for him.

“Nothing but a child.” She grumbled, poking him roughly in the chest. He chuckled, rubbing the spot.

“Careful, Claudia, I still have uses for him.” A raspy voice came from the bed. Claudia’s attention snapped over to her sister-in-law.

“(Y/N)!” The siblings rushed to the bed, leaving enough space for the doctor. “How are you feeling?” Claudia questioned. The younger woman gave a pained smile as the Doctor peeled back the bandage on one of her deeper wounds.

“Like hell, to be honest. And I’d kill for some ibuprofen…” She bit her lip and pressed her head further into the pillows when the doctor dabbed an alcohol-soaked rag into the wound. Ezio took a step closer, worry flooding his veins. He truly hated seeing her in such a state. He was beating himself up inside for not getting to her sooner.

“I can give you a poultice to take the edge away around your ribs.” The doctor began rewrapping her wounds. “I’d advise you twist or move around as little as possible for the next few weeks to give your ribs time to heal, and only wear loose clothing. Your other bandages must be changed every eight hours.”

“Grazie, Dottore.” The woman nodded in appreciation. The doctor smiled and set a small jar of the poultice on the bedside table. After giving a few instructions on the next few weeks of healing, he bid the three farewell and departed.

“I’m glad you’re already doing better, mia sorella.” Claudia sat on the edge of the bed, taking Y/N’s hand in hers. “You had me worried sick seeing you return like that.” She lightly scolded.

“Sorry, Claudia. Next time I’ll tell those bandits to not attack us. Just because you worry about me.” Y/N smiled.

“Piccola merda.” The two women laughed, only to be cut off from the grunt of pain from the junior. Ezio finally stepped forward, still silent as before. He took the jar and removed the lid, setting it on the table.

Claudia stood up out of the way of the man on a mission. His face was drawn into a concentrated frown and he refused to look at his wife’s scratched-up face. With stiff and precise movements, he pulled up her shirt to just under her breast. Her skin was a vivid purple, the bruise forming overnight. His brows furrowed deeper at the sight.

His sister excused herself, sensing that the two needed to talk. But not before directing her brother to make sure to feed his wife the soup she had brought. He merely grunted in response, dipping two fingers into the greasy concoction.

Despite his angry demeanor and calloused hands, his touch was feather-light on her skin as he spread the poultice on her ribs. Her eyes didn’t leave his face as he worked. It had been so long that either one of them had been injured like this that Ezio was having a hard time controlling his emotions.

“Bello…” Her voice was just a whisper, but it had his finger freezing over her skin. He sniffed and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands clean. “Ezio. Look at me.” Her fingers closed around his wrist, tugging him down to sit next to her. He slowly brought his eyes up to meet hers. And the tears immediately sprung to his eyes.

“Oh, my love…” Her own vision blurred with tears and she threaded her fingers with his. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

“I should have been faster… I should have made sure you were following me…I’m so sorry, mia bella.” He covered his face with his free hand, the other squeezing her fingers. His chest constricted with suppressed sobs.

“Ezio.” Her voice was soft but stern. He managed to look at her again. “This is not your fault. You had no way of knowing what was going to happen, not even your sixth sense could have predicted this… I don’t blame you for this happening, so I don’t want you to blame yourself either.”

He sniffled and wiped the tears from his face.

“And besides, I promised to kick the ass of anyone who wronged you. So don’t make me kick your ass when I get out of this bed.” She gave him her signature lopsided grin. He let a laugh escape him despite the want to sob instead.

“Now, I’m starving, so help me sit up.”

“Sì, Signora.” Ezio helped her up and placed the tray of food in her lap. There was just enough for the two of them. They ate in silence for a few minutes, not realizing how hungry they were.

“The real tragedy here though is that I think I lost my hairpin down the side of that cliff.” She pouted as she popped a strawberry into her mouth. The dainty gold hairpin had been an anniversary gift from Ezio two years ago and she wore it every time they took a break.

Ezio chuckled. “I shall buy you all the hairpins until the void of missing that one is filled.”

