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zhongrin · 1 year

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cium aku dong?

◇ characters ◇ zhongli, childe, wanderer, cyno, al haitham, tighnari, xiao, ayato, diluc, kaeya, kazuha, kaveh, thoma, dottore, pantalone

◇ tags ◇ fluff, domestic, established relationship, kisses. LOTS of kisses (duh), slight angst (kaeya i'm so sorry), slight suggestiveness on some, slight possessiveness on some

◇ a/n ◇ [en] “kiss me please?” aka the ways they ask for a kiss <3 uh? what... what do you mean i clearly have favorites? i-i don't..... *nervous sweating* ANYWAY. merry xmas yall!! we all deserve fluff this holiday season so enjoy <3

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

“can i have my special tea?”

“darling, may i?”

zhongli is a natural at pulling you in for a kiss; most of the time he doesn’t expect you to kiss back, but he would be over the moon if you do.

you’re passing each other in the hallway of your house? he just leans towards you to place a fleeting kiss on your shoulder. you’re doing something and he passes behind you? he leans over to place a kiss on the top of your head and goes off his way. you sit beside him and plop your head on his shoulder? he smiles and scratches your scalp and places a sweet kiss on your forehead.

unfortunately (for you), on some occasions when he’s feeling a little playful, he might become a little tease; kissing you everywhere but your lips until you protest. to which he’ll chuckle fondly before finally giving in, pressing a soft fleeting kiss that promises you more when the curtains close for the day.

“kiss meeeeeeeee!!!!”

“[name]…. who was that person....?”

childe is a master of surprise kisses! he makes use of his skill to erase his presence to sneak up on you when you’re relaxing, before suddenly tackling you into a hug and kissing you all over your face.

when he’s in the mood for kisses, he becomes a ravenous kissing monster who can only be satiated after at least fifty proper kisses. or perhaps a few rounds of long, drawn-out make-out sessions.

just don’t deny him of his kisses because then he’ll brood and it’ll be his poor subordinates who get the burnt of his frustration. and if you get gifts on your doorstep with a recruit insignia badge, you probably should storm your boyfriend’s office before he actually kills someone.

“what? what’s that look for? heh, if you wanted a kiss you could’ve just asked. i~diot.” *cue the heart-piercing, soul-ascending blep*

“hey. come here.”

wanderer is either endlessly taunting you for the whole day, or being very blunt (while blushing furiously) as he motions you to come over. there’s no in-between.

you either kiss him, which will result in a smug smirk and perhaps a haughty ‘hmph, knew you can’t get enough of me’. or you just don’t… which means you’ve indirectly signed an agreement for him to be a total brat™️ for the day until he’s satisfied.

ohhh how unfortunate, your favorite scarf is blown away by the wind. ooooh, seems like it’s raining and there’s no shelter, too bad you don’t have a hat that can function as an umbrella. ooooo, what’s that? you want a hug?

ha.

in. your. dreams.

and yet when you kiss him he melts into you within 0.001 seconds.

“[name], did you know? sloths never kiss on the first date…… they take it slow.”

“can i… hold you? just for a bit?”

when the kiss puns start to drop left right and center, you know it’s cyno’s way to ask for a kiss.

... the man uses his jokes to get people to be less way of them instead of saying it out loud, what did you expect?

he might not realize it, but he stares at you especially hard on these occasions. if it were others, they would have feared for your life, but you know this is cyno’s version of the infamous wet puppy eyes. personally, you think it’s very adorable because it’s so very him, so you can’t help but pretend you don't understand just to tease him more.

the population thinks you must be some kind of a beast tamer in your past life, seeing as how the general mahamatra always faithfully follows behind you and always back down as soon as your touch descends upon him.

“you’re here. come sit. now kiss me.”

“i need to kiss you so you can testify to kaveh that i am, in fact, not an amateur when it comes to kissing. it would also be good if you can rate your satisfaction on a scale of one to ten- [name], where are you going?”

at the early stages of your relationship, al haitham isn't as insufferable; he takes what he gets, and he’s taking the time to get used to the idea of how he practically has the right to kiss you now.

but when that realization fully, truly sinks in?

oh boy.

he’ll be blunt, straight to the point, and unashamed. he might be blushing the first few times when he asked for your permission for a kiss. but seeing how much you got into it, hearing the breathless way you whisper his name, and witnessing the dopey smile after he’s done with you…

aha. eureka. it appears his expertise extends to kissing too. but of course, he is, as the youngsters these days say, ‘built different’, after all.

so why would he shy away from the activity?

now come kiss him.

