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comfortless · 2 months

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Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other

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auteurdelabre · 2 months

Text

As long as you want / Joel Miller x f!Reader

As long as you want - Joel!Miller x f!Reader

Part two

words: 5.3k

Summary: When you're injured in the stables one morning your patrol partner and enemy Joel Miller is the only one there to help.

Tags: Enemies to friends/lovers, Kissing, Mentions of Anxiety Attacks, Fluff, Mentions of Scars, Medication, Mentions of violence, Joel POV in parts, mentions of 'baby', Tooth-Rotting sweetness in parts, mutual pining. NO y/n.

a/n: Originally gonna be part of my ‘So Much to Lose’ story, but the characterizations didn’t feel right for it, so I made a few tweaks and now this is a one-shot.

Dedicated to @katiexpunk because she took the time to send me the sweetest most encouraging message filled with lots of advice and just damn fine support for a woman who sometimes feels invisible on this platform.

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

On mornings you wake up earlier than usual it's because of anxiety.

You never know when it's going to hit because it's never logical. Sometimes it's a day you have patrols, sometimes its days you have nothing at all.

You've been an inhabitant of Jackson city for almost fourteen months. That's plenty of time for your nervous system to adjust, to know that you're not being chased by the infected or fighting malnourished raiders.

But your brain doesn't seem to grasp that yet. Every few months it wakes you before sunrise leaving you breathless and terrified until you adjust to your surroundings and remember that you are in your home. That you have a real home with a soft bed and easy access to food.

And yet those days, like today, you can't go back to sleep. You can't force your body to relax again. You're all nervous energy and you need to calm down.

Thankfully you've discovered one place that gives you that sense of calm; the stables with the horses used on patrols.

You shower and pull on your clothes and are out the door quickly. It's so early that Jackson city is still slumbering and the sky is still dark and will be for a while longer. So it's just you and the dirt path that leads to the stables for company.

You see your favorite dark brown horse Milly, the one you ride for patrols. The one who keeps you safe while you and your patrol partner survey the nearby areas.

The patrol partner that apparently can't sleep either because as you approach Milly you see him inside the stables petting Glimmer gently behind the ears.

Joel Miller.

Of course he's here, the annoying man. Not one moment of peace is possible for you today.

The patrol partner you've been stuck with for the last year. The man who vacillates between mute and mocking when he's around you.

You hold in a scowl as you view his shoulders flexing as he smoothes his large hand down her mane, murmuring in a low rasp.

He's an austere figure in Jackson. Aside from his brother, sister-in-law and Ellie you don't see him interact with many people. You don't even think he has a girlfriend.

Not that you would care if he did.

Not at all.

Well, sure when you first met him on patrols in his form fitting jeans and shirt that positively strained over his broad shoulders you had been intrigued. And the face wasn’t half bad either - strong nose, captivating eyes and under his patchy beard…

Don't think about his mouth.

So you'd introduced yourself, citing that you were excited to be working with a man of his reputation. Because he was already a legend in Jackson City before you arrived - Joel Miller was ruthless, a crack shot, a prolific fighter.

He'd blinked in reply at that before he'd opened his pouty mouth and all the burgeoning attraction that had been building came crashing down.

"Don't know why they stuck me with a newbie."

It had only gotten worse from there: Cutting remarks about how you held a gun, sarcastic observations about your riding. By the end of your first patrol you'd officially decided you hated him.

Over your time together the animosity had morphed from all out mutual derision to a comfortable dislike between you two. An antagonistic relationship built on banter and irritation.

The only truly good thing about Joel is Ellie. She’s funny and brash and you love chatting with her. Plus when you see then together that dark countenance Joel maintains gives way to a soft kindness that radiates from him.

But Ellie isn't here now in the stables. Only Joel with his salt and pepper curls and lean neck.

"Hey Miller," you say with an exasperated sigh. He turns abruptly, his dark eyes narrowing on your face.

"The fuck are you doin' here this early?"

"Could ask you the same," you mutter as you give Milly a pat.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither."

Joel hums a reply, turning around to fully face you before leaning back on the stable wall. He watches you petting the horse and takes in the dark circles under your normally expressive eyes.

"You look like shit."

"How charming," you muse darkly. "It's a wonder you're still single."

Joel huffs a laugh, his mouth curling into a crooked grin.

That fucking mouth.

When it's not curled into a sneer or a smirk aimed in your direction you can't help but notice it's so soft looking. Plush, pink lips that don't fit the rest of his stern face.

Stop.

"I do just fine in that department don't you worry," Joel offers in that typical confident yet abrasive way of his.

"In that case you should ask out Martha next," you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure she'd love some one-on-one time with Jackson city's most mysterious and handsome bachelor."

Martha is one of Jackson's kitchen workers. She's almost seventy and has a very obvious crush on Joel because she mentions how handsome he is at every opportunity.

You smirk to yourself at the thought of him taking her to dinner. You don't even notice that he's drawn over to you petting Milly until you feel his breath on the back of your head.

"So you think I'm handsome?"

It comes out of Joel in an exhale, raspy and amused when he sees you sputter. You glance at him over your shoulder, eyes wide. He's close, close enough to touch.

"No. I-I mean, it's just that- that's what Martha says," you say, feeling your cheeks heating. "About you being handsome and stuff. Not me."

Joel rarely looks this amused in your presence, but right now he's grinning so broadly a dimple has appeared in his right cheek. He's so close you can feel the warmth of his body.

"You sure, darlin'?" He teases his voice dropping to a purr. "You’re gettin' mighty flustered."

Darlin'.

That's new.

You hate how your pulse hiccups at the sound of it.

"Get over yourself, Miller," you manage in a shaky scoff before letting yourself into the pen with Milly, desperate to escape Joel's proximity.

You feel his eyes on you and in a panic you move behind Milly to reach for the hairbrush propped on the fencing.

"Watch it-" Joel starts.

It's your own fault what happens next.

Milly makes a terrified whinny and kicks out her back legs. You feel a sharpness in your side that takes your breath away, knocking you into the side of the pen. Milly makes another jolting motion and you feel Joel's hand pulling you back sharply as you yelp, clutching at your ribs.

Joel guides you out of the pen with a hand on your shoulder, dark eyes peering into your face when you both exit.

"Why the fuck did you move behind her?"

"I wasn't thinking," you groan, doubling over and resting your head against the nearest wooden stall. "Fuck."

It's a miracle you weren't too close. If you'd felt the full weight of Milly's power you wouldn't still be standing, albeit curled.

Joel stares at you, noting that you're white in the face, your spine bowed. You're clearly in a lot of pain.

"C'mon," Joel says, tugging the loop of your jeans, trying to prompt you into continuing to walk. "S'go."

"Where?"

"The clinic," he answers gruffly. "Stop wastin' time. C'mon."

"I can't move," you tell him, tears of pain slipping down your nose as you double over. "It hurts too much."

Joel mutters something under his breath before he strides away from you and out of the stables. You wait a few moments and when he doesn't return you feel a shocked puff of air escape you.

He just left you. Abandoned you in some of the worst pain of your life. You knew Joel Miller was an asshole you just didn't realize how much.

You fall to your knees, clutching at your side, the scent of hay and horse suffocating you. You wish you'd never come. Never tried to bond with another living creature.

Your head moves up slowly when you hear voices and footsteps from outside approaching. To your shock Joel and a tall woman with silver hair are there and Joel is murmuring to her.

"..n't sure if I should move her."

"Good you didn't," the woman assures him. "Could've done more damage."

The two of them move over to you and the woman urges you to breathe deeply after she introduces herself as Gemma the town nurse. You do, wincing loudly as a sharp pain nips your left right side.

"Fuck!"

Joel is standing back by the stables, petting Glimmer absently. When he hears you cry out his brows rise.

Gemma urges you to lift your shirt so she can see if there is swelling or bruising. You try but cry out in pain so she quickly lifts the hem of your shirt, tugging it up to just under your breasts. You panic when you realize you don't have a bra on.

"A bit of swelling," she tsks as her calloused hands sweep gently over your midsection. You whimper at the sensation, every swipe feels like agony.

You flush when you realize Joel is staring over at you and his eyes linger along the bare skin of your abdomen on display. He catches your attention on him and quickly looks away, nonplussed.

"Nothing's broken from what I can tell," Gemma hums thoughtfully.

"Doesn't feel like it from where I'm standing."

Gemma smirks and you think you catch a hint of amusement cross Joel's features.

"Likely a bruised rib," Gemma says with a concerned furrow of her brows. "You shouldn't be doing patrols. Not for a few weeks until this heals. You need plenty of rest, fluids and ice."

A strange feeling overtakes you then. Something between elation and disappointment at the thought you won't be going to do patrols for a bit. You don't understand why. You and Joel rarely get along, you should be thankful for the break. But you suppose you'll miss the consistent schedule.

"I brought a few painkillers I could spare," Gemma offers, rummaging in her coat pocket. She opens the glass bottle to reveal less than a few dozen white pills that you don't recognize lining the bottom.

"Is that all we have for painkillers?" You ask, concerned. "For the whole town?"

"For now these and a few dozen bottles of aspirin," Gemma nods. "When there's less snow we'll be able to scour around for more."

You look at the paltry selection and shake your head. "Nah, I'm okay. I'll just go home and rest."

"You'll take one right now," Gemma orders. "And you'll take a few more to get you through the night."

"I'll take two total," you negotiate, taking the first and swallowing it dry. The second goes into your jeans pocket.

You wait a few moments until the pill begins to take effect. It could be psychological but you feel like it makes it manageable to start walking.

"When you're getting up and down hug a pillow to your middle," she instructs. "Helps lessen the pain of the strain."

"Okay," you nod as you begin to shuffle. "Thanks a lot."

"Joel," Gemma turns to the lurking figure at the end of the stall. "You'll walk her home?"

Joel nods just as you shake your head.

"That's not necessary."

Gemma fixes you with a look she must have given dozens of obstinate patients over the years.

"Have you ever tried to climb stairs with a bruised rib?"

"No."

"Thought not. Let him walk you home and get you into bed."

You go to deny this but Joel is already herding you towards the path that leads to your neighborhood.

"S'go."

You walk slowly, shuffling down the street after Joel who walks at least three paces ahead of you. You don't mind, you don't really feel like chatting.

"Why'd you try to turn down the painkillers?" He throws over his shoulder as if just to annoy you.

"Because there weren't that many," you say grimacing. "And I'm not in that much pain."

He pauses, waiting for you to catch up. His dark eyes survey your hunched stance.

"Liar."

You keep shuffling, trying to ignore the irritation you feel at his curious expression.

"Yeah it hurts a bit but it's nothing compared to Chester's broken leg from chopping wood last month is it?" You reason, starting to feel a bit spacey from the drugs. "And what if something like that happens to someone else and I took up all the supplies because of a bruised ribi brought upon myself? I'd feel terrible."

"You shouldn't have been in the fucking stables to begin with," Joel says darkly. "Then you wouldn't have had to use any."

"I wanted to see the horses."

"They ain't pets."

"I’m aware," you throw back angrily. "But being with them in there makes me feel calm."

"Try meditatin' next time," Joel bites out.

You've arrived at the bottom of your front porch steps and you're all out of patience for Joel Miller.

"You can just leave me here. G'night."

"I'm followin' the doctor’s orders," Joel snipes, taking you by the arm so you can lean against him as you walk. "S'go, I don't have all day."

You grumble as you lean into his muscled arms, hating that you need to rely on him in any way.

"Quit complainin'," Joel grits out. You wince in pain and embarrassment as he slips an arm around your waist, the other hand on your free forearm helping you up the stairs.

"Slow," Joel murmurs. "Slowly now."

His voice is low and rumbled. You feel his breath on your temple as you take each step, wincing at the pain.

"Yep, just like that," Joel continues, his fingers curling around your hip as you take another step slowly. "Good girl."

Good girl.

It's the same way he talks to the horses. That gentle, husky coo. You know he doesn't mean it sexually but that doesn't stop it from hitting you directly below the navel.

You unlock the door, confused when Joel follows you inside. He scans the humble single story home, eyes falling on the paintings on the walls, the guitar by the fireplace.

He didn't know you played guitar. Or painted.

Joel knows you like to read, that you had a brother who died when he was young. He knows that your hair knots easily in the wind and that you hate the porridge in the dining hall. He's passively gathered information on you over the months patrolling together. But this? This is all new information to be stored.

He glances at you hobbling towards the bedroom and feels a mixture of irritation and pity go through him at the sight. He hates seeing you in pain and he feels a wave of protectiveness seep into his bones.

"Don't go in the pens anymore," Joel instructs. "I'm serious. It's not safe."

You turn around just so you can glare at him properly. He's standing by your table, acting as if he belongs there.

"You don't give me orders in my house, Miller," you say without thinking. "You're just mad I won't be around to deal with you on patrols and you'll have to do them alone because no one else in town can stand you."

The second it leaves your tongue Joel's face goes pinched and a cold. A cold, sticky sensation crawls along your insides at the sight of it.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "Fuck. That was such a shitty thing to say. Especially since you went and got me help. I'm just tired and in pain."

Joel nods slowly, his face as always, unreadable.

"Really, I didn't mean it,” you insist. “I'm sorry."

"I know you are," he huffs.

"So you forgive me?"

"Nothin' to forgive," Joel offers in a tired rasp. He takes you by the waist again, shuffling you into the bedroom. "C'mon."

He eyes your bedroom as the two of you shuffle into it, taking in the dried flowers in the window, the scattered books on the end of your bed. He smiles to himself at the sight.

"Couldn't decide what to read?"

"Read 'em all," you say walking slowly to the bed. "No new ones that interest me at the library so I was seeing which one I'd re-read."

You go to lower yourself onto the mattress but stop when Joel frowns at you and his hand taps your shoulder gently.

"You're gonna sleep in your clothes?"

You shrug. "I'll manage."

"You're covered in mud and hay," he states flatly.

You go to grumble that you don't particularly care when you feel Joel's large hands land on the buttons of your jacket.

"What're you-"

"Hold still," he murmurs with his eyes on his fingers as he unbuttons all ten of the fasteners on your long jacket. You wince when he pulls it off of you, delicately.

He's being gentle with you.

Joel is never gentle with you. He’s caustic and points out when you fuck up. He makes you carry heavy lumber with him when repairs need to be done. But now he’s touching you as if you’re made of spun glass.

He drapes your jacket over the chair by the window before returning to see you fighting with your jeans button. It hurts to move your arms like that right now. Every inhale is like a stab. Frustrated tears are sliding down your cheeks.

Joel doesn't like the sight of your tears. It makes him close the distance between the two of you quickly, chocolate eyes soft.

"Let me," he says business-like. "We'll do this quick and you can get into bed."

You want to deny him but you know he's right. You don't want to wake up tomorrow even more stiff, wearing dirty clothes and unable to undress yourself enough to shower. His fingers are at the waistband of your jeans and you're impossibly thankful he doesn't make the fatal mistake of meeting your glassy eyes.

Joel's fingers deftly pop your jean button then slowly lower the zipper. You hear him take a soft inhale before his thumbs curl at the waistband, dragging them over your hips and letting the denim fall to your knees.

You look to his face and you see his eyes flit from yours back down to his boots.

"Sleep clothes?"

"Dresser."

He nods, turning from you. Your cheeks burn, your heartbeat picking up the pace. Fuck, it must be the pill.

He pulls out a cotton nightdress as you clumsily step out of your muddy jeans. You cover your front with your hands the best you can, feeling shy standing there without pants in front of Joel of all people.

"Feels weird to be going to bed in the morning," you offer in the awkward silence.

He's back, eyes on your t-shirt, trying not to notice the high cut of your panties or the fact that you look so fucking enticing standing there with your shapely legs on display.

Joel is uncomfortably aware that he's not gonna be able to take off your t-shirt without getting hard and he doesn't want you feeling worse than you already are. He knows how much you despise him.

"T-shirt is clean," he reasons. "Can probably sleep in that."

"Yeah totally," you agree quickly looking between Joel and the bed.

You groan and blink a few times because a strange fuzz has started in your brain.

"You should go," you swallow, trying to ignore the arousal building in your core. "I'll be fine."

"I'm makin' sure you get into bed alright."

"Then what? You gonna read me a story and tuck me in?"

You're surprised when a soft giggle escapes from you.

"Stubborn brat," Joel mutters, even though his mouth is fighting against a grin. "Get in the fuckin' bed."

You feel oddly relaxed, even fond of the annoying man when you watch Joel pulling back the blankets of your bed for you. Regret and shame quickly follow when you recall your hard words from earlier.

"I'm sorry about what I said," you tell him quietly.

“You already said that.”

"Lots of people like you in town."

"No they don't," Joel says with a shake of his head and a grim smile. "My brother and Ellie are about the only ones who like talkin' to me."

"And me," you add with a yawn.

"Only cuz you got stuck doin' patrols with me. You gotta talk with me for those."

"I don't mind talking to you," you tell him honestly. "Sometimes I think you're funny."

Joel straightens, noticing the soft dreamy quality to your voice. He sees you swaying as you stand and he approaches you quickly. He peers into your face, seeing your pupils like large saucers and holds in a chuckle.

The irritation you feel towards Joel has been replaced by a dizzying bliss that has you smiling dopily as he nears.

"Drugs are workin' I see," Joel observes and his voice seems far away even though he's standing so close.

"Mhmm," you purr, leaning back before wincing and grabbing your side. "Oh fuck."

"Take it easy," Joel grumbles and his dark eyes swim into view. Have his eyes always been so pretty?

Joel I think..." you mumble something after that. You don't even know what you're saying. It's possible you're just making gibberish noises.

He leans closer, eyes squinting as he tries to parse the unintelligible stream of random sounds. His mouth is so full, his lips so sweet looking.

Something about his face so close and the lack of inhibitions from the medication has you feeling bold.

You move your face towards his so quickly he doesn't have time to shift back. Your mouth crashes into Joel's, lips slotting between his.

His lips are so soft. Full and soft and warm. You groan in delight as your hands go to his collar. You try to deepen the kiss, your tongue trying to slip between the seam of his lips but Joel is pulling back, his hands taking yours from his collar.

"The fuck are you doin'?"

There's a part of you that knows what you've just done is insane. But that part is so quiet, so far away. All you can feel right now is contentment and you smile up at him with eyes almost closed. He drops your hands.

"Mmm...Your lips are soft."

