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bradshawsbitch · 11 months

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‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎» ‎𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

⁘ amongst salt water skin and silken sheets lies insecurities and innocence, but also tenderness and a willingness to learn...

› pairing; bradley bradshaw x f!reader

prompt; ❝ well, honestly i’ve never really had sex before and was kinda hoping you would teach me. ❞ and ❝ don’t be nervous, i’ll guide you through it. ❞

word count; ~ 6.1K

× chapter warnings; loss of virginity, virginity as a normative concept, p in v sex, no use of y/n, smut, porn without plot, creampie, hair tugging, praise kink, innocence kink, corruption(?) if you squint maybe, rooster is a consent king

request; by @diorrfairy. I'm so sorry this took so long my love 🫶

disclaimer; I was rather torn with how I wanted this fic to go. on one hand I wanted it to be how I wished my first time was, yet I did not want to accidentally make it seem as if this is how a 'first time' is supposed to be, if that makes sense. I therefore tried to make it realistic in the way I experienced sex for the first time, but still making it softer, and sweeter, and the way I figure I'd want a first time with someone you love to be. for me sex hurt the first like five times but also my first bf was 6'5 and he was fucking huge so like yeehaw.

tagging people who might like; @roleycoleyland @roosterforme @lewmagoo @theharddeck @seresinsweetie @sebsxphia @rhettabbotts

Being with Bradley was easy. It was sunny, comfortable, and safe. The soft gaze of the aviator could turn your knees weak in a heartbeat. The way he touched you, the way he listened and understood you - and most of all, the way he never pushed you harder than needed to explore new things if you didn’t want to.

Previously, in all relationships you’d had - whether platonic or romantic, you found that people pushed you. Pushed you to participate in things you maybe weren’t entirely ready for, or didn’t wholly feel comfortable with. Like the first time you got drunk, even though you’d told your friends you’d rather just try one beer and then drink soda.

Bradley, however, understood the need for you to feel comfortable and safe. He understood that you needed time to contemplate, to reflect, and to sort of turn and twist an event in your mind a few times before throwing yourself headfirst into it.

So, when the two of you started getting serious, and you, with heat rising to your face, confessed that you ‘hadn’t done much’ in the sexual department, his amber gaze had softened. He’d smiled softly, cradled your cheek in one of his large palms, and placed a tender kiss upon your lips as he promised to take everything in the pace you deemed appropriate.

He wasn’t in a hurry, he’d said before enveloping you in his arms, letting you nuzzle your face into his chest and his safe embrace. Inhaling his scent and feeling his strong arms and hands holding you so delicately, you truly felt safe in his promise not to rush anything.

Bradley had not quite understood your timidness when telling him about not having too much experience. He figured maybe you’d fooled around a little in college with some boys or girls, but that you hadn’t had too many mind blowing sexual encounters. As beautiful and kind as you were, Rooster had a hard time imagining anything else. However, his mother had raised him to always respect a ladies wishes - however small or big that wish was, and he was nothing if not a caring soul himself. He always wanted you to feel safe with him, wanted you to feel you could confide in him, and lay worries and hardships for him to carry with you.

Which was why he was perfectly content to spend lazy afternoons making out with you straddled on his lap, only sneaking in a squeeze of your ass sporadically - keeping his hands placed gently on your waist, only ever letting them grace slowly upwards to your ribcage and to the wire of your bra. The small little noises you made drove him wild, but he wouldn’t be the person to push you. No, Bradley was more than willing to wait until you asked him to touch you.

However, as compassionate and patient a man as Bradley was - he was also a little insecure. He had never felt the way he did with you, and he was glad that you both seemed to be on the same page of slowly cherishing each other’s comfort. Felt secure in that this was something you both felt was something special.

Your relationship was not something that needed to be rushed, because both of you felt that this might be it. But one human can only take so many rejections before they start to wonder if it was something that they did wrong. Had he been pushy? Had he made you feel so uncomfortable that even after months of dating you didn’t want him? Or was it simply the fact that you didn’t find him attractive or arousing enough?

These thoughts swirled and tainted the most noble of intentions within Bradley. He so badly wanted you to feel the way he did about you, that it somewhat clouded his perception. Every sweet, bashful smile as you pulled away from him turned into a confirmation that there was something he was doing wrong.

Perhaps you were not a person who wanted what he wanted. He would be okay with that if that were the case, but as he pondered these possibilities in bed after a particularly nice day at the beach with you, he realized that the best way to go about it was to talk about it.

He smiled as he reminisced on your walk, feet bare in the sand. His heart did double-time as he remembered the way your eyes sparkled, and the way you’d pulled on his hand to draw him into the water with you. Covered in sand and salt water, the two of you had spent the majority of the day in each other's arms (when you were not indulged in very serious bouts of splashing wars) before retreating to Bradley’s home.

Which was how Bradley found himself perched on his bed after a nice shower to wash away the sand and salt, feeling content with the conclusion he had come to. The water was still running, as you were washing away the day as well, further fuelling Bradley’s thoughts. He was torn from them when you emerged, clad in a large, white, oversized silken button-up. It was rather old, and some of the buttons were missing. Your skin looked soft as it gleamed in the glow of the evening light. Looking at you, Bradley couldn’t help the soft smile that stretched across his lips as he raised his arms to signal he wanted you near.

Mimicking his smile, you happily straddled his lap, making yourself comfortable before holding up a small container that Rooster hadn’t noticed before.

“What’s that?” his voice was low, as if the energy of the room shouldn’t be disturbed by loud talking. Fingertips dipped into white cream, before gently ghosting across the skin of his face.

“It’s to soothe the skin, baby,” you explained softly, massaging the cool cream onto Bradley’s warm face. He hummed in reply, letting his hands grasp your hips, running his thumb up and down over the soft silken material. His eyes fluttered shut as you carefully made sure that every surface of his skin was carefully covered, even going down to cover his throat and neck.

“All done.” was whispered against his lips, punctured by the soft feel of your plush lips upon his. Your chest had fallen closer to his bare upper body, and the small container now found its resting place on his nightstand as your hands splayed on his pecs and shoulders.

You deepened the kiss, your tongue curiously exploring and wetting Bradley’s lips before meeting his own tongue slowly. Bradley couldn’t help the groan that escaped him as you pressed closer to him, your tongue so languidly moving with his own, couldn’t help gripping your hips just a little tighter at the small noises you were emitting whilst hesitantly rolling your hips against his grown hard-on.

“Sweets…” Bradley rasped, breaking the kiss. Normally, you would look down and look bashful, but this time your lips traveled across his jaw, fluttering over his pulse point as you hummed in acknowledgement. As you reached a particularly sensitive point and nipped softly, Bradley let out a low moan, his hands moving up your waist before they skimmed back down to let them rest on the globes of your ass. Kneading and grasping he groaned again, not noticing the way you had stopped kissing his neck.

Tensing ever so slightly, you sat up from your position, looking down as nerves fluttered restlessly in your stomach.

“Honey,” Bradley’s voice was soft “talk to me, please. Am I doing something wrong? Do I make you uncomfortable?” his fingers gently asked you to look him in the eye from their place at your chin. Blinking, a small crease formed between your brows.

“N-no, never! I’ve never felt as safe as I do when I’m with you.” the answer came to you easy, spilling truthfully from your lips as you looked into your boyfriend’s amber eyes.

“Why do you ask that?”

“I can feel how tense you are sometimes when we’re like this… you always pull away from me darlin’, and I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page, okay? You can tell me anything. If I’ve done something, or if you just don’t feel like ever doing anything– or if I’m not, y’know, doing enough to turn you on–” he was rambling. He knew he was and yet he couldn’t stop; his worries and anxieties coming out in a way he didn’t want them to. He was almost thankful when you cut him off.

“Bradley, do you think I don’t want to have sex with you because you don’t turn me on enough?” if you weren’t feeling nervous butterflies in your stomach at the aspect of actually feeling ready for taking this step with Bradley, you would have laughed.

“I don’t know… Maybe? Mostly I’ve been worried that I have made you feel unsafe with me. Or that I’ve done something to make you feel as if you don’t want that part of our relationship like that,” it was Bradley’s turn to look bashful. Saying it out loud always made you realize how bizarre some of your thoughts could sound.

“Honey…” you smiled, leaning into your boyfriend again “I– I just… you know I told you how I haven’t done much?” Bradley nodded.

“Of course. I am in no way trying to rush you - I totally understand you may have had other experiences with sex before that makes this uncomfortable and–”

“No, Bradley.” you groaned “you don’t understand–” sighing, you paused for a moment. Maybe it would be better to spell it out. “well… honestly, I’ve never really had sex before–”

Silence hung between two lovers, Bradley’s brows raising slightly in surprise, a feeling of deep guilt settling uncomfortably in his chest.

“Honey… I am so sorry. I never meant– I mean, I figured you must have, you’re so out of this world beautiful…” Bradley looked at you, his eyes soft and filled with love. “I’m sorry, my darling, I just wanted to know if there was something I had done - I will wait for as long as you need,” he straightened up to place his lips upon yours in a soft kiss.

Shaking your head, you broke the kiss, smiling softly at him.

“And– I was kinda hoping you would teach me,” you finished your interrupted sentence, letting your fingers sneak into the hair at the nape of Bradley’s neck, tugging and twirling strands of hair there to ease your nerves. Again, Bradley looked at you with such adoration and love that it nearly took your breath away. His hands were back to soothingly rubbing your sides and hips, the way he held you making you feel precious and secure.

“Darling…” his voice was low but riddled with unspoken emotions, one of his hands moving to cradle your cheek “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want okay. I’m not going anywhere.” his assurance meant the world to you, but you’d felt ready for some time now.

Mulling it over as you first noticed that when the two of you had ended up entangled in bed, or on the sofa, it didn’t make you feel as panicked as it had in the beginning. It felt exhilarating now. It felt like something you wanted. Something you desperately needed with Bradley.

“I really want to.” your voice was firm in its choice, and Bradley sat up more from his position reclined against the headrest to be able to place his lips all over your throat.

“I really want you…” Bradley murmured against your skin as his lips skimmed over the parts he knew had you the most breathless. It drew the tiniest of gasps, followed by a high pitched whimper from you the way he spoke so huskily, so close to your ear, his warm breath momentarily dizzying you.

“Bradley…” you mewled softly “Please!” Bradley’s head was spinning from the sheer thought of loving you like this, but hearing your sweet plea made his breath hitch in his throat, his hard-on jolting slightly in his boxers at the words. Perhaps he should feel some type of embarrassment over that reaction, but he couldn’t find it in him to do so. Not when you were perched on his lap, clad in a loose fitting silken shirt, looking like the divines themselves.

“You say stop and we do, okay?” Bradley searched your eyes, and you nodded, tucking your bottom lip between teeth as anticipation swirled through you. “Gotta hear you say it, honey,” Rooster smirked, reaching up to gently let his thumb draw out your bottom lip from between your teeth. That single act had your breath hitching as he let his thumb trace your lip.

“I say stop and we stop.” you confirmed and Bradley smiled up at you

“Good girl.”

Blinking slowly, you took in the two soft spoken words that had drawn out the most sinful sound from your lips. “Oh, God,” you whispered softly, face heating up in embarrassment. Bradley gently shushed you, before letting his hand inch up your ribcage, his thumbs gracing the underside of your breasts.

“It’s okay, little dove. It’s normal to react this way, alright? Nothing to be embarrassed about.” his voice was so soft, so soothing, that it made you keen even more, needing him closer to you.

“You have no idea how much it turns me on to see you react to me like this…” Bradley wanted you to know that there was nothing shameful in the way you were reacting, and he desperately needed you to understand he never wanted you to suppress any sounds or feelings that might arise between the two of you. He wanted to see it all, hear it all, experience you and your love in its purest form.

His hands wandered ever so slightly further up, gently letting his palm encompass the swell of your breasts in his hands, eyes flitting up to yours to see your reaction to the advancement. Letting out a stuttered breath, you let your head tip back at the sensation of his hands warming the silk against your skin.

As Rooster gently kneaded and pressed against your flesh, another breathy moan spilled from your parted lips. As he let his fingers gently pinch at your pebbled nipple, you cried out, suddenly feeling the need to move. You rocked hesitantly in Bradley’s lap, and another relieved whine left your lips as his hard-on rubbed against your damp underwear.

“Fuck, honey… you’re so beautiful,” Bradley grunted out, trying to hold himself back and not grip your hips and grind you harder down on to him. He truly did believe you had never looked as beautiful as you were now, breath labored, skin glowing in the light that managed to flitter into the room, gently rocking against his lap. He whispered praises against your sternum as his hands slowly kneaded your sensitive flesh, his hot breath fanning over the exposed skin as the shoulder of your night shirt slid down your arm to reveal your breasts.

Bradley took his time kissing and loving your chest, his large hands working up and down your sides, squeezing at your breasts before letting his tongue flutter over hardened nipples, teasing you as you let out soft, high pitched noises. Your brows were furrowed together, eyelids fluttered closed as you moved your hips down on him, panting slightly from the pleasure of his hard cock brushing your clothed clit every so often.

“So pretty…” Bradley murmured before he sucked one nipple into his mouth, groaning at the feel of his lips wrapped around your flesh, relishing in the cry it drew from you, reeling at your body reacting by collapsing closer to him, a hand flying to grasp and tug at his hair. You were pulling him closer, and your movement was starting to become a little frazzled as you were overcome by the pleasure Bradley was giving you.

“Brad–” you were gasping, almost clawing at the back of his head, not sure if you wanted to push him closer to your chest or tug him away. Squirming in your boyfriends’ lap you cried out again, whimpering softly over and over again as you felt his lips release the nipple he had been sucking on, moving to give the other some much needed attention. The cool air against your saliva slick skin had you mewling again. It was all so much, too much, it felt too good, it was dizzying and overwhelming, and Bradley’s hands were touching parts of you you didn’t know were sensitive and–

“Stop!” it was gasped, breathlessly as your eyes shot open, chest heaving before looking down at your boyfriends worried face.

“Too much?” Bradley cooed, reaching up to let his fingertips grace your cheek. Nodding shyly, you leaned into his touch, face heating at the notion that you needed a break.

“It– it was too good, I-I couldn’t…” you trailed off, not entirely sure why you had asked him to stop. There had been a pressure building and sparking in you, and it frightened you. The pleasure you felt when the two of you made out, when he touched you, it was tame in comparison. No one else had ever made that… pressure happen before.

Bradley shushed you softly, licking his lips and smiling softly up at you “S’okay, darling… we’re not in a rush, are we? And if you decide that’s enough for tonight, then that’s alright too.” he assured you, thumbs rubbing against your waist. He couldn’t help that his eyes flickered momentarily to the glistening skin around your breasts, an unfamiliar feeling swirling deep in the pit of his chest at the sight of his saliva marking your skin. It almost made him groan with pleasure, seeing himself on you in any capacity.

“No, I… I really want you. I truly feel ready, because I’ve been thinking of loving you like this for so long now…” you trailed off, again looking down at where your body sat on top of his, stomach flipping a little as you took in the sun kissed skin of his abs… and that dusting of hair that disappeared beneath his boxers. “I just feel a little nervous” you admitted in a whisper, not being able to help the fluttering nerves within your stomach.

“Don’t be nervous… I’ll guide you through it, sweet girl,” Bradley murmured, nudging his nose against yours before letting his lips slowly move with yours, taking his time to let his tongue taste yours, until your arms were once again wrapped around his neck.

“That’s it… good girl, keep going,” Bradley whispered against your lips as you again hesitantly rolled your hips against him. Soft mewls left you at his words, and Bradley couldn’t help but smiling into the kiss, filing away every reaction to his actions for later.

“Does that feel good?” he hummed as he gently gripped your hips, helping you find the right angle to let his cock catch at your entrance before sliding up to your clit. The silk of your panties was dark with your slick, and Bradley could soon feel it covering his own underwear too.

“Yes,” you breathed out, letting your forehead press against his “it– feels funny,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut as that pressure started to come back, even stronger now. Bradley hummed low in his throat, one hand making its way between your bodies to put more pressure where you needed it.

“Bradley!” you gasped, body jolting slightly as his leaking cock head pressed harder against your sensitive clit. “It’s okay, baby… you’re alright, I’ve got you,” Bradley whispered as he kissed right below your ear, not stopping the slow but steady rocking of your hips.

“I feel like I’m gonna– gonna–” your trembling voice was interrupted by your small gasps and soft moans, again taking your plush bottom lip between your teeth as the sensation grew stronger.

“You’re doing so good, honey– don’t stop; just let go for me, baby,” it was as if you needed Bradley’s soft guidance and assurance, because as soon as he told you to, you could feel that pressure spiking, before it snapped and shot through your entire body. The pleasure coursed through your veins as you came with a loud cry, followed by small whimpers of Bradley’s name, burrowing your face in his neck as you whined softly and rolled your hips a couple of more times.

“There you go… such a good girl… are you alright, doll?” he’s murmuring softly and sweetly against your neck, your pulse thudding hard and fast against his warm lips. Lips that have curved slightly upwards as you cling onto him, fingers gripping at his slightly flexed biceps. You nod against his shoulder, placing a languid chaste kiss to his exposed skin.

“I’m– I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before” heat again spread across your face, and Bradley couldn’t help the way his chest filled with pride, and an unfamiliar emotion that stirred somewhere close to his abdomen. “Did so good, honey. Looked real beautiful for me,” Bradley smiled, gently holding your hair back from your face before pecking your lips. His hands roamed down your body, until his fingers played with the hem of your underwear. Snapping the elastic slightly, making you gasp, he chuckled softly.

“Can I take these off?” nodding, you felt anticipation roll inside you in stormy waves as the two of you moved your bodies so Bradley could take your underwear off. Bradley’s hands kneaded softly at your thighs as you settled back on his lap, his amber eyes searching your worried face. Licking your lips, you took in Bradley’s completely naked form. Sure, you’d seen naked men before, but nothing compared to the golden tan of Bradley’s skin - the ripple of his abs, the dusting of hair that traveled from below his navel to his pubic bone and– oh god.

You of all people was aware of Bradley’s size. He was tall, muscular, slightly burly, and his strong embrace always made you feel safe - whether he was lifting you and dropping you into the ocean earlier today, or if he made a point of helping you reach something high up (even if you didn’t always need the help) - but you hadn’t really used your imagination to be able to conjure this. Resting, hard as a rock, against his stomach, you wondered silently how on earth he would fit in you.

“Honey,” Bradley tried to keep from chuckling, smirking, or sounding too smug when he spoke “it’s alright. We’ll go as slow as needed, love. I’ve got you.” and you trusted your boyfriend, you truly did, but still - how?

As a distraction, Bradley’s ever working hands had snuck upwards, the pads of his fingers now caressing your sensitive clit, drawing a soft mewl from your parted lips. “That’s it, relax,” he murmured in encouragement as his fingers gently rubbed at your core, letting his middle finger slip further and further into your heat.

“Oh!” pitching forward, you rested your forehead against your boyfriend’s broad shoulder, moaning involuntarily at the feeling of Bradley pumping his finger in and out slowly, stretching and preparing you. It felt good, that one finger didn’t yet feel uncomfortable. It was when he added a second one that you whined a little and squirmed against him. His voice soothed you, and as he found a spot within you that had you gasping every time his fingers graced it, you found your hips slowly starting to rock against his rhythm to seek out more of the feeling.

“Bradley…” his name tumbled from your lips in a needy gasp as his lips attached themselves to the delicate skin of your neck. You could feel his hot, wet tongue glide over the skin, his teeth nipping slightly before letting his lips close over the area to gently mark your neck.

“Yes, sweetheart?” his reply was murmured against your skin, his mustache scratching lightly above your pulse point. “Think I want–” you paused “think I want you now…” it was strange how the words rolled off your tongue, embarrassment filling you up slightly at the admission, even with Bradley’s fingers knuckle deep in your pussy. The soft groan that reverberated from your boyfriend's chest made you squeak slightly in surprise, your walls clenching around his fingers as the sound spurred on your arousal.

“Alright,” Bradley withdrew from the crook of your neck, where he’d had his face nuzzled, to look you in the eyes, giving you a soft smile as his fingers too withdrew from within you.

“Do you have any condoms, sweets?” he murmured, tilting his head upwards slightly to place a chaste kiss to your warm cheek. Shaking your head no, you placed a soft kiss to his warm lips, admitting to him that you had been on birth control for some years now. You momentarily worried he might ask why you’d bother with contraceptives if you were a virgin. You’d rather not go into detail about how it can regulate your cycle. He just smiled, eagerly chasing your lips for another kiss as his hands stroked up and down your waist - where your silken shirt had created a halo around your midsection.

“Tell me again what we’d do if you said a certain word?” Bradley looked into your eyes, his brown ones calm and filled with a serenity you could easily get lost in, as his large hand gently held your chin. Licking your lips, you managed a small smile down at your lover as you sat straddled across his lap, his hard cock leaking precum all over that faint line of hair that drove you absolutely insane with want.

“I say stop and we stop.”

“Good girl,” at your slight shiver at the deep timbre of his voice, your boyfriend couldn’t keep his smirk at bay, loving how well you responded to his praise.

Large hands gripped your hips as you rose slightly to your knees, your own hands which had been alternating between gripping Roosters biceps, clinging onto his shoulders, or being wrapped around his neck, now fluttered hesitantly down his chest, over his abdominals and down to that tantalizing little trail… The sound Bradley let out sounded relieved yet also a little strained as you hesitantly let your fingertips grace the underside of his hard cock, following along the prominent vein that ran along it.

“Should I—” you licked your lips, gaze flickering up momentarily to his “should I touch you, before we..?” Bradley smiled softly and shook his head no “I am embarrassingly close to coming just from seeing you like this honey… it’s alright,” a soft smile spread on your lips as you still let your fingers curiously feel around your boyfriends hard shaft, feeling the ridges and veins, surprised at the silky feel of the warm skin. Humming softly you settled on letting your hands rest upon his shoulders again as he again gripped your hips to guide you into a position he deemed appropriate.

Bradley’s head was spinning as he positioned his cock against your entrance, gently dragging his swollen head between your slick folds, having to take shallow breaths as he heard your whimpers and mewls. He repeated this motion over and over, ghosting over your hole, alternating between stimulating your clit and the sensitive skin around your heat. Soon enough you were rutting against the underside of his cock, making him slicked with your arousal.

“Fuck, you feel so good!” Bradley groaned as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, desperately trying to get more of him. “Bradley! Please, please,” you whined, biting down slightly on his skin, drawing a deep moan from his parted lips. He let the very tip of his cock slowly enter you before he withdrew again, sliding his cock up towards your clit again. You had gasped and moaned at the short sensation, and Bradley could tell you thought you could take all of him with the way you were bucking your hips, trying to sink down on him.

“Slow down, baby… I’ll get you there, okay? Can’t take all of me yet…” he murmured against your temple, letting his lips linger there for a moment before he again lowered you slightly onto his weeping cock, the very tip breaching your core.

You were panting now, as Bradley stilled your hips on him, this time not withdrawing as he let himself dip slightly deeper into you. Eyes widening, you whined at the sharp sting of his girth stretching you.

“Shh, honey, you’re alright, I’ve got you,” his calm voice grounded you and you nodded against his shoulder. Bradley had done his best to prepare you, and you were thoroughly wet for him - but still, as he gently lowered you deeper onto him, tears sprang from your eyes at the sharp sting of being stretched by him.

“I’m sorry, love.” Bradley furrowed his brows as he gently guided you to look at him, wiping at the tears that had leaked from your lashes. “Do you want to stop?” he murmured, large palm soothingly stroking up and down your spine.

Even though the sharp sting wasn’t exactly comfortable, the feeling of his warmth, and the feeling of being so full still made your insides vibrate with feelings of love and arousal - a feeling that felt rather paradoxical in relation to the sharp stings you felt whenever you moved. Ultimately you spoke a tiny no, leaning into Bradley, seeking his solace and his safe embrace. Whenever you felt vulnerable, or were hurting, you sought out his safety.

“Being so brave, little dove… being my good girl,” Bradley cooed, letting his strong arm wrap around you, his other slowly moving downwards, gently letting the pad of his finger rest against your clit as he lowered you a few more inches, until finally you sat flush against him. Biting your lip, your fingertips dug into the skin of Roosters biceps hard as he shushed you and praised you even more, making your stomach flip and your heart stutter in your chest. You had no idea mere words could ignite such a fire within you.

Speaking softly to you, whispering praise and words of love into your ear, Bradley slowly let his fingertips grace over your back, down your arms, over your thighs, your breasts.. as his thumb gently swiped over your nipple, you let out a needy moan. Gently pinching, he drew out another whimper from you, and your breathing seemed to pick up again as he rolled it between his fingers, his palm massaging and kneading your flesh.

“S’that feel good, honey?” he smiled as you looked him in the eyes, biting your lip and nodding as you experimentally rolled your hips - scrunching your face up, you whined softly at the feeling of discomfort, which was soothed by Bradley’s quick, distracting hands.

Letting your lips crash against his, Bradley groaned as he used both hands to knead and pinch at your tits and nipples as you rocked slowly on his cock. Gasping and whimpering, you tried lifting your hips and sinking down again, finding that if you did it ever so slightly, it didn’t sting as much and it actually felt good when the tip of his cock hit that little spot inside you.

“Bradley!” you whimpered against his lips, his name slightly muffled. After the initial pain, you were reeling from the realization that your boyfriend’s cock was buried in your pussy, and he was letting you ride him slowly. Moaning, you leaned slightly back, taking in the sight before you. In your frenzy, you had messed up his hair, and his eyes were glossy with lust, lips slightly swollen. The setting sun was making his tan skin glow, and the freckles that had formed on his shoulders made him look all the more incredible to you.

“Fuck, god, you’re so fuckin’ tight… feel fucking incredible, Jesus, baby… I love you,” Bradley’s eyes were rolling upwards as you rode him a little faster, his cock pulsing with every slight movement you made.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words ghosting over his skin. Bradley let his hands wander from your tits down to the globes of your ass, squeezing and kneading your asscheeks as you moved up and down on his cock.

“Can I take over a little, baby?” he murmured into your ear, licking your lips, you nodded quickly, feeling Bradley’s grip on your ass tighten as he lifted and grinded you down against him. A gasp was quickly followed by a loud moan as he angled your hips ever so slightly, making your clit catch on his pubic bone. He sped up slightly, guiding your hips so they rolled and bounced slightly in time with his small thrusts, the head of his cock brushing that spot again and again, making you whimper and keen over and over.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bradley grunted and groaned as he fucked you onto his leaking cock. He was so fucking close, you were gripping and clenching so hard around him, and he was sure he was going to blow his load soon. “Baby you feel so fucking good.. god, this tight little pussy was fuckin’ made for my cock, wasn’t it? Was made to be fucked by me,” Bradley grunted as he babbled, that feeling he felt earlier exploding in his chest at your needy mewls.

Growling, he took your loud moans as his go ahead to go just a little faster, fuck you just a little deeper. His one forearm wrapped around the curve of your ass as the other snuck up between your shoulder-blades, where he gripped the hair at the nape of your neck. A loud cry spilled from your lips as your eyes fluttered close, your body instantly relaxing and going almost limp in his hold as you moaned repeatedly. Growling, Bradley bucked his hips to fuck into you instead of lowering you down on him, and your needy cries made him almost black out with pleasure.

Soon, he heard you gasping, moaning and crying his name over and over in pleasure. “That’s it honey, tell me who’s making you feel good.. who’s fucking this tight little pussy of yours so good,” his words made your eyes roll back into your head, and with a cry of his name you came for the second time, your slick creating a creamy ring around the base of his cock as he fucked you through the first orgasm you’d ever experienced with someone inside you.

Whimpering and mewling, the waves of pleasure didn’t stop coming, it just kept going as Bradley’s cock pumped fast and deep into your wet cunt. Your bedroom was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, a wet sound that you found rather arousing, and your labored breaths and moans.

“Babe, god I’m so close,” Bradley moaned, holding you tighter to his chest as he gasped, his cock and balls pulsing with the need to release. “Should I pull out?” he wasn’t all together sure he could. “No!” you whined, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. You’d never felt like this before. Your chest was swirling with the need to keep him close, keep him inside of you, you never wanted him to leave.

“Need you, Brad, need you!” you could barely form a full sentence, your words sounding more like whimpery babbles. At your pleas, Bradley grunted and groaned before he swore loudly, his hips bucking before his cock twitched and his release spurted deep within you.