“did you know that fennec foxes go through withdrawals when they don’t receive at least ten kisses per day? it’s true, i have conducted extensive research on it. with me as the research subject, of course, so i know the result is 99.99% reliable.”

“there, i gave you headpats. now will you give me kisses?”

always so dramatic and sassy. tighnari loves seeing the embarrassed look that crosses your face and the adorable giggles that escapes you whenever he tries to initiate the activity.

the fox hybrid likes to pat your head and lean forward so you can press a thank you kiss to his face. he doesn’t even mind where your kiss will land.

nose? kinda ticklish, but that’s very cute of you. cheek? adorable, why thank you. lips? hmmm… do that again.

“……….. what? i-i wasn’t staring!”

“[name], just a moment…. stay still.”

please just save xiao the embarrassment and kiss him regularly.

although your boyfriend might not look like he enjoys affection, he actually does. he’s just… not used to it and has no idea how to react, much less initiate physical affection. it’s something that he needs a lot of time to get used to, especially with his condition and background.

your protector yaksha is always so gentle when he asks for your loving touches - and most of the time he doesn’t even dare to ask - but the signs are there. you’ll really have to squint your eyes and tilt your head and maybe do a handstand before you realize ‘oh he wants a kiss’.

just. cuddle and kiss him darn it.

“my, what a fine morning, don’t you agree, sweetheart? it would be even more perfect if i had a morning kiss from my lovely partner, don’t you think?”

“there you are. lock the door for me, darling. now, why don't you make yourself comfortable?”

teasing words here and there, his hand touching your arm more than usual, him stopping when you pass each other in the hallway to make some insignificant small talk even though he’s clearly hurrying to a meeting…

yeah, your overworked man is in dire need of some loving.

if you give in and pull ayato for a quick kiss, he will skip over to his next appointment with a permanent smile. once again, you’ve saved the day of everyone in kamisato estate. great work, you! pat yourself on the back because you deserved it!

but continue to ignore him and you might find yourself being called to his office just to sit on his lap for hours (which, trust me, it gets boring after a while) without kisses or any sort of affection whatsoever... so pick your actions carefully.

“i know i should be working. but i wanted to… take a break.”

“love, your lips… n-no. it's just that. um. they look dry. here, use my chapstick.”

diluc? taking a break from work??

that diluc???

either he is very sick, or he is very much starved for your love. kindly think back on your day and check when was the last time you gave him a proper kiss, please.

what's that? you gave him a forehead kiss this morning to wake him up? oh. i’m sorry to say this but that’s just not enough. how dare you starve this man for four hours with no kisses. no wonder he’s unable to focus on his documents. please fulfill his lovesick daydream by barging into his office and distracting him from work with your wonderful, soft lips….

... please?

“work? mmm…. unfortunately my battery is near-empty… o kind, beautiful soul, would you help this poor man back to his feet?”

“hello my love, i came by because your lips look lonely.”

kaeya is very obviously a teasing flirt when he’s needy or bored. mostly he adores the embarrassed look on your face; he thinks it's very adorable and endearing. it's a sight he wishes to treasure and forever imprint in his mind, to peruse when doubt and darker thoughts attack him at night.

but let me tell you a secret.

yank his stupid coat and pull him into a kiss before he can use that sultry voice to tease you. kabedon him when you have the chance to, while you’re at it. watch the cavalry captain become putty in your hands. you’re welcome <3

“my dove, would you be so kind to quench this wandering man’s thirst for your sweet kisses?”

“it’s rather windy today… there you go, all set. ah, it's okay, i'm not cold. oh, i forgot. just one more thing- *kiss*…. hehe, i can see that you’re warming up already.”

longing looks and poetic words. kazuha kisses you like it’s a stray wind brushing gently on your lips, light and dreamy and leaving you wanting for more. his ruby eyes will droop with affection as you whine and pull him back for more contact. well, who is he to reject your generous invitation?

soon enough one peck becomes two, two becomes three, and then it turns into a soft makeout session and- oh is that beidou yelling at you both to get a room? haha, it seems like it’s time to change locations…

“[name] look, i finished the blueprint for our dream house! huh? oh, yeah this is the… what, fifth blueprint? well, i can’t help it! we should have at least seven houses in all seven nations- eh? t-the mora? uhhhhh…”

“i need… i need inspiration… my muse… i need my muse…”

you know it’s bad bad when kaveh trudges onto your side like a zombie that’s been out running after people’s brains for far too long.

he slumps onto you completely (good luck supporting a claymore user) and basks in your presence, arms wound tight on your middle section. it seems like you’ve deprived him of kisses for far too long. he’ll recover faster if you hug him back and run your fingers through his silky locks. when he pulls back slightly to pout at you, and you place a sweet kiss on his lips, it’s like you’ve flipped a switch.

the legendary architect's eyes widen and his downturned lips flip upside down. he kisses you back with vigor and runs back to his drawing room shouting about some new calculations and other kind of materials he could use. what a dork.