Joel is staring at you, mouth hanging open in slight surprise. You want to kiss him again but you're so fatigued from the medication you just give a yawn and feel your eyes shut firmly.

"M'tired."

"C'mon now sleepin' beauty," Joel chides, guiding you by the small of your back to the bed. He sits you on the edge of the mattress before placing a pillow into your arms.

"Squeeze it as you lay back."

"M'kay," you say doing as he asks, your eyes still closed.

He watches you, grimacing himself when you let out a soft yelp as you lay back on the bed. He waits for you to unclench before taking the pillow from your arms and tugging the blanket up to your chest.

"Lips are so soft," you say again as his face hovers above you. "How are they so fucking soft?"

Joel tries to hide the amused grin on his face. You're so loopy it's quite endearing. He can't wait to tease you about this when you're back at patrols. He can picture your scowl now, the flush that rises on your neck first and then your cheeks when you're embarrassed.

"Are my lips soft?" you ask in a concerned voice.

Joel licks his lips subconsciously, replaying your mouth on his. A sensation he's trying not to fixate on.

"Yeah," he finally relents in a husky whisper. "Real soft."

Plump and soft and sweet and everything he's been imagining they would be.

Without thinking he reaches over and brushes the hair from your eyes, taken by surprise when your hand weakly takes his wrist.

"Kiss me again, Miller."

"I can't."

"Please," you beg, your eyes cracking open. You start to whine and shift towards him in the bed before the pain hits you sharply and you wince.

"Fine, just lay back," Joel grumbles even as his heart picks up its pace in his chest. You do as he asks, sleepy eyes glancing up at him.

He leans forward and gives your cheek a chaste kiss before pulling back. He has to hide the amused chuckle when he sees your grumpy face.

"I wanted a real kiss."

"That was a real kiss."

"I meant on the lips."

"Tell you what," Joel says, greatly amused. "If you can look me in the eyes tomorrow when you're med free and ask me to kiss you, I will."

"Promise?"

"Yep and I'll make it a good one."

"Okay," your medicated self agrees quickly. "I'll ask tomorrow."

He knows you won't. You won't remember anything. He takes a seat at the edge of your bed, watching you slip into slumber.

Joel knows that he doesn't have to sit here any longer. He's got you in bed, you're drifting off, his job is done. And yet he lingers, watching your face go placid before you seem to wake yourself up.

"I've wanted to kiss you for so long, Miller."

"Uh huh," Joel says with disbelief clear in his voice as he plumps the pillow next to your head in case you need it. "I'm sure."

"You don't believe me?"

"Go to sleep."

"Member that day we went on patrols by Westons?" You slur eyes half closed. "And there weren't enough horses and we had to share one?"

Joel is surprised that you remember that. It was almost eight months ago.

"Uh huh," Joel nods, leaning back from where he sits at the edge of the bed. "Yeah, I remember."

"And we got to that clearing and you helped me down so we could do a perimeter check?"

"Yup."

"I wanted to kiss you then," you share. "When your hands were on my waist and you were smiling ... down at me. I thought... You were... so ... Handsome and... You smelled so good... Like leather n'..."

Joel sucks in a lungful of air slowly as he watches you fall back into a light doze. Your hand on your abdomen rises and falls as you begin to snore lightly.

Joel remembers that day at Westons. He remembers the way your arms felt wrapped around his middle, your body tight against his back as he rode with you on the horse.

He remembers that his horse was taller than you were used to riding. How you'd hesitated asking for his help to get down because he knew how prideful you were.

He had rolled his eyes, holding out his arms to you before you'd even had to ask him.

"C'mon now. Stop wastin' time."

You'd said something scathing back to him before allowing him to pull you into his arms.

He remembers the sound of your breath in his ear and the way your sweet scent enveloped him. You'd clung to him, slowly sliding down the length of his broad body before standing on the ground. His hands had lingered on your waist, smiling down at you in amusement at your discomfiture.

But then the gaze had lasted a little too long when he realized at this proximity he could see so many details in your face. The length of your lashes, the deep color of your eyes, the beckoning curve of your lips.

He'd always thought you were pretty. From day one he'd been enraptured by your smile. An attraction he hadn't felt since Sarah's mom. A frightening feeling that had him scowling at you and turning from you.

He remembers how he went home that night drunk on the memory of your soft body against his. He remembers how he fell asleep aching at the memory of your lips and eyes.

He remembers how ever since that day he's tried to convince himself he isn't attracted to you. That he isn't excited every day he has patrols with you because he gets hours of you to himself.

It's the reason he was at the stables so early this morning. Knowing he'd be on patrols with you tomorrow had him keyed up.

Joel doesn't like people getting close. It's easier to have most everyone hate him. And even as the months went on and your wit and humor broke through his outer wall, he still worked to keep you out.

But now you've all but admitted how you feel about him. And even if you forget it all tomorrow, he heard it tonight. The truth revealed. It makes his legs feel weak to know that the attraction exists on both sides.

"Joel?"

Your voice is soft but he sees the furrow of your brow. You're awake and anxiously looking for him in the darkness. Something about that small action makes his breath unsteady.

"I'm here, baby."

The soft smile you shoot his way makes Joel's insides turn to jelly. He doesn't even cringe when he belatedly realizes the pet name. You won't remember it.

When your eyes find his silhouette in the fading darkness he sees you visibly relax.

"I was worried you were gone."

"Nope. Been here the whole time."

"Good," you breathe before yawning so widely your jaw cracks. Joel sidles closer to you on the bed, his dark eyes scanning your face.

"You feeling okay? Any pain?"

"No pain," you say dreamily. "Just sleepy."

"Go to sleep then," Joel soothes, unable to keep the affection from his voice. "Doctor’s orders."

You nod and he thinks you're nodding off when your hand reaches for him.

"Come lay next to me," you say with a cracked voice. "Please?"

Joel hesitates before he sees you trying to sit up to convince him. You're gonna be in worse pain tomorrow if you keep that up.

"Fine fine. Just stop squirmin'."

He toes off his boots and slips off his jacket, placing it over the chair holding yours. After a moment of hesitation he lowers himself onto the mattress next to you, overtop the blanket. He hears your soft sigh as your head tilts towards him.

He rolls onto his side so he can face you, seeing your eyes closed languidly.

Your sweet face is highlighted in the dawning sun coming in from the window and Joel feels his heart throb at the sight. He sees you fighting sleep, eyelids fluttering.

"Go to sleep, baby," he murmurs. His fingers rise between the two of you coming to trace along your cheek. "Just go to sleep."

You give a soft exhale.

"Feels good having you here, Joel."

Joel feels himself melt at those words, his long fingers finding yours on the bed. He takes your smaller hand in his, rubbing your knuckles with his calloused thumb gently.

"Will you stay for a while?" You whisper, your eyelids growing still as your body goes sluggish.

He smiles over at your placid face and answers you even though he's fairly certain you've fallen back asleep.

"I'll stay as long as you want."

#joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel x reader #joel fanfic #joel the last of us #joel miller x f!reader #dad joel miller #pedro pascal fanfiction

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endless-ineffabilities · 1 year

Text

in the shadow of your heart (part one of two)

Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader

requested by anon: inspired by the plot of the movie Flipped, where the reader openly pines for Daemon, but he always brushes her off until one day, she stops bothering him.

word count: 2.5k ▪︎ part two (preview) ▪︎ masterlist

themes: one-sided pining (by f!Reader in the beginning, then Daemon eventually), angst, language, Daemon being Daemon

It’s no secret that you pined for the Rogue Prince. Ever since you moved with your father to King’s Landing after he was appointed Master of Laws in King Viserys’ Small Council, your admiration has steadily grown for Daemon. He was in and out of the city, due to his tumultuous relationship with his brother.

One week, Daemon returns. He trains with his gold cloaks in the front courtyard, surrounded by intrigued spectators. Workers of the Red Keep, knights, lords, and ladies. The last group bothers you slightly, the ogling ladies are all clearly there for Prince Daemon. You are, too. But you believe yourself to be different.

You consider Daemon to be a friend, at least. The two of you spoke from time to time. For seventeen different instances now, but it’s not like you were keeping count.

Your mouth falls open in awe as he spins, dodging an attack from his opponent. He might just be the most impressive fighter you’ve ever seen, all bias aside. He dodges quickly to one side, and digs his elbow in the other knight’s ribs, making him stumble to the ground. One down. His other opponent, though, manages to take advantage of this pause and slams the hilt of his sword heavily on Daemon’s back, bringing him to his knees facing you.

“Fucking cheat!” you sneer openly, “Get up, Daemon!” Several ladies moan in worry. Simpering sycophants.

He raises his head at your voice, and your eyes meet, “You,” he only says. His opponent moves closer to him, making you more alarmed, but Daemon does not seem to care.

“Get up,” you hiss, “turn around!

Daemon digs his sword into the ground, and leans into it, merely smirking at you. Just when it seems like his opponent has him beat, about to ceremoniously demonstrate the final blow, Daemon rolls completely, slantwise, ending up behind the knight. He pulls the knight's legs back with such force that the man screams in shock, before his body slams forcefully on the ground.

The crowd begins to cheer, nodding to each other, admiring the Prince’s prowess. Daemon walks over to a bench, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Quite a good fight, as always, my prince.” He hears your voice pipe up. His little shadow, he calls you. He’s gotten used to your affections at this point, and it isn’t like you were shy about them, either. His gold cloaks have even created a sort of running joke about you. Then again, you care not about what anyone else thinks. Only Daemon.

“Enjoyed the show, my little shadow?” he takes a large swig of ale, “It seems as if you have nowhere else to run to this morning. Not that it’s any surprise to me.”

His crassness affects you no longer. You even like how blatantly honest he is, even when it’s at your expense. “Watching you train is just as good of an activity as any other, my prince. I might say that I prefer it, even.”

“Oh, of course it is.” He seems to drift off, his attention not focused solely at you anymore.

You sit next to him, sighing loudly, trying to get him to look at you again. “So,” you think of something interesting to say, “my father says that the war in the-”

He quickly interrupts you, “I hardly care what your father has to say.”

The smile falls from your face, “I must admit he has no fondness for you, too.”

The silence falls over the both of you. You stare down at your hands, furling and unfurling on your lap. You hear Daemon tiredly sigh beside you, “Is that a new dress?”

Your head snaps back up. You didn’t think he would notice. He never notices details like this. “Oh, yes, it is actually. I rather like it.” You turn to him hopefully, “Do you?”

His hand drifts atop your skirts, feeling the material. You struggle to ignore your pounding heartbeat, driven wild by his proximity, by his touch. “It’s nice enough, I suppose.”

“My prince,” one of his knights beckon to him.

“The colour isn’t the most flattering on you, though.” He says, before standing up to leave you. “My lady,” he nods once, and walks away, not seeing how your face falls in dismay.

Great. As you make your way back to your chambers, determined to change into your old dress, you think of how you never wish to put on anything with this colour ever again.

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

The next time you see him, he actually is the one to find you. He storms into the godswood, evidently distressed, kicking up stones in his path. You sit underneath the old tree, reading a heavy volume on Aegon’s conquest, when you notice him. You’re not certain whether to approach, but he seems so worried and angry, that you don’t think twice about comforting him. You slam your book shut, and approach him.

“You, again,” he sneers, “I thought I came here to find some peace.”

“You can find it here,” you say gently, “I do not wish to bother you.”

“And yet you always do.” He paces away from you.

The arouses your annoyance. Why can’t he, at the very least, be civil towards you? Granted, he may just be taking his anger out on you, so you voice out, “Something’s bothering you? You can tell me what it is, but you don’t have to be so heedlessly rude.”

He seems surprised at your tone, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course I won’t,” you can’t help but scoff. How lowly must he think of you? Your affections are clearly wasted on the prince, but something still draws you to him. There is something there. There has to be.

“I shall take my leave if you can’t stand my presence, Prince Daemon.” You start to walk away from him, but he grabs your elbow, pulling you back.

You look at him questioningly, “Well?”

“Stay.”

His eyes hold so much depth, a silent plea directed to you. Your anger dissipates, and you ask softly, “Are you certain that you wish me to?”

He softens at your welcoming expression, and hums in affirmative. So you take his hand, and guide him to your previous spot under the tree. You sit side by side in relative tranquility, in the crisp autumn air and faint sunlight.

Daemon leans back against the wood, and for the first time, he gets to observe you. He sees that you are once again wearing your old dress, so you must have taken his thoughtless opinion to heart. Your beauty is heightened under the sunshine, making you almost glow, like an ethereal being. Daemon's expression brightens unconsciously. My little shadow. More so my light, in this moment.

You peer at him, “What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing of any concern, my lady.”

“I am glad that your spirits have lifted, somehow.” Bravery takes a hold of you, and you reach out for his hand, squeezing gently.

He looks down at your hand, slight and soft compared to his. He won’t admit it to himself, perhaps not just yet, but he feels an immediate comfort from your presence. He had stormed out here after another heated confrontation with his brother, not expecting to find you. But find you he did, and he’s only glad for it.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, if you don’t wish to. Your secrets are your own. I do hope that I can bring you some calm, with my company.” Your voice is ever so gentle with him. He’s aware that in comparison, he has been mercurial in his disposition. Sometimes tolerating your flirting, your playful remarks. Most of the time, turning his cheek in apparent displeasure.

He can’t quite point it out, but he appreciates how unabashed you can be around him. Whether he's cordial or downright impertinent, whether he’s being showered with praise after a victory in battle or treated as the kingdom’s outcast after being dismissed yet again by his brother. You only see him for who he is, one and the same.

“I appreciate that, my shadow.” He smiles faintly back at you, genuinely, a rare sight to behold. “But I suppose I shall let you know part of what’s bothering me. My dear brother wishes to wed me off to some dolt of a lady, from some southern house. I’ve refused, of course, as she looks just as goatlike as my late wife, the Lady Royce.”

“I heard that the late Lady Royce was a beautiful and strong-”

He cuts you off sharply, “She was just about as riveting as watching paint dry, and our lifeless marriage was no more than a mummer’s farce.”

Oh, gods. Daemon wouldn’t be Daemon if there is no fire in his words. In an attempt to lighten the mood, you nudge his shoulder, “You could just marry me, you know. I’m sure I would be a whole lot more interesting than some southern lady.”

He looks at you strangely, as if he can’t believe that you had the gall to even offer such a thing. “Hmm,” he raises an eyebrow, “but you can’t be my wife. You’re already my shadow.”

“Funny,” you smirk back at him.

You think again about how you care not what people say about Daemon, what they might think about your desires of him. They matter very little, if not at all.

Only Daemon.

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

This year, your father arranged for a grand celebration for your nameday. No expense was spared, despite your reluctance. You cared little for these festivities, but the whole arrangement made your father happy, so to hell with it. This was another opportunity to see Daemon, after all.

You had seen him yesterday, in the Red Keep. There was a woman walking with him. She was beautiful indeed, with dark and silky hair, sensual lips, and a knowing gaze. You later learned her name to be Mysaria. One of Daemon’s… night time companions. The thought of it made your stomach churn, but you did your best to ignore it.

“Prince Daemon, I’ve been looking for you,” you greeted him, and only him.

“Aren’t you always?” Daemon replied playfully.

“Yes, well,” you stammered, and looked away briefly, before relaying your message, “It is my pleasure to invite you to the festivities occurring tomorrow, for my nameday.”

“Ah, my warmest wishes, shadow.” He tilts his head in response.

“Why do you call the lady shadow?” Mysaria questions, reminding you of her presence.

“Just a little something between myself and the lady, my dear.” Daemon says to her. My dear. You hated the jealousy springing from you. My dear. Not as endearing and meaningful as 'my shadow', I would say. Any lady can be called my dear, as a polite gesture.

“Can I count on your presence, my prince?” You ask excitedly, eyes twinkling up at him.

“I’d be loathe to miss a good revelry, my dear shadow. I’ll be there.”

“Very well then!” you steal a glance at Mysaria, who was eyeing you surreptitiously, “My father had his messenger send proper invitations to you and your family, but I thought I would ask you myself.”

As you sit at the main table, guests constantly come up to you to give their greetings, most of them you’re not familiar with at all. Anyway, the one you were most interested in seeing was Daemon, but he hasn’t arrived yet.

All at once, the crowd stands at the arrival of the Kingsguard. The Targaryens are sure to follow, so you stand eagerly to greet them, keeping an eye out for the Rogue Prince. But you fail to spot him, and only the King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra come into view.

They reach you, with genuine smiles on their faces. “Our warmest greetings, dear lady Y/n.” King Viserys happily exclaims.

“My King,” you bow to each one in turn, “My Princess. You both honour me with your presence, truly.”

King Viserys moves on to speak with your father, while Rhaenyra takes your hands in hers, “You are having a great nameday, I hope?” She’s always been amicable with you, and you’ve grown fond of her friendship in turn.

“I am,” you weakly smile back, but he crosses your mind again, “I do wish Daemon was here, though. Is he not coming?”

Rhaenyra’s heart breaks for you, as she knows of your feelings for Daemon, “Well, I believe him to be occupied at the moment. Him and his gold cloaks left for the brothels earlier tonight, as is their usual routine.”

Your entire demeanour falls. You were aware of Daemon’s preferred activities, but you choose to ignore them. It isn’t as if you have any say in his doings, as much as you wish it.

“He’s an absolute idiot.” Rhaenyra is determined to cheer you up, “Why don’t we have some wine and plenty of cake, and go dancing with some of these dashing lords? Oh, and don’t look, but Cregan Stark looks as if he’s been eyeing you for a while now.”

You can’t help but glance at the Lord of Winterfell, meeting his heated gaze. Okay, then.

“Come, let’s get some cake.” Rhaenyra beams at you, and all thought of her absent uncle is pushed from your mind.

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

Daemon has been roaming the castle. He’s just been to the courtyard, and to the godswood, and to the gardens. He’s been practically everywhere, but he’s yet to see you. Strangely enough, he hasn’t seen you for a long time, it’s been nearly a fortnight since he last encountered you, when he was walking with Mysaria.

Where in the seven hells is my shadow? She can’t very well be my shadow, now can she, if she’s not even around.

Everyone has noticed that Daemon has grown even more unpleasant and impatient, as of late. More so than he already is. Snapping at servants, his gold cloaks, and basically anyone else who might unfortunately come across his path.

He’s had half a mind to ask your father himself for your whereabouts, but he has not come around to that just yet. He knows that you would turn up, somehow. You have to.