Feeling his warm seed spilling in you, your eyes rolled back slightly again as you moaned. Bradley’s whole body was shuddering as he ground you down against him, his balls tightening again and again as he released ropes upon ropes of his cum deep in your pussy.

Sweaty bodies tangled together as you slumped forward against his heaving chest, your own breath labored and unsteady. Nuzzling into his pecs, you could hear and feel the way his heart beat hard inside his chest. “Love you,” you murmured, kissing at his sternum. Rooster’s large hand caressed the back of your head as you both came down from your highs.

“Might hurt a little when I pull out…” he murmured against the top of your head, and you let out a dissatisfied whine whilst pouting.

“Are you okay, honey?” he continued, and you smiled and nodded, feeling perfectly content as you laid in the safe arms of your lover, having just given him all of your love, and receiving all of him and his love back.

AHHHHH fuck this one took forever to finish, and i'm not entirely happy with the ending - but i hope someone might enjoy it still<3 please let me know what you think! i'm always open for constructive crit <3

special thanks to coley and em for helping me through my writers block and cheering me on<3

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #rooster x reader #rooster x you #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw smut #my writing #smut

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writingworlds · 2 months

Text

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐄 (𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑)

Pairing(s): Charles Leclerc x Porsche!reader

Summary: The Porsche Princess, that nickname has followed Y/N around since birth. And who better for a princess than a prince?

Warning(s): more shitty google translate

Author’s Note: Once again thank you for all the love on this!!! I think there’s going to only be one part to the series after this one and then I’ll head onto other things 🥰🥰.

I hope all the tags work (some of them didn’t work last time and I’m unsure of how to fix it). Again, let me know if you would liked to be tagged for the final? part of this and maybe any of my future writings!!

Much love 🥰🥰

Pierre Gasly

Charles…why are you appropriating French culture 🤨🤨

Charles Leclerc

I lost a bet man

Pierre Gasly

You?? Lost a bet?? To who???

Charles Leclerc

Y/N

I was hoping I’d win

That way I’d have an excuse to ask her out to dinner

Pierre Gasly

You poor poor lovesick fool

Ask her out anyway

Charles Leclerc

No way

My ego is bruised 🫠

Pierre Gasly

…..

I can’t believe this

Charles Leclerc

Pierre…don’t you dare

Pierre Gasly

Don’t I dare do what?? 😁

Charles Leclerc

PIERRE GASLY WTF

QU'EST-CE QUE TU AS FAIT

Pierre Gasly

You’ll thank me later 🙏🙏

Mila Bolinsky

Y/NNNN

GIRL ANSWER ME

Y/N Porsche

WHY ARE WE SHOUTING

Mila Bolinsky

You know how you said if Charles won the bet he would take you out to dinner?

Y/N Porsche

Yeah?

Mila Bolinsky

Look at this!!!

You know who Pierre is best friends with

Charles

That little Ferrari man wants to go out to dinner with you

Y/N Porsche

🤨🤨 Charles has my number he could’ve just texted me

Mila Bolinsky

Y/N…he’s a man

Who lost a bet

His ego is probably bruised

Y/N Porsche

Men…such fragile creatures

Mila Bolinsky

Yes yes

But disregarding that

Text Charles

Ask him out to dinner yourself

Y/N Porsche

And why should I do that?

Mila Bolinsky

Bffr

You’ve had a crush on him for forever

You made a BET with him

If that’s not how you flirt then I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought I did

Y/N Porsche

…..you got me there

I’ll text him

yn_porsche

liked by charles_leclerc, milaaa, papaporsche, and others

yn_porsche a good night out 🥰🥰

view all comments

milaaa I TOLD YOU

milaaa also stunning as usual 😘😘

papaporsche Y/N, meine Prinzessin ... ist das ein Date? Muss ich jemanden bedrohen?

yn_porsche Nein, nein, nein, du musst niemandem drohen, Papa 😭😭

pierregasly 😁😁

username 🤨🤨🤨

username now that’s suspicious

username this wouldn’t have anything to do with your tweet would it?

username is…is mother taken

username I SEE YOU LURKING CHARLES

username he’s just like us fr fr

charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, yn_porsche, milaaa, and others

charles_leclerc 🌹🌹

view all comments

pierregasly say thank you Pierre

charles_leclerc no

milaaa 🤭🤭

papaporsche ….

username is that….IS THAT A PORSCHE LOGO I SEE

username ARE THOSE THE SAME ROSES Y/N HAD

username OMG I THINK THEY ARE

username BF CHARLES ERA???

username jaw is on the floor

username Pierre and Mila in the comments I fear the best friends are cooking something

username they better be 😭

username the Porsche princess with the Ferrari prince?? Yes please

Fred Vasseur

While I hope you had fun on your date you can’t be showing the Porsche logo Charles

It’s bad for branding

Charles Leclerc

My apologies boss 😅

Fred Vasseur

Oh shush, no apologies really needed

Now go get that girl

Charles Leclerc

Yes sir 🫡🫡

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Prestige Taglist:

@405rry @chasing-liberosis @h4miltonforza @escapism-writer @spilled-coffee-cup @dutifullyannoyingfox @or-was-it-just-a-dream @nessacarty1 @cherry-piee @nomie-11 @believeinwarrior @needtokeepfeelingsincheck @blushmimi @valntynebaby @loloekie @lightdragonrayne @woozarts @formula1cl16 @meadhbhcavanagh @marshmummy @aquangxl @justdreamersdream @trouble-sistar @iamahallucinationnn

#charles leclerc x reader #f1 social media au #f1 fanfic #formula one imagine #charles leclerc #writingworlds #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x you #f1 x reader

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sugarnspice630 · 2 months

Text

Blemished - Seonghwa

"Think you’d get away with wearing something like this? Y/N my love, your tits are practically bursting out of that top."

•pairing: dom!simp!seonghwa x sub!fem!reader

•word count: 1.6k

•tags: mdni, nonidol, praise kink, Hwa is a MASSIVE boob guy, reader has a big chest, sucking/marking/biting of the chest, clit stimulation orgasm, Simp Hwa Simp Hwa, motor-boating?...did I miss anything? probably

Summary: Distracting Seonghwa during your dinner date was not your intention, however that's exactly what happened and Seonghwa made sure you knew how much he appreciated it by treating you to a special evening.

A/N: Inspired by my Thighs, Tits, or Ass guy Ateez edition post! Fun fact, I personally dislike boob play of any kind, but this was quite fun to write. Please be sure to drop a like, reblog if you enjoyed it, and comment your favorite part! Happy reading!

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆───

You always wanted to look pretty for Seonghwa. He asked you out on a date at a nice restaurant to treat you to something special. Carefully choosing your outfit because you wanted to look sophisticated yet be comfortable. You chose a cute button-up blouse and an appropriate-length skirt. Shortly after, Seonghwa came to pick you up, kissing you softly on the cheek.

“You look beautiful, my star.” You can feel his smile against your skin and your face blushes. He opened the door for you and you carefully got in the car, waiting for the delicious dinner and amazing date you were about to have.

–

Throughout the dinner, you noticed Seonghwa’s attention was not 100% on you. There was something else on his mind that kept him from listening to your stories.

“Baby, are you alright? You’re not really paying attention to anything I’m saying.”

“Mm, n-no I'm listening! I just…have a lot going on in my brain.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked with a hint of concern.

“N-not right now. Let’s just finish our meal.” You nodded softly and finished the rest of your dinner. You didn’t talk much to each other, but you shared occasional glances. You couldn’t help but notice his eyes were never fully focused on you and were looking elsewhere. Finishing the meal in silence, Seonghwa asked for the bill, paid quickly, and before you knew it, he swiftly grabbed your wrist and was dragging you out the door. The car ride back to your place was even more awkward than the dinner. Every time you tried to speak to him, he silenced you and told you to save it. His grip on the steering wheel was tight. His knuckles were white and you could see the veins slightly popping up. Your brain was all over the place, wondering what happened between when he picked you up to about halfway through the dinner date. You finally got to your home and before you could get out of the car, Seonghwa’s voice stopped you.

“Set your things down and go to your bed.” His voice was stern and demanding. Oh fuck, you were in trouble, but what did you do?

When you got inside your apartment, you set your coat and purse down, took your shoes off, and waited for Seonghwa in your bedroom. His figure soon loomed in the doorway, and his eyes were fixated on one thing only: your breasts. You leaned back against your pillows as he came in and crawled on top of you, coming close to your neck.

“Think you’d get away with wearing something like this?” Seonghwa is carefully kissing and nipping at your neck, tracing his supple lips across your skin.

“L-like what Seonghwa? My outfit is perfectly modest!” He scoffs at your response.

“Y/N my love, your tits are practically bursting out of that top.” You felt your face warm up. You weren’t a small-chested girl by any means, but you thought the outfit was alright. “God… I could see just the slightest peak in between each of the buttons. Driving me crazy the entire time.”

“So that’s why you couldn't focus~?"

“Yes…but now that I have you alone, I can look and play with them all I want.” He says lowly before he’s reaching for your shirt and slowly unbuttoning the buttons. His fingers dancing to remove the fabric covering your chest. You lean back further, pushing your boobs towards him more, but trying to be discreet about it. He gets three of the buttons undone before he pushes the fabric to the sides and stares hard at the sight before him.

“Wearing a bra I got for you~? It looks so pretty on you. I just knew it would. Compliments you so well.” His praise was making you blush even more. Excitement started to take over Seonghwa, and he quickly undid the rest of the buttons and helped guide the blouse off of you. Tossing the piece of clothing to the side, his attention was directed back towards your boobs. The bra you were wearing had white lace across the top and around the band. The cup area had tiny silver and gold stars. The bra had an accent line that perfectly covered your nipples and the line led up to the straps. Seonghwa licked his lips while staring at how beautiful you looked in it. Your breasts are perfectly pushed together and filling the cup nicely.

“So beautiful…but what’s underneath is even more beautiful.” He reaches a hand around your back and snaps the clasps, carefully pulling the bra off of you and tossing it to the side. His actions were quick, but sensual. Truly taking his time but also in a hurry to see you in your pure form. You could only watch as his pupils were extremely dilated, just staring at you. He only took a few more seconds of staring at your boobs before he leans down and latches his mouth on your right breast. You gasped and arched your back slightly.

“S-Seonghwa.” You breathed out. His tongue was licking around your nipple in ways you’ve never felt before. You always knew Hwa was a boobs guy, but damn, he knew how to play with them. While sucking on your right tit, his left hand came up and started to grope and play with your left tit.

“Nngh, fuck!” You felt him growl against you.

“That’s my girl. Letting me play nicely with her.” He went back to kissing and licking over your breast. His tongue was warm, but the stimulation he was providing was making your nipples rock hard. Of course, he couldn’t forget his other favorite boob. He carefully pinched his fingers together around your nipple, causing you to cry out softly.

“Seonghwa!” You tilted your head back further into the pillows and closed your eyes. Seonghwa was having a field day just feeling and licking all over your beautiful chest.

“Mm, baby~. Wanna make you feel so good. Can I do that for you?”

“Y-yes please!” Ever since he was slowly stripping you, your pussy was aching and crying for attention.

“Good girl~. Fuck, you are so beautiful~.” Seonghwa whispers against your skin as he reaches his right hand down your skirt and begins to rub you through your panties. “You are soaked darling~. All of this from just kissing your beautiful tits?”

“Y-yes! Your tongue feels so good!” You couldn’t help but crave it all the time. He always knew exactly how to use it.

“Good good~ but what about this~?” Suddenly, you feel Seonghwa nip and pull at the skin covering your breasts. You cry out in pleasure. His fingers continue to rub you through your underwear, and the way he bites and marks up your skin makes you feel high. Seonghwa takes the tip of his tongue and licks into the teeth marks he’s leaving on your breasts. Continuous moans escaping your mouth. You grip onto his sides to steady yourself. Seonghwa eventually wraps a finger around the band of your panties and pulls them down, completely exposing your pussy to him. He latches his mouth back onto your boobs, leaving trails of saliva every time he picks his head up from your chest. You tilt your head down and open your eyes to look at the unholy sight in front of you. His face is flushed and you can only watch as his lips are pursed together to kiss your chest.

“Seonghwa~.” You are unable to say anything else. The pleasure he is providing you makes you feel like you are floating in heaven. The pure euphoria in this situation is enough to make your brain feel high. Seonghwa collects more of your wetness on his fingers and continues to rub your clit.

“Gonna make you cum so hard baby.” He growls. He really does not let up with sucking and kissing your chest. There are so many red and purple marks all over you; it’s truly a beautiful sight. You are marked up exactly how Seonghwa likes.

“P-please!” Your grip on his sides tightens, and you get a fistful of his shirt. Your nails slightly dig into the skin underneath, and you hear him moan softly. Seonghwa pushes his face directly into your chest, and you can hear him panting heavily.

“Fuck baby I just wanna suffocate between your chest.” His voice vibrates through you, causing you to shudder.

“S-shit!” His fingers rapidly rubbing over your clit, you can feel the knot forming in your stomach.

“So fucking hot, fuck fuck fuck, your chest is so perfect.” He rubs his cheeks over your boobs as he says this. His eyes flutter open to take in the sight of the other boob in front of him. You feel his hips rut into your leg, and he whimpers. His erection is very noticeable against your thigh, and it drives you insane.

“I think I’m gonna- oh fuck-” Your breathing increases as you feel the knot in you getting tighter and tighter. Seonghwa worshiping your boobs makes you feel like a goddess.

“Cum for me sweetheart. Wanna hear your pretty sounds.”

Not too long after his command, you are crying out his name and cursing out loud and you feel the knot loosen. Seonghwa bites down on your breast as you cum, causing you to let out a shrill chirp from being overstimulated. His fingers are covered in you, and he loves the feeling. He rubs you through your high before leaving a couple more gentle kisses on your tits and then leaning back from your chest. Your eyes flutter open and closed, and you’re breathing heavily. Seonghwa’s chuckle rings through your ears, and you open your eyes to look at him. A soft, questioning, hum comes from your throat. There is a couple seconds of silence as you sit there, staring at Seonghwa smirking at your chest.

“Now your chest is even more beautiful with all my markings all over it~.”

Tags: @pre1ttyies @isiloiale @moongoddess1982 @yeosangsbbg @sanipan @10nantscompanion @hrts4nohee @eleganzadellarosa @babyxhoiz @wisejudgedragonhairdo @10nantscompanion @hwastarsworld @bunnyluvr25 @resildatice

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katebishopsbow · 6 months

Text

SWEET LIKE HONEY • OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x reader (18+)

summary: oscar was feeling ill from a nasty cold, but you couldn't resist kissing him. not wanting to get you sick as well, you both agreed on one kiss only, that's it. so why couldn't you two seem to stop?

tags: sexual content (minors dni), sub!oscar, kissing, grinding, reader being a tease

word count: 1.2k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

The sleepless nights full of overtime team meetings, hectic schedules that never seemed to stop, and grueling training sessions that drained every last bit of his energy finally had Oscar succumbing to exhaustion. Which is why the Australian driver was currently spending his rare day off in bed with “Killing Eve” playing in the background, suffering from a rather nasty cold.

It’s times like these that made him wish he had cherished those days when he was in good health – when his throat didn’t hurt every time he swallowed and his nose wasn’t running like the damned Niagara Falls. And it’s times like these that made him especially grateful for having you by his side, taking care of him and providing him with all the affection he needed for a speedy recovery.

“You feeling any better, Osc?” you asked when you walked into his room with a cup of hot honey water – a cold remedy your mother had always made for you growing up. Your boyfriend’s tired eyes lifted to meet yours, and his rosy cheeks and pouty lips looked so adorable that all you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him and suffocate him with kisses.

He nodded before sitting up slightly to take the cup from your hands, taking a few careful sips of the comfortingly sweet drink. “Thank you, baby,” he whispered appreciatively with a weak smile, leaning into the warmth of your palms when you reached your hands to caress his cheeks.

Perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate time to be having thoughts like this, but when you watched your boyfriend’s tongue delicately sweep across his lips to lick off the honey from the drink, it felt like your mind had gone completely blank. So you did the most obvious thing and leaned forward to give him a kiss – just a quick one – but your boyfriend’s eyes snapped open as he hurriedly pulled away.

“What are you doing? You’re gonna get sick like this…” he said to you worriedly, not wanting to give whatever illness he had to you. He had already felt terrible enough as it was, the last thing he needed was to see you getting sick because of him. “I’m strong enough, I think I can handle a few kisses. Besides, how can I resist when your lips taste like honey?” you shrugged with a light chuckle as you tried reaching for another kiss, but Oscar turned his head at the last second so that your lips landed on his cheeks instead, earning a playful protest from you.

While he wanted more than anything to give you all the kisses you craved, to have your lips on him as you kissed all his pain away, the thought of making you sick just didn't seem worth it. “I don’t want to see you getting ill because of me, babe,” he tried to reason with you, endearingly tilting your chin up with his fingertips so that you were looking at him. That was a mistake, because gazing into his eyes – those eyes you could spend hours getting lost in – only seemed to make the urge to kiss him stronger.

“Just one kiss, Oscar, pleaseeeee,” you whined at your boyfriend, pouting in feigned sadness while you snuggled up to him and nuzzled into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent that was Oscar Piastri. There was no way Oscar could have said no to you – not when you had looked so beautiful in his embrace. “Just one,” he muttered quietly, and that was all the permission you needed to lean forward and place a soft, lingering kiss on his lips.

Oscar leaned into the kiss eagerly, realizing just how much he had missed this as his hands wandered over your sides. He had every intention to pull away before things could get overboard, trying so hard to remember his promise of “just one kiss”. But when you got up to straddle his lap, your fingers threading around his hair and tugging it with just enough force to cause tingles of satisfying pain on his scalp – all sense of self-restraint he possessed went straight out the window, and all he wanted was to surrender himself to you.

His hands glided down your waist with a sense of urgency as he pulled you in closer, opening his mouth willingly to welcome the intrusion of your tongue. The kiss was fervent, filled with entwined breaths and desperate touches – a stark contrast to the one you had shared moments ago. As you pulled away momentarily to mouth along his neck, claiming him as yours with each delicate swipe of your tongue, Oscar couldn’t resist grinding his hips against you as he called out your name in a breathy whine.

“What’s got you so worked up, baby?” you couldn’t help but tease the boy’s growing desperation, and for a quick second you almost felt like you were being too mean – until you heard the needy moan that escaped from between his lips, “Baby, please… ” His pleas sounded like music to your ears, and you took a moment to take in the sight of him squirming and moaning before you – so pliable, so precious, so good for you.

Smirking at what he had said to you, you began shifting your hips in slow, unhurried circles over his growing hardness below as you whispered teasingly in his ears, “I thought you said one kiss only?” Oscar grumbled upon hearing your condescending words, “You’re such a tease. Please, I want more…”

“Yeah? You want more, baby?” you asked him, hot breath fanning against his spit-slickened lips. “Please… I need you,” he managed to choke out, letting out another obscene moan when you nibbled on the sensitive spot below his earlobe. He wanted more of you, needed more of you – your heated kisses, your scorching touch, and your intoxicating presence that fuelled an insatiable hunger within him.

And all of a sudden you were gone, climbing off of him like you weren’t just grinding yourself against him seconds ago. “Wh – what? What’re you doing?” he questioned dumbfoundedly, staring at you with his mouth agape in complete confusion. “What do you mean? You said one kiss only, didn’t you?” you answered matter-of-factly with the most sincere, angelic smile you could manage, and Oscar genuinely thought that he was going to die of frustration as he stared disbelievingly at you.

Running a finger along his chin, you traced intricate patterns on his pale skin before telling him, “Drink the honey water, get recovered, and I promise you I’ll give you all the kisses you want… and maybe even something more.” You passed the cup to him, planted a chaste kiss on his forehead, and left the room after shooting him a suggestive wink.

Oscar took a gulp from the cup, cringing at the uncomfortable tightness in his pants you left him with as he let out an exasperated sigh. You were definitely going to be the death of him.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smut

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so-long-soldier-writes · 7 months

Text

Our Little Secret

kai parker x reader

summary: you should've known wearing a short little skirt would rile him up. but then again... maybe you did it on purpose. (80s!kai) (step-brother!kai)

tags: teasing, possessiveness, praise kink, degradation, dirty talk, oral sex, blowjobs, vaginal sex

word count: 4.2k

“You look cute,” a male voice comes up behind you, “where are you going?”

You turn abruptly to see Kai, watching you from the other side of the kitchen. His gaze travels up and down your body, but he’s clearly staring at your ass. It almost makes you drop the soapy dish you’re holding.

“Um, thank you.”

“Where are you going?” He repeats, eyes darkening.

“Nowhere.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m serious! I’m not going anywhere, I just felt like looking cute. Trust me, Kai. Do you ever see me leave this house?”

His jaw relaxes, knowing you’re telling the truth. “So you just felt like romping around in a short little skirt? Dad won’t be happy if he sees you in it.”

“Well Dad’s not here right now,” you point out. This is also true. Joshua was out for the weekend on coven duties. He won’t be back until late Monday.

“Mom won’t like it, either.”

“She’s never minded me wearing what I want. As long as it’s appropriate to wear around the kids.”

“She scolded Jo just last week for wearing jeans that were too tight.”

“Well this is a skirt.”

“I can see the bottom of your ass, Y/N.”

“Why are you looking at my ass, Kai?”

“Because you have it on display for me to see.”

“I do not! I’m just doing dishes and minding my own business!”

“You would get so busted for that skirt if Mom saw. Joey would be staring, too. You know he has a crush on you.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Then stop talking about my skirt and just… go away.”

“I came to get a snack.”

“Then get it and go.”

Kai crosses the kitchen towards the fridge, and you finally think he’s dropped it. With his back turned, you bend down to put the plate in the dishwasher, then continue soaping up another. Little do you know that Kai’s watching you through the metal reflection of the fridge door. He licks his lips when your ass is on full display.

“Y’know this is my house,” he suddenly challenges.

You whip around to face him, annoyed. “So?!”

“You can’t boss me around in my own house.”

“Do you pay the bills? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“I was here first. And I’m older than you.”

“Do you want an award?”

He eyes your figure again. “Are you offering?”

“Ugh! Stop it!”

“Oh don’t act like you don’t like the attention. Why else would you wear that pretty little piece in an empty house?”

“I didn’t feel like putting on pants.”

He chuckles. “Whatever you say, Y/N.”

You groan and turn back around, desperate to avoid his gaze any longer.

Kai’s not completely wrong, but you’re not exactly lying, either. Yes, it’s true that you didn’t want to put on pants. Yes… it’s also true that you wanted to gain attention from your step-brother. There, you finally said it. You do like his attention. It’s his fault, though. He’s always flirting with you, regardless if the rest of the family is home or not.

His eyes are always on you, at your back or front, whichever he can get. Countless times you’ve turned suddenly and caught him staring. A handful of those times, his own mother has tried to get his attention but struggled to pull it away from your breasts. His mother, of course, is none the wiser and assumes he’s daydreaming, but you know he’s not. He’ll smirk at you after, if he’s caught, and won’t let her believe anything scandalous was happening instead.

Kai’s also gotten physical with you more times than you can remember. He’ll slide past you in a crowded kitchen, hands in the air as he’s banned from touching anyone, but his groin will brush your ass as he slinks across the room. Twice, you’ve felt the outline of his cock in his jeans when he did it. Both times, your face got so hot you needed to step away from the situation.

He also has a habit of bumping into you. If you’re doing dishes or putting something away, he’ll suddenly appear, suddenly needing to do the same thing. Your shoulders or hips meet from his unexpected presence, and then he apologizes with a voice that does things to you. Either his morning voice, slightly rough, or his soft, midday voice, or the one heard at night, when he’s all talked out and dehydrated. Sometimes he’s close enough you can smell coffee on his breath, or mint, or even gin. Sometimes he lets his hand wander to the small of your back, or further down by your waist. When his family enters the room, he rips himself away from you. The bubbling warmth between you quickly goes cold and leaves you hungry.

“Y/N… Y/N… hello?!”

You blink twice, realizing Kai’s right next to you. A tupperware is in one hand, while the other waves in front of your face. “What?!”

“Jeez! Just asking if you wanted some of this.”

“What is it?”

“Leftover cake from Sarah’s birthday party. It’s chocolate,” he says the last part in a sing-songy voice.

“I know, I was there.”

“Do you want any?”

“No.”

“Awh, come on, Y/N… you know you do.”

“Fine. I’ll have a bite if you’re heating it up.”

His face breaks out into a grin and he mutters a celebratory, “yes!” to himself, then spins around to the microwave.

“Put it all on a plate and gimme the dish. What’s one more dish to wash?”

“Okay. And thanks for doing that.”

“Mhm.”

He leaves you alone while it warms. You turn slightly, wondering why he’s quiet, but see him on the other counter pouring two glasses of milk. You’re quick to face the sink again, not wanting him to see you looking at him.

“So why cake?” You question as the two-minute timer beeps. “Don’t you usually eat pretty healthy?”

Kai shrugs. “Usually. But one dessert was denied, so I was craving something to fill its place.”

“What the fuck was- oh.”

“I mean, I’ll have two if you change your mind.”

You look down, avoiding his stupid smirk.

“Kidding. Have a bite.”

Two minutes is the max time you get to eat in silence. After that, Kai swallows a big bite then looks back at you.

“In all seriousness, you do look really pretty.”

“Thank you,” you say, unsure how to take the compliment.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?”

“I’m just asking in case I have to kick someone’s ass! For like, brotherly reasons.”

You roll your eyes. “No, I do not have a boyfriend.”

“Good.” He’s then quick to follow with, “I mean, like, cause Dad would kick his ass, too. That, or turn him straight to dust. Poof! Did you know that Josette’s boyfriend had to go through three weeks of questioning just to take her on one date?”

“Yes, Kai, I was there. I’ve been living here for three years.”

“Right.”

“Did you see the time my brother got his ass beat for bugging me when I tried to eat?” You counter, challenging him.

“Joey?”

“No, dumbass, you.”

“Oh. Wait-” he puts his fork down as he realizes. “Sorry.”

You meant it as a joke, but his frown tells you he didn’t catch that.

“Hey, I’m gonna go back upstairs. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Wait, Kai!” He doesn’t stop. “Kai!” You try again, reaching out to grab his arm.

He freezes, not used to such direct contact.

“I was joking, Kai,” you look in his eyes to say. “I promise. I really do like your company.”

“No you don’t, I bother you as much as I bother Jo.”

Your grip tightens. “No, you don’t. Kai, I’m serious. And I’m sorry. It went too far.”

Finally, he turns to you. “Honest?”

“Honest.”

“Pinky swear?”

You snort, then realize he’s serious. “Pinky swear.”

He grins at this, then slowly returns to the side opposite you, where he had been only seconds ago.

“As a matter of fact,” you continue, “you don’t bug me at all.”

He chuckles and looks at the floor. “I’m sure I bug you a little.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“What about earlier? That wasn’t annoying?”

Now or never to confess. You pick the former.

“Oh, no. I certainly do enjoy your attention. Even when it's on my ass.”

“Oh, do you now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you bring your chocolatey fork up to your lips, licking the whole length, and sticking your tongue out to him. You keep eye contact with him, watching his cheeks flush bright red.

“Y/N…”

“What? We’re all alone… I’d be lying if I said I didn’t partially wear this little skirt for you.”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“Awh, what happened to the bold Kai I know that will rub his morning wood against my back in the middle of a crowded kitchen? Is he shy?” You tease.

“Y/N, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into…”

“Oh, I think I do. Come on… I bet an afternoon hard is just as satisfying. Oh, but maybe we should wait a couple hours, for when I can literally taste the gin off your breath. Aw, nah, because then the window of opportunity will close. Jo will be home, and all those kids, and you’ll have to see your little brother blush at me without the pride of having owned me earlier in the day.”

“Y/N,” his voice is raspy. His hand ghosts over his pants, and when you follow the movement with your eyes, you see he’s rock hard.

“Come on, Kai… You want to be a good stepbrother and beat up my nonexistent boyfriend? Well be a better one and fuck me right now.”

He only hesitates for a second more before rushing forward, pressing your back up against the sink, and kissing you roughly. He grips the countertop with one hand, your waist with the other. The plate of chocolate crumbs clatters into the sink, piercing your ears, but neither of you care. Your hands find his cheeks to get a grip. You hold them gently, but they’re burning in your hands. He’s a good kisser, despite having no experience. Before you know it, you’re both out of breath.

“Kai,” you try to say his name, but it comes out in more of a moan. The two of you are separated, panting, and staring at the other.

“You okay?”

“Perfect.”

He smiles, then starts to trail kisses down your neck. Your hands find his hair and pull at the roots.