“Oh, my dear, I fear your wallet will weep. As it may take all the hairpins in the world for the hole in my chest to be filled.” She feigned distress, pressing the back of her bandaged hand to her forehead.

A yawn suddenly forced its way from her, stretching her chest painfully.

“You should sleep, it will help you heal.” Ezio cleared the tray and set it next to the door. His wrist twinged. He almost forgot his own injury. Despite the pain though, he once again helped his wife lay down and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Her eyes batted slowly up at him; her lips pursed ever so slightly. He huffed a laugh and bent down to press a slow kiss to her waiting lips.

“I will be back before you wake again, mia bella.” After kissing her forehead, he made sure she closed her eyes then left the room. He had to report to his uncle about the attack. Not something he looked forward to.

________________________________________________________________

It took a little less than six weeks for her to be fully healed. Her ribs still twinged dully when she twisted wrong, but daily stretches were quickly strengthening her muscles again. Ezio had finally broken his moody attitude now that she was up and walking.

The pair had stayed in Monteriggioni while she healed but constantly corresponded with the others in the Brotherhood. But today, the two were finally returning to Venezia to continue their search for Savonarola and The Apple.

She knew Ezio was anxious to resume their search, but despite being injured, she was glad they had somewhat of a break. She knew it would be around this time that Savonarola would be making his way into Firenze to steal control from the Medici. In the next three years, they will be storming the city to take down the corrupt monk. And then they won’t have a moment to breathe.

“Tesoro, are you ready to go?” Ezio’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. She smiled up at her husband and nodded. They were already packed and had their horses ready for the long journey. She hugged Mario, Claudia, and Maria goodbye as they met them at the town's entrance. She mounted her horse, Ezio on his horse trotting up next to her.

Waving, the pair left the town. And for the next eight years, they fought tooth and nail against the Templars. They defeated Savonarola, regained the apple, took down Rodrigo, and returned to Monteriggioni. Got run out of said town and came to Rome. Together, they began the rebellion against Cesare, starting with destroying the machines he forced Leonardo to make for him.

The two had destroyed all but one, the naval cannon. Following the engineer and getting past the guards was the easy part. Burning the blueprints was also easy. But when it came to actually destroying the machine and the naval fleet, that had proved to be more difficult.

Ezio rowed the gondola while she manned the Cannon. And slowly but surely, they dispatched the large ships. They had survived a few near-hits, the small boat rocking violently, the ropes and extra ammunition sliding around on the floor.

She cheered as the last ship went down in flames, Ezio breathlessly laughing next to her. His arms were on fire from rowing.

Y/N turned the Cannon, facing down onto itself. She looked over to her husband with a grin. “Would you care to do the honors, messere?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Ezio wrapped his hand around the firing mechanism, “Perdonatemi, Leonardo.” He pulled back on the lever and they both turned to dive off the side of the boat.

But as she had said once, many years ago, they could not have predicted this.

As the boat had been rocking from enemy fire, and she moved around, a rope had looped itself into the perfect snare around her foot. When she jumped from the boat, it tightened, the other end is tied off on the metal machine. She had dived perfectly, was swimming next to Ezio as the explosion went off.

And then she was yanked back.

As the Cannon sunk to the bottom of the bay the rope tightened even more around her leg. She was quickly running out of air as she tried to free herself. Her hidden blade picked the wrong time to jam, if only she cleaned it as often as she should have.

Ezio was just about to break the surface when he turned to look at her. And his blood went as cold as the water around him. Managing to take a deep breath at the surface, he dove back down, swimming as fast as he could. She was sinking fast, faster than he could keep up. He watched desperately as she finally gave up, looking up at him and giving him an apologetic smile.

“NO!” The word only came out as a bubbled scream, mixing with the last bit of air leaving her body. Her eyes slipped shut and she descended into the dark depths. Out of his vision.

Not caring about his swiftly depleting oxygen supply, Ezio continued to swim after her. His lungs burned and his arms and legs grew slower. Just when he thought he was going to pass out as well, a bright golden light illuminated the bay, he could see the outline of the Cannon as it sunk. But not her.