He turns a corner, when he hears it, faintly. Coming from the end of the corridor which leads to the open rooftop. His ears perk up at the sound of it again. Your laugh.

His legs propel him forward, quickly, yearning for the sight of you.

Then he sees you. But you are not alone. You lean against the balcony, a man standing close next to you. Judging by the man’s garb, he recognizes him to be Cregan Stark of Winterfell.

An unfamiliar sensation arises within him, accompanied by a sense of dread. He immediately wants to pull you to his side, and chuck the young Stark over the balcony for even being so near you. For making you laugh like that.

What the fuck? Daemon ponders to himself. What in the seven hells is this?

He steps forward to finally make his presence known, “Hello, my shadow.”

Daemon / General HotD taglist: @random-human02 @thelastcitysposts @avalyaaa @angel6776 @huntycola @sanguinalia @just-a-harmless-patato @outundertheocean @schniiipsel @my-dark-prince @darylandbethfanforever9 @daeneeryss

It's been quite a task to manage the taglists, but those here have asked to be tagged for Daemon fics or HotD in general (I think!) Apologies if I've missed anyone, just comment if you want to be added.

The next thing I'll post will be for Aemond ;) I've missed my little one-eyed mommy's boy/war criminal 🖤

#daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #matt smith imagine #matt smith #daemon targaryen fanfic

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tteokdoroki · 1 year

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*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— earbuds, my love + yoichi isagi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — a single train ride has you sharing your headphones and your feelings with your long time crush, yoichi isagi.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, fluff, friends to lovers, love confessions, mutual pining, pro player!isagi, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 1K.

⭑ notes — third fic queued for aali's away time, one of my many isagi wips! he's literally ceo of friends to lovers ngl !! i love him so bad... enjoy my lurvs - m.list ✩

“this song makes me feel like i’m falling in love with someone.”

isagi glances up at you from his phone, no longer shuffling the playlist that you’re both listening to. you’re looking out of the window, your feet propped up on the back of the seat in front of you, your head resting on your closed fist. you miss the way he flushes red.

“do you want to keep listening to it then?” he mumbles softly, thumb hovering over the slip button and his voice just barely above a whisper. you almost don’t hear you despite the fact that you’re sharing headphones and only have one ear-bud in while he takes the other.

this time, you tilt your head away from the window and the scenery passing by to lock eyes with your childhood best friend. “no, s’okay,” you say, your voice equally as low. “you can change it if you’d like.” your facial expression is tranquil, the swell of your lips pressed into an appreciative smile and your eyes sparkling with the sunlight that glitters outside of your moving train.

isagi’s nerves quickly get the better of him and he breaks eye contact, swallowing thickly before looking away with his own smile (mostly for himself).

“i think we’ll keep listening to it.”

you’re both on the train from the bustling city of tokyo back to the tiny town you both grew up in. with the off-season approaching, japan’s beloved striker had finally managed to get some time away from the blue lock team to visit his parents, and you were off on your university’s allotted spring-break.

this was the first time, in what felt like forever, that your calendars were synced up.

your bond with isagi had always been strong — from the very first moment you’d met, back in middle school when he’d kicked a soccer ball straight into your lunch and then instantly offered to buy you a new one. impossible to separate, you were joined at the hip right up until he left for blue lock. these days, your paths rarely cross and while isagi’s career in soccer bloomed like you always knew it would — you went the more traditional route of life and found passion in your own university degree.

after some moments of quiet, aside from the children crying in their mother’s arms, teenagers gossiping on their way home from junior high and the calls from the attendant manning the snack cart — isagi speaks up, shyly. “who…who would you be in love with? yanno…because of this song…”

“some guy, i’ve known him for years.”

“does he know…how you feel about him?” you shake your head and isagi presses you again. “have you tried telling him?”

“gods no, yoichi!” you wave him off almost too quickly — curling in on yourself like a highschool girl handing her crush a confession letter or chocolates on white day. perhaps because this is exactly like that. you’ve liked him, loved him, for as long as you can remember. he makes your skin hot and your thoughts a mess and when isagi’s nearby you hardly remember who you are.

and he hardly realises how lovesick you’ve been for him over the years. it would be too embarrassing to admit that you have a raging crush on one of japan’s favourite athletes.

“why not?”

“because…if he felt the same he would have noticed by now.” you answer, trying to shut down the conversation. “i’ve been obvious with my feelings. the ball’s been in his court for a while.”

“maybe he’s just oblivious.” isagi keeps going and in the cramped space of your train seats you feel hot under the collar — your nerves shaking under the pressure.

you’re given a brief moment of relief when the attendant on the snack cart stops for the couple seated opposite you. they seem happy and in love, it makes your heart twist.

the train jolts, pushing the attendant into isagi, who then topples into you — invading your space once more, causing heat to build up under your skin.

“h-he’s a way too smart for that.”

“maybe…he’s unsure? maybe he doesn’t understand your signals?”

the song you’re listening too changes as you pull into the next station.

“or maybe he doesn’t love me, yoichi!” you snap, turning your head away so fast that the ear-bud slips from your ears and the wires are left dangling between the warmth of isagi’s body and your own. you try to sit still, fighting off burning, frustrated tears — lucky that no one’s heard your outburst over the busy ambience of the train. “believe me, i’ve held out hope for it.”

“but i do love you.” he snaps back, grabbing you by the wrist so that you’re forced to look at him. isagi’s eyes are wide and deep, swirling in their hypnotising shade of blue with an emotion you don’t recognise seeing on him. love. “maybe you’re the one who’s dumb enough not to have noticed. maybe i’ve been too shy or too caught up with soccer to say so. but i love you. i want that song to make you feel like you’re in love with me.”

“o-oh…yoichi i—“ your eyes widen, then soften all at once and you feel yourself melting fast — as if all of your dreams have come true. “i don’t know what to say…”

the tips of his ears are bright pink, the hue blooming across his cheeks like they’re roses in bloom. yoichi chews on his lower lip nervously before shoving the right bud of the headphones back into your ear. “just say you like me back ‘nd we’ll leave it at that for now, okay?” he mumbles like a teenager, very much unlike the confident, cocky isagi who everyone fears on the pitch.

wisps of a grin tug at the corners of your lips as you reach out and grab his larger hand with yours — giving it a squeeze. “alright then, yoichi,” you say, leaning over to kiss the warmth of his cheeks. “i like you too.” his eyes go wide.

this is all silly and new for the both of you — having been in love with one another for years without saying. you’ll have a lot to talk about once you reach his parents’ house, how you’ll make this work with his soccer career and your new life in the big city, what you want this to be, who you’ll tell. but for now you try not to dwell on it, letting your head flop to isagi’s shoulder and his on top of yours, sharing headphones and listening to songs that made him fall in love with you.

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #isagi x reader #isagi x you #isagi fluff #bllk fluff #blue lock x you #bllk x you #isagi yoichi x reader #isagi yoichi x you #isagi yoichi fluff #yoichi isagi x reader #yoichi isagi x you #yoichi isagi fluff #blue lock imagines #bllk imagines #blue lock fluff #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki

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azullumi · 1 year

Text

wanderer — unspoken confessions ☆彡

summary — you're drunk and drinking and he's looking for you; unspoken confessions and you two wished the other knew the feelings being held.

pairing — wanderer/gender-neutral reader

tags — fluff, secret pining or yearning, friends but wishes to be more than that, drunk reader and wanderer is there to take them home so they're safe; oneshot

word count — 1500+

a/n — i ended up being busy for today so i had to rush this one. i was going for a drunken confessions route but here i am, i just thought this one was better. anyways, happiest birthday to the most prettiest, beautiful, wonderful, amazing, magnificent, alluring, fair, fascinating babiest baby girl of them all baby girls!! <33

he wanders throughout the dead of the night, navigating through the darkness with only the streetlamps there to accompany and guide him to his destination. the evening comes as a lull welcome to serenity and the city was silent in its embrace except for the sound of leaves rustling, his light footsteps, and the indistinguishable chatter of the few people around.

he could feel the cold night wind gently blow against him, caressing his skin, and soothing his warmth, and he pulls his hat down, holding it to avoid it from being blown away accidentally.

it was still early in the evening so a few people, aside from mercenaries, were seen outside, taking a stroll, or talking to others—most of the citizens that weren't outside were either inside their home or in the tavern, drinking and eating, and you were also doing the latter and he was out looking for you. apparently, after consulting nahida on your whereabouts as he couldn't find you in your own home nor anywhere the whole afternoon until now, he learned that you were out drinking with a group of people you met recently.

wanderer passed by a few closed stalls before eventually arriving at the doors of the tavern with the host greeting him as he entered. there, the warm lights of the place greeted him as he stepped in and the sound of laughter was heard, unfamiliar and loud, and there he saw you. not situated far away from him, you were seated—seemingly passed out as you had your head laid on top of the table— with a bunch of people whose faces he doesn't know of.

the thought of you willingly going out and drinking with strangers pissed him off. are you really that careless and lacking in self-awareness that you'll get yourself drunk around people who you're not even familiar nor close with? and the fact that you didn't even tell him where you're going to be and what you're going to do? his expression crumpled to an irritated one.

honestly even if the two of you are just friends—deep in him, he wishes you two weren't just that no matter the amount of times he had denied the thought—, it would have been if you would tell him. no, honestly, you should because he doesn't want to go through hell and back just to look for you and even seek for the sumeru archon's help— whose assistance will always be accompanied with her own words that would send him into a spiral of realization of what he truly feels towards you along with some teasing.

he walks towards your table, stopping right in front of it and grabbing the attention of the people in it. there was the strong smell of alcohol and aroma of food that wafted to his nose, it was harsh and he doesn't like it in a bit.

"oh hello, is there anything we can help you with?" one of them asks, he looks the most sober one out of all them due to the fact that he could speak without slurring their words.

"i'll be taking this one home with me," he says, an emotionless expression plastered on his face, while pointing at you. it seems like the sound of his voice woke you up from your slumber as you slowly sat up and brought your gaze to him, meeting his stare. your face was flustered pink, your eyes drowsy, and your hair was untidy, you looked like a total mess.

"wait, we don't know—" words of protest were about to be heard coming out of the man sitting in front of you but your voice interrupted them.

"hiii, kuniii," you break out into a grin, realizing that it was him, reaching your arms out, wanting to initiate a hug or anything. your words were dragged out and he could only sigh upon witnessing the state that you are in before he leaned down, letting you wrap your arms around his neck, then picking you up in his hold. he doesn't even care about the people watching him, in fact, he even finds himself liking it.

"you're hereee, why are you here?"

"i'm here to pick your dumbass up."

"we're going home?"

"yes, so be quiet."

"okay…" you followed what he said, shutting your mouth and resting your head against his shoulders.

wanderer gazed at the group, looking at them with a cold expression, "i appreciate that you kept (name) safe, however, next time, please avoid inviting them out and having them stay up until this time."

he turns around, walking away and leaving the tavern while he was holding you and you were hugging him tightly. it seems like you have fallen asleep once again and so he intends to bring you home as soon as possible so that you'll be able to get some rest properly.

the way back to your home was silent just like when he was walking towards the tavern to fetch your drunk state. he just wouldn't be able to rest peacefully knowing that someone else, a complete stranger, took you home, especially at this defenseless state of yours. what if something bad happened to you? what if the people you were drinking with were actually horrible and you weren't able to protect yourself? what if they were kidnappers, murderers, or anything and their next victim was you?

honestly, he has no right speaking over that matter and judging them when the blood that stains his hands makes him no different from them—if they were really bad people. but still, he just couldn't handle the thought of you slipping out of his grasp even when you have never been close to him to hold his hand. it was fine admiring you from afar as long as you don't fade from his sight.

a groan snapped him out of his trance and he looked at his side, to his shoulder where your head rests in which you rise up from your very quick nap. at the same time, you two have already arrived at the foot of your home.

"where are we…?"

"at the door of your house, where's your keys?" you hum before replying to him, tapping his shoulder as you spoke, "it's okay, you can put me down now. i can handle myself."

your voice sounded so soft and based on the tone of your voice—compared to when you were slurring your words when he was greeted by you— he could tell that you were already sobering up. maybe that quick sleep and cold breeze helped you?

he did what you had asked him to do, placing you down the ground and making sure that you were already on both of your feet before releasing his hold on you, watching you take your keys and unlocking the door soon after. he plans on leaving as soon as he sees you get inside your room.

there was only silence not until you spoke, "thanks for taking me home, by the way."

"you ought to be more careful next time."

"i will, thank you once again," you turned to him as you spoke, a small smile on your face and you don't know if it's the way the moonlight shines on him that his complexion looks so soft and gentle while looking at you.

*oh, right! it's not yet midnight, right? i hope i'm not late…" there was panic in your tone as you fumbled and looked for something in the pockets of your clothes. he was about to speak, planning on asking you, but was then interrupted when you took out what you were looking for, dangling it in front of his face.

it was an amulet with a gem in the shape of a heart and there was an unknown feeling at his stomach, one that he always feels when he's around you, adoring you, or talking to you.

"it was only this morning when i learned that it was your birthday so i looked for a gift and was even thinking of just making a handmade one but i don't think i'll have enough time and then i encountered those people— the ones i was drinking with— who helped me in exchange for some drinks. i swear, i wasn't planning on staying out late and i was going to look for you right—"

you were interrupted with the sound of something short and sweet, so genuine, so low and soft that if your surroundings weren't silent right now, you wouldn't have heard it.

"…okay, that's enough. you don't have to explain everything, just be more careful next time." did he laugh? did he just let out a chuckle? a laugh? are you still drunk? maybe that's it, maybe you're still drunk and daydreaming!

you scratched the back of your neck before handing him the gift on your hand and he accepted it. in the quick moment he had his guard down, you cupped his face gently and pressed your lips against his cheek, giving him a peck.

"happy birthday, kuni. thank you for being born, thank you for being here," you whisper before parting, letting go of your hold on his cheek and you weren't looking at him, your gaze averted and away. you wanted to see his face but you were afraid of the emotion that would stain his expression so you could only look away and the reality of the situation had only dawned on you when silence only reigned.

"so uhm, yes, that's all. okay, goodnight!"

you then went inside immediately and closed the door and you wish you stayed for a little bit, you wished you could have seen the way his face flusters and his ears grow red, you wished you witnessed him fall and try to cover the blush on his cheeks as he tries to calm the butterflies that were going wild in his stomach. archons, what is he going to do with you?

his gaze remains at the amulet in his hand and his mind remains at the time when your lips had touched his skin, stuck in a single yet eternal dreamlike moment, not wanting to leave.

even with the amount of thoughts running inside his head, he could only think of you—his mind never felt like his own because it's only you that fills it, his thoughts felt like small puzzle pieces that once combined all together, it will form an image of you. he likes you so much, just like the way icarus yearns for the sun, too close, too warm, too much.

— navigation | masterlist

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ciderwitch · 1 year

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So like I was wondering if youde be ok with writing a self insert of Standley Pines bc I am such a simp and am in need of fluff. Please please Id love you forever.

Surprisingly, I've only recently noticed that I apparently have a debilitating attraction to DILFS and GILFs... Love me some Grunkle Stan!

You had just started working at Gravity Falls Town Hall and already it seemed like things in your life were taking a strange turn. I mean, yeah, the realtor had told you that it was a "vibrant and quirky" community, so you figured it would be a little odd. The rent was cheap and the apartment you were living in was better than anything you'd even heard of back in the city, so vibrant and quirky would have to do.

Still, it was the third time this month the Pines kids had been chased by unholy abominations, and the terror of seeing a not-deer get eaten by a werepanther was starting to become a little too familiar for your liking.

You needed to get out more, you decided. Thankfully, some of your coworkers had a monthly get together at one of the local diners to hang out and they were more than happy to invite you along. They told you new folks didn't come here often, but you found the community warm and welcoming all the same. Eldritch horrors aside, it was a great place to live.

Apparently you did not get the memo that it was cancelled tonight, so here you were pouring syrup over your solo lunch of pancakes and sausage when the door chimed.

It was Wendy Corduroy and she had a downright miserable expression on her face. You could see why. Robbie Valentino was hot on her heels, as usual. It didn't take a genius to see that he was head over heels for her — or that she was completely done with him. And, since nobody else seemed particularly interested in helping, you called out to her.

"Ms. Corduroy! Care to join me? I was just going over some paperwork your father submitted and I could use your help."

She gave you a soft smile and quickly slid into the booth across from you while Robbie grumbled to himself, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stormed away.

"He is persistent, isn't he?" You say with a roll of your eyes.

"I know!" She groaned miserably, slapping her face between her hands. "Thanks for the save, by the way. If he actually paid attention to me he'd know my dad doesn't do paperwork."

"Anytime, Wendy. That's what adults are for, you know?" you answered.

"Pfft, no way," she said, "You're the only cool adult in this town, man. I bet if you were mayor it wouldn't suck so bad around bere."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not ready for that kind of responsibility," you laughed. "Besides, Mayor Cutebiker is still plenty popular. I don't think I'd have a chance."

"Whatever you say, Miss Y/N," she said with a shrug, "Mind if I eat with you? My dad and my brothers are meeting here in about 30, but I'm starving."

"Of course not, Wendy. I'd be happy for the company," you answered happily. You ate your pancakes in good company and waved her goodbye when her family arrived. You were polishing off the last of your drink and a slice of pie when the door chimed again and in came the Pines family.

You recognized the twins immediately. Where trouble brewed, the twins were at the source. Despite the threat of danger, you couldn't be angry at them. They were very kind and intelligent kids and had saved you from a gnome kidnapping earlier just this month, so you would say you were on good terms.

Then you looked up and saw the Stan brothers, Ford and Stanley. You hadn't actually met them personally yet, but you could tell by reputation alone who was who.

Ford was walking with his journal in hand, taking notes and examining the Medusa-dog's head mounted on the wall beside him while he mumbled to himself.

Stanley followed right after. Mister Mystery himself, with the usual suit and red fez you'd seem from afar and that half the town had warned you away from.

Both brothers were handsome, you realized, though Stanley was the one that stuck out to you. He had a great dad-bod, but you could tell there was some muscle under the poorly fitted suit jacket he always wore.

You blinked a few times to yourself. Man, you really had been single for too long. Your eyes met, and you offered a polite wave before looking at your mug and taking a sip. Staring probably wouldn't make a great first impression and you secretly hoped he couldn't read your thoughts.