“Jump up,” he mutters. You do, and he catches your hips. He carries you to the other side of the counter, then sits you up on it. With gentle movements, he leans your back against the cabinet door. Had he sat you up by the sink, you would’ve had no support for your back. You give him a sloppy kiss as a thank you.

Kai smiles at you, but then instead of going back to your neck, he crouches just a little on his knees. As soon as you realize what he’s doing, you let out an involuntary whine. Your hands bunch up your skirt and he smirks.

“Smart girl.” He wastes no time pulling down your thong, then stuffing it in his back pocket. The cold air only hits your core for a second before his fingers find your clit, rubbing gently.

“Ohh, Kai,” you whine.

“That’s it, princess. Keep whining for me.”

You let out another, this time, between sealed lips.

Kai puts a finger in you without warning. “Louder, baby.”

“Kai, I can’t.”

“Oh, yes you can. No one else is here.” He puts in another.

You can feel the soft pads of his fingers on your walls. “More,” you whimper.

“Good girl,” he praises.

You squeeze your eyes shut as wetness gushes from your body. You’ve always had a praise kink, and he’s about to find out.

“You like that?”

You nod quickly.

“Well keep it up. Keep making those sweet little sounds for me.”

You nod again, eyes still closed. With your eyes shut, though, you have no warning when his nose is suddenly grazing your clit. As soon as it touches, though, you let out a loud moan, almost pornographic.

“Good girl,” he says again, hot breath up against your core. Then, it’s his tongue making contact with your clit. He teases the nub with the tip, then slides it between your folds.

Your hands dig in his hair and moans fly out of your mouth. “Kai!”

He doesn’t answer this time. All his focus is on you. Two fingers still explore inside, while his tongue laps up your wetness. Obscene slurping sounds fill the room, mixed with your own cries. Kai can’t even catch all of it with his tongue - some drips to the title floor with a loud splat, and you can feel the curvature of his lips against your skin.

The boy is an expert, despite probably being a virgin. He knows just how to flick his tongue; just how to curl his fingers.

“Kai, I’m coming,” you cry out, gripping the countertops. Your hands are sweaty and you almost slip. In an instant, his hands catch you, even the one that had been inside your heat. “No, don’t stop what you’re doing,” you mutter, eyes rolling in the back of your head.

“Sorry, princess,” he replies, putting them back. He then finds the pace he had before, and works to bring you back to the edge.

Moments later, your orgasm is the most powerful you’ve ever had. No other man, nor your own fingers have ever done justice to what he could do with his tongue. He sucks and finger-fucks you throughout your orgasm, paying no mind to the way you squeeze your legs around his head, nor the way you begin to ride his face as you come. Kai doesn’t let up until your legs are shaking, and your heavy moans become little whimpers. Only then, does he stand back up and smile at you.

“You okay?”

“Fuck, Kai.”

“Too much?”

“No. Never.”

“Too much for round two?”

“What?” You mutter, out of breath.

“We can stop if you’re tired.”

You fight to catch your breath, and in that time, happen to glance down. Your eyes go wide as you notice he’s pulled out his cock. Stiff as a board, red, and oozing with pre-cum, it rests in his hand.

“No, no stopping. Just… give me a minute.”

“We don’t have to, princess.”

“No, I want it. I want you.”

You then make an attempt to jump down from the countertop, but your arms are still shaky. He catches you in an instant, an eyebrow raised.

“Where are you going, little peach?”

A tired whimper escapes the back of your throat as you open your mouth to speak. Despite the grip he still has on both your arms, you manage to sink down to your knees. Halfway down, Kai realizes what’s happening and lets go.

“Aw, does my little bunny want to suck her stepbrother’s cock?” Kai takes himself in his hands and levels with your face. “You’re a good girl, you know that?”

You blush, and fight the urge to turn your face away.

“Eyes on me,” he says, seemingly knowing your thoughts.

You obey him, eyes bouncing between his face and his length. Your heart speeds up at the prospect of taking it. Of feeling it heavy in your mouth; feeling it hit the back of your throat.

“Can I?”

“Go ahead, princess.”

Your hands join his. Your eyes roll back in your head at how good it feels. When you look up to him, he nods, and you dart your tongue out to taste the pre-cum leaking from the tip. It’s thick, and salty, and if that’s just your first taste, you know you need to start working for more. You lick the head, swirling your tongue in circles. Your lips suck the first few inches.

“No more teasing.” He tries to be stern, but it comes out in a moan.

You then put a hand on his thigh for a better grip. The jeans underneath your skin are uncomfortable.

“Off,” you mutter, hands flying to his belt.

“Hm? Oh.”

But you’re faster than Kai. Before he can give you any help, you’re unbuckling the metal and peeling his pants down his legs. You’re sure to be careful at his cock, though, pulling it back through the zipper hole, then letting it free.

Kai steps out from the pool of his pants. “Better for you now?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, lips pressed on his length. The action sends vibrations all over and he can’t help but moan again.

Your hand on his thigh squeezes his skin enough that it’ll bruise under your fingernails. Kai only has a second to concentrate on this, though, because in the next second, you’re licking a stripe from his balls to his head. Your tongue is dense against a prominent vein, earning another sound from him. Kai’s hands dig into your hair. He fights the urge to buck his hips into your mouth.

“Y/N,” he warns. If you don’t stop teasing now, he’ll do just that.

Luckily, you catch onto his need. Your lips curl around his head, tongue flat, and you begin to move up and down on his length. You start slow, but as he gets wetter, your lips glide better. The hand holding him no longer has a use, the first time you take him all the way. It slips further back to tug on his balls, while his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly.

Kai keeps his hands on you, buried in your hair, scratching your scalp. Profanities tumble from his lips; words that if his dad were to hear, he’d be beat for days. You smirk against his cock, knowing he can feel your lips curving.

“You’re a naughty little thing, peach. You like that?”

You respond by not losing pace, not slowing down for a second.

“Mhm,” he confirms, “what a good little slut you are. Taking her brother’s cock so well. Tell me, princess, is this something you think about at night? How many times have you touched yourself to the thought of this happening?”

Again, you don’t answer.

“One? Two? Three? More?”

Your hand on his balls travels up to squeeze his ass. The skin is soft between your fingers, and you quickly put your other hand on his other cheek.

“I’ll take that as more than three times,” he chuckles.

You pinch his cheek unexpectedly, making him jolt. His reaction makes you giggle. When you look up to see his reaction, there’s a smile on his face, too.

“You look beautiful on your knees for me,” he praises. But then his hands find your face and he slowly eases you off his cock. “So, so beautiful. But I’m getting close and I need to be inside you.”

You nod, wanting the same.

Kai then grabs you from under your armpits, helping you to your feet. When you’re stable, he hoists you back onto the countertop. Not a moment later, he’s kissing your lips, sore, and red from sucking. Then, at the same time that he hitches your skirt back up your thighs, he presses kisses all around your face. You giggle, his lips tingling your skin, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Are you ready?” You shake your head ‘yes’. “Need a minute?” You shake it ‘no’. “Okay. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“Okay.”

Kai holds your back steady. His cock is in his other, glistening with your spit; teased, and in need of release. He pushes into you slowly, letting you adjust. He keeps an eye on your face, watching for signs; hoping for pleasure, prepared for pain. Your eyes flutter as he passes your folds. Your mouth hangs open, spit dribbles from your bottom lip. The pair of you moan at once, both relishing in the feeling of his cock inside you. He smiles at the simultaneous sound of pleasure.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Words, please, princess.”

“Yes, Kai,” you manage.

“There you go. Good girl.”

“Go faster.”

“Already? Alright. Gotta give my good little slut what she wants.”

You duck your head in embarrassment. The way he switches between praise and degradation does something to you that you can’t explain. Your core is so sopping wet that he slides in and out painlessly. He pulls out nearly all the way, then slams back into you hurriedly.

“Ah, ah, eyes on me. I want to look into your pretty little eyes while I ruin you.”

You whine at his words and tighten your arms around his neck.

“Perfect. Keep making those sounds, Y/N. You know the drill by now.”

Kai finds a pace that suits you both. Sweat drips from his forehead and his mouth hangs open, out of breath, but he isn’t slowing down. You’re grateful that he’s holding your back, otherwise you would’ve fallen by now.

“Kai!” You cry, hooking your legs around his waist to bring him even closer. He groans, and you decide to feed into that dirty talk he seems to like. “You fuck me so well. You’re a perfect fit for my tight cunt - oh!”

As expected, he loves it. “You bet I am, princess. Have you ever had anyone else fuck you this well?”

“No! You know just what I need.”

“Not even that boy you went to prom with last year? I heard you telling Jo about your little after-party with him.”

“I just imagined he was you, Kai,” you admit. “And any hookup since, I just pretend it’s you fucking me into oblivion.”

Fire burns in his eyes. A possessiveness that tells you all you need to know - he owns you now. You’re his girl. There will be no more pretending, because he’ll be the only one fucking you.

Kai continues to pound into you, but he’s getting sloppier by the second. He’s close, and you are, too.

“I’m gonna come, Kai,” you pant, running a hand through his hair. It’s wet with his own sweat, and when you push it up, some of the strands stay.

“Do it. Come for me. I’m close behind you.”

Permission granted, you orgasm a second time. Your body shakes and moans tumble from your lips. His name is mixed in with them; you chant it over and over like a prayer.

“I don’t want to come in you, baby,” he manages to say. “Where should I-?”

You lift your shirt up over your head before he can finish his sentence. Kai’s eyes immediately go to your breasts, confined within your bra, but pushed up from the underwire. In the same moment he pulls out, you unclasp the hook on your back. Your tits bounce out from their cage just to be pelted with cum a moment later. You moan again, pleasured by the warmth of his seed on your body.

Kai’s hands fall to the countertop as he tries to keep himself upright. The sounds falling from his lips are obscene, and beautiful, and you love every one of them. His eyes roll before looking into yours. Both of you take a minute to recover.

“Your tits,” he finally says, still catching his breath, “are beautiful. Should’ve taken that bra off a long time ago.”

“There’s always a next time,” you suggest, hoping to see that glint in his eye.

The words take a moment to register in his brain. When he looks back up at you, though, you see it. The possessiveness; the mischievousness. You’ll never belong to another man again.

“Definitely a next time,” he repeats.

Satisfied with the answer, you feel a small tension in your jaw relax. You look down at your breasts, sticky with drying cum, and swipe a bit of the load on your finger. Kai watches you suck it off, then go back for more. Once your chest is clear, you smack your lips.

“You’re crazy, Y/N,” he leans forward and nips one of your tits. You giggle, then cover your front with your hands. Kai quickly grabs your hands, then sucks on the other tit. “That’s why I like you. Part of it, at least.” He drops your hands and looks you in the eye, completely serious.

“I like you, too, Kai.”

He helps you off the counter in his next stride. You’re smoothing out your skirt, and he pulls up his pants, when he suddenly asks, “was what you said true?”

“When?”

“About the prom. And the hookups. Do you really imagine me?”

“It’s the only way I can get off.”

His face breaks out in a stupidly happy grin. “Does Jo know?”

You snort. “I wish. But of course not. It’s my little secret.”

“Well now this is our little secret,” he points a finger between the two of you.

“That it is. And I just happen to be amazing at keeping secrets.” You throw him a wink, and then the two of you spend the rest of the afternoon talking, with the occasional break for a make-out session.

#kai parker x reader #malachai parker x reader #kai parker #tvd fanfiction #kai parker smut #80s!kai #step-brother!kai

639 notes · View notes

gimmeurtmi · 1 year

Text

the sweet spot by the scruff of your knee socks — felix

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader

tags: established relationships, smut!!!🔞

warnings: swearing, body worshipping, teasing, light nipple play, thighs thighs thighs.

inspo: this.

( wc — 2669 )

notes: yes the title is from knee socks by the arctic monkeys. no i don’t care that this isn’t 2014 tumblr anymore it’s a bop. first thing i saw in the morning was that reel and clearly i had to do something about it.

“hey!” you let into the house as you toed off your shoes. you let your boyfriend know you’d be home early today, as a five hour meeting before lunch meant your boss was feeling merciful and let you have a half day once it was concluded.

but you didn’t think you’d come home to this.

you made your way to the bedroom, where you knew felix would be gaming. if he wasn’t practicing he was taping away on his console and you knew he wasn’t practicing.

but when you entered your shared room you found that he wasn’t gaming either.

he was standing in front of the full length mirror, taking pictures. but that wasn’t what you were focusing on.

he was wearing his brown denim shorts that were perfect for a picnic (is what felix reasoned when he bought them regardless of their three figure price tag) and your black knee high socks.

“w-what are you wearing?” you stumbled, the tone entering your ears was accusatory. but you weren’t so sure that was what you were feeling at the sight of him.

felix turned around to face you, eyes wide.

“oh, hi!” he smiled brightly, “noona asked me to send her a picture like this, she had an idea for our next photoshoot.”

“you’re wearing my knee socks,” is all you managed.

“yeah, i didn’t have any and she said that was the important part of the outfit,” he explained, apologetic.

noona wasn’t wrong about that.

you didn’t say anything back.

“i know i should’ve asked,” he nodded, taking your silence to mean something it didn’t. “i was going to wash them straight away.”

you weren’t really listening.

your eyes were glued to the turf of skin left uncovered, his muscles tensing as he shifted his weight from side to side. if you were paying attention you would’ve noticed the regret in his eyes, the apology on his lips, but you didn’t care about that.

all you wanted was to devour him.

you decided that wasn’t appropriate and you needed to distance yourself from him before you pounced on your unsuspecting boyfriend.

you made your way to the living room slowly, your boyfriend trailing behind you.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t go into your things! i folded them last night so i just took them from the pile,” he explained quickly, trying his best to voice how careful he was with your privacy.

here he was, considerate and wonderful, and you were thinking about covering his thighs with marks.

you took in a deep breath.

you sat yourself on the couch, felix quickly following, eyes wide and curious and trying to understand your reaction.

“felix, it’s okay,” you let out, voice strangled.

he moved closer to you, angling his knees to get closer, showing off his uncovered thighs. so innocent.

“if it was okay why are you calling me felix?” his eyebrows jumped wide, eyes sparkling. so so innocent.

you shook your head, trying to rid yourself of all the not innocent thoughts in your mind. your fingers were practically shaking as you tried holding them back from groping his thighs. forcing them open.

“it is okay, lix,” you forced a smile onto your face, “i don’t mind you borrowing my clothes.”

“i didn’t ask,” he apologises.

“don’t worry, your stylist needed references. it’s cool.” and it would’ve been cool if your voice didn’t break at the very last syllable.

felix huffed, unsatisfied, and hooked a finger under your chin—forcing you to look in his eyes. his big, sparkling, wonderful eyes.

you can’t bring yourself to study his irises, instead focused on the heart shaped freckle right by his lower lash line.

“mhmm,” he hums in annoyance, “look at me.”

and then he pouts. all you can do is whine, trying your best to push back everything you are dying to do to him.

it must show on your face, the concentration it’s taking from you, because felix moves closer, his hand cupping your cheek as he rubs soothing circles into your warm skin.

“what’s wrong, moonshine?” his voice is so soft, soft enough to break through your resolve.

“you’re beautiful,” you sigh back, eyes falling to his thighs.

felix laughed in return, his deep laugh vibrating loudly.

“is that bad?” he chuckled.

“you have no idea what i wanna do to you right now,” you whispered, solemnly letting your finger reach for his thigh. his skin is so soft, softer than the rest or him is, but the thought only makes you want to test that hypothesis further. rub your hands all over his skin, compare his softness to his edges, to his scars and his freckles.

you swallow.

“i don’t,” he grins at you when your eyes shoot up to meet his, “how will i know?”

he hums, bringing a hand up to his chin as if he asked you the most wondrous question—one only you hold the answer to.

“lix,” you grumble, rolling your eyes at his antics.

“yeah?” his eyebrows jump up again, inticing you all over again. his face doesn’t scream of innocence anymore, but a second wave is moving through his eyes. playfulness.

“what did she say about the outfit?” you deflect instead.

“what do you think about it?”

“yongbok,” you chuckled, “answer my question.”

“fine,” he smiled, “let me go change first.”

your fingers circle around his wrist, holding him in place before he can move away from the couch. he looks back at you questioningly.

“yes?” he draws out the syllables, letting his eyes scan over you curiously.

“you don’t need to change,” you mumble, tugging at his wrist.

felix follows dutifully, falling back onto the couch with his legs tucked beneath him. his knees propped against your lap, the socks rolling down ever so slightly from the movement.

“how come?” he cocks his head to the side, his blonde bangs fanning over his forehead lightly. you want to kiss whoever gave him that perm, the curls suited him so well and framed his forehead perfectly.

“you know i hate you?” you groan at him, knowing exactly what he was doing.

he might’ve been naive at first, but as soon as he realised what your silence was actually about he leaned into it even more—acting as if he has no idea what got you so bothered.

you wished he’d just initiate something instead of making you do it.

with his outfit like that, with his hair all messy, with his face bare, he looks so pure. too pure for you to be thinking of him so lustfully.

“if you hate me so much i can just go get changed?”

you groan dramatically, letting your head fall on his shoulder. felix laughs again, this time letting the vibrations move through you as he brings a hand to the back of your hair.

he rubs your head a few times, and once his laughter dies down the silence takes over the room instead. it’s thick around you, growing stronger when felix brings your head up to face him.

he brushes your lips together, smiling softly at you as he pulls away.

that won’t do.

you cupped his face, hands going to his skin in an instant, not letting him get too far away from you. you’re pulling him in, lips against his, a small squeak leaving him at your actions.

it only takes a moment for felix to relax against the kiss, melting into it as his tongue reaches out to caress yours.

your hands trail all the way from his face and down his body, skipping towards his knees.

your fingers dig into the roughness of the socks, rubbing against them before you trail up—and the softness of his skin stands in such big contrast that you sigh into his mouth.

“lover—“ he starts, but you swallow his words down as you kiss him deeper.

you massage the skin of his thighs, groping and soothing and trailing all over the expanse of his skin.

finally, the blood stops rushing to your brain and you need to pull away—your head feeling light and foggy and lacking in oxygen.

“have you, like, never seen my thighs before?” he chuckled at you, breathless just the same.

“sorry, uhm,” you feel yourself blush, unable to look at him now. you didn’t realise just how much you were digging into his skin until you notice the light redness where your hands once were. “sorry.”

“anyway,” he sighs, shaking his head lightly, “are you hungry?”

you grab his face again.

this time it takes felix completely off guard, and your weight causes him to fall backwards on the couch. which is perfect, as you find purchase in between his knees, spreading them lightly as your hands once again rub up and down—reaching the top of his (your) socks and travelling back up until you reach the hem of his shorts.

felix grabs at your shoulders pulling you closer to him, kissing you deeply as he savours your touch.

he wasn’t expecting this to be the outcome of your silence, but he wasn’t complaining at all. he’d let you do just about anything you wanted to him.

you spread his legs further, digging your thumb into his inner thigh as you do. he’s much more sensitive there, jumping slightly at the ticklish sensation.

you pick up on it, and run your thumb lightly around his skin, over and over and over until he’s squirming.

he tries closing his legs around you but you don’t let him, pulling away so you can push his knees apart until they’re on opposite sides of his body.

felix gaps up at you.

“don’t tickle me,” he pleads with a giggle.

you run your hands up, higher and higher, and thank god his shorts are baggy as you slip your hands inside them, clinging onto his boxers.

“how come?” you mirror him, head to the side and all.

your boyfriend laughs, his left eye scrunching slightly, shaking his head at you. “is this payback for being dumb and not knowing you were horny?”

“oh, but you knew,” you lean down, hovering above his face. “you knew and you acted all innocent.”

“just for a little bit,” he says weakly.

“and you look all innocent in this outfit, which is driving me fucking crazy,” you finally voice your thoughts.

“but, i,” he looks around himself confused, “i didn’t do anything.”

“that makes it worse,” you groan, fingers inching up towards his crotch as much as the denim allows you to.

“okay,” he concedes, “make me pay for it?”

he grins up at you, eyes playful and smile wide. his cheeks scrunch up around his lips and you want to yell at him for being so adorable while implying what he is.

you huff.

you release your hands from his shorts, instantly rolling up the ends of his black shirt.

“off?” you ask quietly.

“yes, yes, definitely,” he nods quickly, scrambling to tear the shirt off and throw it far far away.

your hands cup his waist, running up and down his torso as you take in the sight of him. you can’t decide if this part of him is softer, so you explore further, up his ribs and across his chest. he sighs lightly when your fingers brush his nipples.

you lean down, kissing across his chest where the freckles are less frequent but still present. you pick them as your starting points, kissing from one to the other until you reach his belly button.

felix doesn’t interfere at all, closing his eyes as he basks in the attention you give him, and once your lips reach the little trail signalling you towards where he wants you to go, he buries his hand in your hair.

you skip down, much to his displeasure, and push his knee up towards his chest.

the back of his thigh is right there, exposed more now that his shorts have climbed up from the movement.

you attach your lips to his skin, giggling as felix does. he really is ticklish.

you kiss more and more, until you’re sure you kissed every part of his thigh.

you kiss up the hem of his shorts. higher and higher.

you kiss where a very visible tent has now formed.

you glance up at felix, all red cheeked and panting, and his hands reach for the button on his shorts.

you stop him.

“y/n,” he whines.

“leave them on,” you say, voice hoarse.

“but i’m so—“

“—please?”

felix nodded, animatedly, and teared his hands away.

you smiled.

you reached for them, lacing your fingers together as you place them on his thighs.

you dive down between your interlocked hands, mouthing at his hard on through the shorts.

felix gives your hands a tight squeeze, lifting his hips up to feel more of your mouth on him.

“i’ll leave the boxers on, gorgeous, please just let me—“

“—shhh,” you soothe, kissing his lower stomach. his skin is so much warmer than it was when you started.

you tear one of your hands away from his grip, palming at his cock as slowly as you can. you manage to grip him through the material, although that isn’t enough—if the impatient whine felix lets out is anything to go by.

felix starts thrusting up into your hold, his other hand in yours and using you for leverage, desperate moans leaving him.

you let your eyes scan him, from the socks to his shorts to his beautiful bare torso, all the way to his face. his lips are parted, red and swollen, and his eyes hooded. they’re still sparkling though.

you can’t stop yourself from kissing him, him answering in such beautiful desperation.

you let go of his other hand—another whine follows—to steady yourself against him, fingers digging into his stomach.

you blindly follow his curves upwards, focusing on three things at once. four if you count the beautiful noises he’s letting into your mouth.

when your finger circles his nipple he gasps, tearing apart from your lips.

“you’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans, his voice dropping to its lowest. you shudder slightly, you can’t help it when he’s so close to you. it’s almost like he can make his voice move through you.

“first i’m gonna make you cum, though,” you kiss his cheek.

and then he does.

felix groans, deep and loud and carnal, lifting his hips up into your hand.

his thighs flex and contract, demanding your attention, and you quickly latch yourself onto that sensitive part of his skin.

when you notice his stomach relaxing you look up at him, kissing his thigh softly before moving up his body.

“wait, don’t,” he says before you press against him. “it’s.. sticky.”

you laugh as he avoids your eyes, embarrassed.

“yeah, lix, that was the point.”

“you ruined my shorts,” he pouts, pulling you into the space between him and the couch pillows. you rest your hand on his chest.

“sunshine, you did that yourself,” you grinned.

“fine, i guess i deserve that for taking your stuff.”

you laughed, resting your head on his shoulder. felix brings a hand into your hair, brushing a few strays away from his face.

“you’re beautiful, lixie,” you say softly, smiling before kissing his cheeks.

felix smiles widely in response, pulling you closer.

“where did you buy the socks, by the way? i think it’ll be beneficial to invest in a pair of my own.”

you roll your eyes at him, laughing when you catch his wide grin.

“so…” you start, trailing your finger between all the freckles you kissed, “when you do that photoshoot, can i come?”

“absolutely not!” he gasps, “so you can ruin shorts that aren’t even mine?”

“you ruined them!” you retort.

“you did!”

“felix,” you scoff.

you pull down your pants, kicking them off your legs. the cool air instantly sticks to your very damp underwear, and you waste no time repositioning yourself so his thigh is lodged between your legs, “here’s how i would’ve ruined them.”

#all.works #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x y/n #skz x yn #skz smut #stray kids fics #felix x you #felix x reader #lee felix x y/n #felix x y/n #lee felix x reader #lee felix x you #lee felix smut

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 month

Text

Cozened Indigo - Part Two

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: She gets her interview with Aemond, and Larys blows her cover. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @humanpurposes. I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond silently takes a seat, eyeing her carefully as she stands there, rooted to the spot. When she makes no move to do the same, he gives an impatient flick of his wrist, gesturing to the opposite side of the table. Startled out of her daze, she moves quickly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the hard, painted concrete as she pulls it out before sitting down.

His fingers drum slowly against the table top as he watches her place her notepad and pencil upon it.

“You haven’t brought a recording device,” he says.

It’s a statement, not a question, uttered by a voice that slices through the air like a hot knife through butter. Soft, yet possessing a sinister undertone that chills her to her core.

She wets her lips, glancing nervously at him before responding; “recording devices aren’t allowed.”

“They are on media visits.”

Sighing, she flips open her pad, tapping her pencil against the blank page. “The trial is in three weeks, there isn’t time to organise one, there’s too much red tape involved.”

“On a media visit, we would have privacy, our own visitation room. You could record our conversations instead of having to scribble to keep up with what I say.”

He sits back, his spine rigid against the plastic of the chair, and clasps his hands in front of him. She feels like she wants to scream in frustration, it doesn’t seem as though he’s even listening to her.

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet,” she tells him, attempting to change the topic in the hopes it will get him talking.

Aemond snorts derisively, though his eye does not reflect the upturn pull of his lips. “You know who I am, I know who you are. I don’t feel there’s any need, unless you’d like to exchange pleasantries? Shall we talk about the weather, perhaps?”

She chews her lip, considering her next words with caution. “You know my name, but you don’t know anything about me. Maybe you’d feel more at ease talking to me if I told you a little about myself?”

He leans forward and, reflexively, she pulls away, her back making a heavy impact with the hard backrest of the chair, as her pencil falls from her grasp onto the tabletop.

“I know you destroyed your career by publishing a story that glorified a criminal, without checking to see if your sources were credible. I’d say I know enough.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, bile rising in her throat as her breathing grows erratic. She hadn’t anticipated him knowing about that, let alone bringing it up.

He chuckles drily, his posture relaxing as he leans back once more. “You’ve looked into me, dug around in my past, did you not think I’d do a little research of my own? I know all about you.”

“We’re…we’re not here to talk about me,” she stammers, attempting to compose herself as she snatches her pencil back up and sits up straight.

“I’m still deciding if I want to speak to you,” he admits with a shrug.

Her brow furrows in confusion as she narrows her eyes at him. “But you agreed to meet me?”

He gives a slight nod. “I agreed to meet you, yes. I didn’t agree to an interview.”

“Then why agree to see me? You’ve wasted my time.”

“I could say the same of you, waltzing in here, without even the decency to follow the appropriate media procedure, expecting me to spill my guts in front of a room full of rapists and murderers.”

“So you won’t speak to me?”

He pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, appearing to think about her question, the silence feeling as though it could fill the vastness of an ocean.

“You seem…earnest,” he finally says, “get media visitation and you’ll have your interview.”

He slaps the flat of his hand against the top of the table, an indication that the conversation is at its end, and stands, walking slowly back over to the door he had entered through.

As the guard unlocks it, allowing him to leave, he casts one last look at her over his shoulder. It’s a pointed stare, one that lets her know that this isn’t up for debate. It’s no longer a question of if she can get a media visit, it’s when and how.

The moment she’s back on the ferry, she calls Larys, knowing that if anyone can acquire a media visit with any modicum of urgency it will be him. She is relieved when he picks up on the third ring, and she wastes no time in getting straight to the point.

“He won’t speak to me without a media visit.”

“Hello to you too,” he drawls.

She exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “The trial is in a few weeks, if I apply for it myself then it’ll take months. I need you to–”

Her phone beeps, the screen going black as her battery dies.

Fuck.

She had forgotten to switch it off before handing it to the guards, and the incoming emails and messages she’d received during her visit had drained it.

It’s evening by the time she gets home, the sun having set long ago on her journey from Dragonstone back to King’s Landing. Eagerly, she plugs her phone in to charge, restlessly tapping her foot as she waits for it to power back on.

Her heart skips, relief flooding her as the screen lights up and she is immediately met with a Whatsapp notification from Larys.