The ache in his chest became too much and his body moved to the surface on its own. His head broke the surface and he gasped for air. His body was filled with relief, but his mind was a typhoon of emotions. Panic, confusion, grief.

He knew that light, he had seen it fourteen years ago when she first entered this world.

And just as she had come, she disappeared just as quickly.

[needcake]

whumptober 2021, day 3: taunting

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The King of Northern Lusitania.

That was what his Marshal claimed to be now that he had taken the country without resistance.

France could barely conceal his disgust. The Marshal, standing by the window of a house he had confiscated from a noble family that had fled to Brazil along with the court, seemed to have forgotten for a moment that, although he had been appointed Ambassador to Portugal in the years before the invasion, he was far, far, from the succession line of the new country they would create after partitioning Portugal into three, and that this insubordination would not go unnoticed once the news of his claims reached Paris.

But this was a matter for another time. His last conversation with Spain before coming to Lisbon had left him with a persistent headache and his patience was wearing a little too thin.

“Is he here?” he limited himself to ask and the Marshal informed him that no, the man he wanted had been moved to another location after his last escape attempt. “Take me to him, then.”

He cared very little for the thoughts the Marshal was entertaining in his head as he stared at France, but the longer he went without complying to his order, the more France felt like breaking his nose.

At last a junior officer was called upon and he was taken down the street to an unmarked door, past the two soldiers posted at the entrance with their weapons on their shoulders, and up two flights of marble stairs. All the furniture and the ornaments in the house had been removed, every painting, every object on display, even the chandeliers. Of their existence, only the empty squares of faded color remained on the wallpaper.

The empty corridors echoed their footsteps and the young man guided him to a door at the far end, pulled a heavy keychain from his pocket and unlocked the door.

“I’ll have that now,” he told him and extended his hand. He hesitated, his eyes darting between France’s tight lips to the insignias in his uniform. He deposited the set of keys on France’s white gloves and stood at attention. “You can go wait downstairs now.”

He waited until the young officer had nodded and complied, his steps fading in the distance, before he breathed deeply in. The ache in his head was killing him.

The first thing he saw after he pushed the door open was Portugal’s furious green eyes, his body a shadow against the wall in the dark room.

“It’s a lovely day outside, you should open the curtains,” he said as he locked the door behind him. Portugal remained in silence, still glaring at him. France huffed a breath and walked to the window himself, throwing the curtains open and allowing light to enter the room. Portugal squinted at the sudden change in luminescence, but he soon glared at him again.

France allowed himself a small smirk.

“Do you remember when father dragged you back after your brilliant escape attempt while he was in the East? You looked at him like that too.”

“And he beat me,” Portugal said, his voice a little hoarse. From disuse, France presumed.

“Ah, yes,” he said lightly, unbuttoning his gloves. “Castile wouldn’t leave your bedside.”

“You said I deserved it.”

France held his gloves in one hand; looked at him in the eye. “You did.”

The growl that escaped his lips as he surged in his direction would have amused him were France not in such a terrible mood. Tackling him to the floor and twisting his arm behind his back took less effort now than when they were children.

He pressed his knee over his spine and Portugal stopped struggling, breathing hard into the wooden floorboards.

“You never learn, Ulterior,” he whispered above him, watching Portugal turn his head and snarl at him for the choice of name. “I’ll always win.”

“Get off me,” Portugal spat, but France only settled his weight more firmly down on him.

“You have always been too angry to be good at fighting, Portugal. Stop struggling before you hurt yourself.” He felt him breathe deeply a few times, but his body was still too coiled, still too tense for France to release him just yet.

He looked around the room and saw that it had been stripped bare of its ornaments as well. Only a few pieces of furniture remained.

“Father would have been disgusted with the way we treat our prisoners,” he commented out loud and felt Portugal shift beneath him.

“Stop calling Rome that,” Portugal said, but his voice was lower, his body less resistant.

“Why?” France asked, lowering his body over Portugal’s. “We’re sons of Rome, you and I. Us and the Italies are all that’s left.”

“Romania is still alive,” Portugal countered quietly, the fight finally draining from him, his fingers unclenching behind his back.