Your reflection was interrupted the moment Mabel saw you, of course. The kid ran right over and dragged her brothers and uncles right along with her. She was sliding into the booth beside you before you even had a chance to scoot in.

"Hi, Ms. Y/n! It's me, Mabel!" she said excitedly. "Have you met my grunkles? This is Grunkle Stan, and this is Grunkle Ford!" she added, pointed to them accordingly.

"Nice to meet you both," you say, nodding at each of them. "My name is Y/n."

"Nice to meet you, Y/n. My name is Stanford Pines, and this is my brother Stanley," he added. "I don't believe I've seen you around before. Did you just move in recently?"

"Yes, a few months ago, but I've been so busy with my new job as Mayor Cutebiker's Chief Administrator that I haven't had much time to get out."

"Well, that's a shame, toots," Stan added with a sly smile and a performative wink. "You'll have to let old Stan-the-man show you the town sometime. I know this place like the back of my hand!"

"Grunkle Stan, you got lost in the mall two days ago and we had to have security come find you." Dipper added exasperatedly.

"Like the back of my hand!" Stan reiterated, using his hand to turn dip 180 degrees by his head.

"Ooh! ooh! We could give you the Pines Family Tour!" Mabel added excitedly. "We know everything, don't we Dipper."

"Well, maybe not everything, but I'm sure we could show her a couple of places," the boy added, running his nose at the praise.

"Children, Stanley, please. Let's give Ms. Y/n some peace. I believe she was finishing up as we came in, weren't you, Miss?"

"Yes, I had just finished the last of my coffee and alas, I have more work to do. But perhaps I will have to take you up on the Pines Family Tour, huh kids? And I'm sure you could show me a thing or two yourself, huh, Stan-the-man?" you laughed.

He laughed with you, but the blush burning up his cheeks as you left let you know he hadn't quite expected you to return his interest.

Man, you'd have to hang out at the diner more often.

#grunkle stan #stanley pines #mister mystery #stan pines #stan pines x reader #fluff #requests open #requests #asks #asks open

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pep-rambles · 3 months

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Okay Here it is

Yup it's my stupid fluffy Valentine's day Huskerdust fic. Not my favorite thing I've written but I literally did it in a day.

As promised with 10 mins to spare. Here is the A03 link if you'd rather read it there or see the tags or whatever. https://archiveofourown.org/works/53805574

It was on the edge of midnight when Angel Dust finally made it back to the hotel. A full day of back to back clients. Sometimes causing Angel to run halfway across the city in heels and 20 minutes or less because Valentino couldn't schedule for shit.

Valentine's day: sex workers’ black Friday. Even if you were already dead.

All things considered, it usually wasn't the worst day aside from it being so busy, at least Angel didn't have to deal with Valentino directly. But this year, there was somewhere else he'd rather be. Someone else he'd rather be with.

Angel pushed through the doors of the hotel. The lobby was dim, most of the lights were off as most of the residents had gone to bed by now. The light of the bar on the other end of the lobby, highlighting the handsome bartender Angel wished he could have spent his day with.

“Heeey Husky.” Angel murmured, sliding onto a bar stool and laying his head down on one of his forearms but still glancing up lovingly at his, dare he say it, boyfriend. The two men had only been officially dating for a couple weeks now but they had been good friends for months, and Angel can't even recall how long he'd been pining for the old cat. He could hardly believe they were actually an item.

Husker took a second of Angel's hands in his, Angel helping him to lace their fingers together. “Rough day?” Husk asked, laying a soft kiss on the top of Angel's hand. A gesture that made Angel blush.

“Eh I've had worse” the spider shrugged and sat up. “I'm fine really. Just a bit sore as always.” He reassured his partner as he checked him over for bruises. This had been part of their routine for almost as long as they had been friends, Husk had well over stocked his first aid kit since.

“I sure missed you though.” Angel said flirtatiously before leaning in and planting a soft kiss on Husker’s forehead.

Husk chuckled. “Somebody missed you too.” He smirked as he opened the door to the bar and a little demon pig ran out.

“Nuggs!” Angel said excitedly as he leaned down to pick up the piglet. He scooped up Fat Nuggets with his lower set of arms and began fussing him with his upper set. “Hey there Nuggies! Did ya miss me? Did ya miss me? Did ya miss your papa? I bet ya did? Were ya a good boy for Husky?”

As Angel Dust continued to coo over his pet and pepper him with kisses, Husk looked over at the two of them with a smile. He wasn’t the least bit jealous that the pig was getting more attention than he was. He found the whole scene to be incredibly adorable and endearing.

“So, the usual?” Husk asked Angel once he had calmed down a bit with fussing Nuggets.

“Sure thing Husky.” Angel said, running a hand through his hair. As Husk prepared his drink Angel took out his phone and checked the time. “Just two more minutes of Valentine’s Day left, glad we’re spending it together.”

Husk paused as he was pouring Angel’s drink out. “Wait, it's Valentine’s day?” He asked, looking up at his Angel in shock.

“Wait, ya didn’t realize that?” Angel asked, surprised.

“I don’t know man you know I’m not into all that sappy bullshit. How’s one supposed to keep track of time down here anyway.” The bartender waved him off.

“Oh Husky!” Angel laughed, gently setting Fat Nuggets down on the floor before leaning in to kiss the now furrowed face of his beloved. “Well happy Valentine’s anyway, kitty.” Angel said sweetly smoothing back the fur on Husker’s head. Husk grumbled at the nickname but smiled anyway.

Angel sat back down on the bar stool. The two held hands as Angel nursed his drink. Not talking much, just enjoying each other’s presence.

A few minutes passed before Angel Dust spoke up again. “Well, it may be a the fifteenth now we can still do somethin’ together.” He smiled as he clasped all four hands around one of his partner’s own. “Wanna come over to my room?” Then added. “I mean just ta, like, cuddle and watch tv or talk or somethin’.”

Husk smiled and added his second hand to the pile of the five others. “Sure.” He said. “I could bring some snacks. Charlie and Vaggie made cookies I think.”

“Sounds good!” Angel replied. “Give me about 30 mins or so ta shower slip into something more comfortable, ‘kay?” He gave Husk another kiss before scooping up Nuggets and heading up to his bedroom.

------

There was a knock on Angel's door just about the time he got out of the shower.

“Be right there.” Angel called as he slipped a large t-shirt over his head.

When he opened the door there stood Husk dressed down to just a pair of pajama pants and carrying a significant amount of food in just his two arms. Three bags of chips, a handful of cookies each individually wrapped, and a bottle of soda in each hand and the box of Angel's favorite popsicles.

“Babe!” Angel couldn't help but laugh a little. “Ya could've asked for my help.”

“I got it,” Husk grumbled.

“Sure ya do Husky.” Angel smiled as he scooped up the snacks in his four arms. And walked over to set them down at the little set up he had made for the two of them. (Well three, as Fat Nuggets would most definitely be snuggling up with them.) A pile of blankets and pillows. In the center of the pile, facing the television. was a cushion with arms that Cheri had jokingly called his “husband” which Angel sat down in front of, Husk joining him shortly after setting down the soda bottles in front of them. And leaning back.

“Soooo, ya like my husband?” Angel teased leaning into Husk.

“YOUR WHAT?!”

Angel laughed, running one of his arms along one of the arms of the cushion. “Ya, know because he's always holding me in his arms?”

“Hmph” Husk smirked as he wrapped his lover up in a tight hug. Angel leaned back against Husk's shoulder raising a hand to his cheek pulling him in.

The two men kissed softly for a few moments. Until Angel felt something bump against his lower set of arms. Looking down he saw Fat Nuggets nudging his way into his lap. Both men laughed as Angel scooped up the tiny demon pig.

With one hand holding Nuggs, a second scratching behind his ears, a third entwined with Husk's, and a fourth grabbing a cookie from the pile of snacks.

Angel looked at the various pink and red frosted frosted sugar cookie hearts. He smirked as he stopped fussing Nuggs for a moment to unwrap one of the red hearts. “So the ladies made these little heart cookies and ya didn't even realize it was Valentine’s day?”

Husk grumbled, “I don't know. Like I said I can't keep track of time anymore. And all that sugary mushy shit is just Charlie on any other day.”

“Fair enough.” Angel said as he took a bite of the cookie. He reached down and grabbed the remote. He turned the TV on but kept the volume low. “So, how was your day then?”

“Pretty dull. I wondered why Charlie hadn’t planned any activities. Now I guess it makes sense.” Husk laughed.

Angel listened intently as he flipped through the channels not really paying attention there was nothing but junk at 1 am in Hell. Or at any hour in Hell.

Angel and Husk talked and snacked well into the night. At one point Husk gave Angel a back rub. Angel had forgotten how stiff he was until he felt the bartender’s strong fingers kneading into his skin. Slowly throughout the night Angel began to sink further and further into Husker’s lap. With Husk leaning back more against the cushion.

Angel looked up at Husk talking about some occurrence at his casino from back in his overlord days. He couldn’t help but notice how Husk looked at him with a face that said he held the stars in his heart. Angel Dust had seen dozens of Valentines Days when he was alive, and almost three times as many since he died, but he never imagined he’d actually ever have one that was worth remembering. One where he spent it with a man who didn’t care that he was without make-up and just in boxers and a ratty old t-shirt, or that he had just stuffed his face with junk food, or that there were probably crumbs of said junk food still lingering on his clothing. A man who didn’t seem to mind when Angel paid more attention to the tiny demon pig now sleeping in his lap. A man who saw Angel as someone magnificent, not just something to be used and discarded.

Angel reached a hand up to touch Husk’s cheek softly.

“Hey… what’s up?” Husk leaned into the touch as he reached his own hand up to gently touch Angel’s.

“Nothin’” Angel replied trying to hide the tears he felt welling up behind his eyes “I’m just happy” He smiled. “Happy belated Valentine’s, Husky.”

“Yeah, uh…” Husk coughed and blushed, not used to such sappy sentiments. “Y-you too.”

“Hey Husky?”

“Hmmm?”

“I think the popsicles’ve probably melted.”

Husk looked surprised for a moment before both of them laughed and embraced each other. P.S. This is a husband:

The term husband is something my friends came up with in college and I want to try and make it a real thing.

#huskerdust #hazbin hotel #Angelhusk #angel dust #hazbin hotel husk #fanfic #my fic #my writing #fat nuggets #valentine's day

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starsfic · 3 months

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Valentine's Week, Day 3, Fluff Fic

Summary: Ford is sent to find Stanley and bring him back to the States. He fails.

AO3/Ko-Fi

-_-

So.

It had been a while since he had spoken to Stanley.

It wasn’t Ford’s fault. Stan had been the one to ruin his chances of getting into West Coast Tech. Of course he wasn’t going to talk to him. Ford had been more than happy just to pretend like Stan didn’t even exist.

And then the check, signed with Stanley’s name, had come in.

It…it had been ten times more than his grant. It had been more than he ever could’ve made with a West Coast Tech degree. Ford, of course, had called his parents.

His mother had been overjoyed. Apparently, Stanley had called her a week ago, right after a check for their parents had arrived, containing enough to set up their parents for life, enough to pay back all the lost millions. Before he could ask more questions, his father had grabbed the phone. He was less happy.

Stanley had told his father that he never wanted to hear from him or Ford again. Apparently, Ford’s machine had still been running when he left. He had never touched it. All of this could’ve been cleared up seven years ago. Because of their lack of trust in him, Stanley had been given advice just to cut contact, which he did.

But Filbrick Pines couldn’t handle that.

So, instead of running around the woods of Oregon like his muse suggested, Ford found himself in the streets of Wàn Qiān Chéng, China, looking for his twin.

“So, describe Stanley to me again?”

At least he wasn’t alone. Fiddleford stood on his tippy toes, looking around. Ford couldn’t help but look around as well, drinking in the sight of the city. Wàn Qiān Chéng was known as the beating heart of the tech world, to the point that they could control the weather. If he had attended West Coast Tech, he could’ve attended so many meetings here.

“I told you, he looks like me, just without the glasses.”

“And the eyebags?” Fiddleford jabbed, not even looking at him.

“Yeah, sure, what-” Ford came to a stop. They had walked out into one of the city’s squares that seemed to host a farmer’s market. For once, he wasn’t looking at the advanced city. He was looking at the people.

Not the humans. The animal-shaped people.

They were everywhere, just casually going about their business. The humans occasionally had to dodge a tail or shuffle aside massive weight, but nobody seemed surprised. They were just doing their own thing.

“What?” Ford looked around, feeling his hand itch to write and draw the sight. “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” Fiddleford adjusted his glasses, looking around. “But it-”

“Hey!” Ford grabbed the arm of the nearest person. The young man yelped, nearly dropping his book, but Ford had questions. “The animal-shaped people, who- what- what are they?!” A memory of his advisor was rolling in, warning him, but he was too freaked out to think about it.

“The yaogui?!” the guy said, yanking his arm away. “What about them?”

“Why aren’t you freaking out?!”

The guy blinked. “Uh…have you been living in the woods or something?” Before Ford could say yes, he continued. “China revealed that magic was real, alongside their yaogui population, five years ago.” Before Ford could say yes, the guy started sprinting away.

Five years ago. That…that had been when his advisor said his study might be “dicey” before giving him his grant. That… Ford felt his legs shake. Before he could collapse, a hand landed on his shoulder. “Is that Stanley?”

Ford looked up, following Fiddleford’s gaze to a stall selling peaches. His heart nearly stopped. Because, yes, that was Stanley.

He looked like he had barely aged. He wore a comfortable white shirt and jeans, his hair long and tied back with a yellow ribbon. Stan smiled and laughed at something the seller said. Ford couldn’t hear it from across the square, but he knew the noise like it was tattooed into his brain.

“Yeah.” His mouth was dry. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Fiddleford hummed. “You forgot to mention that he was handsome.”

Ford’s first instinct was to deny it because they had the same face. But seeing Stanley smiling like the sun reminded him of old things. While Ford had been smarter, Stanley had been the confident one, always comfortable in his own skin. He could’ve made hundreds of friends, but he hadn’t, because he wanted to stick by Ford.

Except, now, he didn’t have Ford anymore, did he?

The resolve to never speak about Stanley crumbled, and Ford wanted to crumble too. He felt a smile form as he took a step forward, and another and another and another. He wanted to say something, anything. It had been ten years, and ten years too long since he talked with his twin.

“Stanley!”

The cry of his twin’s name broke Ford from his trance. Stanley didn’t move, but Ford found himself ducking behind a stall anyway. The stall owner gave him a weird look, but he didn’t care, even as he felt Fiddleford hunch next to him.

A man had run up to his twin and now had his arms wrapped around him. If Stanley was handsome, Ford could only describe the man as radiant. Glossy strawberry blonde curls were braided back, revealing a smile full of sunshine. A loose pink sweater drooped down one lovely shoulder. “Stanley, did you get my peaches?”

“I’m getting them now, see?” The stall owner chuckled as Stan accepted a bag of peaches. “Honestly, you eat them like they’re going out of style.”

“You don’t know that. They could be out.” Ford felt his ears light up as the man leaned close, stage whispering into his twin’s ear. “And I so wanted to make that peach dessert you loved.”

…oh.

This might be a little bit harder than Ford planned.

#Valentine's Week #LMK #Monkie Kid #LEGO Monkie Kid #Gravity Falls #GF #AU #Ford Pines #Fiddleford McGucket #Sun Wukong #Stan Pines #Stan x Wukong #my writing

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clumsy-jiminie · 25 days

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ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟʏ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ | ᴘᴊᴍ | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ

❝ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ❞

↣ summary :: Kiara Smith had dreamed of true love for as long as she could remember. from being obsessed with the Disney princesses who found affection in the strangest situations to dressing up as a bride from kindergarten to fourth grade. it was the only thing she ever truly desired, so much so that a pleasant smile and kind eyes could have her smitten in seconds. right when she thought she found the one, a chance encounter with Park Jimin—the city’s famously perfect fuck boy with a smile so warm and a heart of ice—has her feeling quite the opposite. he knocks her off her axis and derails her life as she knows it, yet the universe seems to have another plan for the two.

↣ rating :: 18+

↣ genre :: fluff, angst, smut, e2l, slow burn

↣ pairing :: business owner!jimin x fem!artist!oc ft. taehyung

↣ word count :: 4.5k

↣ chapter warnings :: mature language, mentions of pining (?maybe?), angst with little resolve, descriptions of a small panic attack

↣ notes :: this is a pretty tame chapter tbh minus taehyung being an asshat but what’s new? maybe kiara is finally opening her eyes?? jk is the best of the best here he deserves a crown

↣ next :: previous :: series m.list ↢

if you have any questions, comments, or concerns PLEASE don't hesitate to message me or send me an ask! my inbox is always open. 💖

"I miss the days where I was young and naive. I thought the perfect guy would come and find me. now happy ever after, it don't come so easily."

- all I want, olivia rodriguez -

ｓｐｒｉｎｇ

It's been days since Jeongguk swept away Kiara. Days since she heard anything from Taehyung. Days with tear-stained cheeks. Days of fighting with Jeongguk for her phone because she desperately wanted to contact her boyfriend, she wanted to reach out first and forget about this whole thing. Forget about him ignoring her. Forget about him taking her car and leaving her stranded. Forget about him single-handedly ruining date night.

But Jeongguk was a good best friend—a fantastic best friend—and wouldn't let Kiara have her phone until she realized the importance of the matter.

It took days. It was like kicking a nasty drug habit, and love was one hell of a drug.

After the third day, Kiara couldn't help but sit with her thoughts. Jeongguk locked her phone in a safe box that only he had the code to so she wouldn't do anything stupid while he was gone. She sat on the couch, sinking into the cushions from the overuse throughout the years. The 24-year-old played with her fingers, staring at nothing as her thoughts consumed her.

When did things take a turn for the worse? They fight more frequently over the smallest of things. She knew couples fought, which was healthy for the relationship, but why did it leave her with a sinking feeling in her gut? The woman never saw her parents fight this much—maybe they were strategic with their disputes—but when she did, her father always came home with flowers for her mother. Her mother would smile brightly, lighting up the room while her father fell in love all over again.

Taehyung never did that for her.

Even in the beginning, once they moved out of the honeymoon stage, arguments were often left unfinished. They would become shells of themselves as they avoided contact with each other. Kiara would have to fake smiles around her friends so as not to worry them. After a few days of silence, she would reach out to the man, and all seemed right in the world once again.