“Have been trying to reach you. Media visit is arranged for the day after tomorrow. Can you make it?”

With shaking fingers, she types back a reply, apologising, explaining her phone had died and confirming her availability. A few minutes later, he responds, telling her he will follow up with further information shortly.

It’s finally happening, she has her interview.

The following morning, her presence in the office feels like a mere farce to fill time, with no intention of starting the Flea Bottom piece, there is no real reason for her to be there, yet she has to keep up appearances until she has copy finalised for the story she actually intends to write. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission in this case.

She decides to fill her time with further background research and laying down the basic introduction for the piece, time is of the essence so it’s better to get a head start where she can. Less than ten minutes have passed when she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. Startled, she minimises her Word document and turns to see Royce looming over her.

“How’s the Flea Bottom piece coming along?” He asks, gesturing towards her computer monitor with his coffee mug.

“Oh…yeah,” she lies, with a tight smile, “making great progress with it, should have copy for you soon.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her incredulously, before taking a slow sip of coffee.

“Tell me then, if you are working on the Flea Bottom piece, what are you doing visiting Dragonstone Prison?”

Her face blanches as she stares up at him, her mouth running dry as she thinks of what to say. She has nothing.

“I–”

“My office. Now.”

He turns and strides back towards his small corner office, leaving the door ajar for her to follow.

It feels as though she is trudging through treacle as she makes her way across the newsroom, her heart pounding in her chest as she steps into the figurative lion’s den, expecting to be told her employment is terminated for openly defying a commission from not just her editor, but the editor of the Duskendale Gazette.

Sheepishly, she shuts the door behind her, pressing her back against the wood as her eyes raise to meet Royce’s, who sits behind his desk, visibly seething with annoyance. There’s no use in denying it, so she decides to get straight to the point.

“How did you find out?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper as she clasps her hands in front of her.

“Larys Strong left a voicemail on the office’s answering machine yesterday evening, confirming your media visit to the prison tomorrow.”

Shit. He must have called the office when he couldn’t get through to her mobile.

He continues before she has a chance to respond. “I’ve told you already, to leave that story alone. Were I a less understanding employer, I’d fire you for insubordination, but I’m willing to be reasonable. You’re to drop whatever it is you’re pursuing and continue with the story you’ve been assigned. Is that clear?”

She sighs, bowing her head momentarily, before stepping towards his desk. Her tone is imploring, her stare pleading as she looks at him. “Royce, Larys Strong is Aemond Targaryen’s legal representation. They’ve chosen me, us, the Duskendale Gazette over all publications to run an exposé on him ahead of the upcoming trial! There is something there, I know there is, you have to let me pursue this. Please!”

Royce groans in frustration, carding his fingers through his dark curls. “You know I can’t allow you to do this, you could be accused of media bias, influencing the jury. That’s not a risk a publication as small as this one can afford to take.”

“The article isn’t going to mention the trial, or the allegations being made. I intend for it to be a profile piece. Aemond has never spoken to the media before, he is incredibly private. This would be an exclusive, we’d be doing something no other newspaper or magazine has done before. It takes months to get a media visit, Larys has gotten me one in two days. It would be stupid to waste this opportunity.”

She takes another step forward, now standing directly behind the chair that occupies the opposite side of Royce’s desk, silently hoping she has said enough to convince him.

He sighs, shoulders sagging slightly, as he regards her with a look of resignation. “I’ll let you do it, but I have conditions.”

Her heart soars, her eyes widening hopefully as she nods enthusiastically. “Anything.”

“You won’t be reporting on the trial itself once it starts. And I want copy in two weeks.”

She recoils at this, given how stony Aemond had been on their first meeting, she knows it will be virtually impossible to get him to say enough to fulfill that sort of deadline. She had been hoping to push right up to the day before the trial began.

“Two weeks?! Royce, that’s not even enough time to get the interviews I’ll need!”

“I’m not taking the risk of being accused of influencing the jury,” he retorts. “Two weeks, or I’m tanking this, got it?”

“Got it,” she replies quietly, her previous elation withering and dying as quickly as it had burst to life.

Two weeks to get Aemond to open up. Two weeks to save her career.

The moment she is out of Royce’s office, she calls Larys, overwhelmed by annoyance at the trouble he has gotten her into and eager to give him a piece of her mind.

“You left a voicemail at my office,” she says irritably, when he eventually picks up.

He hums affirmatively into the receiver. “Well, your mobile was switched off.”

“You’ve gotten me into so much trouble with my boss, he almost pulled the plug on all of this!”

She hears him exhale slowly, pausing before responding. “But he hasn’t, so that’s a good thing.”

“I’m not allowed to report on the trial either, and I have to have the entire piece finished in two weeks.”

“Well, consider it a blessing. Minimal risk of media bias, you now have permission to write the story too. Wouldn’t it be a shame to go to all that effort to have it wasted at the eleventh hour, because your editor won’t approve it?”

Her eyes narrow, her voice lowering in an accusatory tone. “You did this deliberately, didn’t you?”

He lets out a quiet laugh that travels through the phone as a breathy sigh. “There is rarely anything I do that isn’t a calculated choice. I think you’ll find my actions have been mutually beneficial. Good luck with your visitation tomorrow.”

There is a click before the line goes dead. He’s hung up.

She wants to be angry, but she knows he’s right. Without the need for secrecy, this piece will be far easier to write, even with an impossible deadline.

There is a marked difference between this morning’s visit to Dragonstone Prison and the one previous. As soon as she checks in at the ferry terminal, she is ushered towards her own private boat and transported across the Gullet. There is no wait time once she arrives and, though she is searched, she is allowed to keep her electronic devices with her.

The room she is led to is small; plain white walls and a white floor, with only a table and two chairs, the same as the ones in the visitation room, at the centre of it. The blinking red light of a CCTV camera placed in the top corner by the door catches her eye, reminding her of the profundity of her location.

Over the last couple of days, she has been distracted by the stress of Royce finding out what she has secretly been working on, and preparing for the interview, so much so that she has quite forgotten just how foreboding the presence of Aemond Targaryen is.

She is delivered a stark reminder as he is led into the room, clad in the same grey prison scrubs he’d been wearing on her first visit, his wrists handcuffed in front of him. It feels as though all the air leaves the compact space as he enters it. His posture is immutable as always, his head held high, and his gaze immediately fixes upon her, an unmistakable glint in his eye as he stares at her. She stares back, hoping she appears more impassive than she feels, but there is an underlying fear that if he really wanted to hurt her then there is little the cuffs he wears could do to stop him.

“Bang on the door if you need anything,” the guard tells her, breaking her out of her reverie, “you’ve got one hour.”

The fact that there will be someone stationed outside of the door helps her to relax a little and she decides that this time she won’t allow for him to have the upper hand, moving to take her seat before Aemond does, as the guard leaves, locking them both in.

She keeps her attention on the table in front of her, placing her dictaphone in the middle, as Aemond slips into the chair on the opposite side of it.

“How are you today?” She asks, keeping her tone casual as she fiddles with the settings of the recording device.

“Incarcerated,” he answers simply, his voice conveying no emotion.

She sighs, glancing up at him. “I went to the effort to get a media visit, as you requested, I hope you’re feeling a little more talkative today.”

“The effort that Larys went to,” he corrects her. “You seem to forget that you stand to gain something from this too.”

Biting back the heated retort she wants to make, she ignores his comment. “This will be a profile piece, we’re not going to talk about the upcoming trial, we don’t even need to talk about your nephew if you’d prefer not to.”

“A little hard to avoid that,” he says, lips quirking slightly. His cuffs give a metallic clink as he lifts his hands towards his face, tapping at the ragged scar on the left side of his face. “Luke is the reason I have this.”

Her lips part slightly, eyes widening in shock as she stares at him. “Lucerys did that to you?”

Aemond nods, lowering his hands into his lap. “When we were children. It was a petty squabble at a birthday party. I threw the first punch, but he lashed out with a knife, and I’ve been left with a permanent reminder of the fact.

An overwhelming surge of pity courses through her, her face softening as she looks at him. She wants to say something to comfort him, but he stops her before she has the opportunity.

“I don’t need your pity. It’s been fifteen years. Let’s just get on with the interview, time is running out.”

She clears her throat, shifting in her seat as her thumb presses down on the record button of her dictaphone. “Right, let’s start with your childhood.”

The hour vanishes into nothing as she asks Aemond probing questions about what he was like as a child, how his relationship with his family was and what his upbringing was like. A tale of fatherly neglect, of children living in the shadow of their older half sister unfolds as he tells her of how he grew up teased by his older brother, Aegon, and bullied by his nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys. The only members of his family that he ever received anything close to affection from were his mother and his sister, Helaena.

She pays rapt attention, her heart aches for him, though her sympathy comes in short lived bursts, as every time his knee accidentally grazes hers beneath the table, it chills her blood and causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh. At least she assumes it’s accidental.

They draw to a natural stopping point and she switches the recording device off. The one question she has never asked, that there has been a complete media black out in terms of details, is precisely how Aemond killed Lucerys. Her curiosity gets the better of her and the question passes her lips before she can stop herself.

“How did it happen?”

Aemond tenses, jaw clenching as he stares at her intently. He swallows thickly, then responds, “you mean how did I kill him? I trust that this is off the record?”

She nods, afraid that if she speaks she’ll scare him off of opening up to her.

“I lost control of my car, and I hit him. He died.”

There is no hint of remorse evident in his voice, he responds as though she has asked him for the time. She is struck by how matter of fact he is. Surely, if it was accidental then he’d show even a slither of emotion? Just as she’s about to question him further, the door swings open and the guard informs her that her time is up.

She has barely scratched the surface of Aemond Targaryen, she knows if she is to write a feature that is even half decent she’ll need more time with him. She is grateful that Larys informs her has managed to secure two further media visits, and over the following week she gets to know Aemond better - at least what he is willing to share with her.

He is intelligent, with a keen interest in history and philosophy. He does not share his brother’s love of socialite status, preferring to dedicate his time to reading and fitness. Unwavering in his loyalty to his family, he had taken up a position at his grandfather’s law firm up until the point of his arrest. Aemond Targaryen’s life is one that is shrouded in solitude and tragedy. Aemond embodies pieces of a broken antique vase; the idea of putting him back together is beautiful, but there is the inevitable risk of cutting yourself if you attempt to try.

She does not bring up the death of Lucerys again, telling herself it will be easier to get him to talk if they stick to subjects that don’t make him uncomfortable. However, deep down she knows that she hadn’t liked what she’d heard when she’d asked him the first time, she hadn’t enjoyed the way his response had made her feel. Better to avoid the fear than face it head on.

As their final interview comes to its end, she switches off the dictaphone, expecting a cordial and brief farewell, before the guard re-enters to take Aemond away once more. She is surprised when, after a moment of keeping his gaze fixed on his cuffed wrists that rest on the table in front of him, he looks up at her and asks; “will you be at the trial?”

She pauses momentarily, as she’s slipping her equipment back into her bag, taken aback by his question. “Oh…um…well, I’m not going to be covering it.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t sit in the public gallery.”

“Are you saying you want me to be there?”

Aemond gives a slight shrug. “You’ve come this far. May as well see it through to the end.”

He’s right, as he frustratingly always seems to be. She responds with a slight nod, moving to stand. She is unsure how exactly to bid him farewell, this is the last time she will ever be in such close proximity to him. Looking at how his wrists are shackled, she knows a hand shake would be inappropriate. She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, deciding eventually to keep things formal.

“Well, Larys will provide you with the article once it’s published. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”

He grins wolfishly at this, staring up at her intently. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll make me leap right off the page.”

His words stay with her, echoing in her mind long after she has left the prison. Though her time with Aemond is at its end, she knows his impact upon her is one that will last a lifetime. The intensity of his one eyed stare is forever burned into her mind, the lilt of his voice one that scratches at the recesses of her mind, and with the article still to write she knows she is far from free of him. While Aemond is quite literally imprisoned, he has her trapped in a cell of his own creation, one that she won’t be freed from until the words are on the page.

As she walks to the office, preparing to transcribe her interviews, her phone vibrates in her bag. Pulling it out she sees Larys’ name on her screen, and quickly presses to accept the call. She barely has time to greet him before he begins speaking, and she pushes a finger to her ear to better hear him over the sound of passing traffic.

“Have you got everything you need?” His tone is strained, an undercurrent of urgency in his voice that she’s never heard before.

“As far as my interviews with Aemond are concerned, yes. It would give a more well rounded piece if other members of the family were prepared to talk, but we’ve already established that that’s not an option.”

“Aegon and Helaena have agreed to speak with you,” he informs her quickly.

Her eyes widen in shock, and she ducks down a side street, shifting the phone to the other side of her head, wanting to give him her full attention. “Why the sudden change? What’s happened?”

“Rhaenyra has gotten wind of the fact that Aemond has spoken to the press, so now she’s doing an interview too – with White Knight Magazine.”

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scoonsalicious · 4 days

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Unwanted: Chapter 26, Unsurprising - Pt. 5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of sex.

Word Count: 1.4k

Previously On...: Nat gave you some very interesting, and disturbing news.

A/N: ::giggles like school girl::

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

“Buck,” you hissed, shaking his sleeping form. You hadn’t been on the phone with Nat for that long; there’s no way he should be sleeping this deeply already. “Wake the fuck up!”

He groaned and rolled over, looking at you through sleepy eyes. “Pocket?” he groaned, bringing up a hand to rub at his forehead. “I told you, I’m not just gonna fuck you if it doesn’t mean anything.”

You shoved him. “That’s not why I’m here, asshat!” you hissed. “Something’s happened!”

Bucky bolted upright and flipped on the bedside lamp. “What is it?” he asked, looking alarmed as he ran his eyes over your frame. “Are you alright? Are there complications? Do you need to go back to the hospital?” You were surprised that his immediate response was concern for your welfare, though you shouldn’t have been– Bucky had always been protective– until it came to protecting you from his actions, of course.

“No,” you said, reassuring him, “I’m fine. Something happened at the Tower. With Carthage.” You quickly recapped what Natasha had texted you, adding the sparse details she’d provided during your call.

“So, she quit?” he asked. “That’s great!”

“No, baby,” you said, and if either one of you noticed the endearment that slipped out, you didn’t acknowledge it. “Fuck… I’m just gonna say it because I don’t know how to put it delicately: Jade’s an undercover Hydra operative and her mission was to bring you back to them so they could reclaim you as their asset.”

You weren’t sure what reaction you had expected from Bucky– shock? Anger? Tears? Any one of them, or, hell, a combination of all three, would have been more than appropriate and expected.

What you had not been expecting, however, was fucking laughter. You looked at him blankly for a minute, wondering if you’d looked this crazy when you’d started laughing after Dr. Carson had informed you of your miscarriage.

“It’s not funny, Buck,” you said, annoyed.

“It’s fucking hilarious, doll!” Bucky gasped, tears coming to his eyes from how hard he was laughing now. “She’s a Hydra agent? She’s got TicTac followers, for Christ’s sake!”

You could feel your blood pressure rising in your veins. Oh, you were getting angry at him, now. “First of all, it’s fucking TikTok, and I don’t know why we have to keep having that conversation! And second,” you took a breath, knowing this was probably not the most appropriate time to start something, but not being able to let it go, “I cannot fucking believe that, after everything, all the bullshit you fed me tonight in the living room, you’re still taking her side, taking her word over mine, as if I would make an accusation like that without any fucking proof!”

Bucky’s demeanor sobered up in an instant, as if you’d physically knocked the laughter out of him. He reached for your hand, and you let him take it. “Oh, sweets, no– that’s not… that’s not why I’m laughin’. I believe you; trust me, I learned my lesson there. No, it’s fucking hilarious, because of course she’s a Hydra agent. It explains everything, actually.” He didn’t need to elaborate for you to catch his meaning– of course she would have only pursued him so aggressively because it was her mission objective to do so. He must have felt himself so foolish to think that she would have had real feelings for him. You thought for a second that the realization should make you angry– you hadn’t needed a secret agenda to love him, after all, but then, he probably thought you didn’t love him anymore, either; you’d certainly given no indication of it. Even now, he still viewed himself as so completely undeserving of affection, and that just made your heart heavy with sadness.

“I don’t think it was just her mission,” you said, not really sure why you were about to come to the defense of the woman who’d made your life a living hell, but also knowing that you couldn’t stand for him to think he was unloveable. “She had the perfect opportunity to incapacitate you and bring you back to them on the Russia trip.” Ugh, just saying those two words left a sick taste in your mouth. “You were alone, in their territory, and she… she had you in an extremely vulnerable position. It would have been so easy for her to incapacitate you there, deliver you to them. But she didn’t. Whatever her mission objective is, I’m pretty sure she’s got one of her own, and I think it’s just you.”

Bucky studied you quizzically. “Are you… trying to reassure me? Because trust me, Pocket, it’s no skin off my back if she never actually cared about me, though it does make me regret everything even more.”

“I just…” you struggled to find the right words. “I just don’t want you thinking the only reason someone would want you is because they were told to,” you said after a minute. “That they were pretending. I’ve seen the way she looked at you, and it drove me absolutely crazy, because I know that’s how I look at you, too. I’m just saying, in her own fucked up way, I think she does care for you, whatever that means to her.”

Bucky’s head tilted as he looked at you, eyes gone gooey. “Present tense,” he said softly.

“What?”

He held your cheek into his big hand, rubbing a thumb along the line of your cheek bone. “You said that’s how you look at me. Not looked. Present tense, not past.”

You snorted; you’d walked right into that. “Just because I stopped trusting you doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you,” you admitted.

“Pocket,” he said, leaning closer to you, “I’m gonna kiss you now, okay? If you don’t want me to, just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

“What happened to not wanting to be intimate with me if it’s not going to mean anything,” you exhaled. He was impossibly close now, but you hadn’t told him to stop. Not yet.

His breath teased your lips. “I think we both know now it’s anything but meaningless,” he said. His lips brushed across yours in a whisper of a kiss. “Tell me to stop,” he said again in a final warning, but you both knew you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. All you could do was close the millimeters of distance remaining between you until his mouth was on yours, begging for you to let him in.

So you did. And it was like a sudden summer downpour after a drought. A ray of warm sunlight breaking through the chill of snow clouds. The first blossom unfurling from the ground to signal the true arrival of Spring. It was finally coming home, all encompassing and everything you’d ever needed, a promise of sweetness and new beginnings. And it was over all too soon.

Bucky broke the kiss, chuckling as you greedily chased after his lips with your own, a pitiful whine escaping them at the loss of contact. “Come back here,” you grumbled, reaching for him to bring him closer, but Bucky leaned away from you.

“Told you, sweetheart,” Bucky said, pulling down the covers next to him and beckoning for you to join him in the bed, “I’m not gonna have you if I can’t have all of you. Now get in bed.”

Son of a bitch. He wasn’t playing fair. “Not sure how that translates to me getting in bed with you, Barnes,” you said, definitely crossing your arms over your chest.

Bucky rolled his eyes and picked you up, gently depositing you in the space he’d made for you inside his covers, and you couldn’t help but let out a little squeak. “If you think I’m gonna let you sleep on your own when we have no idea where Carthage is, you’re crazier than I thought,” he said, pulling the sheet and blankets up around you. “Now go to sleep.”

If you hoped he was going to wrap you in his arms and hold you close while you drifted off, you were in for disappointment. Instead, he left a respectable distance between the two of you, then, checking behind the nightstand to make sure his gun was where he’d left it, turned off the bedside lamp. “G’night, sweets,” he called softly before settling on his side, facing away from you.

“Night, Buck,” you whispered into the dark, more confused than ever before.

<- Previous Part / Next Chapter ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 13 days

Text

1968 [Chapter 4: Zeus, God Of Thunder]

A/N: Can you believe we're already 1/3 done with this series?? I sure can't! I hope you enjoy Chapter 4. I'm so excited to show you where we're headed. The times are indeed a-changin'... 😉

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.3k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs @minttea07 @babyblue711

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You unzip the floral suitcase that Alicent gave the nurses to pack for you. Inside are the hundreds of greeting cards sent by people from the Atlantic to the Rockies; downstairs, Eudoxia is distributing a dozen bouquets of flowers throughout the house with appropriate grimness, and more arrive each hour. You lift cards out of the suitcase by the handful and lay them down on your bed. Every movement feels slow, every thought muddled, bare feet in cold wet sand that swallows you to your ankles. The windows are open, the sheer curtains billowing. The wind whips in off the ocean, smelling of brine and sun glare, life and death.

Aemond emerges from the bathroom in a gale of steam. He finishes adjusting his eyepatch and then dresses himself: white shorts, blue polo. Aemond wears a lot of blue. It is Greek, is it American, it is the Democratic Party, it is the color of the sky that was once believed to hold Olympus, it is everything he’s ever been or wanted to be. He’s humming The House Of The Rising Sun. It’s the first time you’ve truly been alone since the night before he caught his flight to Tacoma.

Beneath the greeting cards you find the books, cosmetics, and three new sundresses, none of which you ended up wearing home. Alicent bought you a plain black shift dress, matching gloves and flats, and opaque sunglasses to hide your face from the journalists who waited outside the hospital. And there is one last item to unpack. At the bottom of the suitcase is a clear plastic bag containing fabric, white dotted with bruises of common blue violets. At first you are confounded, and then you turn it over to see the dark, saturated stain of crimson. It’s the sundress you were wearing the day you were rushed to Mount Sinai to have Ari. The nurses hadn’t known if you wanted to keep it, burn it, bury it.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Aemond’s brow furrows, like he’s surprised by the question. He goes to his writing desk and turns the chair around so it’s facing you. He sits, crosses one leg over the other, leans back and hides his hands in his pockets. His tone is gentle, but his gaze is hard. “By the time I heard that you’d had the baby, it was already over. You were out of surgery, he was in an incubator, and that was the immutable reality. I figured there was nothing I could do at that point to improve the outcome. And that’s true. Me flying back early wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“But you should have been there,” you insist, eyes wet, voice quivering. “You should have known him like I did.”

“Winning Washington was important.”

“Washington is a basket of votes, Ari was our child, he was real.”

“No one told me he was dying—”

“Because you didn’t pick up the fucking phone.”

Aemond is incredulous, like he couldn’t have heard you correctly. “It’s not like I was playing golf or drinking myself under some bar, I was campaigning 20 hours a day and it worked.”

“Nothing on earth could have kept me away from you when you got shot in Palm Beach.”

“So maybe it wasn’t just about Washington,” Aemond says, and his words aren’t gentle anymore. They are razored, dauntless, daring you to battle him. “It’s about the whole picture, it’s about the momentum. If I had underperformed in Washington, the dominoes would fall in Kentucky, and Utah, and Virginia, and then at the national convention in August, and then against Nixon in November. I don’t have the luxury of disappearing from the public eye to sit adoringly by your bedside when we both know there isn’t a single goddamn thing I can do to help.”

“It would have made you look like a better man.”

“But not a better president.”

And like a fracture being snapped back into place, you remember what Aegon said on that bloodstained night in Florida: You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you. You stare down at the ruined dress entombed in plastic, still clutched in your hands. You don’t dare to let Aemond see your eyes. You’re afraid you won’t be able to disguise the betrayal glistening there. You ask, a whisper, a whimper: “Why aren’t you sad?” I thought you loved him. I thought you were always so worried about him.

“Of course I’m sad,” Aemond says, more kindly now, patiently, like he’s speaking to someone who can’t be expected to comprehend. “But it’s different for the mother.”

You can’t reply. If you do, something lethal will pour out, smoke and poison and arrows, something that shoots to kill. Ari was quietly interred at the Targaryen family mausoleum in Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park. It had felt so wrong to leave his tiny casket there in a silent stone prison full of strangers.

Aemond is behind you now, trying to knead the tension out of your shoulders. And for the first time in two years, you wish he’d stop touching you. Your belly hurts, your head hurts, your heart hurts, you are a garden blooming with bruises and scars. “I know you aren’t in your right mind. Everything will be better soon. I promise.”

Tears gather on your eyelashes. “I miss him.”

“We’ll have others. Here, let me take that…” Aemond grabs the bag holding your ruined dress and it’s out of your reach before you can think to resist. “You should get ready for dinner.”

“Okay,” you reply numbly, now gazing down at your empty palms. Aemond leaves with his grisly parcel, and you never see it again. But once he’s gone you don’t shed your black mourning dress, blood-soaked pad, bandages, and shake loose your hair and step into the shower. Instead, you walk around the bed to pick up the mint green rotary phone on your nightstand. You speak to a series of operators before you reach the Harbour Rocks Hotel in Sydney. While you listen to the ringing through the intercontinental wire, you sit down on the bed. You’ve never felt low like this. You’ve never felt so unmoored from everything you had believed about your life.

A gruff, familiar voice answers. He’s just waking up, slurping on his morning coffee, dabbing his moustache with a napkin. “Hello?”

“Daddy, I don’t think I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“What?” he asks, and immediately he is no longer groggy but desperately concerned. Your parents are away on a month-long tour of Australia and often incommunicado. By the time they received news of Ari’s death and called Mount Sinai in hysterics to speak with you, you had told them not to rush home. You were about to be released, and they would not make it in time for the funeral regardless. Aemond insisted on a swift, private ceremony, a detour on the drive back to Asteria, like it was something he couldn’t wait to put in his rearview mirror. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“Aemond, he…” He’s not the man I thought he was. I don’t know him, I don’t trust him. “He’s not acting right, he’s not…he didn’t…Daddy, it’s like he doesn’t care. And I don’t want to be here anymore. Can I fly down to Tarpon Springs when you and Mama get back? Can I stay with you for a while? And then…and then…” You don’t even know what words you’re looking for. They don’t exist in your universe.

“Listen, honey,” your father says with great tenderness. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” You’re trying to stifle your sobs so no one downstairs hears you.

“You’ve just been through something terrible. So terrible I can’t even imagine it. And of course you’re feeling out of sorts. But Aemond is your husband, he’s your protector and your ally, your best friend, your partner in life. He’s not the one responsible for what happened. You can’t misdirect your heartache at him.”

“But he’s…Daddy, there’s…there’s something wrong with him.”

“Oftentimes, it’s easier for women to talk about their emotions, both good and bad. But for men—especially men like Aemond who are so self-disciplined by nature—it can be like pulling teeth to express themselves. They don’t like to be vulnerable. They actually think they’re failing in their commitments to their wife if they let her see how much they’re struggling. Aemond is hurting just like you are. He might not show it in the way you expect, but that doesn’t mean he doesn��t care. Of course he cares.”

How do you know, Daddy? Have you cut him open and studied his brain, his ropy nerves, the dark chambers of his heart? “I thought he saw me like you see Mama, I thought he included me in everything because he loved and respected me, but that’s not it. He just needs someone to help him get elected, that’s all Ari and I were to him, and I can’t…I just can’t…the thought of him touching me now…”

“Sweetheart, Aemond is a good man,” your father says. “He does love you. He does respect you. And he’s doing such incredible things for this country. I have friends in Florida who’ve been voting Republican since Hoover, but they’re crossing over for Aemond. They think he’s the one to clean up this mess. Vietnam, poverty, civil rights, the riots, the shootings, the hippies, the drugs, the Russians, the Chinese, someone has to pick up the pieces and create something that makes sense. Do you think Nixon or Humphrey would end the war by this time next year? Do you think either of them would compel the South to enforce voting rights or desegregation?”

“No,” you say, closing your eyes. But that doesn’t mean I can forget what I’ve learned about Aemond.

“Here, your mom wants to say something.” Your father vanishes; your mother’s voice comes piping across the copper submarine cables that span the length of the Pacific Ocean. You wonder—randomly, distractedly—if any of the wires connecting you to Sydney run through Arizona, the place Aegon told you he didn’t want to leave.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Mama.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, distraught, hearing the exhaustion and misery in your voice. “You’ve got the baby blues, and no baby to hold good and close to help them run their course. I’m so sorry. It’s just awful, so awful.”

You speak before you know what you’re going to say. “I don’t want to be married to Aemond anymore.”

“You’re confused, sweetheart. Your hormones are all over the place, you’re in pain, you’ve just had major surgery, and after this year with all the stress from the campaign and that horrific shooting in Palm Beach—”

“He’s not like Daddy.” Tears are flooding down your cheeks; your voice is hoarse. “I thought he was, but he’s not.”