“That he is,” France whispered into his ear, brushed his lips against the soft cartilage and felt him shiver in his grasp. “Don’t worry, I’ll find him eventually.”

He released Portugal’s arm and felt his eyes on his back as he got to his feet and walked over to the bed.

“What was the nickname Castile had for you when we were kids?” he asked, sitting on the feather mattress, tucking his hair behind his ear. Portugal got up gingerly from the floor, dusted the knees of his simple cotton trousers.

“Lusi,” Portugal whispered, the word heavy in his mouth, laden with memories France did not know and did not care to know. He hummed, undoing the fastenings on his collar and breathing a little easier.

“Did you have a nickname for him as well?”

France followed Portugal’s eyes down his chest as he continued to undo the buttons of his uniform coat and smiled to himself.

“Dickhead,” Portugal told him and France snorted, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat next. “Yours was Asshole.”

He laughed, shrugging off his outer clothes and folding them carefully by his side, the pressure on his head somewhat subsided now that he had removed his heavy, hot uniform. Portugal’s eyes were trained on him, still standing a few feet away, still hesitant and wary.

“Come here,” he called, extending a hand towards him and watching with some amusement as Portugal’s face contorted into a frown. Huffing an impatient breath, he rose to his feet and went to him instead.

Portugal seemed somewhat smaller, dwarfed by a too big linen shirt and his simple brown cotton trousers. But his body was still the same as France remembered when he pulled him closer, his arms still strong and hardened by years at sea, his eyes still a pale shade of green when he looked at him.

“You are always so difficult,” he told him, settling his hands on the curve of his hips, watching his eyes as he looked down at France’s lips. “Always stubborn as a mule.”

His hands came to rest on his chest, neither to push him away nor to pull him closer, and France sighed, pushed his hair back over his shoulder, ghosted his fingers across his face.

“He is not going to come for you,” he said and Portugal’s eyes turned to his, the soft skin around them tightening slightly in worry. “England has what he wants now that Brazil’s ports are open to him.”

The hands on his chest gripped his shirt, but there was no more fight in them, no more blind, raging anger. “You’re lying,” Portugal whispered quietly, but his voice was thin, threadbare, doubt creeping into his words, taking hold of his thoughts.

“England doesn’t need you anymore,” he continued, petting his hair, caressing his cheekbones, his jaw, his ear. “But you already knew this, didn’t you?”

His fingers slackened, the last wall of his resistance crumbling under his words and France leaned in, brushed his lips against his. “Oh, Lusi,” he whispered, “Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

Portugal's mouth opened beneath his lips and France smiled, “Don’t you want to come home?”

 --

Notes:

In 1807, French Marshal Jean-Andoche Junot led the French army across Spain to seize Portugal in November 30. When he reached Lisbon, however, he was able to see the tails of the ships that took the Portuguese royal family and the court across the Atlantic to Brazil, which effectively saved the Portuguese Empire from falling into Napoleon's hands, but caused them to lose the mainland territory.

After taking control of the country, Junot seized what was left of the Treasury and any wealth available that had been left behind in the escape. He also put in motion the partition of the territory as devised by Napoleon, which would divide Portugal into three, granting the Southern portion to Spain's PM, Manuel de Godoy, keeping the middle part for France itself and giving away the Northern part to the King of Etruria. Junot, however, who had been France's Ambassador to Portugal during 1804-05, decided to proclaim himself as King of Northern Lusitania. Napoleon was not amused.

As part of the agreement to help the royal family escape Napoleon, the Portuguese regent, future João VI, opened Brazil’s ports to British trade, which had suffered under Napoleon’s Continental System and US neutral policy. At the time, Portugal and her colonies were responsible for consuming around half of Britain’s exports. That trade was thus protected after being moved to Brazil, which in turn made the continental territory of Portugal redundant.

However, the partition of Portugal never took place because in May 1808, after trying to double-cross Spain and take control of the territory, the Spanish revolted and the Portuguese followed in June. In August, the British sent troops under the command of Arthur Wellesley, future Duke of Wellington, and the French were forced to leave Portugal in what would be the first of three attempts to take control of the country.