No flowers, no I'm sorry's, and no falling in love all over again.

Was this how it would always be—their arguments left unresolved with her always putting her feelings aside to reconcile? Why did it seem like these disputes chipped away at her soul more while the other party remained untouched?

How was she going to fix this?

Why did she have to fix this?

By day four, she had become numb to the thought of Taehyung. Kiara was carrying the weight of their problems by herself and didn't want to anymore. She took off the load, tying it up with a pretty little box until she eventually returned. The woman was in the city, within walking distance of her friends. Being out here happened less than she would've liked. Until further notice, Taehyung didn't exist to her. She tried to ignore the freeing feeling, knowing it was only a temporary patch on their relationship problems.

"No, no, no!" The dark-haired woman yelled at Jeongguk's television screen. It was 8 in the morning, and she had no concern for the occupants who lived there. She got on her knees from her original sitting position, desperately mashing her little fingers on the controller.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" She exclaimed as she watched the screen, her eyebrows folding inward. She inched closer to the screen as if it would help her. "WHICH ONE OF THESE ASSHOLES SENT A BLUE FUCKING SHELL?!"

The attack knocked her back a few places, but there was still time to reclaim her title of first place. She stared up at the 60" flat screen as silence fell over her, using every ounce of focus she had. She aimed for every box on the track, using the random items with precise skill until she returned to the top. It was the final lap, after all, and tensions were high.

"Down in front," said Jeongguk from behind her.

"YES!" She barely heard the man speak as she secured first again. She was only a few seconds away from the finish line. That was all until Kiara listened to the familiar beeps of something trailing behind her, trying to hit her. Her eyes widened as the red shell crashed into her cart right before the finish line.

The attack was fatal, knocking her back to fifth place.

“WHAT THE FUUUUUHHHHCK!!” The voice that came out of the woman's body barely seemed human. It was deep and guttural, starkly different from her soft and silky tone.

Jeongguk couldn't even hold back the cackle that ripped from his throat. His head flew back into the couch cushions while his hand held his tensing stomach. His eyes shut, deep crinkles forming next to them as his cheeks started to burn from the muscles of his face holding in place for too long.

"You're such an asshat for that!" She yelled while turning back to look at him. "You couldn't accept second place?!" Her amber eyes burned a hole into the grinning man.

"H-Hey!" He stammered through laughter. Once his sounds of joy finally died down, his eyes met hers while his lips fell into a straight line. He cocked a brow at her, "Do I look like someone who comes in second?"

"Right now, you look like a dickhead."

"Don't be an ass because I beat you fair and square."

"Fair and square?!" She repeated, her depth going up an octave. "I had that race, and you know it!"

The man's structured lips formed into a playful smirk. He leaned forward, exposed biceps subtly flexing as he rested his elbows on his thighs. His hands hung between his legs gracefully as he stared at Kiara.

"Is that why you came in fifth place, sweetheart?"

If this were any other woman, they would've been on their knees already for the man. Everything about Jeongguk was attractive—from the piercings that accentuated his lips and eyebrow to the tattoos that covered his entire left arm down to his hand, obsidian hair tied up into a messy bun most of the time, and his built physique. He had large, dark eyes, a straight nose slightly on the larger side, and baby-pink lips. On top of physical looks, he was an absolute sweetheart. He was protective of his friends and gave to anyone who needed help. It was apparent why he got girls with ease and rarely got rejected.

But he was going against Kiara, and all she did was stare back at the man. Her expression was unreadable, so he was caught entirely off guard when she suddenly reached out and grabbed Jeongguk by the collar of his tank top. With his eyes growing wide like a deer in headlights, she pulled him down to the floor before he could process what was happening, making the man forget how strong she was for a moment. As his back hit the ground, she swiftly got on top of him, straddling his hips. The woman grabbed a pillow off of the couch and began to beat the man with it senselessly.

Jeongguk laughed from underneath her, trying to block his face with his arms. Somewhere between the attack, he managed to grab the weapon from her and tossed it across the room. Kiara glanced back at the small pillow slumped against a wall before looking back at the dark-haired man under her.

And for a second, the world had frozen in time for Jeongguk.

As his eyes locked with the woman above him—eyes golden like a summer sunrise, hair natural and wild like a lion's mane, his shirt draped over her body like a dress with a faint playful smirk tugging at her lips—he felt his heart pang. Like he was shocked with a defibrillator and brought back to life. He heat rushed to his face, flushing his cheeks with a pretty pink.

Kiara didn't notice.

Thank god she didn't notice.

She just reached for another pillow from the couch and continued her attack.

"K-Kiara!" He stammered again through fits of laughter. He tried to grab the pillow again, ignoring how his heart felt in his chest, but failed. His desperate attempts motivated the girl to increase the intensity of her hits, hearing a satisfying thud every time the plush object connected with him. This satisfaction didn't last long, as Jeongguk finally grasped the pillow and threw it with the other.

Their eyes met again.

"Looks like you're out of ammo," Jeongguk said with a smirk, his hands absentmindedly landing on her thighs. Her skin was soft to the touch and surprisingly warm. Why did he suddenly want to hold her?

"I wouldn't speak so soon." The dark-haired woman raised both of her hands.

He cocked an eyebrow. "You're gonna fight me?" Before she could respond, he let out a loud scoff. "You know I take MMA, right?" She nodded. The man was expecting her to back down, but instead, he felt her fingertips at his sides, tickling him. Jeongguk's eyes widened as he burst into laughter, squirming beneath her. He tried to grab her hands but couldn't get a good grip. "Fuck!"

Kiara laughed maniacally, giving the man exactly what he deserved—sweet revenge. Maybe he'd think twice before costing her a win in Mario Kart next time.

Suddenly, Jeongguk gripped onto her shirt, pulling her down on top of him before he rolled them over. The swift movement made Kiara discombobulated, allowing him to grab her hands and pin them above her head. Soft pants parted from his lips as she looked up at him with innocent, doe eyes—like the evil woman didn't just subject the man to pure torture. She pushed against his restraints, back arching in the process, causing Jeongguk to tighten his grip. In this position, he could only think about one thing. And he couldn't find himself to care about anything else at this moment. All he saw was Kiara's amber eyes looking at him like he was the only one who mattered in the world. He needed to shove those thoughts—those feelings—into whatever box they came from.

"You good?" He asked, chest heaving up and down slightly.

Kiara looked up at him, eyes flickering over his pink cheeks, hair falling out of his messy bun and into his face. "Are you?" She countered, smirking playfully at his appearance. She knew that look. She would catch his eyes lingering over her repeatedly and would ignore it every time she did.

Jeongguk let out a weak chuckle, the grip on her wrists loosening until they disappeared completely as he leaned back. At the same time, Kiara propped herself up onto her elbows. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm good, couldn't be better. Uh….” He looked away from the girl, deciding that anything but her needed his attention.

A door suddenly opened, followed by heavy footsteps and a loud yawn.

Thank goodness.

"Y'all are so damn loud," said a tall man as he walked into the living room. Sporting a t-shirt and some blue stripped boxers, he plopped down onto the couch. His raven hair was sticking up at all angles from a rough night of sleep. His skin was pale pink with a little beauty mark underneath his left eye.

"Don't act like you weren't up anyway," Jeongguk said as he stood up. He offered Kiara his hand, pulling her up as well.

"Well, how could anyone sleep with y'all rolling around the place like you're having sex!"

The pair let out equal sounds of disgust. "Oh, shut up, Yugyeom!" They both groaned.

"I'm just saying!" Yugyeom countered as he looked at the couple. "Honestly, when are you two gonna finally get together? You know I've been an avid Kiakook shipper since meeting you guys."

"You know she has a boyfriend," Jeongguk stated as he rolled his eyes.

"So? What's a little obstacle gonna do? Aren't y'all fighting anyway?" Yugyeom asked as his dark eyes settled on Kiara.

"I don't see why that matters," the girl said with a shrug.

"Oh, but it does!" Yugyeom grinned as he leaned forward. "See, if you guys are on the rocks, my boy Jeongguk could swoop in and save the day; then you guys can get together, and my Kiakook dreams will be fulfilled!" Heat rose to Jeongguk's cheeks, staining his face with pink once again despite the glare he was sending to the other.

"It's not gonna happen," Kiara deadpanned as she stared at the paler man.

"Who's to say it won't?" Yugyeom argued with a raised brow.

Kiara fell silent for a second, folding her arms over her chest as her brows lowered. "Jeongguk doesn't like me like that, right?" She turned to look at the man next to her, who was staring at Yugyeom.

When their eyes met, Jeongguk's heart skipped a beat. "Right," he quickly agreed while reaching up to fix his hair. Kiara knew him too well for her own good. She knew whenever he played with his hair, it was a tell.

Ignore it.

"Anyway," Jeongguk cut through the growing silence, feeling as if his roommate and best friend already knew the truth. He walked over to the bookshelf and pulled down a solid black metal box. After inputting a code, it unlocked, and he grabbed the phone from inside it. "I think you've earned this back." He tossed the device to Kiara, and she caught it between her hands. "I gotta take a piss," he announced before walking off to his bedroom.

"He's so bad at lying," Yugyeom chuckled as he stood up. He reached outward, stretching his long limbs while emitting a groan. "He's madly in love with you."

"Bro, shut up," Kiara rolled her eyes as she fiddled with the phone in her hand. Deny. Deny. Deny. That's all she could do at the moment. Between the rollercoaster of her relationship, dealing with Park Jimin whenever he decided to intrude on her life, and keeping Luna a secret, coming to terms with the fact that her best friend of over a decade could have feelings for her…, it would make her brain implode right now. She could only have so much on her plate before it shattered beneath the weight.

The skinny man shrugged her off. "It's only a matter of time, Ki!" He said in a sing-song voice as he got up and left the room.

Kiara sighed deeply before glancing down at the phone in her hands. Her brows furrowed for a moment as she stared at the device. Turmoil was bubbling inside her—half of her saying she shouldn't care while the other half cared deeply. She was scared that her assumption was correct. That Taehyung didn't bother reaching out to her at all—that he didn't care where she was. How could he not worry that the bed was empty whenever he arrived home and remained empty for four days afterward? This was her boyfriend, and he had to care, right?

Wrong.

When she unlocked her phone and scrolled through the notification banners, her heart sank further into her chest. Kiara scrolled back to that night, seeing only text messages from her group chat with her girlfriends, Aimee, and a missed call notification from her mother. She even opened up her text app, hoping that she possibly muted her notifications from him in a drunken rage.

But there was nothing.

Not a missed call.

Not a text message.

From Kim Taehyung.

Tears prickled at her eyes, threatening to leave and stream down her cheeks in hot waves. She looked upwards, blinking them away.

If he doesn't care, why should I? Why am I the one saving this relationship?

Just as she debated whether or not she should reach out and give that man a piece of her mind, her phone began to ring. She looked at the device, causing her heart to race a mile a minute. She contemplated, knowing she shouldn't for her sanity, but feeling like she should hear what he had to say. She clicked the green answer button and put it to her ear.

"Darling."

And with only one word falling from his lips, the woman was done for. Just like that, she fell back into the cycle of Taehyung without any resistance. Her heart swelled, all the negative feelings from the moment earlier melting away into nothing. The word alone was kryptonite, and how his deep voice said the pet name so effortlessly was like a shot of dopamine straight to the brain. She sighed in relief, sounding like the word "Hello."

"Hi." She could hear Taehyung smiling on the other side of the phone so clearly that she could picture his full lips forming that boxy grin she loved. "Where are you? You haven't been home for a couple of days."

Her heart outweighed her mind, ignoring that he noticed she was missing but didn't care enough until now to see where she was. Love was a sick thing. "I know, I'm at JK's place."

"Tell him why." Jeongguk's voice boomed through the quiet living room, sending a chill down her spine. Her eyes slowly trailed to him, meeting his glare. He leaned against the doorframe to his room, arms folded over his chest. "Tell. Him. Why." He spoke slowly and clearly, his tone more profound than before.

Kiara only nodded once, wrapping her free arm around her midsection. "Be-Because you left me at the restaurant."

Taehyung let out a soft sigh. "I know, that was so fucked of me, but I was so angry by your actions."

"That's not a reason."

"What? It is—"

"That's not a reason to endanger my safety. What if something happened to me? What if I didn't have a mind to call JK?" Kiara's heart started to race in her chest as her fingertips clutched the soft material of Jeongguk's shirt. "Would you have been OK with that?"

"I—" he paused for a moment before sighing deeply. "No. It would tear me apart. I'm sorry, Kiara."

A smile cracked on her lips, and the grip on her shirt began to lessen as she felt her heart swell again. Maybe he did care. "I forgive you."

"So when are you coming back home?"

Kiara's brows furrowed. He could miss her and wanted her next to him. But something in her gut was telling her it was not that, that it was something less pure. "I'm not," she answered before fully processing anything. It was almost like it was instinctual.

"What?"

"Not for a while," her tone started to get soft as she looked down at her feet. "I'm still a little upset and need more time to process." The fact that he waited four days and five nights to reach out didn't sit well in her stomach. If the roles were reversed, she would've been blowing up his phone on day one.

Maybe that was her problem.

"But I apologized!"

"And? Taehyung, I could've been kidnapped because of your actions!"

The reality was finally setting in for the woman. If she hadn't called Jeongguk, who knows where she would be right now? Someone could've picked her up, offering her a ride home, and that would've been the end of her.

"My actions only happened because of your attitude!"

Kiara's jaw dropped to the floor, uncertainty swirling around in her abdomen. It was still her fault. Of course, it was. She chose to drink, thus choosing to mouth off at him. If she stayed silent and played the good girlfriend, she would be home by now.

"Still," her voice fell to just a whisper. Her throat tightened as she held back the urge to let rivers of tears flow down her cheeks.

Taehyung huffed, signifying that he was growing tired of this conversation. "Listen, I'm sorry you made me so angry I had to leave you. All I can do is apologize, and you've already forgiven me! Just come home, please. I miss you."

Kiara's breathing quickened as she listened to the bullshit spewing out of his mouth. She looked at Jeongguk, who looked like he was ready to drop everything and take a ride out to Long Island to beat some ass. His jaw set, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek as his arms folded over his chest. As if the anger emitting from Jeongguk spread to her, she gripped her shirt again. "Miss me some more then," she said before hanging up on the man.

Kiara panted softly, placing her hand on her chest as if it would slow her racing heart. Jeongguk looked at her with wide eyes, his once-set jaw now hanging. "Ki!" He screamed, causing Kiara's eyes to dart towards him. He had a broad smile spread on his lips. "FUCK YEAH! Do you know how long I've been waiting for you—" Jeongguk looked at the woman, who suddenly started crying. She was on the verge of hyperventilating as she crumbled to her knees. He ran over to her, pulling her sobbing self into his hard chest. He rubbed her back gently, "What's wrong?" He asked softly.

"I-I just don't know how long I can keep doing this. Everything is always my fault," the girl sobbed, absolutely breaking Jeongguk's heart.

His brows furrowed as he clenched his jaw. What did this man do to her? "Nothing is your fault, Ki. What he did was beyond wrong, and the fact that he's trying to blame you for it is sick."

She didn't say another word, for her mind convinced herself she did wrong. No matter what Jeongguk said, nothing would change her mind. They wouldn't be fighting right now if only she held her tongue.

"I love him, Kookie," she sniffled, "I love him so much. I just want him to know that nothing else matters than him."

"Ki," he mumbled. This relationship was getting out of control. Her mindset was fucked, and he didn't know how to fix it besides telling her to leave. And she wasn't going to do that. This wasn't the first time she cried in his arms on his living room floor, and it sure wasn't going to be the last.

Jeongguk pulled away from Kiara, whose sobs had quieted down to soft sniffles and whimpers. He cupped her face in his large hands, wiping away tears from rose-stained cheeks and trying not to melt at glittering amber eyes. It was heartbreaking to see her cry. She had one of those faces that made you want to cry along with her.

"Why don't you come out with me? Clear your head for a little. We'll stop by Little Latte, and while I'm at work, wasn't there a yoga studio you wanted to try?" Kiara nodded a little despite her cheeks squishing from Jeongguk's hands. He couldn't help but smile. "OK, you can get a class in, then we can stop by Mario's on the way home. Sound good?"

Kiara inhaled deeply, knowing her best friend knew best. If she declined, he would've dragged her out regardless. Otherwise, she would soak Jeongguk's pillow with tears until she cried herself into a nap, then repeat the process. Pushing through these negative emotions was the best way for her to process them. Kiara knew that. Jeongguk knew that. She hated that he knew that.

"Fine."

It was the most positive response she could muster up. Jeongguk didn't allow her time to debate, practically lifting her off the ground and shoving her to his bathroom. He gave the girl 20 minutes to get ready, including a shower. Kiara barely had enough time to properly sulk before Jeongguk barged in, blasting That's My Best Friend by Doja Cat and Saweetie while singing along remarkably loud. Kiara tried her hardest not to laugh at the man who impressively rapped each lyric with the same energy as a five-month-old puppy.

Jeongguk had dragged her out of the apartment complex soon enough, hand in hand, tattooed fingers laced with non. The cool air nipped at Kiara's exposed skin, but it was insufficient to cause discomfort. She tried to keep up with the long-legged, chipper boy, but in the back of her mind, all she could think about was Taehyung.

Not that she had enough time to think about him. Little Latte was a hop, skip, and jump away from Jeongguk's apartment, which explained the cafe owner's distaste as he walked into the quiet shop.

"Hey! You're 15 minutes late, Jeon!" Mr. Choi yelled out, and all Jeongguk could do was offer the man a childish smile full of mischief and wonder. Kiara hid behind the taller man as much as she could. She hated Mr. Choi seeing her like this.

"Sorry, Mr. C., but I brought your favorite person!"

Kiara softly cursed the man as he stepped to the side, revealing her before she slowly looked up at the man.

"Good morning, Mr. C."

The man's face sank, instantly recognizing the sadness hidden in Kiara's features. "Aw, my child, come here." He outstretched his arms to her, prompting the small girl to drag her feet close enough to the man for him to embrace her. She inhaled shakily. He smelled warm—like toasted cinnamon and freshly roasted coffee beans. Mr. Choi had the best hugs, especially when her family was far away. He patted her back gently like a father would.

"Do you want your favorite?"