“You cannot make a mistake like this,” your mother says, and she’s turned from silk to steel. “If you do something drastic now, you’ll wake up in a month or six months or a year and realize you’ve ruined not just your life, but the chance this country had at a better future. Don’t you realize what’s at stake here? Every marriage goes through tough times. Every husband needs to learn how to care for his wife, and every wife how to best support her husband. That’s natural, and you’ve only been married two years. Of course you and Aemond are still learning how to navigate life together. It only seems so much worse because of what’s happened to the baby.”

Is she right? Am I wrong? “I don’t know,” you say weakly.

“If you leave now, what happens?” your mother demands. “You abandon the campaign and Aemond’s support plummets. You are a divorcee, a sinner, a failure. You don’t get your son back. But you do lose everything you’ve helped build. Marriage isn’t an experiment, ‘oh let’s give it a try and if we hit any bumps we’ll call the whole thing off.’ No. It’s a covenant. Marriage is for life.”

Yes it is, in just about every faith, and certainly for the Greek Orthodox Church. You are suddenly consumed by mistrust for your own body, this flesh that failed your son and now is deceiving you with doubt so heavy—like cold iron or lead or platinum—it masquerades as truth. How could you imagine a life after Aemond? What waits for you in Tarpon Springs besides the promise of an eventual remarriage that is banal, powerless, bleak, exactly what you’ve always plotted so willfully to avoid?

“Do you understand me, honey?” your mother asks, and she’s soft and kind again. “I don’t mean to be strict with you. My heart breaks for you, and I love you. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to protect you from yourself.”

“Yes.” There are people getting massacred in Vietnam right now; there are people who can’t afford roofs over their heads. Who am I to complain? Your tears have stopped; your breathing is now slow and measured. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

After you’ve hung up, you stay where you are for a long time, your hands folded limply in your lap and gazing at the paintings hung on the pale blue walls: small replicas of The Birth of Venus, Romulus and Remus, Prometheus Bound, Perseus Rescuing Andromeda, Echo and Narcissus, Jupiter and Io. Then you get up to sift through the greeting cards you’ve piled on the bed, not really seeing them. Only one captures your attention. Only one jolts you out of the fog like a flash of lightning through dark churning clouds.

You take the card Aegon gave you back when you were still a mother and set it upright on your nightstand, consider it for a while, wander into the bathroom to scrub the despair from your skin and change into something less somber for dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re playing Battleship with Cosmo by the edge of the swimming pool while all the other children splash around, howling with laughter and diving for toys they throw to the bottom and then fetch with their teeth like golden retrievers, G.I. Joes and Barbies and Trolls and even a waterlogged Mr. Potato Head. The nannies are observing intently, poised to leap in if anyone should appear to be at risk of drowning. If Ari had lived, I wouldn’t have wanted nannies to raise him, you think. I would have wanted him to have a normal childhood. I would have wanted to know him.

“Your turn,” Cosmo says with a grin. He’s the one who looks the most like Aegon, or how you imagine Aegon must have looked before the pills and the booze and the long caged decades. His hair is so light a blonde it’s nearly white, his eyes huge and glimmering and mischievous. Battleship is a bit advanced for a five-year-old. Cosmo keeps guessing the same coordinates over and over, so you periodically lie and tell him he’s sunk one of your ships. When you launch a successful attack against his, he seems to think it’s fair game to relocate the vessel to a more advantageous location.

“D7.”

He picks up his aircraft carrier and repositions it. From the record player drifts California Dreamin’. “Nope! Nothing sank!”

“Wow. I’m so bad at this.”

Cosmo is snickering. “Yeah, you are. Really bad.”

“If I got drafted, the Army would be better off leaving me at home. I’d just be a nuisance.”

“What’s drafted?”

“Never mind. Your turn to guess.”

“J12!”

The grid only goes up to 10. Nonetheless, you slap your own forehead dramatically. “Oh no, not again! You sunk my battleship!”

“Yay!” Cosmo cheers, then turns to the Jacuzzi. It’s brand new, just installed last month. “Mom, did you see? I’m winning!”

You glance over at Mimi. She has passed out, her latest Gimlet drained and her head resting atop her crossed arms, propped on the rim of the Jacuzzi. “Uh, Cosmo, run inside and ask Doxie to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, okay?”

“Okay.” He scampers off, toddling on reckless little legs.

With no shortage of difficulty, you manage to stand. Each day your abdominal muscles feel less like they’ve been shredded and then mended with threads of fire, but the pain is still bad, very bad, and there are spots of skin on your belly that are numb when you skim your fingertips across them. You will have a long vertical scar like Aemond’s, an irreparable reminder of the blood you’ve paid to the cause. And for all your anguish, this particular fact doesn’t torment you. It is proof that Ari existed, however briefly, however futilely.

You amble over to the Jacuzzi, your roomy lavender dress flowing in the wind, and shove one of Mimi’s shoulders. “Mimi, wake up. Get out of the water.”

She mumbles incoherently in response. You reach for her before remembering you can’t lift anything. You look around. Alicent and Helaena are on lounge chairs at the other end of the pool; Alicent is trying very hard to look interested while Helaena shows her about 100 different butterfly species pictured in a kaleidoscopically colorful book. Criston is off giving Ludwika a tour of the property, flanked by a flock of Alopekis hoping for treats. Ludwika is Otto’s wife of six months but only newly arrived, 30 years old, perpetually unimpressed, modelesque, golden blonde, if Barbie was from Poland. Aemond, Otto, and Viserys—his sparse threads of silver hair hanging like cobwebs around his gaunt face, grimacing and clutching the armrests of his wheelchair—are conspiring on the lawn between the main house and the pool. They haven’t noticed your predicament. Fosco is sauntering by wearing some of the tiniest swim shorts you’ve ever seen. He is the son of an Italian count, gangly and chatty and from what you’ve seen almost certainly addicted to gambling.

“Will you help me move Mimi, please?” you ask him. “I’m afraid she’s going to drown.”

“Of course, of course, no problem. Let me handle it. Do not hurt yourself.” He has her half-dragged out of the Jacuzzi before Mimi startles awake.

“What’s going on?” she slurs. “Put me down, I can walk.”

“I doubt it,” you say.

“You are alright?” Fosco asks Mimi as he steadies her on the cement, wet with pool water. She clutches at his forearms helplessly.

“I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Mimi, go inside,” you say. “Eat a sandwich. Tell Cosmo you’re proud of him for winning Battleship.”

“Battleship? Well, that’s just ridiculous. He’s five. Five-year-olds can’t play Battleship.”

“And yet you will congratulate him regardless.”

She can feel your impatience, your judgement, sharp like wasp stings. Mimi retreats like a kicked dog to the main house, somehow summoning the will to remain mostly upright.

You look to Fosco. “Do you know where Aegon is?” You want to see him, but you also don’t; each time you’re in the same room now is a disorienting storm of familiarity, curiosity, painful reminders, annoyance, awkwardness, longingness to again feel as close to him—to anyone—as you did during those fleeting moments at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.

Fosco chuckles. “Where is he ever? Napping, sailing, drinking, on the phone with one of his lady friends. I could not say. I have not seen him recently.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.” The music stops—the record needs to be flipped over—and now you can just barely hear what Aemond, Otto, and Viserys are discussing.

“And you criticized me for going too young,” Aemond says to Otto. “What’s your age difference with Ludwika? 40 years?”

“She’s good publicity. She defected from the Eastern Bloc in search of the American Dream.”

“Being married to you?” Aemond quips. “I think she found the American Nightmare.”

“Speaking of wives,” Otto continues. “I assume since yours had one surgery, that’s how all the future children will need to be born, is that right?”

Aemond nods, frowning. “Yeah. And the doctors said she shouldn’t have more than three. It weakens the uterus, I guess, all that slicing and suturing. Do it too many times and ruptures get more likely, and those can be fatal.”

“Very unfortunate,” Viserys rasps. “Children are our greatest legacy. I wanted at least ten, but your mother…well…after Daeron, it just never happened again.” And you know that this is just one of the ways in which Aemond had planned to win his father’s admiration: by contributing more new Targaryens to the dynasty than anyone else. Now that’s impossible.

Otto sighs wistfully. “To have a brand new baby to parade around in the fall…that would have been wonderful.” For the first time in two years, you can sense that you have disappointed him. Fosco is watching you, uneasy, ashamed, sorry without knowing what to do about it.

“Absolutely,” Aemond says, as if this is not the first time the thought has crossed his mind. “But it’s done now. There’s no sense in dwelling on what might have been. We must look forward. It’s feasible that…well…if we try again and get good news by October, we can announce in time for Election Day…”

You can’t listen anymore. Your belly aching, your bare feet hurrying through warm emerald grass, you traverse the lawn and disappear into Helaena’s garden, painstakingly tended and continuously expanded since she was a little girl. There are marigolds and daffodils, tulips and roses, azaleas, asters, butterfly bushes, chrysanthemums, lilies and lupines, sunflowers, violets, life blooming in a hundred different shades. There are tiny statues too, tucked away in random places, stone angels and untamed creatures, alligators and turtles and rabbits and cats, the only sort the Alopekis will tolerate. At the very center of the garden is a tall circle of hedges with only one opening, an arched doorway cut into the thick lush green. You’ve been here before, though only with Aemond. On a property shared with so many family members—and the occasional intrusive journalist—it’s a good place to escape prying eyes. You pass through the threshold with a hand resting absentmindedly on your belly, as if you’re still pregnant. You keep doing this. Each time you remember you’re at the end of something rather than the beginning, it carves you open all over again.

Around the inside perimeter of the circle are twelve sculptures positioned like numbers on a clock: eleven Olympians and Hades, confined to the Underworld. In the middle of the clearing is the largest stature of all, a wrathful Zeus hurling lightning bolts and surrounded by a gurgling fountain of glass-clear water. Under the shadow of Zeus, Aegon is sprawled on the ground and smoking a joint. “So you’re hiding from them too, huh?” He gives you a sly, welcome-to-the-club smirk, then offers you his joint. “Want a hit?”

You shake your head, not taking another step towards him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He is confused. “Done what?”

“Any of it.” I told him about my life before. I made the mistake of thinking I could go back.

Aegon still doesn’t seem to understand. “You’re scared I’m gonna snitch?”

You shrug, evasive. It’s not just the fact that he knows. It’s the sensation that you’ve unlatched something—an attic room, a jewelry box, a birdcage—and now you can’t get it locked again, and the door rattles with every footstep and storm wind, and you are no longer Aphrodite or Io but Pandora, a hunger growing in your stitched womb like a child.

“What? What’s wrong with you?” And that’s always how he says it, not what’s the matter or are you alright or what did I do or how can I fix it?

“I’m kind of…embarrassed, I guess.”

“Embarrassed,” Aegon echoes. “Because of me?”

“I feel like I said and did a lot of things that were out of character because I was emotionally compromised.”

“They were out of character for who you’ve been trying to convince everyone you are since you married Aemond, sure. But they weren’t out of character for you.”

He’s treading too close now, arrows piercing their mark, a tremor near the epicenter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Au contraire, I have acquired many interesting revelations recently.”

“Where’d you learn French? From Mimi?”

His smile dies. “Boarding school.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to be around Aegon without either hating him or letting him see parts of yourself that you’re trying to drown like Icarus in the waves. You glance yearningly towards the doorway cut into the hedges.

All at once, Aegon is furious. “You don’t want to talk to me? You want to go back to how it was before, you want to pretend Mount Sinai never happened? Fine. You got it. Wish fucking granted. Whatever you have to do.”

He turns away from you. You flee from him. But that night when Asteria is hushed and still—Aemond, Criston, and Otto are attending a fundraising dinner in Philadelphia, and you are temporarily excused from accompanying them as you recover—you creep down into the basement of the main house to apologize. Mimi sleeps in a bedroom on the second floor, but here Aegon can keep odd hours and drink and smoke to his heart’s content, and even entertain clandestine guests, girls who are beautiful and giggling and never invited twice.

Aegon isn’t here. He might be passed out somewhere, or at a party, or maybe even upstairs with Mimi, and something about this idea twists through your mending guts like a blade. In his absence, you take a quick look around his room, something you’ve never done before. You hadn’t had any interest; it wouldn’t even have occurred to you. There’s a large green futon, a matching shag carpet, a television, a bookshelf full of notebooks and paperbacks—Kurt Vonnegut, Harper Lee, Sylvia Plath, Truman Capote, Ken Kesey—and vinyl albums, a record player, and his two acoustic guitars. The first is unpainted maple wood covered with stickers. I’d rather be nowhere reads one; Burn pot not people proclaims another. The second guitar is the souvenir he bought in Manhattan, an aquamarine blue six-string.

There's something strange on his end table. Along with a dozen empty cups is a full ashtray, and there’s a folded piece of paper tucked underneath. You slide the paper out and open it. It’s the receipt you used to solve the long division problem in your hospital room.

Why would he keep this? you think, mystified. There are footsteps above your head, and you quickly return the receipt to where you found it and leave before your trespass can be discovered.

When you emerge from the basement, Fosco is waiting in the hallway and carrying a Tupperware container filled with something that resembles kourabiethes, Greek shortbread cookies. “I thought I saw you sneak down there. What were you looking for?”

You scramble for an explanation. “One of the dogs is missing. Alicent wanted me to check the basement.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” He passes you the Tupperware container. “These are for you. I hope they are not too bad. I baked them myself.”

“Are they…” You shake it. “Biscotti?”

“They are ossi dei morti,” Fosco says. “Bones of the dead. We make them to remember loved ones we have lost. They are hard, so you should dip them in coffee or tea before you try to eat them.”

You open the lid. Inside are long thin cookies coated with powdered sugar. You inhale almond flour, cloves, cinnamon. And you are so touched you cannot find your words.

“You know, there still places in Italy where mothers wear black for years to mourn their children.” This is not trivia; it is an acknowledgement. Your son is gone. There is no shame in the grief that is left behind. In another house, it would be expected, it would be required.

“Thank you, Fosco.”

He smiles warmly. “We are in this together, no? We are pieces of the same machine.”

Then he plods off towards the living room, sliding a rolled-up horse racing program out of the back pocket of his tight plaid pants.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re in Louisville, Kentucky, where thunder quakes the eaves. An hour ago, Aegon was popping Valium and leisurely plucking at his pool water blue Gibson guitar, slumped against the wall, nipping at a flask filled with straight Bacardi. But he’s not anymore. Now he’s gathered around the small color television with you, Criston, Otto, Fosco, Helaena, and Ludwika. The news is just breaking. There was a civil rights protest at the University of Kentucky in Lexington one hour to the east. Someone threw a rock, or someone claims someone threw a rock, or someone threw something that was mistaken for a rock, and in any event the situation escalated from there and local police who were monitoring the demonstration opened fire on a crowd, killing five students and injuring another dozen.

Outside, word is spreading through the crowd of over 2,000 people that have gathered for Aemond’s planned speech at the historic Iroquois Amphitheater, a New Deal project finished in 1938. Rain is pouring, and the venue has no roof. Aemond is already 20 minutes late. The voices are becoming louder, more demanding, more wrathful. They’re shouting that Aemond is too afraid to face them now, that he’s trying to figure out what his statement will be, that he’s cowardly and calculating; and if President Lyndon Baines Johnson was here tonight instead of cursing his bad stars up in Washington D.C., he would certainly have something to say about the capriciousness of voters who love you, hate you, carry you higher, drag you down, all without ever knowing you.

In truth, Aemond is not stalling on purpose. He’s in the bathroom trying to get his prosthetic eye in. It’s been giving him hell all afternoon. He wears his eyepatch at home, but he’s never made a public appearance without his glass eye clean and perfect in his voided socket.

“He’s going to have to say something about it,” you tell the others as you watch the news coverage.

“Say what?” Otto snaps. “If he doesn’t treat those dead kids like martyrs he’s going to get booed off the stage. If he condemns the police he’s going to lose the suburbs. They’ll run to Humphrey now and Nixon in November.”

The weather report called for storms—which is why Alicent, Mimi, and the children are already back at the Seelbach Hotel for the night after a long day of shaking hands and smiling gamely—but no one expected it to get this bad. The room you’re huddled in is just off-stage, so you can see it all: the wind ripping signs and flags from people’s hands, drenched clothes, sopping hair, snarling faces, rain turning puddles to rivers. The stomping of boots is now as loud as the thunder. Rocks and bottles are being pitched at the stage.

“Is America always like this?” Ludwika asks, scandalized.

“No, not at all,” Otto says. “Goddamn animals…”

Aegon replies, not taking his eyes from the television: “You’d be mad too if cops were shooting your friends and the only graduation present you had to look forward to was getting disemboweled by guerillas in Vietnam.”

“I’ve had it with you and your Marxist bullshit! You want to liberate the dispossessed masses? Why don’t you start by donating your monthly drugs and rum budget to the—”

“We should cancel,” Fosco says. “Just call the whole thing off. Tell them Aemond is sick or something.”

“That’s the headline you want? ‘Senator Targaryen hides from grieving supporters who braved a thunderstorm to see him’?! Just give the White House to Nixon now!”

“I don’t think we can cancel,” Criston says softly. “I think if we tried to leave, they’d swarm the car.”

“It’s a riot,” Otto moans, rubbing his face with his hands. “This is what happens when you court voters like this, college kids and hippies, professional malcontents…”

“Aren’t there police outside?” Ludwika says anxiously.

“Yeah, a handful,” Criston tells her. “And if they try to do anything this will erupt and we can add to the body count in Lexington…”

You leave them and follow a hallway to the men’s bathroom; on the periphery of your vision, you can tell that Aegon is watching you go. You push the door open and find a row of stalls and three sinks, one of which Aemond is standing in front of as he stares into his reflection and attempts to shove the prosthetic eye into his empty, gore-red left socket. His suit is navy blue, his hair neatly slicked back, his shoes so polished they’re reflective like a mirror.

“Fuck,” he hisses, flinching. His right cheek is wet with tears of frustration and agony. It’s July 26th, and tomorrow are the final three state conventions in the Democratic primary. Humphrey is almost certain to take Utah; Virginia will go to Governor Mills Godwin, who is only running in his home state to control the delegates and will hand them over to whoever he feels is most worthy in August. But Aemond is the favorite to win here in Kentucky. Or at least, he was an hour ago.

“What can I do? What do you need?”

“You can’t do anything. It’s…it’s this goddamn nerve pain, it feels like I’m being fucking stabbed, I can’t get the muscles to relax enough…”

Like an apology, you say: “Aemond, the crowd is getting out of control.”

“So you came in here to rush me?”

“No, I’m here to help.”

“You’re not helping. You’re doing the exact opposite.”

“I think you should give this speech with your eyepatch on. It looks good, and you’ll be as comfortable as possible, and the crowd won’t have to wait any longer than they have already.”

“No.”

“Aemond, please—”

“No! FDR didn’t make speeches in his wheelchair and I’m not making mine without my eye in.”

“Do you want me to get you Aegon’s pills? Rum, weed?”

“You don’t think I’ve already taken something?” He tries to force his eye in again and strikes his fist against the sink when he can’t.

Then you ask gingerly: “Do you know what you’re going to say about the shooting?”

“Get out!” Aemond shouts. “You’re making it worse, just get the fuck out! Go!”

You bolt from the bathroom, hands trembling, throat burning. You don’t want to return to the television where the others are standing; you’re worried they’ll be able to tell how upset you are. You go to the edge of the stage, arms crossed protectively over your chest, and peek out into the crowd. Above their chants and jeers and howled threats, lightning splits the sky.

I don’ t think we’re going to be able to find our way out of this one. I think this is the end of the road.

“Hey,” Aegon says, tapping your shoulder. “Back up.”

“I’m fine here.”

“No you’re not.” He grabs your arm and tugs you farther backstage. Seconds later, an Absolut Vodka bottle explodes into crystalline shrapnel where you were standing. You yelp and Aegon gives you a little eyebrow raise. I told you, he means.

“Someone has to go out there,” Otto says, still lurking by the television. Fosco is comforting Helaena, who is quietly weeping; Ludwika is watching the news coverage in horror, surely reconsidering all her life choices. A sixth University of Kentucky student has been declared dead. “We can’t wait.”

“No we can’t,” Criston agrees. Then they both turn to you expectantly.

Your blood goes icy. Tonight was meant to be your first official appearance since the baby. Your hair is up, your dress a navy blue to match Aemond’s suit, gold chains around your wrist and throat, a gold chain of a belt. You thought you were ready. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Don’t you look at her,” Aegon says, sharp like a scalpel, like a bullet, like something that punctures arteries and lungs. “They’re throwing glass. You figure something else out, don’t even look at her.”

Otto relents, perhaps halfheartedly. “No, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Criston starts heading for the bathroom to get Aemond. Otto is watching the television again, his face vacuous as his ambitions are carried away by a flood of rain, wind, rage, blood. Aegon snatches his guitar from where he left it by the wall. He tosses the strap over his head, gives the strings a few experimental strums and retunes them, starts walking towards the stage.

“Aegon, what are you doing?” you ask, panicked.

“Someone has to distract the crowd.”

“No, stop, you can’t—”

“Hey,” Aegon says. And when you glance past him at the uproarious, storm-drenched frenzy, he turns your face back to his to make sure you’re listening. His hand is insistent but gentle, his voice steady. “Don’t go out there. Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, startled.

He gives you one last small, parting smile, a flash of his teeth, a daring glint in his murky blue eyes. Then he’s out in the torrential rain, soaked to the skin in seconds. His frayed green Army jacket clings to him; his hair is ravaged by the wind. As he takes his place behind the microphone, a stone that someone has hurled skates by him and nicks the apple of his left cheek. You can see a trickle of blood snaking down his sunburned skin before the rain washes it away; you feel a desperate gnawing dread that someone will hurt him, not just here but anywhere, not just now but ever. The crowd is still seething, shouting, stomping their feet to join the inescapable growl of the thunder. Aegon’s pick flies over the guitar strings as he begins playing, raindrops cast from his fingers like spells. At first, you can barely hear him.

“Come gather ‘round, people, wherever you roam

And admit that the waters around you have grown

And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth saving

And you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is settling down now. Some of them are singing along. You can feel that Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, and Helaena are gathering around you, but you don’t grasp anything they’re saying. You can’t tear your eyes from Aegon. It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, this radiant sunbeam of a man, a light in dark places, a constellation that whispers myths through the ink-spill indigo of the night sky. How could you ever have hated him? How could you ever have thought he was worthless?

“Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen

And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again

And don’t speak too soon, for the wheel’s still in spin

And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s naming

For the loser now will be later to win

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Aemond and Criston appear beside you at the edge of the stage; Aemond’s prosthetic eye has at last been successfully placed with no lingering evidence of a struggle. You expect him to apologize for what he said in the bathroom, but he doesn’t. Instead he says when he sees Aegon: “What the hell is he doing?”

“Saving your career,” you reply simply.

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call

Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall

For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled

The battle outside raging

Will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Now Aegon peers pointedly off-stage to where Otto Hightower is gawking. Aegon beams, throws his head back to get his dripping hair out of his eyes, comes back to the mic.

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land

And don’t criticize what you can’t understand

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

Your old road is rapidly aging

Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Everyone you can see in the crowd is singing and swaying. It’s not just a Bob Dylan song from 1964 but an anthem, a prayer, a rallying cry, a dire warning for the powers at be.

“The line, it is drawn, the curse, it is cast

The slow one now will later be fast

As the present now will later be past

The order is rapidly fading

And the first one now will later be last

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is applauding and whistling. Aegon steals a glimpse of where you are standing backstage, checks that Aemond is still there with you and that he’s ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aegon broadcasts with a wicked grin. “I am now proud to present the next president of the United States of America, Senator Aemond Targaryen!”

And Aemond is crossing the stage, no trace of pain or self-consciousness or prey-animal fear, no mere mortal but someone chosen by the gods, and the rain is slowing to a drizzle, and the clouds are opening to let through rare pinprick aisles of daylight, and the riotous spectators are now his disciples, exorcised of any rage they’ve ever felt for the scarred senator from New Jersey. He and his family are not the enemy; they are the solution. They are revolutionaries who have bled for the cause. They bring with them the change that is required. Aegon steps back and the rest of you join him in a semi-circle like a crescent moon behind Aemond. When you walk out onto the stage, the cheers swell to screams.

Aegon takes off his guitar and then leans into you. “He’s lucky you aren’t 35,” Aegon whispers, soft lips that curl into a smile as they brush your ear. And he’s teasing you but he’s not mocking, he’s not mean. He’s so close you share the same atmosphere, the same gravity. “Maybe when he finishes up his second term you can start building your resume for your first.”

“I want your endorsement.”

“From the disgraced former mayor of Trenton? What an honor. You’ll have to fight for it.”

You ball up a fist and playfully bump your knuckles against his chin. He pretends to bite at you. And you laugh for the first time since a doctor and priest entered your hospital room 13 days ago. Aegon slings an arm around your shoulders, pulls you against him, soaks you in his rain.

“Today in Lexington, we lost six brave and brilliant souls,” Aemond says, his voice booming through the amphitheater. A hush ripples through the crowd as they listen, enraptured. “Their sacrifice was for the most noble of causes, but they should never have been forced to pay the ultimate price. They deserved long, full lives in a better America than the one we now call home. This tragedy is a symptom of the sickness that has infected this nation, a fatal failure to empathize with our fellow countrymen, a deafness to pleas for justice, a blindness to mercy. But the remedy is within all of us, for it is our own humanity. When we purge the diseases of war, prejudice, and ravenous greed, we will reclaim our best selves—our true selves—and our nation will at last be cured.”

The amphitheater is illuminated with not only strobing lightning but the flashbulbs of cameras. The journalists have arrived just in time.

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ghouljams · 6 months

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Crybaby Rating: Mature (for horror not smut) Word Count: 7440 Tags: psychological horror, gaslighting, manipulation, monsters, body horror, gore, murder, blood, OC x OC (Threat x Crybaby), bad end, dead dove do not eat, please let me know if I missed anything but please heed the tages Summary: A few weeks ago you met someone at a bar and offered them a couch to crash on. You don't know why you did that, but you can't take it back now.

"Then what did you do?" You ask, hugging a pillow to your chest. You're sitting cross legged on the couch having what your couch surfer has dubbed "slut talk." It's your favorite part of the morning. Somehow despite the late nights your half-invited guest is always awake when you are. You hardly turn the coffee pot off when they wander into the kitchen with messy hair and a yawn.

They hum, "Grabbed a bite and left, same as always." It's a disappointing end to all their stories, you sort of wish there was something exciting to end their nights with. Instead of the usual fuck, eat, leave.

"Do you think people notice when you raid their fridge?" You lean to grab your mug off the coffee table.

"You don't notice when I raid your fridge," they shrug. You roll your eyes.

"Ok, well, you're allowed to raid the fridge, you're sort of living here." You tell them. They shake their head with a smile, lean against the arm of the couch to kick their feet up onto your lap.

"A fact I greatly appreciate and plan on repaying." You nearly choke on your coffee, and wave your hands to dismiss the thought entirely.

"Oh, no, no it's fun having you around. I just wish I had a better bed to offer you."

"I don't mind the couch, but if you wanna cuddle I'm all for it." They wiggle their brows, it's enough to tell you they're only teasing you.

"Funny," you grin, "you're funny."

You check your phone, and unceremoniously shove their feet off you. You've gotta get going if you want to shower before work. It's fun having a couch surfer living with you, but it's definitely tightening your schedule talking to them so much.

You feel eyes on your back as you walk across campus to the metal studio. There’s a new missing poster tacked to the board outside the art building.

This is your least favorite part of your art hobby. Gathering material. You usually only do it once or twice a month, and even that feels too often. If your flat had any sort of garden or nearby trees you could manage, but no you wanted to live in the city. Really it wouldn’t be such a bad trip if the forest didn’t whisper to you, didn’t seem to sink deeper and darker when you stared into it.

You crouch at the edge of the forest picking up pine cones and helicopter seeds. You carefully place them in the appropriate bags to keep them separated while you look for the twigs you like. Thin, but not too thin, with good knotting. You hum quietly to yourself, mostly for the noise of it, and pluck a few of the freshly fallen leaves off the ground. Everything is inspected and saved, or discarded, as you move. It’s a good day for the woods.

They’re quiet. The usual woodland critters sing their song, but otherwise? No voices, no shifting shadows, no spooky shit. You can almost ignore the watched feeling, the tug to go deeper into the trees’ embrace. There’s nothing good in the woods. You’ve known that since you were a child. Wandering too far off your path has always made your stomach squirm.

Which is fine. You’re not adventurous, you have no desire to get lost in the forest. Just like you have no desire to jump out windows or sleep with someone new every night. You wince a little at your own mental tone. You shouldn’t think of your couch surfer like that, they’re perfectly nice and you can’t judge other people’s lifestyles when your own is so sheltered.