“[name]….” *insert the most adorable, heart-wrenching, chest-squeezing, wet puppy eyes here*

“i’ll be going now. have a good day, okay? i love you!”

like a faithful shiba inu, thoma beams and stares at you expectantly near the front door of your shared residence, waiting for that kiss you never fail to give him every single time he’s about to head out to work in the mornings.

will you ignore him and risk getting ayaka to visit you because ‘thoma seems very sad and distracted today, did you have a fight? why don’t you talk it out, i know you both treasure each other', or will you be an angel and make him start his day with the loveliest gift you can bestow your loyal lover?

“based on the monitoring data of your hormones over the past few hours, it seems that you’re in need of kisses. what? me, lying? making up facts? listen to me. who’s the doctor in this relationship?”

“it appears another segment of mine has been granted the privilege of a kiss, so i demand equal treatment.”

sure, doc. hormones screaming for a kiss. will experience lethargy for the rest of the day if not fulfilled. immediate treatment is preferred as he does not want to be stuck with a grumpy, needy lover for the rest of the day, blah blah blah-

look. i'll translate for you.

he wants a kiss. dottore wants a kiss. just give the mad doctor a kiss.

huh? which segment do you give a kiss to?

….. it seems like all of them want a kiss. you know, just to be fair.

good luck.

“good day, darling. i see that you’re wearing the necklace i bought you yesterday. you look ravishing indeed.”

“come here, love. i won’t ask twice.”

with every compliment directed your way and with every piece of new jewels added to your collections, pantalone expects you to give back some sort of affection. naturally. everything is a give-and-take, no? he provides you with all the luxuries and convenience a normal civilian can only dream of, and you provide him with what he asks for.

he’s not even asking for much - just don’t look at other men, focus on him and his needs, and pull him into a kiss every fifteen minutes. it's not hard of a task at all. surely you can fulfill it? otherwise, perhaps some disciplinary sessions are in order...

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wreckofawriter · 6 months

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Lucky Charm

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

pairing: james potter x reader

summary (request by @delusionalcancer): hello! I was wondering if you could do a James Potter fiction where he has a very important quidditch match and begs you to go but you can’t so he is really sad but midway through he sees you in the crowd and gets super happy? Sorry if requests are closed!

word count: 5k

warnings: weed, language, a tiny bit of angst, james calls you doll, no y/n (i think)

a/n: been really liking writing about quidditch recently lol. This is based on book!james who is a chaser not a seeker. its a bit cheesy but i think its cute

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

The common room was never quiet after Gryffindor had a quidditch match. Even when you lost -a rare occasion- there would be a crowd of bitter fans, grumbling about an unfair call or an unlucky miss, late into the night. Usually quidditch brought life and excitement to Gryffindor, no matter the outcome. But today as students in red and gold shuffled up the marble staircases and through the portrait hole they were silent, even in large groups there was no more than a hushed nervous whisper among them. The usual complaints that followed a loss had been discarded and forgotten.

It bothered you. It was uncanny and made you shift uncomfortably in your chair by the fireplace. A glance around told you that you weren't the only one feeling that way, an uneasy air had filled the room.

The match had been a brutal one, even now the heavy drops pounded against the windows of the tower, the winds shifting and fighting, unable to decide which way to blow. The air was just cold enough to turn what should have been rain to sleet, sharp and cold. Many had been surprised that the match had even taken place, expecting it to be canceled due to such terrible conditions. But the heads of houses refused to back away from a challenge, and the Gryffindor team hardly seemed to mind.

“Quidditch is played in any weather and every weather.” James had insisted, the morning before the match, “They won’t cancel a match for anything and I don't expect them to.”

You had stared up at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall anxiously watching as chunks of hail were blown sideways uneasily, “I don’t think I even wanna go watch.”

James' face dropped as soon as you said this, “What? No!” he exclaimed, “You have to come watch. You're my lucky charm!”

And of course when he said that with his lips pulled into his signature boyish pout you couldn’t deny him anything.