Kiara nodded as she let go of the older man. He gave her a single nod before returning behind the counter to get to work. She wasn't a coffee person, hating the bitter taste it left on her tongue, so her favorite included a hot chocolate with fudge drizzle and extra whipped cream. It didn't matter if it was a thunderstorm outside or 100 degrees; Kiara would consume the beverage regardless.

She waited to pay, and Mr. Choi always fought her on the matter. And as always, Kiara shoved whatever money she owed him, plus a few extra dollars, into the usually empty tip jar on the counter. The dark-haired woman took her drink, walked to her usual seat by the window, and watched the shop come to life. As she sipped on the chocolate goodness in her cup, licking away whatever whipped cream got on her top lip, she watched the store buzz like a beehive. All types of people from different walks of life gathered at this shop. Some just needed a quick cup to go. Some grabbed a pastry along with their drink and stayed a while. Some had textbooks and notebooks with laptops, studying for something important. Others had just a good book that they enjoyed reading.

People-watching had always made Kiara feel better for some reason. It made her seem less significant in the grand scheme of things. She would forget about her problems as she pretended to know others. There was nothing wrong with a bit of escapism now and again.

After finishing her drink and watching Jeongguk interact with the customers for a little while, Kiara finally felt OK enough to continue her day. Yoga clears the mind. But before she got up, she grabbed a sticky note and pen that was on every table and left a small message for her future self whenever she would return.

↣ next :: previous :: series m.list ↢

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ashlingnarcos · 10 months

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blood on vacation

David Barrón/F!Reader

written for @narcosfandomdiscord's smut alphabet, namely the July 2 prompt blood

tags: fistfight, absolutely unhinged preoccupation with bloody knuckles, fingering, oral sex

warnings: blood, probably unsanitary, reader is an OFC (Sabrina Tanaka), violence, this was not beta read and it kind of sucks ngl

length: 1.8k words

You’ve only been Mexico City for a week, and you’re already all vacationed out. It’s not Marcela’s fault. The two of you make no sense as friends—she, the trust fund kid formerly known as Marcelo who initially met you at your dad’s jiu jitsu academy, currently partying her way across the globe with an increasingly dodgy set of cousins, exes, and assorted other rich vagabonds, and then you, the standoffish sparring tutor forever known as Mr. Tanaka’s kid, with an unhealthy penchant for taking your skills to street wanderings, just to see if you could. She was whimsical and merry, spiritually curious and given to bouts of dangerously committed romantic pining, and you were stolid and practical and highly suspicious of anyone as eager to please as a car salesman, much less a preacher or supposed future lover. The one similarity between the two of you is that you both were born and raised in São Paulo, and could both kick hard enough to break bones. But the rest? Pure opposites attract chemistry.

She’s been generous on this trip, doing the rich girl thing in splendid style, and footing the bill for your part completely. She translates for you whenever she sees you getting lost—Brazilian Portuguese is similar enough to Mexican Spanish that you can kinda sorta understand what people are saying if they’re saying it slowly and doing overtime with the nonverbal cues—and does it naturally, not like it’s a chore or an opportunity to show off. She introduces you to her club kid friends with excitement, like she’s showing them someone really cool. She’s a sweetheart, Marcela is, and you’re more than happy to wingwoman her into a spot sitting on the lap of some baby narco named Ramón. But the good food aside, you’re still so alienated and bored that when a fistfight breaks out in the club, it come as a welcome change of pace.

There’s broken glass on the ground—Ramón’s older sister smashed a bottle over somebody’s head, good for her—so no ground fighting for you. And there’s too many people around to dedicate yourself to a hold. So you fall back on a motley bag of street fighting tricks, plus what you learned from a misspent summer at a boxing club, mostly just trying to stay upright and get your licks in where you can. It’s all fun and games until one of them slaps you, open palm. A punch would’ve been fine, but this? You hit his nose with the base of your palm, driving up to break it, then follow that up with a jab. Not satisfied yet, you sweep one of his feet out from under him, shove hard, and finally get him on the ground (broken glass be damned) in a hold that has him gasping fruitlessly for oxygen, his neck in the crook of your arm, his body trying to wriggle round and find an angle at which his elbow shots to your ribs will actually mean something. Unfortunately for him, when you’re pissed off, you could take it all the way to fully broken ribs and not care. Fortunately for him, nobody there actually wants anyone to die, so after a bit, several people pull you off him. One of them is Marcela, so you give it up. The fight has died down anyways; both sides are separating into bloodstained, wary-eyed groups.

Keeping steady eye contact with the man who slapped you, you lift your bloody-knuckled hand to your mouth, part your lips, and lick a long stripe of his blood off your skin. Slow and intentional and savagely self-satisfied.

As you turn to talk to Marcela, ask her where the bathrooms are so you can clean yourself up a little (Ramón is already yelling about partying the whole night through, and Marcela seems completely unruffled, so you doubt you’re all about to leave now), you catch a glimpse of something. Everyone here is preoccupied with their injuries, or other people’s, or the retreating crowd of interlopers, except for one man who seems to have witnessed your last threat. He’s dressed a little different than the others, in an oversized polo shirt. You remember getting a glimpse of him in the fight, thinking you might need to take him on next and grimly assessing that prospect as a dangerous one before he easily elbowed a guy who was heading for Ramón’s brother. So he’s not useless, and he’s not easily cowed. Just now, he’s looking back at your challenge of a glance with a flat-eyed expression that you can’t quite parse.

Hm.

No language in common and barely any friends, but you wanted a kill and you didn’t get one, and here’s another man. You’ll have to make do with another kind of death.

Inside the club bathroom, he hooks his fingers over the top of your jeans and tugs you forwards a couple inches. Commanding, but not a threat. Not trying to make you stumble, just getting you that much closer.

Regarding him with a curious, almost lazy look, you’re almost inclined to let him have his way, but then, as he goes to unbutton your jeans, his knuckles smear blood along your stomach. You close your hands over his wrists, and he pauses.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, slow and clear, lave as mãos. And he gets it.

You know he gets it, because he looks down at your hands, your bruised, swollen, bloody hands, and then back up at you in a way that makes his blank expression rather pointed. Oh, does the international man of mystery have a sense of humor after all?

“Do it,” you say, faça isso. That must not be close enough to Spanish, because he frowns a little. You give up.

You pull his hands out of your jeans, feeling a shiver go through you at the friction, and then you let go of him, walk over to the sink, and turn on the tap. As you lean back against it, the countertop digs into your thighs, suggestive. The dull pulsing thump of the club music outside gives the tiny bathroom a cloistered, cocooned quality. His dark eyes meet yours evenly.

You don’t move, don’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Silent. Yeah?

Yeah. He takes a couple steps forward and washes his hands, and as he does so he mutters something to himself in yet another language, English, maybe. As he dries his hands, he smiles. It’s a wry, private smile.

Two can play at that game. In your mediocre, third-generation Japanese, you say, “I have every intention of eating you whole” in exactly the same voice another woman might’ve said something sexy.

As he steps towards you, you could swear he says something that sounds like gostaria, dangerously close to I would like that, almost like he understands you.

You decide: no more talking.

Zero to a hundred. He tastes like beer and you, unfortunately, can’t get enough; your hands cup the back of his head, his neck, fingertips digging in as he finally unbuttons your jeans and shoves them and your panties down your thighs in one impatient motion. You could hop up onto the countertop, but why do that? This way is so much better, his wet hands gripping your ass, the swift coolness of droplets sliding down the back of your thighs, the low grunt he makes when he lifts you.

“Sorry, was that hard for you?” you say, but he’s two steps ahead of you. Got his palms warm on the inside of your knees, spreading your thighs and catching sight of just how wet you are for him. It’s his turn to be smug, clearly, but you can’t even be mad at it when he wears that smile so well.

He gets on his knees.

You should’ve known it’d be like this from the second you caught his eye in the aftermath of the fight. You really should’ve known, but it still punches an unwanted sound out of you, a small sound in the back of your throat, when he gets his face between your thighs in seconds, no hesitation, and starts to lick your cunt like it’s ice cream and he’s starving.

With the countertop digging into your legs and the mirror hard against the back of your head, your body throbbing with new bruises, you have no right to feel this good, but you do. With your fingers sunk into his hair and your eyes half-lidded, you feel like you could melt and slip right down that drain. For his part, he’s got you just how he wants you, with your legs parted wide to accommodate the width of his shoulders, his right forearm a bar across your belly. You have no fucking idea how or why he’s doing this—men who see you gone full destroyer don’t usually think to themselves, I want to make her feel good, they tend to think along much darker lines. They want to dominate you, and you get what fun you can out of the process of denying them that. But this? He got on his knees like it was his first choice. You do not know what this is, but you’ll take it. He slips a finger inside you, and you’re so wet that it barely burns at all. Two fingers. Fuck. He leans his weight into your stomach, across your thighs, to stop you from bucking up into his mouth, and that’s—that’s fair. It’s all you can do not to whimper, and your heavy panting sounds desperate enough. Three fingers and you do whimper.

He looks up, and you’re already bracing yourself, but no. There’s no sneer in it; there’s something else. All night, this nameless man has been quiet, unnoticeable, and then, once noticed, mysterious, but now you see him. The first look is caution, but the second? The second is all appreciation, like he could drink the sight.

That look hits you hard. You close your eyes, because you don’t want to see it, don’t know what the hell to do with it, and choose instead to sink deep into the sensations in your body as he wrings you out. A wave of euphoria hits you as you come, and it’s just the body, you know it’s just the body, but when it’s over and he has his chin propped up on your thigh, both of you looking exhausted, neither of you done, you get the weirdest urge to push his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Little killer, you want to say. Damn near affectionate. (It’s just the body.)

The cops arrive at the club before you can manage to return the favor, and Marcela hates all interactions with the cops with a flaming passion, so you have to get her out even though in all likelihood Ramón will just have to flash them a medium-size wad of bills. Later, though, when you can, you confess all (most) of the strange encounter to her, and she gets the message out to him. Through which of the tiny terrors, you don’t want to know. Probably Ramón, a thought that does not fill you with confidence. But he gets the message anyway.

The message is: I owe you one.

#David Barrón x reader #Narcos mexico #narcos mexico imagine #narcos mexico readerfic #David Barrón #mine #nffalphabet #well. that happened.#was it good? no but we gotta make progress somehow. gotta start somewhere. etc

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electricopolis-net · 1 month

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S03E06: Life in Exile

Pt. 1: The Town of Refuse

The day after their arrival in Junk Town, the old man known as the Cursebreaker led both Bob Sparker and Percy King to the shoreline. On a hill near the beach was a small, dusty house, though again, like the houses in town, it was made of a combination of wood planks, concrete, sheet metal, and other debris. "This house has been abandoned for quite some time," the Cursebreaker declared. "I'm sure nobody will kick up a fuss if you move in."

Then, he led them to the beach itself. "Junk Town subsists on the waste that floats up here," he explained, motioning with his staff to some of the flotsam washing up on the shore. "Take a look."

Bob crouched down and wedged a tin sign board out of the sand. "Hey, this looks familiar," he said, turning it back and forth. "The Pine Room--wasn't that a bar in Electricopolis? I used to go there before it shut down."

"That's right," said the Cursebreaker, nodding. "And that's not all. Old television tubes, monitors, magazines, plastic bags and old clothes, all kinds of stuff turn up here. And it's all from your fair city in the valley."

Percy stroked his chin, thinking. "Fascinating. I knew some of the companies in town used the underground sea as a dumping ground, but I never realized the currents bore the refuse all the way out here..."

"There's a lot of things you folks don't realize," said the Cursebreaker, turning away from the water. "But there's time for that."

There was a moment of silence. Bob stood up and looked out over the water, shielding his eyes from the sun. It was a cloudy day, but still bright enough to sting his eyes, unfamiliar with the sunlight as they were.

"So...what should we do?" Bob asked. "Just kill time until we go back to town?"

"Oh, you're not going back," said the Cursebreaker matter-of-factly. Bob and Percy turned to stare at him. "Not until the clouds clear."

Not until the clouds clear.

What did he mean by that? Bob tossed and turned, thinking about it. Thankfully, the abandoned house by the shore did have a couple of beds in it, lumpen and worn though they were. It was, as the Cursebreaker had said, better than nothing, but only just.

"I mean, the city's power is shot," Percy explained. "So it probably will be quite some time before that subway's running again. But I don't understand what he meant about the clouds."

"The clouds have always been there, right?" Bob asked.

"As far as I know."

"As far as you know." Bob shot him a pointed look. "You sure you're not hiding anything?"

Percy rolled his eyes. "Come on now. We're stuck together, so we may as well trust each other, don't you think?"

"I have a better idea." Bob sat up, restless. "I'm going to get something to eat."

He walked into Junk Town along the road from the beach. Given his gawky, long-nosed appearance, and the fact that he was still wearing a dressy vest, pants, and shoes, the people of the town avoided him and whispered as he walked by. He tried his best to ignore it, and walked up to a food stall.

"Excuse me," he said politely. The smell of grilling fish and hot rice made his mouth water. "Um...do you take cash here?"

"Cash?" said the proprietor. "What do you mean by that?"

"Cash," repeated Bob. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and drew out a couple bills. "Or--I don't imagine you take cards."

The proprietor regarded him with a wary look. "That stuff's no good here," he said. "We don't take that kind of money."

"What do you take?"

"Junk Town tender. Coins, mostly. Barter sometimes, if you got something good to trade." He looked Bob Sparker up and down. "You got anything to trade?"

"Trade?" Bob blinked. He looked down at himself, patting himself down quizzically. "I don't think so."

The man shook his head. "Sorry. No can do. You come back with something good, I'll give you a bowl."

It was the same story everywhere he went--none of the businesses in town took any kind of tender aside from coins, medals, rings, mostly small metal objects that Bob had absolutely none of on hand. Occasionally he would see a customer trade for something larger, like canned food for fresh, or a parcel of cloth for a finished dress. Then he saw a familiar face with a large head of lettuce in his hands, haggling with a nearby shopkeep.

"Hey, it's you," said the farmer, turning away from the shopkeep. "Found yourself a place in town, did you?"

"For what that's worth," Bob complained. "I'm starving, I've got no money, and I can't get anyone to give me the time of day."

The farmer looked at him, then down at the lettuce. "Hmm. I wouldn't mind giving this to you, but I'd need something in return. You sure you don't have anything on you?"

Bob thought. He turned his pockets inside-out. "I've got...my house keys, my phone, my wallet..."

"Lemme see those." The farmer grabbed his house keys and turned them around, admiring them. "Yeah, these'll melt down okay."

Bob grimaced. Well, it's not like I was going home anytime soon, he thought.

The farmer handed him the lettuce. It was surprisingly heavy, and Bob struggled to hold it. "Well! Looks like you're getting the hang of things here in town," said the man, grinning. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Bob arrived back at the house with the lettuce. "Well, look at you," Percy chuckled. "Grew it yourself, did you?"

"I'll have you know I traded for it," said Bob proudly, setting it down on the table. "They don't take cash or cards here, so you gotta trade for everything. They do take coins, though...and keys."

"Interesting." Percy swung his legs off the bed. "We're not going to get much of a meal out of just a head of lettuce, though. You said they take coins?"

"Yeah. You have any?"

"I do." Percy took out a change purse from his pocket and upended it onto the table. A clattering of coins fell out--only about ten or twenty of them, but enough to make a nice little pile. "It's not much by Electricopolis standards, but it might get us a meal out here." He stroked his chin, thinking. "Maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"I have an idea." He scooped the coins back into the purse, set it on the table, and grabbed the lettuce in both hands. "I'll be back soon."

"Hey! That's my lettuce!" Bob yelped, blocking the door. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Are you really that territorial over a vegetable?"

"Mr. King--Percy," Bob replied, exasperated. "I can't believe I have to explain this. You turned everyone in town against me and exiled me just because I didn't want to be under your thumb anymore. If we're gonna stick together--and unfortunately, it sure looks like we are--then you gotta tell me what you're thinking. Preferably it won't involve stealing my stuff."

Percy sighed, maddeningly condescendingly. "It's simple. We keep the coins for a rainy day, and we trade the lettuce up for something more substantial. If we play our cards right, we can get a full meal without dipping into the money at all."

Bob blinked. He considered this. "That's...that makes sense, actually."

"I should hope it does. I am a businessman, after all," Percy said proudly. He paused, thought, then added: "And if it doesn't work out, you can spend the money however you like."

"All right," Bob capitulated, unblocking the door. "Good luck, I guess."

Percy walked back in about half an hour later with some heavy plastic bags in his arms. "Whoa," Bob marveled, watching as he began to empty them onto the table. "What's all that?"

"First, our dinner." Percy set some plastic takeout containers of fish and rice onto the table, followed by some canned vegetables and tinned fish. "Food for later, though it isn't very much, and some utensils. I also found our friend the woodsman, who offered us some wood for the stove. We'll need it."

"Man." Bob sighed heavily. "We're really roughing it, huh?"

Percy nodded. "It's not the accommodations we deserve, but it is what we have. We may as well get used to them."

The accommodations you deserve are behind bars, Bob thought snidely, but held his tongue.

"Also..."

Percy cracked open one of the takeout containers. "I had the cook at the food stall cut up part of that lettuce when I traded it. Since it's the first thing we owned out here, I thought it would be nice to try it after all."

Bob opened his container and looked at his meal. The rice was nestled up to one side of the container, with the fish on another and the cooked, sauced lettuce in the other third. "Huh. It looks good."

Percy handed him a plastic fork, then took the other for himself. They began to eat.

It was delicious. It was absolutely delicious. It was almost more delicious than anything Bob had had in the city, and he'd sampled quite a few dishes, usually on Percy's dime. The fish was tastier than anything you could find from the fisheries in town, and the lettuce was fresh and crispy, not like the sorry, soggy mess that usually came on a burger.

"This...this is exceptional," Percy muttered. "This is quite a meal."

"It's good," Bob choked with emotion. "It...it's really good."

To be continued...

#electricopolis #bob sparker #percy king #story post #story illustration

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hunnythebee · 1 year

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Questions and Answers

You are a medic in Tipoca City on Kamino. You’ve been falling for the dark, brooding sniper of Clone force 99, but had assumed your feelings weren’t reciprocated. After a brief but heated moment, you can’t help but feel that your assumptions may have been wrong, but you have questions, and need answers.