You shiver, bunch your shoulders up close to your ears. You can feel eyes on you, but you know better than to look for them. Looking for them just makes the whispers start.

You finish your collection quickly and start back towards civilization.

"You smell good," their voice is in your ear. You nearly jump out of your chair, you hadn't heard them come in. Maybe you'd been too focused on your work, sueding twigs to wax and vice versa. You push your needlepoint glasses up to look at your guest.

"What?"

"You smell good," they repeat. You learned early on in their stay that your guest is a little off. Not just in their sexual escapades but in every way: the way you never see them eat, the way they never seem to sleep, and especially in how they don't seem to have any shame in their compliments.

"I smell like pine cones, I was out in the woods today." You flip your glasses down and go back to your wax work.

"That makes sense," they pick through the other wax figures you've made, shuffling them to the side as they search. "Where's the deer-fly?"

"What deer-fly?" You ask, because you don't want to admit you might believe in monsters to your not-roommate who --despite all signs against it-- seems pretty together mentally.

"You had a cute little deer with helicopter seed wings, I remember you working on it," they pick through your figures again.

"Oh, uh, I cast it." You lie.

"Oh," that's the other thing about your guest, "Ok," they believe you when you lie.

You fidget with your guest’s rings, twisting the gold around their fingers as they lay on their side next to you. You like how intricate they are. You trace your fingers over the thick band around their middle finger. The gnarled gold, like roots, is warm from their skin and dotted with red chip rubies. Their eyes rest on your hands, their cheek resting against their closed fist. You’re not really sure how you both ended up on your bed, but it’s comfortable.

“You sure you don’t wanna come out with me? You’d be good bait.” You snort, and roll your eyes.

“Clubs aren’t really my scene.” You move on to the interlocking rings on their pointer finger. You twist them off and watch the thin bands fall apart. It’s easier to talk when you don’t have to look at people, when you can keep your hands busy. “Besides, I’m horrible bait. People don’t talk to me.”

“I talk to you,” You can hear the smile in their voice. You shrug, twisting one of the bands onto another and pinching it to keep it together as you work on the rest.

“You don’t count.” They hum.

“Yeah, suppose I don’t really.” They take the ring from you as you struggle fitting the pieces together, their long fingers elegantly turning each piece with practiced motions. It’s strange watching them do it one handed, each finger working nimbly in a way you’re not used to, before the ring slides back onto their finger. “Person is a loose word. We’re not looking for people, we’re looking for meat.” They settle their hand back in yours and you tip your head to look at them. They raise their brows.

“Would love it if you could say dick like a normal person,” You tell them. They laugh and tug their hand from your grip to flick your forehead. Something warm pools in you, and you smile. “I really like having you around.”

“I like being around,” Their voice is a little softer, fingers brushing stray hairs from your face. “I should’ve gotten a roommate ages ago,” You sigh looking back at the ceiling. Their fingers stall, just a fraction of a second before they continue their sweep. “I’ve never been good with empty houses. Makes me a little-” You grimace, trying to think of a word other than paranoid, spooked, or crazy. Your crash-roommate pats your cheek and pushes themselves to sit up.

“Well, you got me around now. I’m way worse than any ghost could be.” You grin at your empty ceiling and sit up to watch them shrug their jacket on.

“Because you’re so scary,” You laugh at them.

“You know me,” They flash you a smile with all their teeth, “I always have to be the biggest threat in a room.” It’s a trick of the light that they look sharp for the briefest moment. Your fingers shake, your smile falling a little. They’re gone by the time you can get your nerves under control.

You carefully pen your letter, a short single sentence. You only do this when your sort-of-not-really-roommate is gone. They’d make fun of you, they already notice when your statues are missing. You fold the tea dyed paper carefully. The sides in, the bottom two thirds folded up, top folded down to slide the bottom in and close it. You run your fingers over your army of wax and pluck one of the fairies from the middle.

One for the window, and the rest to cast.

You tug the window open in your craft room and tug your crucible free from its fire safe home.

You scrub at your arm with your hand, it feels like you just walked through a spiderweb. You hope not. You always worry that means the spider is on you now, a rather unpleasant thought. The flat is dark, well, dim. There’s a blue glow from the living room, a gentle static of televised voices, as you make your way from your room to the bathroom. You think it’s maybe three in the morning? You didn’t check.

The TV is still talking when you finish your business, your couch surfer must be home. You’ll get a glass of water from the kitchen and make sure they’re not sleeping with the TV on. You’re less jumpy with someone else living in the house. The shadows don’t scare you the same way, still, there’s a growing sense of unease as you make your way down the dark hall to your living room. You don’t like being awake at this time. Three am is when horror movie bullshit happens.

You squeeze your hands into fists, feel your nails dig into your palms. It grounds you enough to keep you walking as you actually get into the open living room. It’s empty. On the television an infomercial is walking through all the great deals you could be getting on a 15 piece cookware set. You power through the living room to the kitchen.

Light from the streetlamps slants across your floor from your street facing window. The scattered letters and your half closed laptop on the kitchen table under it, just barely illuminated. It’s enough to keep you from bumping into the chairs. You know your kitchen well enough to navigate it in the dark. You repeat your “I’m not scared, definitely not scared, monsters aren’t real and the dark is safe” mantra as you fish a glass out of the cupboard next to the sink.

The tap squeaks as you twist the cold water on and hold the glass under it. This is totally fine. You’ll turn off the TV after you get your water, and go right back to bed. You’re so proud of yourself for braving the safety of your empty flat. Real powerful stuff.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a full body shiver goes through you. You turn from watching your glass fill up to look towards the living room. Your guest, or something with a similar shape, stands in the shifting technicolor light of your old television. The long night shadows of the room and the moving light make them hard to discern, make you think you can see long jointed limbs protruding from their back. Their hands hang by their sides, fingers long and sharp, dripping with a viscous fluid you think shines red as it falls on your floor. They stand unnaturally still, waiting for you to make a move, waiting for you to blink.

You can’t even breathe.

One of the long limbs behind them moves, directs itself towards the ceiling, the rest of them following. Your guest pulls themselves like a spider back towards the shadows as your breath starts again just in time for you to start hyperventilating. You can hear the rapid insectoid clicking over the rush of water from the sink.

Water pours over your hand and your attention is sucked back to your overflowing glass. You swear and turn the tap off quickly, setting your glass in the sink to grab a towel for your hand. The front door of your flat rattles, the lock turning. You can hear your guest humming as they open the door to come in. You turn to look at them quickly. They look the same as always, a little more disheveled than when they left you suppose, but otherwise perfectly normal. You try to calm down your heartbeat as they toe their shoes off. It was just your imagination, your paranoia working overtime at this late hour.

“Oh shit, did I wake you up?” Your guest whispers. You shake your head, swallow and go back to your cup. You pour some of the water off and decide you should start keeping a water bottle in your room.

“No, uh, just- just had a bad dream, I guess,” You tell them, sticking close to the wall as you make your way out of the kitchen towards your room. You’re sure it’s blatantly obvious you’re avoiding something. “Did you turn on the TV before you left?”

“I thought you’d appreciate the noise,” They half follow you, going over to the couch and grabbing the remote, “It didn’t freak you out, did it?”

“Nope,” You lie.

“Good,” They smile, “Wouldn’t wanna scare ya’.”

You chalk up your late night scare to being half asleep and an overactive imagination. Nothing to be worried about. You scroll through your local paranormal site and update them on your recently disappearing statues. You chew your nails as you watch the comments pop up on your post, the message board discussing whether it's human or monstrous intervention. You sigh and close your phone. Maybe your therapist was right and you are giving in to your delusions to an unhealthy degree. It seems crazy to think that some unseen monster is following you just because you're an artist, more so that the little statues you've been leaving out on your windowsill aren't just being taken by some random human.

You haven't been looking over your shoulder as often since they started disappearing but that could very well be a placebo effect. None of the folks in your class have been missing either, a few have even come back. There’s nothing to be worried about. Nothing waiting to eat you alive for… what? The sin of being creative?

You stare at your bedroom ceiling. You should get some work done today, finish casting some statues. You push yourself up and out of bed, grabbing a sweater and your slippers to get some coffee before you shower. Maybe you should leave the house, it’s been a while since you went anywhere that wasn’t your workshop or class.

The lump on your couch hardly stirs when you wander past, their shoulders rising and falling with their breaths. You try not to stare, try not to slot your guest into last night’s nightmare. You do a pretty good job. You make yourself busy in the kitchen getting grounds in the coffee maker and rummaging through your pantry for something to eat.

You can feel dread creeping just at the edges of your mind, stiffening your spine, eating at the end of your sanity. You thought when you finally lost your mind it would be a sudden thing, not this slow descent. You itch at your arm, at the invisible spider thread feeling, and grab a granola bar.

“You’re so cute in the morning,” Your not-roommate says behind you. You just about jump out of your skin, turning to face them with your heart hammering in your chest. “So jumpy,” They smile over their coffee cup, bounce their shoulders to mimic your fright.

“You’re up,” Look at you pointing out the obvious, they raise their brows, duh. You don’t know how to explain your unease around them this morning. You can’t reasonably tell them you had a weird semi-lucid nightmare hallucination and now their smile makes you think of their head spinning like the exorcist.

“Call the media,” They joke, grabbing your mug and holding it out to you. You force yourself forward through the anxiety to take your coffee. It’s easy. Their hands are both occupied, and there’s no reason to think they’d hurt you. Still, you approach the gesture with the tremor of a bomb defusal technician rapidly running out of fingers.

They transfer the mug to your hands without a second thought, dropping their hand to their side as soon as it’s done supporting the coffee’s weight. You feel the tightness in your chest unspool, your shoulders drop, the tension leaves you like it was never there in the first place. “Seriously what’s with you this morning, look like you saw a ghost.” Their voice is almost concerned. Not quite, it’s a play at concern, a child acting out what they think it should sound like. It twists your stomach into knots.

“Guess I’m still thinking about that dream,” You breathe.

“Nightmares are a bitch, huh.” Their concern drips with amusement. You knew it would be silly to bring up. They’re never concerned by the things that scare you. You don’t think your guest is scared of anything, least of all bad dreams. You brush past them to go sit on the couch, pulling your legs up to your chest as you click the TV on.

“-recent string of deaths has been linked to a potential black market organ ring-” the television buzzes in the background, your guest falls hard on the couch next to you.

“You wanna do slut talk, or…?” You shake your head, they shrug. “Whatever, mind if we watch something else?” You offer them the remote silently, you don’t like watching the news anyway. Too much bad is happening in the world, you don’t need the added anxiety.

“-say citizens should be on the lookout for-” Your guest punches in a new channel number and the anchors are replaced by a pair of far too large men discussing statistics of some sort. The camera cuts to a caged octagon. Oh, fighting. You tune it out and try to start hyping yourself up to leave the house.

“Have you been taking your medication?” Your therapist asks. You pick at her couch, fingernails scratching at the felt balls that pop up on well worn knits. You don’t like that way she says it, like you’re crazy for bringing up an issue she asked about. Then again anyone would think you were crazy talking about the- the thing you saw in your house. Or didn’t see. Thought you saw.

“Every day,” You assure her, “it doesn’t feel like they’re helping anymore.”

Your therapist thinks for a minute. You like her, she’s kind, and most days helpful. She lets you talk without making you feel like you’re losing your mind, at least.

“Your sculptures, are they still disappearing?” She starts, and you desperately want to know where she’s going with it. You nod, and she nods as well. “How’s the ventilation in your craft room?”

You wince. “Not great, but I open the windows when I’m die casting.” She nods again, slower, heavier.

“Do you think you might be exposed to any toxic fumes that could be interfering with your meds? Hallucinations, memory gaps, lost items, it could be caused by that.” You hate to think she’s right, but the alternative is you being right. You suppose a carbon monoxide or noxious fume issue is more plausible than monsters being real(and out to get you). Your therapist takes your silence as agreement and pushes on. “Maybe you should try a less… fume-y hobby for a while, see if that clears up any of the symptoms.”

“And if it doesn’t?” You ask.

She sighs, leans back in her chair, “Then we might need to start entertaining the possibility that this isn’t just anxiety.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Whatever tests she’s thinking of, you’d like to avoid for the moment. It’s probably the fumes. It has to be the fumes.

“Find a stopping point for your sculptures, and let me know next week what you want to try.” Your therapist scribbles something on their notepad. You suppose it’s good they know you well enough to know you won’t quit your art just for your health.

You’ll use up the rest of your supplies and find something easy to do.

You’re almost completely over the nightmare incident by the end of the week. Your guest is as friendly as ever, unbothered by any of the anxieties that plague you. You leave your offering for whatever is taking your sculptures, ask it to stay out of your house while it’s kept away. You figure that must be what it was. If it was anything at all.

You shove laundry into your washer, dropping in clothes from your hamper as you scroll on your phone. You should grab some of your guest’s washing too, that’s the nice thing to do, and they’ve been staying with you long enough. You grab your empty hamper to go snag their pile from the living room.

Come to think of it, how long have they been staying with you? You feel like it’s been a while now. You can’t really put your finger on when you offered them your couch. You think a month? Maybe? But, that doesn’t feel right. The thought rubs against your brain the wrong way. You shove their spare shirts into your basket. You’re not great with dates but you know you’re better than this. Forgetful but not enough to forget when you opened your home to a stranger. Wasn’t this supposed to be temporary? Why does it feel like they’ve moved in?

You wince, feeling the sharp stab of a stress headache forming. You try to keep your focus on the clothes you feed to the washer, stopping to check the tag on one of their flannels. You check the little symbols against your cheat sheet on the wall and stop.

You rub your finger over the hard crust on the collar of their shirt. It makes your lip curl in disgust, it doesn’t feel like dirt. You glance down to see if you need to pre-treat the stain, scratch at one of the brown droplets. It looks like a nasty stain, already soaked into the fibers of the shirt. You frown, it looks like blood. But on their collar like this you would’ve seen a cut on their face by now. Besides this was at the bottom of their pile, and you haven’t seen them wear it in a few days. Plenty of time to notice a new bandage or scar. Which makes you think it isn’t their blood.

You dig your nail into the stain, feel it crush under your finger. There isn’t any reason to think it’s blood. No reason to think it isn’t your friend’s blood. Really this whole blood stain business is a bad faith line of thinking. Except you know blood when you see it.

With shaking hands you set the flannel on the table and go to grab the lemon juice. At least you can clean it up. You can get the blood out of your house and then it won’t be blood anymore. No more blood in your house. You swallow your fear, set the lemon juice next to the shirt. You think of the red that had dripped off your nightmare’s hands as they stood in your living room.

You leave the laundry and go to the living room. You’re going to convince yourself that this is silly. You’re being ridiculous. You settle on your knees in front of the TV, and inspect the floor. Your flat isn’t exactly the most up to date, your wood floors have seen better days. If there was blood -there wasn’t- then there should still be some between the floorboards. You run your fingers over the dips between the wood, looking for any disturbance in the lacquer.

There’s nothing, not even a speck of dirt.

You exhale, shaky, and stand again. Good. Good, you knew there wouldn’t be anything. You clean up well.

You go back to the kitchen to finish getting your friend’s mystery stain out of their shirt.

You drum your fingers against your work table, staring down your army of silver statues. Their delicately sculpted features don’t help you make up your mind. In fact they almost coax you away from your prescribed course of action. You’re good at this. You don’t want to be bad at something new.

Either way you need supplies.

You grab your usual bag and grip the canvas tight. It’ll be fine. You can be bad at something. You just can’t keep living like this. You lock your front door tightly behind you and start down the street towards your favorite craft store.

The streets are cold. The wind at your back makes you shiver, and the watched feeling... Fumes, you tell yourself. You’d rushed to get everything cast and now you’re paying the price. You hook a right towards the tube station and make your way down the steps. People walk past you on the other side, swipe their card after you, wait around you for the train. It’s normal. It’s suffocating. You squeeze your hands around the straps of your bag, nails digging into your palms. It’s only one stop, but you rush to get off the train and back up into fresh air. You bump into someone and give a hasty “excuse me.”

Halfway down the street someone grabs your arm. You tense and they drop their grip immediately.

“Yer bag’s leakin’.” A low voice informs you. You tug your bag to check it and groan. There’s a tear on the corner that a pound is nearly tumbling out of. You feel your shoulders drop, that’s just fabulous. You suppose the canvas has taken a beating over the years, it must have caught on something when you were leaving the house. “Aw, dinnae cry bonnie, s’alrigh’.” You glance up at the man, he holds up a handful of pencils and coins, “I caught yer trail.”

You find yourself sitting on a bench sniffling while a stranger sews the hole in your bag closed. His stitches are neat, clinically precise. He doesn’t take long, just like he promised, and knots the dark thread with careful fingers when he’s finished. You wipe your eyes, cursing your bad luck and anything else you can think of. Your life feels like it’s been falling apart recently. First you lose your mind, now you’re losing your favorite tote.

“Good as new,” the man gives the mended corner a tug and starts grabbing your supplies to drop back into it. He hums, the tune is familiar but you can’t put your finger on it. “Ya done with yer tears yet, bon?” He settles your tote between the two of you, an illusion of space. You nod, even though he reaches to scrub a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

You give a half annoyed hum, and feel the rays of his smile. You glance at him, and realize you hadn’t actually looked at him until now. It feels rude to not even have spared him a glance. Except that he feels completely overwhelming as soon as you look at him. His eyes are so blue they burn, every piece of him slotting uncomfortably close to human. You flinch as pain strikes through your head.

His brows draw together, and he tips his head forward, leaning closer to get a better look at you. He mumbles something and reaches to press his fingers against your forehead. His skin is so warm it’s almost alien. His nails scratch bluntly at your skin before catching on something.

It’s like he’s pulling a nail from your skull, the pressure gone as soon as he rolls his fingers together to dust off the hair. You blink, your head feeling lighter than it has in days.

“Better?” He asks. You rub your forehead.

“Yeah, thanks, um-”

“Soap,” He supplies, pushing off the bench to stand.

“Soap,” You smile, it’s silly but you suppose you’ve heard worse. He offers you a hand to pull you to your feet. His fingers wrap around yours, warm, calloused, big. You try not to focus on them too much as they tug you up. He leans around you to grab your bag and hold it out to you.

“Where’re ya off ta?” Soap asks.

“Craft store, I’m-” You sigh, you shouldn’t tell a stranger your therapist is mandating a hobby change, “I’m looking for a new hobby.”

Soap tips his head to the side, thinking --you think. He rattles off a few potential options, paper crafts, fiber arts, clay sculpting, good old fashioned pencils on paper. You hardly hear a word he says, too busy feeling your heart jump into your throat. From this angle you’d almost swear he had a second set of teeth.

You press against your front door when you get home, fingers shaky as you click the deadbolt into place. Soap had been perfectly polite and cordial to you, and yet you felt unnerved. You were seeing things you couldn’t get out of your brain and it was making it hard to focus on pretending you’re normal. He’d even walked you home, his eyes lingering on your window. You have unfounded suspicions.

“Wow you’re home late,” Your guest calls from the kitchen. They wander into the living room and stop dead when they spot you. Their nose wrinkles when they frown.

You run a hand over your hair, close your eyes and try to focus on the time. Your stomach rumbles. You hadn’t grabbed dinner, despite Soap’s offer. You’ll eat leftovers, or throw something together. It's no problem.

“You ok?” You jerk back against the door. Your friend hovers too close. Their eyes are wide and searching, darting over you with a strange intensity you’ve never seen before.

“Fine, I just had a long day.” You tell them, brushing past to head for the fridge. They follow close behind, almost clingy.

“You sure? Maybe I should stay home tonight, take care of you.” They offer. You sigh and tug the fridge door open, leaning to check what you have. Your not-roommate’s hands pluck at your sweater, reach around you to grab food when your eyes settle on it too long.

“Don’t let me ruin your fun,” You let them tug you away from the fridge, and you hop up to sit on the counter. Pasta is dumped into a bowl and shoved in the microwave.

“I can skip going out,” They stare down the microwave timer, fingers tapping the counter.

“I’m really-”

“Did you meet anyone interesting while you were out?” They cut you off. You blink. That’s a weird question. You don’t know how to respond. Their gaze is so sharp you almost don’t want to tell them the truth. You swallow.

“What?”

“Do you think you’re getting sick?” They repeat, “It’s getting colder out, you might’ve caught something you shouldn’t have.” There’s a ringing in your ears, you shake your head to dislodge it. Maybe you are coming down with something.

“Just more reasons for you to go out, I don’t wanna get you sick.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead, you should find your thermometer. Your guest hums in annoyance.

“Alright, but think about staying home this week.” You nod, you weren’t planning on heading out again except for groceries, but you can always order in. “Don’t wait up,” They tell you, reaching to flick your forehead as soon as you drop your hand.

“I thought you were going out tonight?” You freeze in the hallway, staring at your still home roommate. They look up from the couch, a beer dangling from their fingers.

“Decided to stay in,” They tip their head back to finish the can. You don’t watch the bob of their throat as they swallow. You do rub your eyes in the glare of the television. “Hey, you mind if I sneak in with you tonight?” They ask. The question slides over you like water.

You hum, and nod before you can actually think about what they asked. You turn back down the hall and pad to the bathroom. You hear the TV click off and figure they’re heading to your room. Which is weird.

When you head back to bed your roommate has already made themselves comfortable. They have one of your stuffed animals on their chest, their hands flopping the bunny ears back and forth while they wait for you. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

Having them in here makes you- but you can’t-

You climb into bed on the other side of them and click the light off.

You jerk awake. Something physically pulls you awake.

You stare, frozen, into the darkness. The darkness is otherwise occupied, it’s spindling limbs cracking and clicking as they reach with odd angles for your ceiling. They lodge themselves in the corners of your room, eating the shadows cast by the streetlights outside your window. You’re powerless to stop it as it drags threads from your cracked chest. The strings throb, glowing an angry red as the dark monstrous mass that’s haunted your shadow for weeks drags clawed fingers over them. The light catches on the silver of spiderwebs. Lace draped all over your room like a nest. You wish you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel the air of the room on your lungs. You wish it felt wetter, not this horrible wash of dryness.

Long delicate claws piece out your threads, nudge your lungs to the side and you feel your muscles tense. Your fingers retract, clawing at the sheets, gouging into the soft cotton. Fingers slip against your heart, drawing it from your chest in a mess of veins and tethers. Your stomach rolls, watching the shadows inspect the organ. You’ve never felt your pulse in such a sick way, never been so conscious of your blood or the ways it’s distributed through your body. The wetness of your heart drips onto your lungs.

It’s a short nightmare that seems to last forever before your heart is settled neatly back into place. Your ribs are pressed back into place, skin knit together like it never was moved to begin with. Then the claws reach for your face, palm pressing tight over your eyes and pushing you down deep into sleep.

It’s strange how well you sleep with your guest sharing your bed. You always wake up cuddled close, their arms around you as they snore softly. You’re used to being the first one awake. Even without them going out, you find they’re slow to wake up. It’s sort of cute. People seem much less cool and untouchable when their face is smushed in a pillow and their hair is all over the place.

You brush your teeth and wince. You must’ve slept wrong. Your neck is killing you.

Your eyes slide off the mirror, unable or unwilling to hold onto your reflection. You grab some painkillers and make your way to the kitchen to start on coffee.

You gasp, coming to on your couch like you’ve pulled yourself out of the sea.

The news drones on about a festival happening this weekend. Weekend? What day is it? You can’t remember. You frown, check your phone. It’s dead, despite being plugged into its charger. You tug at the cord and it pulls up into your hand without resistance, unplugged from its little cube. Ok, so no sense checking that. You plug the cord back in and watch the little light turn on before getting up.

You can check your craft room. You have a general idea of timing on your projects, you just need to check how far you’ve gotten on- on-

What are you working on right now?

You stop in the doorway, staring down your neat work desk. Someone cleaned up in here(was it you?) and you haven’t had time to dirty it up yet. There are no scraps of fabric, no balls of yarn, no picked apart pine cones or snapped twigs. You move towards a pile of freshly folded fleece, picking at the soft fabric. You almost remember buying this, that must’ve been at least a week ago. Last weekend, maybe.

You pick it up to check you didn’t set it on top of any ongoing projects and spot the orange flipper of your duck buried deep in the basket. With a frown you tug it free, the cool fabric making your frown deepen.

When’s the last time you left an offering on your windowsill?

You glance out the window, it looks just past sunset. The house is quiet. Your roommate must have gone out already. You take the duck with you back to the couch and grab the remote. You’ll find something interesting to watch while you wait for your phone to charge.

“-of local nightclubs,” The newscaster drones, their even tone hardly relaying the gravity of their report, “you may be in danger. New police reports indicate that these bars may be the hunting grounds for the trafficking ring that police now believe may be a single disturbed individual-”

You lower the remote, sitting forward to listen with growing unease as the newscaster describes murders you should have heard about by now. Murders that have been going on for weeks. Missing organs. They recount the investigation’s process. The first instinct towards organ trafficking, and the growing evidence towards one organized individual and not an organization. Eye witnesses that can’t remember who the victims left with. Precise injuries and surgical precision, their throats torn out like an animal had attacked them.

There’s something itching at your brain, something familiar. Something you can’t touch. You’re not supposed to touch. You stroke your fingers over the handmade plush in your arms, something warm and stick clinging to them as you self soothe. It dislodges your nerves, shakes them free, snakes through the fog over your brain.

You tug the blanket off the back of the couch and drag it over your lap. You press yourself back into the corner of the couch, small and safe. It’s your paranoia.

Have you been taking your medicine?

You wake up to the front door closing. You must have turned the TV off at some point. You rub your eyes and go to check on your guest.

You flick on the kitchen light and see your roommate roll their shoulders back with a click. They tip their head one way then the other, stretching with an unnatural length to their movements. The shadow they cast skewers the corners of the room. When they turn to look over their shoulder at you, their eyes are almost black, all four of them blink. You press yourself back against the wall. When you blink they’ve turned towards you.

Blood drips down their chest, stains their lips and traces down their throat. Their hands hang by their sides, nails stained with grit. Their tongue darts out and along their lips, cleaning some of the red off.

“You’re-’ You don’t know what to say, feel frozen by your own fear.

“I thought we’d settled this,” They sigh, wipe their throat with their hand and inspect the blood. The level of casualty they display strikes you more than words ever could.

“Blood, that’s blood,” You stammer out. They shrug sucking on their fingers.

“O negative if you wanna be specific,” Their voice is thick as they swallow, “Organ donor too, since you were so picky about that last time.”

Last time? What are they talking about?

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding so loud you can hardly hear them over the noise. Your hands shake, tug at your shirt. Suddenly you can feel the cloth against your skin, can feel your muscles sliding against your bones, a nauseating sensation you can’t seem to get rid of. The way they talk about this, like it’s something you’ve discussed, something you could be OK with if you just had guidelines set up. You can’t imagine ever being alright with whatever is happening.

Something clicks into place in your mind. The string of murders on the news, missing organs, strange lacerations, drained of blood. Was it them? Your guest holds their chin, cracking their neck as you try not to hyperventilate.

“You’re the one from the news,” You whisper. They hum, and smile at you.

“Fun right? I’ve never been famous before,” They laugh like this is some sort of game. You feel your stomach roll.

“You’re killing people.”

You watch as their usual gentle smile falls, as their entire face seems to fall away into a blank unfeeling parody of the person who's been crashing on your couch.

"So we’re doing this again." The start, picking one of your kitchen knives out of the block on your counter, "What’s the line? I'm not killing people, I'm killing men? Although," They laugh, it’s a hollow cold thing, “I’m really not that picky with my prey.”

Your eyes dart towards the door, you take a half step back. "Don't run," they warn you, condescending as you've never heard them before, "I won't be able to help myself if you run." You don't know what else you could possibly do in this situation. You can't stay, there's no way they let you live now that you know they're a murderer. You have to run.

With a burst of energy you bolt from the kitchen for your front door. You hear a snarl behind you, a “you always do this,” as you flip the deadbolt and rip the door open. You nearly tumble down your front step, but it hardly slows you down. You know better than to look back when you can hear the crashing, feel the strike of claws through the air behind you. How do you combat a murderer? You can feel tears starting to blur your vision, and for once in your life you hope they fall just to clear your eyes.

How many times have you run to the local police station? The monster behind you had said you’d done this before? Would they think you were crying wolf? Would they put you back in the house with this person? Would you forget again?

You’re caught around the middle and lifted. You scream and kick, push at your captor’s face and claw at their arms. You hardly seem to make a dent in them, all hard muscle and low grunts of pain.