Gryffindor was the favorite to win this year's cup, as they were every year since James joined the house team. It wasn’t all him of course but he had something no one else seemed to possess; raw and unbridled talent. People often joked that he was born to ride a broom, but it was hardly a joke. James’ broom wasn’t something he rode, it was a part of him. It seemed to a spectator that he could hop onto it and tell it what to do with nothing but his mind. He was graceful and precise so casually it seemed as if he were hardly trying at all. Today's game against Slytherin had been a shoe in, an expected win.

Which is why the loss had come with such a heavy silence. You couldn’t deny that Slytherin thought ahead, they too had been expecting the rain and had been a bit smarter about it, casting a series of enchantments and charms onto their players, paying extra attention to their seeker. So while your team fumbled through heavy storm clouds bogged down by drenched robes, the Slytherins had a relatively easy time navigating the skies. With this advantage they had taken the opportunity to humiliate the Gryffindor team as much as possible.

Their chasers played dirty, purposefully slamming into the Gryffidors and then claiming they simply had not seen them. Their beaters were ruthless as well, using their bats for hitting more than just bludgers, one of them had hit your new third year seeker, Aada Laine, straight between the eyes with their wooden bat, breaking her glasses in two and bloodying her nose.

James, who was so used to winning and doing it easily, took this bitter start to the match poorly. His anger had risen quickly leading to a number of unnecessary fowls that the Slytherin team took with great enthusiasm and by the time Regulus had caught the snitch right from under a near blinded Aada, Slytherin was already up 120 to 40. Perhaps it was just the shame of a horrible game but as James landed he had been angrier than you had ever seen him. His usually unruly hair plastered down across his skull from the rain, one of the lenses of his glasses was cracked and he was gripping his broom so tightly you had been surprised it had not snapped in two.

His obnoxious parade that usually occurred after a match had not taken place, in fact he had not even glanced at where you, Sirius, and Remus stood waiting for him on the edge of the pitch. Instead he marched across the mucky grass straight towards the seeker.

She was sobbing uncontrollably despite the fact that her nose and glasses had both been fixed by Madame Hooch. A few other teammates stood around the young girl attempting to offer comfort. But when James reached her he did no such thing, in fact he snatched the broom from her hand and yelled so loudly that even over the whipping of the wind and the jeers of Slytherin you had heard him kick her off the team. The rest of the Gryffidors had made to protest angry shouts and bitter words thrown at James but he had simply marched across the field and into the changing room leaving Aada wailing even louder than before.

No one had seen James since, and as you sat quietly in the common room with the other students it began to seem like you were all waiting for him. Waiting for him to show up, all smiles and jokes, and everything would go back to normal. But as hours ticked by and he never showed it became clear this was not going to be the case.

By dinner time the common room had almost completely cleared out. The die-hard fans retreated to bed while the rest of the house trooped miserably to the Great Hall preparing for the taunts and jeers from the Slytherin table across the hall.

It was almost dark by the time Remus climbed through the portrait hole looking annoyed, but he grinned when he saw you.

“No dinner?” You asked him and he shook his head sitting beside you.

“Been out looking for James.”

Your eyes widened, “You still haven't found him?”

“No we did.” He assured you quickly, “He's just acting like a prick so I decided I wanted to come in and dry off.”

“Makes sense,” you sighed, “he looked furious out there.”

“Tell me about it.” Remus groaned slumping back, his wet robes soaking onto the couch as he kicked his feet up on the coffee table, “He’s sulking like a child out at the boat house.”

“Oh, he’s very mature.” You chidded and you both grinned lightly.

There was a moment of quiet and the fireplace snapped, a portrait yawning.

“I don't suppose you could go get him?” Remus asked, looking up at you hopefully.

You sighed expecting this, “What makes you think I could bring him to reason?”

“You know how he is,” Remus said and he was right. You knew exactly how James was, earnest and genuine and proud. You thought about it for a minute, Remus eyeing you hopefully. Reluctantly you gave in. “Well I best go get him.”

You mumbled complaints under your breath on your way down towards the lake, the enticing smell and warmth of the great hall taunting you as you passed.

The trail to the boat house was muddied and steep. By the time you reached the bottom you were shivering and damp, glad for the cover it provided from the wind and rain. James was seated at the edge of one of the docks staring out across the lake.

You sat next to him and he turned, “Oh.” he said, “I thought you were Sirius.”

You grimace, “Does my hair look that bad?”

James' usual laugh didn’t follow and instead he cracked a small forced grin.