@girlzrok-99 Here's your request from this ask! I was intending for it to be about 1k words but I got kinda carried away and fell in love with it. Instead this is now a one shot dedicated to you. Hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

Enjoy!

2.1k words - first person - gender neutral - teen+

Tags and Warnings: reader x Crosshair, gn!reader x Crosshair, medic!reader x Crosshair, light angst, fluff, brief vague descriptions of medical treatment, confession, first kiss, pining,

It had been an exhausting mission. The boys came back to me more beaten than usual. Wrecker collapsed the minute he got to one of the med-bay beds, followed closely by Hunter. Tech and Echo had some scrapes from debris but nothing major. Crosshair however, was untouched. A perk of being in the sniper’s position. I tended to those who were afflicted, moving methodically from bedside to bedside. The whole time I worked I could feel Cross’ eyes on me, following my every movement. I did my best to ignore him, but his stare was causing butterflies in my stomach and making my hands shake. I had been harboring a crush for him for the longest time, and him watching me like this wasn’t helping. I finished with Tech’s bandages and discharged him and Echo. I explained that Hunter and Wrecker were fine, aside from some cuts and bruises. The pair were just exhausted. Once they woke up they were free to leave as well. Finally I allowed myself to focus my attention on the brooding white haired man in the corner of the room who, despite his lack of injury, was still here.

“You’re also cleared to leave,” I stated bluntly, trying to mask my nerves. “Unless there’s something else you need?”

He pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning on and stalked over to me. He was so close I could smell him. A sweet musk, like smoke and dark chocolate, flooded my senses. This paired with the way he was looking down on me with those deep set golden eyes tugged at something inside me. Something that was yearning to be held by him. But I knew that wasn’t a reciprocated feeling. I took a few steps back, trying to give myself room to breathe and think. His toothpick shifted between his lips to rest at the corner of his mouth and finally he spoke.

“Would you say you know me and my brothers…well?” His question caught me a little off-guard. I looked from him to the two men resting in the beds and back.

“I’d like to think so. Why do you ask?” I couldn’t help the curiosity prickling at the back of my mind.

He hummed and took another two steps toward me, closing the distance once again. I attempted to take another step back but was met with a wall. He was so close I had to crane my neck to look up at him now. “And do you know all of our mutations?”

My throat was so dry. I needed to ignore the proximity of this beautiful man and focus my attention on answering his questions.

“Y–yes, I was briefed on your genetic modifications,” I responded, avoiding the word ‘mutation’. It didn’t suit him at all.

“Name them,” his tone was commanding, yet soft.

“Hunter has heightened senses. Tech is gifted with knowledge retention. Wrecker is double the size of an average clone. Echo was a reg, but required mechanical enhancements after his rescue. And you’re a sharpshooter, you never miss.” I answered, feeling a small sense of pride that I remembered all of them.

“Technically, you got them all right. But do you know what makes me a sharpshooter?” He asked.

“Ummm… no…” I deflated slightly. I didn’t know what the details of their modifications were, I just knew the basics. Crosshair smirked and leaned over me, resting a fist against the wall over me and tilting my chin so that our eyes were fixed on each other. “I see everything…” He was leaning in closer and closer, “I see you…” His lips were an inch from mine. I could feel his breath ghost across my lips. We were so close and then the door to the med-bay slid open as a pair of troopers came inside. Crosshair had removed himself from our precarious situation and was now leaning against a nearby counter. He gestured with his head towards the clones that were here for treatment and I reluctantly turned my attention to them.

My examination of them didn’t take more than 5 minutes, just a routine pre-deployment check-up. However, a steady flow of clones continued to trickle into the med-bay and I had been so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed that Cross had slipped out undetected. Once everyone was gone, I fell back into a chair and began to process what had been happening prior to the interruption. What he was going to do. Never in a million cycles did I ever imagine that he might actually return my feelings, but there was no denying that there had been a spark, a flicker of a flame between us as our lips almost met. I looked at the time on my datapad. I glanced at the time on my holo-watch. The numbers flashed bright blue over my wrist ‘00:00’. Kriff… it was probably too late to try to go and talk to him about it tonight. I sighed and heaved myself up out of the chair. I left AZI with instructions to allow Wrecker and Hunter to leave for the Barracks once they woke up and left to return to my quarters.

The halls were half-lit. A calming contrast to the usual blaring white light usually emanating throughout the immaculate hallways. I wasn’t anywhere near tired when I finally reached the door to my quarters. My mind was still stuck on that interaction with Crosshair. I thought about his scent as I showered off the day and got comfortable. I remembered his warmth as I opened the heated ration packet. I was lost in nothing but thoughts of him and how close his lips were to mine as I laid spread out on my bed. I rolled to one side and looked at the time on my holo-watch. ‘02:40’ flickered to life on my bedside table. If I had thought it too late before, it was definitely too late now.

“I should just wait till tomorrow”, is what I was thinking as I sat up in bed and swung my legs over. “He’s probably asleep…” as I slid my feet into my slippers. “And he’s probably tired from the mission…” My front door hissed open. “He might be mad that I woke him…” My feet carried me at a hurried pace through the dimly lit halls of the Barracks. As I passed the large pod rooms I could hear the men snoring peacefully. This hour was one I hardly saw outside my room, and it was strangely serene to walk the hallways empty. Not a clone nor kaminoan in sight. It was also eerily quiet, aside from the wind whipping the glass panes that overlooked the ocean.

And then there I was. My two feet planted firmly in front of the door to the dorm belonging to the 99. He was inside, along with the answers to all my questions. All I had to do was knock, but knocking felt like an impossible task now. What if he was mad I woke him up? What if I didn’t like the answers he had for my questions? What if I had completely misread the situation with him earlier? What if– My thoughts were cut off when I lifted a hand and knocked three times on the metal door. The door slid open and revealed a rather shocked looking Crosshair. Once he had recovered from the initial shock he spoke.

“It’s three in the morning. What’re you doing here?” His voice was hushed and alert.

“We need to talk about earlier,” my voice shakes more than I would like but I just brushed that off. No turning back now. He looked down the hallway in either direction and then grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me inside his dorm.

“Come here,” his tone was soft yet commanding. I followed him inside and the door hissed shut behind me. I scanned around the round room for a moment. It was a standard dorm with five bed alcoves and a large table in the center. I noted the utter lack of others.

“W-where are Tech and Echo?” I stammered, feeling a familiar dryness creeping back into my throat.

Crosshair hadn’t been facing me as I had looked around the room. All I could make of him was his slender silhouette and the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders.

“Tech went to check on Wrecker and Hunter, since they haven’t come back yet. And Echo is usually in the training center at this hour.” He explained, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blacks and turning to face me. The dim lights were highlighting his sharper features. His strong jaw and long nose. His deepset eyes reflected what little light the room was offering, giving him a wicked gleam.

“Oh… I see…” I felt my chest tighten as he stepped toward me. The corner of his mouth quirked up into a faint smile. I hadn’t moved from the spot at the door since he pulled me in here, and my back was essentially to the door.

“You said we needed to talk? So talk.” Crosshair answered, bending at the waist to look in my eyes. I swallowed hard, unable to break away from his gaze. I could feel the heat spreading across my cheeks.

“Earl-” the first attempt came out feeble and broken, I cleared my throat and tried again. “Earlier, in the med-bay… you had been watching me.”

Cross stood tall over me, his presence alone was intimidating, but I needed to know.

“And then you said you ‘see’ me.” I continued to press on. He nodded, slowly rolling his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue.

“A-and you got so close to me… why? What were you doing?” I finally managed.

Cross’ eyes flicked from my eyes to my mouth and back while he licked his lower lip. His hand pressed into the door above me and we were back in the same position as before. My heart hammered in my chest.

“I think you know,” Cross’ voice had a teasing lilt to it as he slid a hand along the side of my neck and gripped the base of my skull lightly while tilting my chin up to him with his thumb.

“If I knew for certain I wouldn’t need to be here,” I bit back with a tinge of sass.

“You wouldn’t?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

I sighed heavily into his mouth, inches from mine. “Just– I just–”

“Yes?” His voice was so teasing, it was going to drive me insane.

“I want an answer goddamnit…” I managed to breathe out.

Crosshair’s lips crashed into mine with a fervor. It was deep and passionate, yet a sense of longing existed in the undercurrent. After a moment of us melting into one another he broke away.

“Is that an acceptable answer?” He smirked. I reached back up and pulled his lips back to mine, craving the taste that I had desired for so long. He smiled against my mouth and spoke with his lips still to mine, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Cross’ hand moved from the door to snake around my waist and pull me closer. It was a good thing too, because a moment later the door slid open and there stood a very surprised looking Wrecker and Tech, and their Sargeant with a smug look on his face. We had stopped kissing but Crosshair was still holding me tight. He dropped his forehead against mine.

“You three have impeccable timing, you know that right?” He grumbled.

Hunter responded, “You’re the one that chose to make out in our doorway.” He nudged his brother playfully as he walked past.

“It’s about damn time!” Wrecker approached us and lifted us together in a tight bear hug. As he set us back down, Tech moved past to his workbench and fixed his goggles.

“Yes, yes. We are all thrilled for the new couple. Maybe now we can all have a little break from Crosshair going on and on about her.” Tech announced. Crosshair shot daggers with his eyes at Tech, which Tech wasn’t even remotely phased by. Cross grabbed me by the hand, interlacing his long fingers with mine and he tugged gently towards the door.

“C’mon, let’s find somewhere less crowded to finish our… conversation.” Crosshair left the room with me happily in tow.

Tech called after us, “I doubt you’ll be doing that much conversing!”

Crosshair shook his head and let out a soft chuckle, while my cheeks turned a bright red. This had been the best answer I could have hoped for.

#crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #reader x crosshair #you x crosshair #request #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch fanfic #one shot #bad batch fanfiction #bad batch fanfic #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction

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vladajwrites · 2 years

Text

Moonlight

Pairings; Steven Grant x fem!reader, Steven Grant x Y/N

Summary; You had just begun working as an archivist for the British Museum. Love has a way of finding its way into your life in the most unexpected ways. Life takes a turn for you once you meet an easily flustered and adoring Steven Grant. Fluff and Smut and Pining and all the beautiful things.

This began as a one-shot, but as of now, I have plans to expand upon this story. It features Steven and Reader at the moment, but Marc will eventually be introduced in future updates.

All updates will be posted here and on my AO3 account VladaJ

Warnings; 18+, smut, language, oral male/female receiving (photos are not mine, please message for removal)

You had just moved into the city, hired as an archivist at the British Museum. To be surrounded by so much rich history and culture, it was truly your dream job. A dream from your childhood. An escape from the nightmare that was your reality growing up. You were no stranger to loss, to grief, to sadness.

You worked relentlessly in school to give yourself the opportunity to begin a new life. A good life.

Life as an adult was still a challenge, but you were tackling it well. You had your own flat, a career you loved, but you were an introvert at heart. Meeting new people, making new friends; it was never your strong suit. You believed you were fine, though, happy to be on your own. It was easier this way, simpler. Your family was out of the picture. Acquaintances never stuck around long enough to become friends. Your dating history was abysmal at best. It took years to build confidence in your own independence, but you had reached it.

Work kept you busy, and you didn’t mind. The last thing on your mind as you buried yourself in your research was a relationship.

It’s funny how the world works. It crept up on you slowly. That anxious, nervous feeling. You couldn’t understand it, make sense of it. When it came to him, these feeling were reserved for him alone.

You met him on your very first day. You had accidentally stayed far past your scheduled hours, overwhelmed and excited by your new assignments. The museum had closed to the public hours beforehand. You believed the building to be empty aside from the few security guards and janitorial staff that occasionally made their rounds. You were taking this time to further explore the museum.

It all seemed impossibly more mystical in the quietness after the crowds had cleared and the lights had been dimmed.

You had wandered into the Egyptian exhibition. Ancient statues and art lined the walls. You held your arms across your chest, taking in a deep breath as you stood before the statue in front of you. Years of hard work, moments of pain, and determination, all accumulated into this moment. You sucked in a deep breath, feeling your eyes water; pride, happiness-

“Ramesses the second.” A male voice spoke behind you.

Your heart lept inside of your throat, your pulse beat wildly as the blood rushed to your head. “Jesus Christ.” You exclaimed, whipping towards the voice, your hands clutching at your chest in your surprise. You believed you had been entirely alone. Your silent moment of reverie popped in an instant.

You were met by a man who looked nearly as surprised as you did, as if he hadn’t been the one who had snuck up beside you.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His face was flushed with embarrassment. You were sure you held a similar disposition. You stared at him, wide-eyed for a moment as he continued to ramble on.

“I work here,” He motioned to the staff badge clipped to his waist. “I was just on my way out- this exhibit is on the way. I saw you standing here. Well, I have to say I was surprised to see you. I wasn’t sure if you were a patron. I’ve never seen you here before- I saw your badge.” His words were a jumbled mess as he pointed a shaking hand towards the badge clipped haphazardly on the side of your hip.

A smile crept up your lips as you took in the flustered state of him, harmless enough.

His rambling halted in a quiet whisper as his eyes dropped to the ground and found their way back up to yours. There was a brief moment of silence shared before you reached out your hand and introduced yourself.

“(Y/N), I’m sorry. You just startled me a bit was all, thought I was alone. Today’s my first day. I’m an archivist for the museum, stayed a bit late.” You spoke softly, feeling the heat spread across your cheeks.

His face lit up as he listened to you. He quickly clasped your hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

“Steven, Steven Grant. Just a clerk. I’d love to be an archivist, though. It’s wonderful to meet you. I usually stay late, wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here either,” Steven quickly began to babble again.

You watched him as he spoke. He was charming, in an odd, talkative, and nervous-mumbling sort of way. Far from what you believed your usual type to be. You watched his eyes fall to the floor again as he noticed your amused expression.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Steven,” you smiled earnestly up at him. You looked over your shoulder at the statue you had been quietly observing just moments before. He followed your gaze.

“It’s Ramesses the Second; the statue. He was one of the greatest Pharaohs of ancient Egypt, known for the Battle of Kadesh.” He motioned towards the statue. While you knew this already, you didn’t dare interject. Watching his expressions as he talked about the history of the statue made something in your chest stir. For ‘just a clerk,’ he truly seemed passionate about what he was speaking about.

You had a thing about male counterparts overstepping and over explaining things of which you already had a great understanding, but with him, just something about the way he explained it all; you didn’t mind in the slightest.

In truth, you were thankful for the awkward first meeting. He had been the only other person who had spoken to you that day besides your manager, who gave you a quick walkthrough of the building before showing you to your desk and dropping a caseload into your lap.

Those ‘accidental’ late-night meetings continued for weeks. Even when you were tired and ready to be home, you pushed yourself to stay just a tad bit later. To see him, to listen to him, to watch his deep eyes brighten as he pointed you around exhibit after exhibit.

He always seemed just as nervous as he had that first night you had met. But you enjoyed the conversations, he was friendly and kind, traits that seemed harder to come by these days. You thought of him as just a friend at first. Of course, he was fit, odd, but charming nonetheless. But there was no way that he was into you.

Right?

You hardly doubted your own looks. You were confident in yourself, and besides, you never cared much about the way you looked, anyway. You were always told how much you resembled your mother growing up. And while your issues with her were in the past and somewhere locked deep away, she was the most beautiful woman you had ever met. If you looked like her, then there was no need to worry, right?

The men from your past had all expressed their attraction to you as their opening line, hook, and sinker. It became quite galling over time. Was that all men saw you as? Just another beautiful woman? You had always wished to meet a man that could see past what was just surface-deep. You had given up on dating entirely. Put no effort into it. Put no effort into the way you looked or came across.

So why now, after all this time, were you waking up earlier in the mornings to pick out the right outfit, digging through your old makeup bag, fussing with and taming your wild head of hair? Why were you counting down the hours for your shift to be over? Why were you waiting nervously in an exhibit you’d walked through dozens of times just to see him?

You were acting like a silly schoolgirl all, hoping for your crush to notice you. You scolded yourself for it. Yet, you couldn’t help it.

It was pointless anyway. If he were interested in you at all, he would have said something by now, surely.

Right?

You tapped your foot nervously, fussing with the hem of your skirt, checking the time on your watch over and over again. It was getting late, too late. Maybe he had already left. Your heart sunk in your chest as you exhaled a deep sigh. Time to give it up, you thought. Pick up take out on your way home, throw yourself a one-woman pity party, open a new bottle of wine. You had nearly reached the exit doors when you heard a familiar voice call from behind you.

A smile spread across your face as Steven ran up beside you, grabbing the door and pushing it open for you.

“I’m sorry, was stuck on inventory again tonight.” He smiled. You couldn’t help but notice the way his cheeks flushed as he looked over you. He quickly diverted his eyes, a small smile spread across your lips. You had picked up a new shade of lipstick, cherry red. Wore a new skirt, questionably shorter than your normal business attire. But you were sure this had nothing to do with his flushed expression, this was just the way he always acted. You figured that this was just his default demeanor. You couldn’t help but find it charming in a way.

“That’s okay.” You replied. He nodded, his eyes still diverted towards the ground.

There was a moment of quiet shared between you. This was your usual routine, a small goodbye before you both left the museum on your separate routes home.

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday.” He said, looking down at you, a half-smile plastered across his face.

You nodded. He turned on his heel, heading away and down the steps to catch his bus home.

Your mind raced. It was Friday, the start of the weekend. If he were truly just a friend, then there would be nothing odd or out of the ordinary about asking if he would like to hang out, outside of work. Grab some drinks. That was what friends do, right? There’d be no harm in asking.

“Steven?” You called out to him. You regretted your words instantly. What if he were to say no? God, so stupid.

He stopped his pace, turning back towards you. “Yeah?” He looked back up at you from the lower steps of the walkway.

Fuck, this was so ridiculous. What the hell? Might as well ask now, no turning back.

“Would you,” Your breath caught in your chest as his expression brightened.

Fuck it.

“Would you like to grab a drink? There’s a bar close to my flat, a bit dingy, but the drinks are cheap, and the music’s good.” You asked, feeling your cheeks heat as his eyes widened.

His bemused expression quickly transformed into a wide, sloppy grin.

“Of course.” He replied. You let out a small sigh of relief, your heart still pounding up in your throat.

He made his way back up the steps beside you. “Just guide the way.”

You nodded, your own smile widening by the second.