“Calm down lass,” Soap orders, voice dropping with your panic. You dig your nails into his arms, sob and scream for him to help you. He grabs your chin and tips your head to the side. “Christ, bonnie, what happened to ya?” He grits, his fingers skating over your neck. You jerk away from the pain that his touch rolls through you.

You freeze, your breath heaving as you stare down your unwanted guest. They haunt the end of the street like a nightmare, their sticky shadows dripping in the midnight moonlight, streaking to cling to the walls and fall to the cobblestone street. Soap hums behind you. No. Humming is too human a description. He growls. The sound low and vibrating, like a dog warning of its impending bite.

You’re struck by another bout of blind panic. For whatever reason your guest has kept you alive, but Soap is a different story. You can’t be a party to this man’s murder. You renew your desperation as you push at his hold.

“We have to go,” You tell him desperately, watching your guest stalk closer, “they’ll kill us, we have to go.”

“That’s mine,” Your guest growls, the sound whispering through the shadows and making your head pound. You squeeze your eyes shut, press back into Soap’s relative safety.

“That’s too bad,” Soap growls, amusement clear where you’d expect fear, “been feeding me for weeks.”

Your eyes snap open, glancing up at your newest monster. He smiles down at you with too many teeth.

“What-”

“Somethin’ much worse than your little spider,” He tells you, holding up a finger, “boop.” He taps your forehead and everything goes black.

#x reader #x oc #oc x oc #oc: threat #oc: crybaby #johnny soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap x oc #johnny soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #1fae1 #tw gore #tw blood #tw gaslighting #tw body horror #tw manipulation #tw psychological horror #threat doing fucked up shit to keep their girlfriend from leaving #dead dove do not eat

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ghostandsoap · 1 year

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Sweets and Suckers

John Price x Fem! “Peach” Reader

Tags: None.

A/N: I decided to write this series of fics in third person. I was afraid that this reader is too specific to be in second person...although this still is *technically* an insert reader fic. Feedback is always greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts on this new “series.” I’ll be writing a whole separate fic for their first time meeting so keep an eye out! This is a tester fic. Just to introduce our reader and test the waters. Also, I have no idea if it’s canon to whether or not Ghost smokes. I have a headcanon that he smokes when he’s stressed.

Word Count: 2.7k

“Know why? ‘Cause I have this little thing called patience.”

She wasn’t like anyone else that he had ever known.

She was the toughest, yet sweetest woman he had ever met. One minute she could be cursing out and beating the shit out of a blood thirsty, heartless terrorist…and the next she could be babying and gushing over Sergeant MacTavish because he got a papercut on his finger.

She had a way with words, but also a way with her fists. She could talk or fight her way out of anything, and Price had witnessed it himself on numerous occasions. She was fierce. She was a blaze of fire everywhere she went, tough as nails and overly aware of the darkness of the world around her.

And yet after all the evil that she had seen, she had a heart that was still as pure and bright as ever.

And he never expected to fall in love with her.

He was skeptical of her at first. Kate Laswell’s description of her didn’t make the most impressive image.

Laswell’s descriptions painted a certain picture in Captain Price’s mind. A sweet, innocent female who didn’t know the reality of this job and this world. A soldier that had too much hope for humanity and too much zest for life that blinded her to what was true.

And when he learned what her call sign was, he nearly laughed in Laswell’s face.

“Peach?” Price scoffed, a little off put by such a girlish call sign. “Why do they call her that?”

Kate only smiled knowing that Price was already underestimating her without ever seeing her face or seeing her in action.

“She has thick skin and is sweet as can be…” Kate grinned. “Not to mention, she’s a true southern lady.”

Price fought the urge to roll his eyes, but he didn’t try to swallow down the dread that was bellowing up in his throat.

Great. An American.

It took Price some time to change his mind. Even after meeting her for the first time, he wasn’t so sure that she was the right kind of person for his team. If he was going to work with her, he needed her to be disciplined. He couldn’t afford another soldier that was unpredictable in nature. He needed someone he could trust, someone who he could depend on no matter what.

And much to Price’s surprise, he wasn’t totally discouraged when he first met her.

She didn’t look intimidating for the most part. She didn’t have the tall, broad stature like Simon Riley or the hard, cold stare like John MacTavish. She had a gentle look, a face that was lit up with a smile when the two of them locked eyes. On the surface, she didn’t look like the strict type…but there was something about her that Price could tell had a rough side to it.

She was easy on the eyes…very easy on the eyes. Price noticed that he had a hard time looking away from her.

“Captain Price,” She greeted, and her southern drawl made his chest feel fuzzy. “I’m Sergeant [L/N]. But everybody calls me Peach.”

So I’ve heard.

“Sergeant,” Price extended his hand, the warmth of her grip tingling up his arm. “Pleasure to meet you.”

And from there, the rest was history.

Each and every day he saw more and more of her personality, and every day he found himself realizing how quick he had been to judge. He saw her sweet side and sour side. He saw how she adapted to every situation appropriately. She was intelligent, skilled, and always looking out for the people around her.

If anything, that was the thing that surprised him the most. She was selfless and would do anything for the people that she worked and spent the majority of her time with. She was everything he could’ve asked for when it came to working with someone.

Suddenly he was thinking about her when she wasn’t around. He wanted to talk to her about things that were more personal. His admiration turned into a romantic one, and he found himself wishing for a relationship that extended past professional.

The small talk turned into meaningful conversations. The passing glances turned into longing stares. The “accidental” touches turned into intentional ones. Before he knew it, he had grown to care for her. And before she knew it, she had grown to care for him.

That loud-mouthed, southern charm woman that had been thrown into his life was suddenly part of it so much more than he originally bargained for…but not that he was complaining.

His team loved her, and she worked with them well. They were protective over her the same way she was protective over them. She took care of them when they needed it, but sometimes her bedside manner came off a little aggressive.

“Quit movin’ so much,” She growled, tightening her grip on the man’s leg. “I’m gonna beat your ass if you do that again.”

“Wasn’t on purpose,” Ghost grumbled. “All of this because I was just trying to have a cigarette.”

“And that’s another thing!” She howled. “You’ve gotta chill with the cigarettes. Since when do you smoke this much?”

She was the best medic of the team. She had been trained by the best, and she was a natural caretaker. She was always quick to jump in when someone was hurt or sick. She never hesitated to fix someone up who (in her words) “needed fixin’”.

When it was something unavoidable or something that was a purely freak accident, she was like an angel nurse. A sweet, comforting tone and gentle mannerisms that could soothe even the most panicked patient. But when it was something more…stupid, she tended to be a little more irritable.

Simon Riley wasn’t usually the one to end up on the wrong side of her temper. It was almost always Soap or Gaz who came waddling in with some sort of self-inflicted injury that was from horsing around or “just to see what would happen.”

Ghost was much more careful. The only times he ever needed her help was when it was something really serious.

So when he came in hobbling on one foot and with a look of embarrassment in his eyes, she knew his streak had been broken. Now she was in a makeshift infirmary in a base in the middle of nowhere, trying to keep him still long enough just to get a good look at his giant’s foot.

“I only do it when I’m uptight,” Ghost muttered, feeling like he was being scolded as if he were a child. “I went outside for a smoke and my fucking ankle just gave out on me.”

Suddenly, her expression changed. A rush of empathy flooded her heart and her eyes morphed into a sensitive look. Ghost knew that she was only being so hard on him because she cared. She worried about his respiratory health due to the cigarettes. She worried about his mental state because he was feeling overwhelmed. Ghost appreciated her concern, but it just seemed like she worried more about others than herself.

“Awh, Simon…” She sighed. “It has been a hard past few weeks.”

“You can say that again,” He adjusted his skull mask on his face, to avoid yelping in pain at how she was touching the hurt part of his foot. “Although, I can’t blame that on me busting up my ankle for no reason.”

“Well, the terrain’s not so level here,” She returned, holding his foot steady in her hands. “Somethin’ probably just snagged your foot when you were walkin’ by.”

A few minutes of silence passed as she finished looking him over. Ghost strained and fought to keep himself from making any noises of discomfort. He hated being held back like this, and it didn’t help when Captain Price decided to stop by.

“What’s he in for?” Price leaned against the doorway, a grin of amusement on his face.

She didn’t even have to look at him to know that he had a smirk on his face. She could feel his demeanor from where she sat with her back towards him. She was always happy to see him, but right now she had Ghost to finish tending to.

“Ankle,” She replied, releasing his foot from her hands. “Just twisted it.”

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Price snickered.

She couldn’t help but laugh, but she knew Ghost was feeling lousy, so she didn’t entertain any of Price’s jokes.

“Well, I don’t think it’s broken. I’ll stabilize it and I want you to try to keep weight off of it. Ibuprofen should help with the pain, and I think I’ve got some packs for the swelling.” She said to Ghost, who was just ready to go.

She was true to her word, working carefully and gently to make a splint for his foot, something to keep him from hurting it more. Price enjoyed watching her work. She was so focused and so serious about making sure he was getting the best care possible.

“I appreciate it, Peach. I guess this is my sign to stop smoking, huh?’ Ghost chuckled, his smooth voice sounding a little bit more lively than usual.

“Damn right it is,” She replied. “But for now, just worry about this foot healin’ up.”

She helped the monstrously tall man to his feet…or foot, rather – and made sure that he could manage to shift his weight to the other foot. He towered over her, as he did most people, but he was leaning on her like she was her lifeline. Once he was balanced, he was good to go.

“If you need anything, you let me know, okay?” She smiled, that sweet voice sounding out. She reached into her medic bag and retrieved a comfort charm of sorts. “Here’s a little treat for your troubles.”

Ghost’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the small, light pink lollipop, his fingers greedily peeling off the wrapper.

“Oh, now I know why Johnny’s getting himself banged up all the time,” Ghost raised the lower part of his mask to put the candy in his mouth. “Thanks again, Doc.” He muffled through sucking on the lollipop.

Ghost limped out of the room, but he was moving better than he was when he walked in. Price watched as Ghost made it out of his sight before he turned back to her. Knowing that her attention was free, he spoke again.

“He’s a grown man, Peaches.” He chuckled. “You’re softening up my men.”

She spun around in her chair, that radiant smile taking his breath away as it always did.

“I’m surely not!” She squeaked. “I’m always takin’ care of you, aren’t I?”

“Of course. But I don’t ever get sweets.” He claimed, and her brows furrowed.

“You mean suckers?” She corrected.

“Sweets.” He argued, but in the most playful way.

“Suckers.” She bantered.

This happened all the time. They had very different dialects and very different ways of saying things. She even argued with other Americans about certain words and phrases she used. A southern U.S. accent really is one of a kind, and Price never let her get away with it.

“Alright, well, I never get suckers.” He mocked her accent on the word in question, and she gasped.

“John!” She hissed, but couldn’t wipe the smile off of her face to save her life. “And the reason I don’t give you sweets is because you steal them out of my bag when I’m not looking.”

Now it was his turn to be offended, but only because he had no idea that she had caught on.

“I am appalled at such an accusation,” He clutched his hand to his chest. “How dare you accuse me of being a thief.”

She stood from her seat, reaching for his hand to pull him into the room. His cheeks flushed pink at her gesture, because he knew that it had been a little while since they had a moment alone together. It was hard to get even a few minutes alone when there was so much to be done and so many people around.

“Mm. ‘Cause you only take certain ones, and I know when they go missing.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, which caused the heat in his cheeks to spread to his ears.

“And which ones are those?” He grinned again, knowing exactly what she was talking about.

She rolled her eyes at him, because she had walked right into this one.

“The cherry and peach ones.” She sighed, shaking her head at his antics.

He was entertained. She knew him like the back of her hand at this point, the same way that he knew her. He loved nothing more than seeing her figure out something about him without him even telling her.

Honestly, he wasn’t shocked that she had figured out that he was the one stealing her “suckers.” Although, it would’ve been really easy to frame Soap for their disappearance.

“Oh? And I wonder why that is…” He continued.

“Cherry is your favorite, and peach reminds you of me.” She laughed under her breath, and hearing her say it brought so much pride to his soul.

“Ah, of course,” He ran his thumb over the apple of her cheek. “Such a smart girl…”

She couldn’t help but look away. If there was anyone who could make her shy, it was John Price. He kissed her then, her grin and giggle vibrating on his lips. They had missed one another, even though they hadn’t gone a day without seeing one another.

“How are things today?” She asked, changing the subject.

“The same as yesterday. And the day before…and the day before,” He answered. “I’m tired of sitting around.”

“I know. Me too,” She kissed him again, and his hands squeezed her hips. “Just a couple more days. Then we’ll be up and movin’ along.”

He grumbled. Price was never one to enjoy the waiting game. He could only play so many rounds of poker with Gaz or tell so many stories with Soap before the boredom started chewing away at him. But that was the reality of some missions: just waiting until the right time to put the plan into action.

“You make it sound so easy.” He chuckled.

“Know why? ‘Cause I have this little thing called patience.” She grinned.

“You also treat my men like princesses,” He countered. “Next thing you know, you’ll be painting their nails and Soap’s going to walk out in a dress.”

“Please. Soap would do that for five dollars,” She scoffed. “This is why I don’t give you any of my suckers.”

“Oh, that’s cruel, Peachy.” He groaned. “If you give me one, I promise not to make fun of the word ‘sucker’ and I won’t say anything about you turning my team into your squad of girlfriends.”

“Fine. Deal,” She stepped out of his hold to reach for her bag. “Cherry?”

“Duh.” He sassed, and she rolled her eyes.

She rummaged through her bag to find a cherry lollipop, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with him.

“I think I’m out of cherry ones, honey bun.” She told him, and his jaw dropped open.

“That’s impossible. There were three in there this morning.” He gawked.

“How do you know how many there were if you haven’t been takin’ them out of my bag?” She questioned, not even hiding the victorious expression on her features.

“Uhm…” He paused. “I guessed?”

“Bullshit!” She snatched a cherry pop out of her bag as if it were damning evidence. “You have been stealing ‘em!”

“I think that stealing is a mighty strong word,” He said. “Think of it more as…helping myself. Besides, I always make it up to you, don’t I?”

She held the stick towards him, and he didn’t hesitate to take it.

“I suppose so,” She watched as he removed the wrapper and popped it into his mouth. “What’s gonna happen if Soap comes in here and I’m out of suckers?”

Price chuckled as he swirled the candy in his mouth.

“He’ll live. It might do him some good.” Price reached for her waist again, pulling her back into his chest.

“You know, I can just keep a stash just for you. All the cherry ones.” She suggested.

“You’d do that for me?” His eyes lit up, removing the sucker from his mouth. “Cherry and peach ones?”

She snuck a kiss then, a very cherry tasting one that danced over her lips.

“Sure. And the peach ones.”

#john price #john price x reader #john price x fem! reader #John price x female reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #john price x peach #john price x 'peach'#john price imagine #john price imagines #john price oneshot #john price oneshots #john price fanfiction #modern warfare ii #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 2 fanfiction #ghostandsoap

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chibikyo · 6 months

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Day 14 - Voyeurism

Johnny Cage (mk1) x F!Reader

Reader, sensing Johnny might be a feeling a little lonely at the thought of returning to an empty home, agrees to return to L.A. with Johnny after the battle on the pyramid. After a long flight both are tired and just want to sleep, but reader happens to catch Johnny in the shower and he puts on quite a show for her, even if he doesn't realize it.

Warnings: Voyeurism, Masturbation, Masturbating in shower, non-consensual Voyeurism (though Johnny isn't upset when reader is caught), unrequited love, not actually unrequited love, mutual masturbation

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Y/n sighed, stretching her back as she made her way toward the room Johnny had provided her. Before the tournament, Y/n would never have considered accepting an acting role in a motion picture, but Johnny had managed to talk her into pitching the project with him. Even if she didn’t want to accept a role in the movie he had assured her that she’d be a great addition to his presentation. ‘Sex sells, Y/n,’ he’d told her with a smug grin. She’d rolled her eyes fondly as she agreed to tag along back with him to his L.A. home.

She hadn’t had anything else going on before Liu Kang had found her so it wasn’t like she didn’t have the time, but, if she was honest, it hadn’t been his confidence or enthusiasm that had sold her on following him home. There had been a sadness in his eyes, his smile not quite able to mask his silent plea that only she had seemed to notice. She had an idea of why he looked so despondent and she’d only been proven right as he’d guaranteed her the VIP tour of his home town. It was the idea of returning to his empty home that seemed to sit heavy in his heart.

She could understand why. His divorce had been settled in his absence while he was training with the monks and despite pretending otherwise, she knew he’d burned a lot of bridges with his friends. Likely the only friends he had were Kenshi and the others and Y/n hoped he counted her among them. He’d laughed off the rejections from the others, but Y/n had been watching him, and had seen his eyes drop just a bit before he’d turned his charm on her. Of course she’d said yes and though she tried to convince herself otherwise, it wasn’t just because she couldn’t stand to see the older man unhappy.

“Uh Oh.” She stopped in the hall and glanced at the doors on either side, trying to remember which room he’d said was hers. They had finally arrived at his mansion less than an hour ago. She’d collapsed on his couch, her muscles aching and exhausted from two days of flying and Johnny dragging her around, and he’d given her directions to her room before excusing himself to shower and change. He’d offered to carry her upstairs, but she’d waved him off saying she just needed a minute to relax and hoped he hadn’t seen the blush on her cheeks.

They’d flown in first to her hometown so she could check in on her flat and pack a wardrobe more appropriate for a big city rather than meditating and punching the hell out of a bunch of sweaty men. Johnny had run around her place like an overexcited toddler as Y/n unpacked her bags and then he’d taken over the packing process completely, shoving her out of her own room to repack toiletries while he personally selected her wardrobe for the trip. She almost stepped in to take over when she’d heard him saying, ‘gotta pack this sexy little number, for sure’, but he’d followed it up with, ‘Oh yeah these look hella comfy for a movie night’ and ‘Ohh and I remember her wearing those cropped hoodies a lot so like, three of those,’ and she’d been so charmed he would remember something like that she had ultimately left him to the task.

They’d flown into L.A. that afternoon, but Johnny had detoured to his favorite cafe to get them coffee, then treated her to dinner at his favorite diner, and they’d walked off the meal with a tour outside his mansion. So when they’d finally managed to actually get inside her social battery was drained, her legs felt like lead, and she wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the nearest soft object and melt into it. He’d laughed at her threat to simply sleep on his couch, but she had been half serious because by god it was soft.

All that had led her to this moment of frustration as she tried to remember exactly what he’d said. Based on what she remembered he had directed her to the last door at the end of the hall, but just based on the door and layout of the mansion that almost had to be the master bedroom. There was an open concept sitting room to her left, her right had another door that could be a room, then the door at the end of the hall that was emblazoned with a gold star. He hadn’t mentioned a star, but then again he’d stated it wasn’t the one across from the upstairs lounge. She was tired and decided it wasn’t worth arguing with the actor.

“At this point I don’t care as long as there’s a bed.” She sighed, heading down the hall and through the ornate door. The room was actually quite cozy, less of the modern contemporary feel of the main rooms and more intimate. It had a feeling of being lived in and Y/n still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t the master. The bed at the center of the room looked so comfy and inviting that she actually felt herself swaying toward it. Her bags were waiting at the foot of the bed and Y/n considered just stripping and crawling into the bed as she was, but she decided it would be best to wash off the sweat and grime of several airports and greasy diners so she spent a few minutes digging out what she would need to get cleaned up.

There was a changing room with his and her vanities that opened up to either the bathroom or a walk in closet. The bathroom door was ajar and as she started to push it open Y/n was hit with a puff of warm, steamy air and the sound of running water. She glanced up, confusion giving way to shock as she saw Johnny standing in what may have been the most decadent shower she’d ever seen. The shower had multiple recessed sprayers making it look more like Johnny was standing under a rain cloud. It was huge too, easily enough room for two or three people to shower comfortably. She was so engrossed in the design that it took her brain a moment to catch up to the most important and prominent feature; Johnny was in the shower, fully nude, and his left hand was slowly stroking the length of his cock.

She was sure she heard as her brain powered down for a few seconds, vision blurring as she rubbed at her eyes, sure that she wasn’t seeing things right. It didn’t help, as when things came back into focus it was to the sight of Johnny bracing himself against the shower wall, his forehead resting against his supporting arm as he steadily increased his pace. She swallowed as she watched his lips part as if letting out a wanton sigh, but she couldn’t hear it over the rush of water or the pounding of her own heart. She felt a spike of arousal coil thick and heavy between her legs and her face flushed with shame.

‘I need to leave. Johnny is my friend and I’m just standing here watching him like a pervert.’ She chastised, but her legs were frozen in place, her eyes glued to his strong fingers gripped around his leaking shaft. She clenched her thighs as she watched his hand give a little twist over the tip, wanting nothing more than to join this display of pleasure, but it would be wrong to masturbate to the sight of him, right? To bring herself to completion like the perverted voyeur she was.

He readjusted, leaning his back against the wall so his other hand was free to roam. He kept the same languid, easy pace on his cock as his other hand skimmed his chest, teasing and pinching. Y/n had to bite down on her free hand to stifle a moan at the sight. How the hell had he maintained a perfect tan underneath his shaolin robes? All that slick, tawny skin on display was making her ache to feel it under her fingers. He moved lower, stroking down his abs, down past his cock to fondle his balls. He had his eyes closed and mouth open and Y/n could just hear the little gasps and moans likely falling from those plush lips.

She stopped thinking of anything that wasn't Johnny. She bit back a whimper as her hand slowly skimmed down her body, sliding beneath the lip of her shorts and pressing roughly against her clit. She rubbed it slowly, her panties wet with slick already creating a rough drag across her skin. She could feel her arousal growing, tight and hot and she nearly drew blood to hold in her moans. She saw Johnny adjust his grip on his cock, his hips thrusting in time with his strokes which were becoming faster, rougher. Her own fingers sped up to match his pace. His face was flushed and twisted up in ecstasy and Y/n could see the moment when his orgasm hit, shuddering and hand jerking erratically.

"Ahh, hnn, Y/n!" He moaned, loud enough she could hear it over the rush of water as he came and she couldn't help but gasp as she felt herself spill over with him. Her other hand twitched violently as Johnny let out a needy whine and to her horror the small bundle of toiletries she was holding clattered to the ground, echoing loudly as it hit the marbled tiles.

She froze as Johnny’s eyes shot up to meet hers, honing in on where her hand was disappearing under her shorts. His cock slipped out of his grasp, still not yet soft but he did nothing to hide his nudity. She wanted to run, but it was like being a deer caught in his headlights as she saw a little smirk grace his lips. He was moving, sliding open the glass shower doors, pace strong and steady as he approached her. She only managed to snap out of her stupor when she felt his hands slide down her sides, settling along the dip of her waist as he tugged her forward into the hot, moist air of the bathroom.

“Enjoy the show, stardust?” Johnny asked, his voice sly as one eyebrow raised up inquiringly. She felt her face flush even redder at the nickname, something he’d started using after he’d watched her fight the first time. ‘You move so fast, like a shooting star. Going to leave the rest of us in the dust aren’t you?’ He’d said it sincerely and Y/n had laughed it off, but then he’d started calling her stardust ever since. “Let's check."

She gasped as he reached down to tug her hand from her shorts. He brought it up to inspect, his tongue darting out to lap at the wet, sticky essence still clinging to them. Y/n let out a small groan as she watched him sucking her cum off her fingers. He released them with an obscene pop."

"Mmm. Delicious." He hummed. "If you wanted to see me naked you just had to ask, honey."

“Omg, Johnny what the hell?! I wasn’t trying to see you naked!” Y/n exclaimed, eyes snapping shut in horror as her brain finally caught up with what was happening. She pressed at his biceps to try and pry his hands away as she let out a slew of verbal nonsense. “I thought this was the guest room cause this is the room you told me to use and my bags are beside the bed and I didn’t mean to walk in on you and I, omg I shouldn't have watched you that was so wrong. Im such a fucking pervert, I'm so sorry Johnny, I never…"

"Calm down, stardust." Johnny interrupted gently. She glanced up as she felt Johnny’s hands tighten on her waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the fat of her hips as he stared at her. Her own hands settled along his upper arms, gripping them tight as she watched his eyes dance with barely contained laughter. He leaned down, captured her lips beneath his own as he pulled her firmly against him. His mouth was warm and soft and he kissed her like she was made of the very oxygen he needed to live. It was desperate and needy but filled with a tenderness that had her melting into him, seeking more. She didn’t even notice the hot press of his cock against her stomach or the wetness seeping into her clothes as he took her apart with his clever lips.

“Why not? After all, It was you that had me all hot and bothered to begin with.” Johnny kissed her again, chaste and sweet as he let one hand drift down to squeeze at her pert ass. “Knowing you were going to be sleeping in my bed, hopefully in those cute little PJ’s I packed for you. God, stardust, do you even know how pretty you are? How much I’ve wanted you for months now?” Y/n shook her head.

“Let's get a few things straight.” Johnny laughed. “First of all, I'm not at all upset that you enjoyed my performance. I'm honestly flattered. I would have loved to see your face when you came. Shame I missed it. Next time you should just join me.” He tugged at the hem of her shirt for emphasis and Y/n blushed. “Second, it’s my fault not yours. I wasn’t ready to sleep in that big bed all by myself, so I was going to use one of the guest rooms. I was going to just take a quick shower, but I got a little carried away and that’s on me, not you.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have been watching you… doing that.” Y/n murmured.

“I thought it was just me.” She squeaked and Johnny’s smile grew wider. “Thought maybe you weren’t ready to start looking again, with the divorce and all.”

“I wasn’t before, but that didn't stop me from noticing you, honey.” He smirked. "Now, how about you join me for a nice, long, hot shower and maybe you can give me an encore?" He tugged at her shirt again and Y/n couldn't help the grin spreading across her own face.

"Sounds perfect, Johnny."

#mortal kombat #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #mk #kinktober 2023 #Johnny Cage #Johnny Cage x Reader #MK Johnny #MK Johnny Cage #chibikaosu kinktober #chibikaosu writes

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darsynia · 1 year

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Hand(s) Off | Ch1: Agony

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | NEXT

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the most important person in your life. When he confesses to you that he lives at the Avengers tower, and the 'Steve' you've been hearing about for months is actually Steve Rogers, you think that nothing can top that revelation-- and then you find yourself trapped in Captain America's bedroom getting a second-hand dose of NYC's favorite new aphrodisiac, Mistress.

Length | Warnings: 3,271 | None this chapter; story will contain explicit sex descriptions and situations, MINORS DNI

Note: I want to make clear that I'm treating the issues of consent with sensitivity. This is not even a dubious consent story in my eyes; the choices these characters make are kind, as clear-eyed as possible under the circumstances, and respectful-- in fact, that's what causes problems for Steve and Dee in the long run. I do want to be clear though: there will be sexual stuff in this story. I'm not teasing you. It won't be clinical or tortured :)

Fill: Adoptable 'Pheremones' from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @nekoannie-chan

Excerpt:

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

Chapter One: Agony

He’s falling and you can’t do anything about it.

Bucky’s shirt catches on a stub of a branch on the way down. You, the child whose balloon he was retrieving, and the kid’s mother all rush over when he lands in a heap.

“Oh my god, are you--” the mom starts to say.

“Here you go, kid. Hold tight, I’m not going after it again,” Bucky interrupts, hauling himself to his feet.

“Wow! That looks like it didn’t hurt at all!” the kid says.

“It hurts. Everything hurts. I’m just trying to impress her.” He nods in your direction.

Even though it makes you crack up (because he’s absolutely not), this seems to do the trick. The mom takes a minute to tie a more secure knot in the balloon string before smiling nervously at the two of you and leading her son away.

“I’m sorry,” you wince, taking a picture of the hand-sized rip at Bucky’s armpit that reveals the metal of his arm underneath. You’ve never seen the whole thing, but you’ve felt the arm through his sleeve a couple of times.

“Why are you sorry? You told me not to do it.”

“I’m sorry to have been right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says grimly, scowling at the phone you handed him and reaching around to feel the edges of the tear. “It shows the join, doesn’t it?”

You’ve been trying not to look, because, yeah, it does. The skin edging the metal graft looks burned and painful, definitely not appropriate for your museum plans. Bucky takes in your uncomfortable nod and his jaw clenches.

“We don’t have to go,” you offer.

“We’re going. I just have to…” He trails off, twisting the shirt around to get a better look. The two of you had decided to take the long way through the park. There’s about an hour before the interactive exhibit opens, but it’s the last day. He wouldn’t even tell you how he got the tickets.