You’re both quiet for a moment, the sound of the rain pounding onto the roof and splashing onto the water.

“Congrats on the game by the way.” You say.

“What?” James looked at you bitterly, “That's not funny.”

You grin, “Yeah but you were, I’d stand out in that shit weather to watch you knock Connaham off his broom again.”

James paused, “He scored because of that.”

“Eh, whatever,” you shrug, “Totally worth it.”

You were expecting a laugh but instead James just shook his head, “You don’t understand.”

“Well then explain it to me.” You said, rolling your eyes playfully at him.

“We’ve got absolutely no chance at the cup anymore.” He says fiercely.

You shrug again, “Since when I thought we were favorites? You just lost one game.”

By the way James looks at you you can tell he's getting frustrated but you don't back off keeping his gaze lock with yours.

“Ravenclaw hasn’t lost at all, and there's no way we're beating them by 230 points. We’d have to be 80 points up and catch the snitch.”

“That doesn't mean impossible.” You point out and he glares.

“You don't understand quidditch.”

“Says who?” you say and he shoots you a look, “Okay so what if I don't understand quidditch, I do understand that you're bloody good at it.”

Your praise raises a genuine smile out of him for the first time that night.

“Didn’t know you thought so highly of me.” He said, wiggling his brows.

“Don't let it go to your head.”

There's another pause in conversation and you take the opportunity to pull a small joint from the pocket of your robes.

James grins, “Ah so this is the reason you're out in the cold.”

“What? No! I'm here purely to comfort you.” You giggle, lighting it with the flick of your wand.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye, the way your face lights up from the soft orange glow of burning hash. Your eyes sparkle and your lips pucker as you exhale. He finds it hard to look away but does so quickly when you turn to look at him.

“Want some?”

He nods and takes the joint from you grinning, “Thanks doll.”

You flush at the pet name, something he called you a bit too often.

The two of you pass it back and forth a couple times silently, watching the cold rain splatter onto the surface of the lake.

“You should really apologize to Aada though.” You mumble the slight buzz of your high making your voice sound floaty.

James doesn't say anything for a moment before he folds his arms stubbornly, “I was serious about that. She played like shit.”

You furrow your brow, “You all did James, that's not fair.”

Heat rises to his cheeks as shame bubbles in his stomach, “I don’t care if it's not fair. That snitch was four centimeters from her nose when Black caught it. She cost us the game.”

“Her broken nose.” You fight back, “And it's a team sport, she screwed up yeah, but so did you.”

Embarrassment flooded James' head in an angry red, “If it weren't for me it would have been a bloody blowout!” He snaps and you're taken aback, “I scored every damn point we had and youre saying I screwed up?”

You look at him bitterly, “Yeah I am. You let yourself get all pissed off before the game was even up and your team fell apart. You're the captain, take some responsibility.” you scoff.

James is now glowering, the softness of being high turned sharp and awkward, “You don’t even know what youre talking about.”

“I may know nothing about quidditch James but I do know that making a little girl cry over a game is a prick move.” You spit.

“It's not just a game!” He shouted at you so loud you flinched back.

Your eyes are narrowed as you stand, “That's exactly what it is James, a game. And you let yourself get all worked up over it like a child.”

He tenses as you speak, he feels as if someone had punched him in the gut when you look at him like that. But his pride takes over in a swoop and anger rises as he stands too, “What are you even doing down here?” He demands, “To smoke fucking weed and ‘comfort me’? You're not my bloody girlfriend!”

You stop dropping your shoulders, he was right of course, you weren't his girlfriend. As much as everyone always seemed to assume you were, as much as you flirted and touched, sneaking off together into the night beneath his cloak. The two of you had always toed the line of intimacy but you had yet to cross it, something you lay awake thinking about most nights.

“You're right.” You state firmly, “I don’t know what I’m doing down here.” And you turn, throwing the roach onto the ground and stomping it out. You're back out into the night grateful, as the weather hides your tears.

James doesn't follow though he bites his tongue harshly when you leave, wanting to call out, apologize and beg you to stay with him. But he doesn't, just watching you go with balled fists before he yells and swings at the stone wall.

The next morning is awkward when James makes it down to the great hall for breakfast, his hair messier than usual and dark circles under his eyes, the knuckles on his right hand scabbed.

The two of you sit on opposite sides of Sirius who carried the conversation on his back with great effort.

“Godric, what is up with you two?” He asks finally, “You’re walking around like fuckin’ corpses.”