The night went by incredibly. If it were a date, it’d be the best date you had ever been on. But it wasn’t a date. Just a few drinks shared between coworkers, between friends. If that’s all it could ever be, that was okay. Just to spend time with him like this. Watch his cheeks warm as you continued to empty the bottle of gin that you shared. If this was all it could ever be, then this was enough.

The hours went by and soon you had both finished the bottle of gin, your mind was fuzzy, your body warm. Your inhibitions lowered with each drink. It was wonderful. You shared academic conversations, felt your breath grow unsteady as you watched him slip into another one of his passionate rants.

Last call for drinks was announced, and you both decided that it was time to head home.

“Can I walk you home? I know you said you live close by. It’s awfully late. I’d just like to make sure you make it home safe.” He began. That wonderfully nervous feeling began to build in your stomach.

You sucked in your bottom lip, nodding up at him. His face flushed red as he helped you from your seat, you grasped his hand lightly as he held it out to you to pull you from the benched bar seating.

The cool air outside of the bar sent goosebumps against your skin and you couldn’t help but shiver. Steven noticed and promptly offered you the coat he was wearing. You smiled up at him, “yes, thank you.”

He quickly slid it from his shoulders before moving to drape it over your own. His warm finger brushed softly against the exposed skin of your arms. Your skin was alight. It was the closest he had ever been to you. You let out a low sigh, settling into the warmth of his coat.

You wished that he would have slowed his movements as he moved to adjust the coat around you.

You couldn’t stop yourself from staring up at him in awe. Maybe it was the alcohol, the soft glow of the city lights, but he was so entirely beautiful then. Your heart felt too full, part of you was terrified. It must be a sin to feel this way about a man who you were sure could only see you as a friend, a colleague.

The two of you began the walk towards your flat just up the street. You made a conscious effort to slow your steps, just to make the moment lasted a bit longer.

You moved closer to walk beside him. From this distance, you could smell the cologne that he wore, it was intoxicating. You’d occasionally ‘accidentally’ brush against him. You were positive that he would pull away, distance himself, take a few more steps in front of you to keep that distance. But he didn’t, he didn’t move further away, only took steps in closer to you.

It was quietness, a comfortable silence shared between you both. It didn’t take long before you had reached the steps leading up to your flat.

“Well, this is it. Thank you for,” you began, wishing that you had the courage to say more. To say anything more.

He looked up at you as you stood above him on the steps. The expression on his face was indiscernible. You just wish that you could see what was passing through his thoughts.

‘Ugh,’ You thought, ‘fuck it.’ The words left your lips before you could give them a second thought.

“Steven?” You asked. Every rational thought in your brain was screaming at you to stop, be quiet, tell him ‘thank you for the night’ and enter your flat alone. But you couldn’t stop the question that came next.

He looked up at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue. You chewed at your bottom lip before meeting his eyes again.

“Do you...” You began, no turning back now. “Do you think I’m pretty?” Your body heated in an instant. You wished more than anything that you could take back your words. You watched as his face flushed red. Oh no. So stupid, you couldn’t believe yourself. You had never been so straightforward like this, felt so nervous over something like this.

Steven looked around, his lips moved silently as if he were trying to find the right words to say. Oh God, you instantly regretted your question. Of course, he didn’t. If he did, he would have said so already. Right?

You turned away from him, trying to hide your embarrassment, and began fumbling with the keys to your door.

“Just forget it. I’m so sorry, Steven. Thank you so much for tonight, I just,” Now you were the one who was rambling.

Before your keys slid through the lock, you felt Steven grip your arm from behind. He spun you around to face him. His eyes flashed and his pupils dilated in the dim night light glow of neon signage and street lamps.

What came next is something you still dream about to this very day. He wrapped his hands around your forearm, stepping up the stairs until he stood fully beside you.

His fingers found themselves delicately wrapped around the frame of your face, all the air in your lungs sucked out in an instant.

“Stunning. I think you are absolutely breathtaking.” He answered, his voice just above his whisper. His face was so close to your own, the sound of the blood rushing to your eyes was drowned out by the loud pounding of your heart. So, so close. If you just leaned forward, just a bit-

His lips met yours in an instant. You melted into him. If heaven were on earth, you believed at that moment that you had slipped into paradise.

That moment grew into a love that you had only believed existed in fairytales, unreal, implausible. But it was real, so impossibly real.

Girlish attraction transformed into passionate, unbridled love and adoration. He expressed his feelings of infatuation for you since the moment he had first met you. He never believed that a girl like you could love a man like him. But you did, you loved him. You loved him emphatically. He worshipped and praised you in every small moment he could.

Sometimes you were unsure if you were just in a dream, a happy dream. But you didn��t have happy dreams, not like this, never like this. This was real, this was true, this was love. The most beautiful man that you had met in your lifetime. Kind, funny, smart, shy and easily flustered and so uniquely him.

As your relationship grew and developed, you fell even more in love with his small quirks that made him, him. He was so incredibly stunning, inside and out.

Steven expressed his love for you tenfold. For the first time in your life, you believed you had met a man that adored your physical beauty but also adored you for your intelligence, for your personality, for all the small things and moments that made you, you. The things about you that humanized you, the pieces of you that built home in your soul. The things that no one had noticed before.

The physical intimacy began slow, you were both inexperienced and nervous to explore each other in that way.

But you craved it, needed it so desperately. He began to spend nights in your home. You shared knowledge and research and reached out for his input on your projects. It began as falling asleep in your living room. You on the couch and him blissfully asleep in your armchair. Pages and documents spread across the floor.

Slowly, he began to join you on your large chaise, your head in the crook of his neck, his arms wrapped around the expanse of your waist.

But tonight was different. You spent an hour getting dressed up. You knew he was far too shy to take things further than just the occasional kiss here and there. If things were to progress, you would have to initiate the next step.

He had planned a dinner for the both of you, somewhere nice. Much different from your usual casual cafes and late-night take-outs.

You even went out to pick out a new dress. Dark blue slip dress, his favorite color. It was much more revealing than you were usually comfortable with, but you felt truly stunning in it. You hoped more than anything that he would notice, wanted to watch his face redden and listen to his words stumble and ramble as they did when he was stricken by you.

You waited anxiously at your dining room table, checking the clock obsessively, waiting for him to arrive.

He told you he was going to pick you up at eight o’clock. At seven fifty-nine, you heard a knock at the door. No matter how many times you saw each other, that nervous, butterflies in the stomach feeling never went away.

You bolted upright, smoothing out your dress and grabbed your clutch. You made your way to the door, sliding and unlocking the deadbolt. You paused for a moment, maybe you had overdressed, maybe it was all too much. Your mind raced.

Another soft knock rapped against your door. You took a deep breath, grasped the doorknob, and pulled the door open.

Your heart skipped a beat. He was dressed in a fitted suit. A bouquet of your favorite flowers held in his arms. He was perfect, in every sense of the word.

You couldn’t help but blush at the way his eyes widened as he scanned over your body before meeting your eyes.

“I-“ He stuttered, “ You look absolutely stunning, love.” He said, handing over the flowers to you. Fuck. You wished you could just pull him inside by his tie. Let him slide his hands up against your body before sliding the straps of your dress from your body and letting it fall to the ground. You’d let him take you now, in any way he wanted.

“Thank you, honey. You look incredible as well.” You replied. You stood up on the toes of your heels and planted a soft kiss against his cheek before wrapping your free hand within his own.

You gently pulled him into your flat. “Thank you for the flowers. Just let me put them in a vase before we head out.” You smiled up at him.

He nodded, a wicked grin spread across his lips as he followed you into your flat.

He watched intently as you filled a vase with water and slowly arranged the bouquet. His eyes never left you. You felt as though you were on fire under his gaze. Maybe you could skip dinner tonight. The idea of a night in with just him sounded greater than anything at that moment. You exaggerated your movements, bending over slowly, making sure he had a full view of the thin and small dress that fell and grasped in just the right spots.

You noticed the way his breathing hitched as you made your way beside him. You bent over his lap, reaching across him to grab your clutch that you had placed on the countertop beside him.

His fingers gently traced up along the exposed skin of your low-cut dress, sending a shiver up your spine. You couldn’t hide the soft sigh that escaped from your lips. Steven’s body tensed underneath you. He quickly cleared his throat, adjusting in his seat. You stood up studying his darkening expression.

Fuck.

We can always push dinner back a bit later. An idea came to you then. You stood up straight, adjusting your dress.

“Steven?” You asked in a low voice. He cleared his throat again before looking up at you.

“Yes, love, what is it?” He asked, his pupils dilating by the second.

“I’m not sure if this is the dress I want to wear tonight. Would you help me choose a different one?” You asked in the same low tone. Your lip was in an intentional pout. His eyes lit up at your words. He rubbed his palms against his slacks as he stood.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. You wrapped your fingers around his own and he followed you into your bedroom. He sat down on the bed as you opened your dresser. You didn’t really have another dress you’d prefer to wear. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. You had bought one more dress while shopping for the one you currently adorned. But this other dress- well, it is far out of your comfort zone.

Black, nearly sheer, cut lower, and fitted tighter. You had nearly decided against it, believing you’d never actually feel confident enough to wear it out anywhere. But at least it’d hang pretty in your closet.

You were so incredibly thankful at that moment that you had decided to get it after all.

You faced away from Steven and worked at the zipper on the back of your dress. You listened carefully as his breathing grew louder and unsteady as you worked the zipper lower and lower.

He had never seen your body entirely naked before, only glimpses. You had only ever felt his hands move carefully over your clothed body as he worked his mouth gently against your own.

Your hands froze just before you reached the bottom of the zipper. Neither of you spoke for a moment, only the sound of both your increasingly shallow breathing could be heard in your room.

“Is it stuck, the zipper? Could I help?” Steven asked softly behind you. You heard him shift in the bed before he stood up, making his way behind you. Your breath was caught in your throat. Something deep within your stomach fluttered in a way that you had never experienced before. You suddenly felt warm, in the best way possible.

You didn’t need any help with your zipper, you could easily do it yourself. But the thought of him, with his hands so close to your exposed skin- Yes, actually, you decided. You would love help with your zipper.

“Mhm,” you nodded, looking over your shoulder back at him. His eyes were dark, in a way that you had never seen before. It only worked to build that warm feeling inside of you. “Yes, please.” You replied.

The back of his knuckles slowly trailed down your back until they reached your zipper. You couldn’t hide the low sigh that slipped past your tongue. You were on fire.

He lowered his head and planted a soft kiss near the base of your neck as he slid the zipper the rest of the way down. His fingers then hooked around the straps of your dress before he slid them down your arms.

The dress fell in a pool of fabric to the floor. His hands traced down your arms. How had you never noticed the roughness and calloused feeling of his fingers before?

Your mind was soon a hazy mess. You leaned back further into him. His hands moved carefully to wrap around your waist. How had you never noticed just how large his hands were?

All the air seemed to be sucked from the room.

“Is this okay, love?” Steven asked softly against your hair.

You melted further into him, pressing your back against his chest as his hands moved closer to your stomach. “Mhm, please, don’t stop.” You replied. Any hesitation in your mind vanished completely. You needed him. Wanted him. Loved him. Desperate to have him closer, in any way possible.

You turned to face him. Your bare chest exposed to him. He sucked in a sharp breath, scanning over the expanse of your body. A smirk spread across your lips as you watch his heart nearly pounding out of his chest.

You slowly reached up to his tie, undoing it slowly until it hung undone around his neck. You stepped closer, nearly pressing yourself entirely against him. His eyes widened. He quickly shoved off his coat as you undid the buttons of his shirt.

He gently slid it from his shoulders. You looked up at him, feeling your mouth water at the sight of him. You’d never be able to get enough of this, of him.

You reached up, your fingers gently slid down the expanse of his broad chest and toned stomach. You had an idea that he was fit, but he was truly something like a work of art.

He shuddered at your touch, letting out a deep groan as your finger moved lower until they stopped just above his belt.

You looked up at him, his gaze nearly eating you alive. Fuck, you would do anything to please him at that moment. You wanted to be good for him, do good for him.

You slowly traced the buckle of his belt,

“Can I?” you asked breathlessly, sucking on your bottom lip.

He nodded. The muscles in his stomach rippled as his hands flexed at his sides. Inside of the sweet, innocent eyes of the man you had grown to love, something dark spread through them. A side of him you had only caught glimpses of was now on full display to you. It was indescribable, the lust that filled your increasingly clouded mind. You needed more. You wanted to see just how dark those eyes could get.

You worked the buckle of his belt until it unfastened. You slowly lowered to your knees until you were kneeling completely in front of him, never breaking eye contact. You had never felt so powerful, so beautiful.

You carefully slid your hands around his hips before planting soft kisses on the area of his stomach just above the hem of his pants.

He sighed a deep moan. His hands slid up the sides of your face until they gently found themselves wrapped through your hair.

Your nerves were eased by his quiet praise. “So beautiful. Perfect for me.”

You had never taken a man in your mouth before, but now the thought of it made your mouth water and your stomach flip.

Your fingers slowly unbuttoned his trousers before sliding down the zipper. You traced a light touch over the hem of his boxers.

The grip he had around your hair suddenly tightened as his stomach flexed at your touch. Fuck.

Your hand slid over the hardening bulge against his boxers. The fire inside of you grew lower, setting your core ablaze. Another wave of nerves grew inside of you as you stroked along the full length of him. He was large, thick in every way that could be intimidating. Your mouth fell agape. Unable to hide your shock.

You looked back up at him, your eyes wide and wild. A sinful smirk spread across his face. This part of Steven was so new to you, but it was incredible. So incredibly beautiful. But you could still see that soft, gentle, man you had fallen in love with in the lustful blur in his eyes.

You were ready for this, despite your lack of experience. You knew Steven was fairly inexperienced in this sort of stuff as well, which eased your nerves even further. You would both figure it out as you went. Together.

You pulled down the waistband of his boxers. His cock fell up towards his stomach before falling straight in front of you.

“We can go as slow as you want to, love.” He spoke in a reassuring, soft tone.

You nodded up at him, “just wanna make you feel good.”

You carefully wrapped your hands around the length of him. Even with both of your hands, he was larger than you could hold.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back up towards the ceiling.

You twisted your hands up and down his cock as he guided you through it.

You listened intently to the way his breathing grew ragged and strained as you became more comfortable with him in your hands. His soft and rough moans were the most beautiful sound. You would do anything to hear more of them.

“Just like that, you feel so good. I’m so close, angel.” He praised between broken breaths.

Your core clenched, you could feel your own arousal dripping past your folds.

He was so incredibly beautiful, caught in the moment you leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock. His whole body tensed and flexed. A string of obscenities stumbled from his lips. Filthy words you’d never expected to hear from him. This only urged you forward.

You kissed him again, this time lapping your tongue against him. His eyes rolled back into his head. His moans grew increasingly labored.

“S’good, love.” His voice was nearly lost to himself.

You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, sucking softly, hallowing your cheeks around him as your hands worked quicker. You could feel him pulse in your touch.

“Can I come in that pretty mouth of yours, sweetheart?” He asked, running his fingers gently through your hair, tracing lower until they wrapped around your neck.

You pulled away slightly, meeting his eyes. “Yes, please.”

He groaned, his grasp on your throat tightened sightly as you took him in your mouth again.

Just moments later, you felt his movements stutter and his cock pulse against your tongue. His warm release coated your throat and lips. It was unlike anything you had tasted before. It was incredible. Watching him fall apart above you, you would do anything to see him like this. Over and over again. You continued your movements until he was a mumbling mess of moans and shallow breaths. He gently pulled himself out of you.

You swallowed his come. The feeling of his release coating your throat made your most sensitive parts throb. Your arousal dripped down your inner thighs.

You were both breathless, your bodies alight.

He quickly pulled you up into his arms, planting heated and desperate kisses against your lips and face. He picked you up against him, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He brought you over to your bed, gently laying you down on the edge of the bed.

He knelt before you on the floor beside the bed. He wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled your panties off, discarding them on the floor.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as you watched him take in the sight of you completely.

His grip around your thighs tightened. He pulled your hips closer towards the edge of the bed.

“So perfect, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful.” He groaned, planting sloppy kisses against your inner thighs. Your mind was a fuzzy mess.

“Mmm, closer Steven. Need you.” You spoke through labored breaths.

You met his eyes, a sinful smirk plastered against his lips. He pulled you closer once more, his mouth just about your clit. The warmth of his breath against you set your body alight. He traced a soft kiss against your clit, your back arched up against the bed, your toes curled under you as he dragged your legs up around his shoulders.

He pressed his tongue against your folds and began tracing gentle, quick laps against you.

You whimpered, his low groan vibrated through you.

“Does that feel good, love?” He asked with his lips still against you.

You could hardly formulate your words. That beautiful warmth began to quickly build inside of you.

“Mhm, so good.” You sighed out as his motions quickened.

“You taste like heaven against my tongue.” His words were quickly sending you over the edge. You were desperate to come against his gorgeous face.

His grip around your thighs tightened bruisingly against your skin. The slight pain was so beautiful, you desperately wished that it’d leave marks in the morning.

Suddenly, you felt two of his fingers sliding through your dripping folds as he worked against you. He slipped inside of you, curling his fingers up to press against your most sensitive spot.

You cried out, your hands dug deep into the duvet.

“Fuck, fuck Steven, I’m so close.” You sighed out, feeling your legs wrap tighter against his back.

“Come for me, love.” He groaned against you. His words were the final push you needed. That warmth inside of your core spread through you. Your vision blurred through your blinding ecstasy. His pace was relentless as he continued to push you through your high. You were both a rambling mess of obscenities and praise.

He continued until you were clenching desperately around his fingers. Begging for him to slow his overstimulation.

He slowly stood, pushing you back further into the bed. He fell into the mattress beside you, quickly pulling you into his arms. You reached forward, clasping his head between your hands. You kissed against his lips and face, tasting your release against him.

This was heaven on earth, you were sure of it.

You both stayed quiet in a moment of blurred ecstasy. The sound of your uneven and ragged breathing filled the room as you both came down from your highs.

Once you regained your composure, you looked up into his eyes, his grip around you tightened. His deep, dark eyes lightened, catching that light you loved so much. He smiled down at you. “I love you.” He whispered, pressing kisses against your temple.

You melted into his embrace. “I love you too, Steven.”

There was another moment of blissful silence before Steven spoke again. “How about we push our dinner reservations back a bit?”

You smiled, nodding up at him. “Sounds wonderful.”

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