“Okay, what if we swing by a corner store so I can grab a sewing kit--”

Bucky interrupts in a firm voice. “No need to waste the money. I’ll head back home to change; we can get a taxi from there. It’s a bit of a walk.” He shrugs the shirt back into position and starts back the way you’d come.

You have to jog to catch up. “That works.” There are a million things you want to say, but it’s Bucky who speaks first, after fifteen minutes of silence. The two of you reach a crosswalk, and he stops you with his left arm, which in your opinion is a choice.

“Spit it out.”

“You were keeping things separate. You shouldn’t change your mind unless you want to,” you say quietly. He’d said he wanted to keep this friendship to himself for a while, with no connection to the past, and no expectation for the future. You’d found that unexpectedly refreshing at the time, and you still do.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky says. “It’s time. I probably would have sat on it for another month anyway.”

It’s been a six month journey from friendly to friends to close friends for the two of you, and it’s only been two months since he’d opened up about his agonizing past. You don’t know everything yet, and that’s okay. You might never know. As long as Bucky knows he can trust you, that’s what matters.

The light changes, and he guides you across, his body language more relaxed now. Still, you want to make things as easy for him as possible.

“I can wait in the lobby--”

“Shit. That won’t help,” Bucky says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Did you ever look me up?”

“No! You asked me not to.”

He looks at you like you’re some sort of rare creature for a minute, and a slow, appreciative smile grows on his face. You get it-- when he’d told you his actual birthdate, that he’d gone missing in the 40’s, you’d been tempted. But… when someone with a medically engineered metal arm asks you not to poke around in his past, you don’t. Not if you care about him.

“There was a good reason for that, I’m assuming?”

Bucky’s chuckle is deep and amused. “Yeah. I ah, live with the Avengers. Steve’s last name is Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

You’ve heard all about his best friend Steve, enough to feel affection for the man without ever having met him-- but this is not what you were expecting. At all.

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

“--stop by, that’s all I ask. Redwing would love it,” Sam grins as he opens the door to Tony’s lab.

“I’ll try, but did you have to say it like that?” Steve groans before heading into Dr. Banner’s workspace right next door. A new street drug named Mistress has been causing concern, and with SHIELD still in transition, the government has called on the scientific wing of the Avengers to help figure out how to combat the substance.

Mistress is an aphrodisiac, a potent one. Banner’s preliminary tests show that it’s likely not of Earth origin, which has slowed down their testing considerably due to safety concerns. That’s where Steve comes in; Bruce thinks his fast metabolism could be the key to figuring the stuff out without putting too many others at risk. That and his lack of a romantic partner.

Apparently the drug enhances a person’s desire to have sex to a strong need, strong enough that there’s no data on what happens if they don’t. The stuff reportedly burns through people, causing dangerous fevers that have officials fearful that someone’s going to get dosed and killed, not to mention the consent issues.

“Hey, Steve,” Banner says. “I don’t know if you’ve met Doctor Lyonne?”

“I haven’t. First or last name?” Steve asks the attractive female doctor.

“Oh, nice one. ‘Lyonne’ is my married name, though. Sorry to possibly disappoint,” she says easily.

Banner smiles at Steve’s wave-off gesture and says, “I’ll leave you two experts to the interpersonal stuff.” He ignores them in favor of a large glass jar with a bunch of warning labels stuck to it. The liquid inside is clear, and all signs point to it being the drug in question. “All right,” Bruce finally says, stepping away and scratching out about four things on his clipboard. “The plan is to expose you in measured doses and observe the results. It’s pretty volatile-- works if ingested, soaks into the skin, and we think it’s capable of being aerosolized under certain conditions. Drinking it will be the most controlled method, so Dr. Lyonne is setting up dosing cups for me. She’s got a class to teach in about forty minutes, so--”

“That’s his delicate way of saying I’ll be out of your hair and unable to observe anything you’ll be going through over the course of the tests,” Lyonne interrupts.

The door that joins the two labs swings open before Steve can respond, and Tony leans his head in. He’s wearing one of his Iron Man suits. “Before you ramp up Icy Hot here, can I show you my new toy?”

“This is a segue to a sex toy joke, Steve. Retreat, retreat!” Sam calls out from behind Tony.

“I’m wounded!” Tony says, muttering, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that first.” He walks in and grins, holding up his left arm. “Check it out. Nav is still a little spotty, but--”

Steve watches as a shape lifts up from Tony’s bicep area on the suit, similar to Redwing but oval and smaller.

“Tony, I’d be happy to look at it pretty much any other time, but--”

“You have the whole rest of the day blocked out, Bruce, just give me this!”

The friendship between Stark and Banner always makes Steve nervous. They are the closest aligned in terms of work ethic and smarts, but farthest apart in temperament-- and that’s before the Hulk is brought into play. Steve inches closer to the large glass jug of Mistress as Tony gesticulates wildly, sending the drone careening around the room.

It starts beeping.

“Shit!” Tony shouts. “Uh… apparently something I did set the self-destruct?”

“Why does your drone have a self destruct, Tony?”

Bruce sounds incredulous and angry, and Steve doesn’t have his shield. As though Tony had set up the whole situation for maximum drama, the thing is headed straight for the jug. Steve lunges to protect it as Bruce maneuvers himself to take the explosion for the team. Someone screams for JARVIS to lock down the building.

Steve lifts the drug container high, meaning to leap out of the way with it, but there’s nowhere to go. The drone’s explosive impact brings forth the Hulk-- which sends Steve and the jug flying backwards into the lab equipment.

Things turn a bit surreal when you enter the tower. Bucky takes you to a secret side entrance (to avoid the press, he says) but when he gets into the elevator, he seems confused when he can’t talk to it. You’re just about to make a Star Trek joke when he explains there’s usually an artificial intelligence that runs the building, but it’s not responding.

You’re used to pretty much anything apartment-related being out of order, so you’re not fazed. Once inside his apartment, you point out that there’s a sticky note on the opposite side of the door, and Bucky grabs it, his brows furrowing as he reads.

“Shit,” he grins, holding up the note. “Stay here? You’re not authorized for this area.”

“Better hurry!” The tickets for the exhibit are for 1:30, and it’s already 12:50. With a nod, he jogs back into the hallway toward the elevator, and just like that you’re alone in Bucky’s apartment.

It is immediately apparent that he doesn’t live here alone. Underneath a coat rack with multiple jackets is a shoe tray with at least five pairs of shoes in two different sizes. The living room is cozy and lived-in; you see the familiar sight of a bottle of Bucky’s favorite beer sitting on an end-table-- right beside a coaster.

You’re about to reach for it when an alarm sounds, accompanied by an urgent voice.

=Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions. Attention: Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions.=

You freeze in fear for a few seconds, but when the instruction repeats a few seconds later, you hear a grinding noise in the wall. It’s frightening enough that you dart into the hallway and inside the first open door. The reason for the sound becomes terrifyingly clear a few seconds later as a metal panel encased in the doorframe slides down, too quickly for you to slip out underneath it.

The room turns pitch black in the space between one frightened breath and the next.

After taking a minute to listen for danger, you make your way by feel to the far wall, looking for the light switch. On the way, you trip over something that turns out to be a pair of men’s slippers. You’re glad to let your eyes adjust to the light as you put them back, but when you straighten up, you immediately feel like you’re trespassing somewhere you do not belong.

The room is neat as hell, the kind of tidiness that must come from enjoying a clean space rather than a sense of obligation. However, you soon reassess: this is lived in, less frighteningly neat than well-designed. Everything has its place. It’s different from the easy chaos that Bucky has shown on the few times he’s slept over after movie marathons, so you’re pretty sure this isn’t his room. That, and the white cat plushie you gave him that he swears lives on his dresser? Isn’t there.

Instead, the tray with grooming materials in front of a small mirror are the only objects on the dresser top. There’s a low bookshelf next to an easy chair whose footrest has a worn-in divot. The nightstand is equally neat and functional, with a slightly askew sketchbook hinting that the room’s occupant is an artist.

Unfortunately, these observations are making you more nervous, not less. An intrusive thought that the alarm could be about a fire and there’s literally no way out sends you into a frenzy of banging on the inexorable metal slab.

“Hello?? HELLO!? Please let me out, please, please let me out!” you scream, slamming your fists against the damned barrier until your hands hurt. You’re crying and frantic and yelling, and suddenly there’s someone else on the other side of the door also yelling, and in the next few minutes everything happens at once.

You can’t see anything through your tears and fear; all you know is the feel and sound of strong hands and a soothing voice that isn’t Bucky but it should be. That thought sends you into more frightened tears, because he’ll be worried, he’ll be upset, and it might send him into a spiral like the one from a few months ago when he finally explained about his past.

Then, awfully, the grinding sound is back and the warm hands are gone.

You hear several shouted, imperative commands before the man falls silent. He’d set you down in a huddle on the bed wrapped in a blanket, and you kind of… drift back into awareness surrounded by the strong scent of coconut, with a not-unpleasant buzz of awareness deep in your gut.

You pull the blanket closer before you recognize it. You’d been working on it during the first few movie nights you and Bucky had shared, and he’d bought it as a gift for his best friend. That’s what brings you fully back to yourself: you’d handmade the thing that’s warming you up. You’ll be able to tell Bucky that. It’ll help, when the time comes.

Taking in a long, deep breath, you look around, expecting, since you’re no longer alone, to see anything but a metal panel completely covering the door. You’re wrong. There’s damage to the frame, as though someone had pried the previous slab out of the way-- but there’s once again a solid-looking metal barrier between you and freedom.

“Are you okay?” It’s Captain Am-- Rogers. Steve. Bucky’s Steve.

The unreality of your situation is fully hitting you now.

“That’s what you’re going with? Not ‘who are you?’ or ‘funny story about the door…’”

Rogers says, “I did. You were too upset to answer.” He’s tense, clearly uncomfortable, and his clothes are soaked. You wonder if that’s the source of the strange fruity smell.

“Dee. I’m Dee.” It’s short for Chickadee, your stage-name-turned-favorite-nickname. You think you see recognition in his eyes. “Bucky needed to change his shirt. I didn’t mean-- you have to believe me, I never would have come in here, but he said he would just be a minute, and then a voice told me to hide and…” You’re babbling, but you feel like you’re out of your mind. Of all the people in the world, you’d probably pick Captain America as the one person you’d want to know that you’re eating your vegetables and being polite to your elders, that you wouldn’t invade someone’s private space. “Did something happen to the building?” you ask in a small voice.

“No, this--” Rogers winces. “Bucky asked for extra security or he wouldn’t move in. To slow him down.”

“The Soldier,” you whisper, closing your eyes tightly.

He makes a noise of understanding, then a louder, angry sound. “Everything has gone the exact worst-- I’m sorry,” he grits out. “I’m sorry.”

The depth to his voice prompts a heated curl of attraction that warms you from the inside out. It’s unexpected and strange, given the fear and confusion that’s ruled your reactions in the past minutes.

“I think I should be asking if you are okay.”

Rogers is looking at the floor now, his hands fisted in his pockets. “I was exposed to a… chemical. Tried to do everything right: activated security protocols, set the apartment Dark so I didn’t say or do anything I’d regret before the brain fog set in.”

“What happens when the brain fog sets in?” you whisper, sensing that the answer is what has this man’s body stiff as a board, in contrast with his broken and worried tone.

“How close are you with Buck?” Rogers lifts his head and the intensity in his eyes shoots you with an arrow of concern.

You lift your chin. “Truthfully? I consider him my best friend, why?”

“There’s nothing… more?”

There have been times, multiple times, when you’ve thought about it. But Bucky Barnes is a multifaceted man, and you don’t want to sully his progress towards becoming whole again by making things complicated.

“No,” you say, feeling heat in your chest from the look of understanding in his eyes. Your pause was unintentionally illustrative. “Why?”

“It’s important that I be honest with you: the building is on lockdown, its governing AI is too busy monitoring the Hulk to get us out of this room, and the chemical I was exposed to is Mistress.” He sounds like a soldier reciting battle parameters.

The name sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Suddenly, you feel too vulnerable on the bed, his bed, so you slide over to the edge in preparation for getting up. The action bares your legs to mid-thigh, and Rogers immediately turns his back on you and hits the wall with the flat of his hand.

That’s when you remember where you’d heard that name. Mistress. The aphrodisiac is the reason many women have flocked to your cousin’s restaurant to hang out, instead of at bars. Many establishments are offering complimentary test kits so their customers can ensure there’s no residue in their food and drinks. It’s become fashionable to carry around your own cups, just in case. Some bars are actually trying to skip requiring women to pay a cover charge, desperate to return to the status quo. Drinks containing coconut aren’t even served anymore, thanks to the scent association.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you blurt out, rushing over to the easy chair and covering yourself with the blanket. Jesus, the whole room reeks of coconut. He’s practically steeped in the stuff. “What can I do?”

Steve Rogers’ voice is husky, but pained. “Don’t let today be your first impression of me.”

Next chapter...

#allcapsbingo2023 #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america smut #captain america x f!reader #steve rogers x f!reader #captain america x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #mcu smut #mcu fanfiction #sex pollen #humor #romance

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hughesmedicine · 7 months

Text

“besties” | c. mcward

cole mcward x !hughes sister

a/n: sorry that the ending is rushed! I’ve had this in the drafts for months but here it is also got a jack insta edit coming soon!

made this for @starsandhughes 🫶🏻

ynhughes

liked by _quinnhughes, colemcward, _eliaspettersson and others.

ynhughes trip to van was a need🤟❤️

tagged: _quinnhughes, colemcward, _eliaspettersson

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colemcward please come back you left me with these lunatics!

ynhughes omw! one test is okay to miss

jackhughes don’t skip the test stay home and wait till summer.

ynhughes ugh sorry cole I’m being forced to stay!

colemcward boo you stink jack.

ynhughes ^

jackhughes don’t agree with him!

ynhughes sorry but it’s in my contract that I have to agree with him when it comes to you

jackhughes what contract??

ynhughes canucks contract! guess who signed 🤭

jackhughes don’t play with my feelings.

lhughes_06 why are you guys posing with a dog? who’s dog is that?😭

ynhughes erm found her on the side of the road!

colemcward yep that’s totally how we found her!

lhughes_06 you guys kidnapped the dog didn’t you?.

ynhughes not exactly!

lhughes_06 not exactly? do tell

ynhughes erm sorry I’ll die in those trenches.

colemcward yeah me too.

_quinnhughes please come back

ynhughes dude I literally left 30 minutes ago, you’ll be fine

_quinnhughes no I won’t!

ynhughes fine I’ll come back

elblue6 y/f/n y/m/n hughes you better not go back and get on that plane, you have a game tomorrow.

ynhughes yes mom! I’ll send you picture updates of the view out the window so you know.

_quinnhughes she can skip it.

elblue6 quintin jerome hughes she can’t and stop trying to convince her she can.

_quinnhughes alright got it sorry mom!

tylerduke so anybody find it weird that it’s all cole on the top?

ynhughes what?? no it’s not all cole on the top, there’s also me!

lhughes_06 stop that is pretty weird, anything you need to tell us y/n.

jackhughes yeah is there??

_quinnhughes guys stop there’s nothing going on with them

ynhughes yeah what quinn said, cole and I are just certified besties🤟

colecaulfield yeah “besties”

ynhughes shut up cole!

jackhughes COLE WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!

colecaulfield nothing!

jackhughes expect Luke and I at your door tomorrow, already bought flight tickets.

ynhughes better change your locks. (cause of my brothers but also me.)

colecaulfield if anybody needs me I’ll be on a flight to disclosed location where y/n can’t find me and where the three brothers can’t either.

ynhughes bold of you to assume I can’t find you, you’re currently booking a flight for Japan

colecaulfield I’m terrified of you.

colemcward

liked by ynhughes, tykerduke, _quinnhughes and others.

colemcward finally can post my favorite photos of my girl, I love you so much thank you for the visit and the dates (I beat her at hockey and she won’t admit it!)

tagged ynhughes

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ynhughes he’s lying nobody beats me at hockey(just ask matthew or brady! they’ll tell you the truth )

matthew.tkachuk she’s right nobody beats her

colemcward lame you could’ve taken my side!

matthew.tkachuk and get hit with her hockey stick during games? I’m good you’re on your own during this one kid

jackhughes ahem @/_quinnhughes quoting you “guys stop there’s nothing going on with them” how stupid do you feel right now!

lhughes_06 gonna need to hear him actually say “I’m so stupid for thinking there’s nothing going on between them”

ynhughes actually I need to hear this too

colemcward same so babe come here quickly

ynhughes don’t rush me but coming

_quinnhughes YOURE STILL IN VANCOUVER?! You better come see me right now.

titobeavui91 sorry but she’s currently visiting me with Cole so you’ll have to wait your turn.

_quinnhughes I know where you live so I’ll be there soon

trevorzegras ew you guys are sick (cute but sick)

ynhughes call it sick again and that hockey stick you gave me will be finding a new home and it’s not appropriate enough to say online!

trevorzegras I’m sorry you guys aren’t sick! I love your relationship so much and it’s so cute, best nhl couple ever!

ynhughes thanks bestie love you!

colecaulfield FINALLY now I can post all the cute sick pictures I took of you guys when you came to visit me!

ynhughes thanks cole! (send them to me!)

trevorzegras he can call you sick cute but I can’t??

ynhughes actually he called the pictures sick cute not us! Think you getting bashed into the boards is messing up your reading , do I need to help you with that again?

trevorzegras oh I’m so cross checking you.

ynhughes try it you won’t be able to!

jamiedrysdale and you hit him in the spot, love it💀

ynhughes me too! If he hugs a stick and cry again send it to me!

tylerduke now you guys should come see me! I miss our trio

ynhughes booking a ticket right now sorry @/_quinnhughes skipping our dinner tonight and captain cole won’t be at practice tomorrow!

colemcward we’ll be there soon Ty!

tylerduke thank god I need y/n to keep me sane around the umich boys.

markestapa all of us are offended, we are not that bad!

ynhughes you are.

lhughes_06 she’s right sorry guys

markestapa don’t come back now.

ynhughes too late tickets are bought!

#cole mcward x hughes sister #cole mcward x reader #cole mcward #quinn hughes #luke hughes #jack hughes #trevor zegras #jamie drysdale #cole caufield #tyler duke #matthew tkachuk

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whimsiandwild · 5 months

Text

Come To Me: Part Three

Pairing: Durgetash [Gortash x Female!Durge]

Word Count: 2100

Warnings: SPICY SPICY SPICY. They smash, it's spicy. Oral[receiving], vaginal sex, some slightly depraved violence (#justdurgethings)

A/N: I did warn you all I had a dream about this bit, so you've had fair warning. Enjoy :)

Tagging: @durgeteriormotives @syrips @ixora111 @feydstan @neko-rhapsodos @quietdemonuwu @tavs-brainworm @lapinetroses

The disgusting, mutant little creature before her seemed so thoroughly and genuinely delighted to see her that Tav didn’t really know how to respond. It was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen, in a little suit and top hat, but it was strangely endearing. She almost felt some sort of warmth towards it. It was then that she decided she had well and truly tipped over the edge; her actions tonight had already been proof enough of that.

“Wh- what are you?” she squeaked, clearing her throat as she scooted back away from it.

“Sceleritas Fel, forever at your service, my depraved mistress,” He swept his hat off as he fell into a deep bow, straightening only after he’d felt was an appropriate amount of respect. “I have been praying every day to your father that you might finally have need of me again, and here you are! As messy a pup as I ever remembered.”

He gave a strange laugh and Tav stared down at the mutilated corpse, giving a small shriek and dropping the remaining flesh to the floor as a full blown panic set in.

“Oh gods! What have I done?”

“It is only your nature, mistress, do not fret. I shall have things tidied and taken to the temple before sun’s light.”

“Temple? What… what are you talking about?!”

“Why, your father’s temple, of course, my rotted lady! The Temple of Bhaal, beneath this very city. Unfortunately, Orin has stolen your seat but I look forward to the brutality you shall bestow upon her when you return home.”

Her mind was spinning. This was too much to process, and it proved that Gortash hadn’t lied to her. That was the thing that was surprising her most, not her actions or her deplorable butler, the fact that this man had been completely honest with her. He was the first and only person so far who’d been open from the start.

“What am I supposed to do? Hey!” She snapped a bloody finger in front of his face, the thing muttering to himself about clean up processes. “If you’re sworn to me or whatever, bloody well help me!”

Sceleritas pondered for a moment before sighing; he seemed most disgruntled. A hand slipped inside of his suit jacket and handed her a potion, a silvery concoction in a diamond-shaped vial.

“Take this, it should give you enough time to get to him,” he grimaced, Tav lifting a brow at his comment. “He will help you. Your Gortash,” The words made her stomach flip; her Gortash. “Drink the vial and go straight away. I will return to you at some other time, mistress.”

He dipped into another bow as Tav stood, eyeing the vial as she did. Pulling out the stopper, she paused before it could hit her lips.

“Um.. Sceleritas?,” She smiled as his head snapped up, his eyes huge as he gazed at her in adoration. “Thanks.”

Swallowing down the potion in one; it wasn’t as pleasant tasting as it looked; and tossed the vial to the floor, the butler scurrying to retrieve it. Her entire body tingled but that was about it; she wasn’t exactly sure what it had done, if had done anything.

“Remember, mistress, this will last an hour unless you attack or use magic. Do take care, my lady.”

Turning his back to her, Sceleritas began his work, Tav watching him for a few seconds more before exiting.

It was only as she had walked along the streets of Baldur’s Gate that she had realised the use of the potion. It occurred to her that walking around, covered head to toe in gore might not leave the best impression upon guards and townsfolk but everyone she’d walked past had ignored her, like she wasn’t even there. Tav had soon caught her reflection in a window, or lack there of; he’d given her an invisibility potion. She really would have to find a better way of thanking him.

Slipping past Heram and his fellow guard, Tav had to be stealthy as she pulled open the doors leading into the ceremony hall. She tripped a couple of times, knocking some boxes flying, much to the surprise of the dozing guards on the benches. Thankfully, she made it to the top, to Gortash, within about half an hour of drinking the potion. Now, however, she had a different problem. She opened his door a crack and squeezed through before closing it as quietly as she could. Unfortunately for her, his hearing was impecable.

“Who’s there? Who has the audacity to enter my chambers without permission?”

Tav couldn’t help but giggle at the authoritarian tone of his words, Gortash storming into the foyer and looking around. When he found no one waiting for him, he was immediately defensive, picking up a letter opener before venturing further into the room.

What was she supposed to do? What had the butler said? Attack or… A switch flipped in her mind and she raised her hand, trying desperately to remember the incantation Gale had taught her. Eventually, a tiny flame of light appeared on her palm, Gortash jumping out of his skin as she reappeared from nothing. His jaw dropped as he took in her appearance, the knife dropping with a clang to the floor.

“Enver,” she whispered, the severity of the situation resting heavily on her suddenly, tears brimming her eyes. “Help me.”

Gortash had jumped into action the moment she’d uttered the words, hiding her behind a column as he ordered for two baths to be drawn in his quarters, no questions asked, and there would be consequences for anyone who entered for the rest of the night. Dire consequences.

That was how Tav had ended up in this second bath, her knees curled into her chest as Gortash ran thick fingers through her tangled hair, cleaning it of mess. His shirt and gloves were tossed to the side, along with her own ruined clothing. She’d glanced at them a few times, thinking how easy it would be to take the netherstone and run, but she didn’t want to.

Resting her cheek on her arm as he dried his hands off, she stared blankly at the other tub, the water crimson and filled with god knows what that had come off of her; it’s why he’d ordered for two.

“You hair is once again luscious and clean, kitten,” he informed her, his fingers running delicate patterns over her back that gave her goosepimples. “Are you alright? It must have been quite a shock.”

“I don’t know what came over me. Sceleritas seemed thrilled by it,” she told him, feeling completely defeated.

“Ah, the butler,” Enver gave a cold laugh, disdain in his voice as he spoke. “He never liked me, you know. I always thought he coddled you too much. You didn’t need coddling.”

“What did I need?”

Silence fell and he was by her side, lifting her head with gentle fingers so they were eye to eye.

“Love. And it’s what I gave you. Until the very end.”

He was so earnest, so serious, that she could have wept. Their connection was so strong, so intense, but she still felt he was a stranger. She allowed her hand to cup his cheek for a moment, Gortash eagerly leaning into the touch like a man starved.

“Would you still give it to me now? Knowing what a monster I am?” she frowned, sniffing back tears as she stroked his temple with her thumb.

“In an instant,” he replied at once, clutching her hand in both of his and placing it over his heart, Tav clawing at the rough hair beneath her fingers. “And you’re not a monster. I’ve never thought so, at least. You are a force to be reckoned with, Bhaal’s chosen and favourite. I would forsake Bane to keep one as extraordinary and beautiful as you by my side.”

“What about the netherstone? Would you forsake that?”

“No,” he said frankly, her face falling. “Only because I would want us to use the stones so we may rule this world. Together. Just like we planned.”

“Enver-.”

“I love you, Tav,” He stressed the words, his grip on her hand almost painful. “I will always love you, whether you regain your memories or not. I am yours and you are mine, and we will rule over Faerûn as we were destined. I love you.”

A quiet sob caught in her throat and she kissed him fiercely, water sloshing over the sides and soaking what was left of his clothes. He returned it in earnest, heaving her out of the water and wrapping her in his arms. He never broke their kiss as he lay her gently on a blanket, everything about the moment enveloping and overwhelming both of them. For her, it was giving in to inescapable fate; for him, it was blissfully returning to the embrace of his lover.

He peppered kisses all over her face, her jaw, her shoulders, slowly working his way lower. The attention he showed her breasts had her eyes rolling, and then he lay his stubbled cheek against her hip, one of his hands running across the soft curve of her thigh.

“Let me taste you, kitten. I need to see if you’re still as sweet as I remember.”

All she could do was nod, not really having the words to offer him as his lips trailed lower and lower until they were at the most sensitive part of her body. He lavished her, worshipped her, had her writhing and squirming under his touch and his tongue, his fingers all too happy to aid in her pleasure. She was hot, her heart racing, and her back arched as euphoria washed over her, her walls clenching around his fingers as she cried out. He moaned against her skin, sending more sparks through her.

“As expected,” he smirked, kissing her hotly before allowing her to lick his fingers clean, hissing as she sucked on them. “You are still as delicious as ever, kitten. Perhaps more so than before.”

Cupping his face in her hands, she pulled him to her, their lips crashing into one another for another frenzied kiss as he shimmied out of his trousers. She gasped as he pressed himself against her sopping core, the feeling of him so familiar she could cry.

“Will you allow me?” he panted, pausing his lusftul motions for a mere moment before she assented.

He was buried in her within seconds, both of them unable to hold back the sounds pleasure that escaped them, Gortash burying his head in her shoulder as he began to move his hips, slow, languid rolls that had her clinging to him.

Tav hadn’t expected this, any of this, but it felt so right. She wished she could remember them as he did, share his memories, but she would have to content herself with the new ones they were making for now. He felt incredible inside her, and she knew, deep down, this had always been the case; they fit perfectly together.

Despite his decision to start slow, he soon lost control of himself and his hips were snapping back and forth with ferocious speed, Tav crying out his name as her fingers gripped the blanket beneath her. She was so close, and it was encouraging those now all too familiar terrible urges. Without lifting his head, Gortash placed the letter opener in her hand, gritting his teeth as his thrusts grew sloppy.

“Just do it,” he growled, his fingers bruising her hips as he pinned them to the floor.

It was an almost out of body experience as she came for a second time, Enver grunting as she seized him from the inside. The knife plunged into his shoulder, the man growling and tightening his grip further as he continued his assault. Tav felt that feral nature coming on again and tossed the knife aside, still moaning as she wrapped her lips around the wound, biting and sucking until she tasted the copper taint of him on her tongue. It was too much for Gortash, spilling into her with a guttaral moan as she continued to steal what was his.

“Gods, kitten,” he breathed, falling weakly atop her as she finally released him; the weight of him felt good, comforting almost. “I always forget how good you are.”

Her arm snaked around his shoulder, her free hand toying with the small cut that was still dripping his blood onto her chest. She smiled, feeling full, content, and happy.

They’d crossed a line now, and she wasn’t nearly as upset about it as she’d ought to be.

“Forgive me, father,” she whispered, tugging at her lover’s hair as he squeezed her tighter.

She was in way over her head, but she didn’t mind at all.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate #enver gortash #durgetash #lord gortash #gortash x durge #gortash x tav #the dark urge #durge #SMUT #THEY HAVE SEX

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