“Nothing.” you shrug not meeting his eyes, “Just tired.”

Sirius eyes you both, and then glances at Remus who is mentally praying for him to shut up. “Sure…”

You excuse yourself to head to Arithmancy and Sirius turns to James immediately, “So you guys finally shagged huh?”

James sputters and Remus scoffs in disbelief.

“That's not while you’re all awkward?” He gaped, “What the hell else could it be?”

James grimaced, “We just… had an argument. “

“Don’t tell me it was over Quidditch.” Sirius says and James looks away, “Christ you're an idiot.”

James just nods in agreement, letting his head rest in his arms. All of the anger he felt towards you had been replaced by regret over his sleepless night and now all he wanted was for you to smile at him, but you wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

“Well, apologize.” Remus says, beginning to pack up his things, “Seems you have a lot of apologizing to do after yesterday.”

James stares gloomily at where you had been sitting, “Yeah I know.”

It's not till lunch when he finally gets you alone, cornering you on your way out of Herbology and back up to the castle. The grounds are wet from yesterday's weather and your shoes are covered in mud.

“I’m sorry.” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, “I didn’t mean to yell at you last night, I was just upset and tired and I… I shouldn’t have done that. I'm really sorry doll.”

You eye him skeptically, looking for a hint of anything but pure sincerity, but find none. His eyes are glued to you like he's begging you to forgive him and as usual you just can't say no.

“All’s forgiven James.” You say simply, “Though you're lucky I didn't push you into the lake.”

Neither of you mention the real reason you stormed back to the castle last night, what he had said about what you were, or more what you weren’t. The topic seemed too heavy for the bright sun that seeps through cracks in the clouds.

He grins and throws an arm around you, “See this is why you're the best.”

You raise a brow, “Why ‘cuz I put up with all your bullshit?”

“No, because you forgive me for all my bullshit.”

“That's because I know you're an idiot who only means about half of what he says.” You snicker and it feels as if the world has gone back to spinning when he leans into you.

“I'd give myself at least a good three quarters.” He smirks.

“Of course you would.”

Remus looks pleased to see you hooked under James’ arm when you enter the common room, “See you two have kissed and made up.”

You flush.

“I think we're missing half that equation.” James said slyly, leaning in to peck your cheek, “There, all better.”

“Get off me James,” You huff, heart pounding as you half-heartedly push him away to take a seat on the couch and you know everything is back to normal when he sits beside you and throws his arm back over your shoulder with a pout.

And things stay normal, well as normal as they usually are.

The weather begins to warm and the trees begin to sprout new growth, green and pink flowering across the forest whenever you look out the window. A sense of excitement has gathered in the students, even as exams approach the sun gleaming through dusty windows in the castle make everyone feel giddy.

James has been practicing non-stop now as the final match against Ravenclaw approaches. He's out late, keeping the team out till dark to run drill after drill, play after play. He's even taken to giving private lessons to the new seeker, “Can’t have them falling apart when I leave, doll,'' He explained when you asked, “Plus I need her to be prepared for the match, we’re gonna win that cup again I swear.”

It was nice to see he was nothing but optimism again, his natural state. But it all crashed to the ground when the date for the match was set.

Your eyes go wide when he tells you, “The 16th?”

“Yeah, so you better start making your ‘Go Potter’ banner now.” He says cheekily.

“James..” You pause and feel guilt bubble in your chest, “I have my apparition test on the 16th. It was set ages ago.”

His face falls, “I thought we all took the test back in January!”

You shake your head, “Wasn’t 17 yet, my mum had to pull some strings so I didn't have to wait till summer.”

“So you can't come?” He’s devastated, his heart sinking into his stomach, he doesn't just want you there, he needs you there; to glance down at in the crowd after he scores, to wink at as he sweeps past, “But youre my lucky charm.” His voice is so soft it hurts.

“I know James, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.” You look down at your hands unable to handle the disappointment that was written on his face.

He doesn't say anything, just staring down at the food on his plate. Suddenly his appetite was gone, he didn’t know what to think, how to think. What was even the point of quidditch if you couldn’t be impressed by his amazing dives and dodges?, “Will you at least be there before the match?” he asks.

You shake your head, “I’m leaving Friday after classes. My mum is gonna bring me back on Sunday.”

And he wanted to cry, it was childish and dramatic but it felt like you were abandoning him before his big moment, his big match, one that he had been working so incredibly hard to win, “Oh.” is all he can muster out and you're both left looking at your laps.

You apologize again, and try not to let the heaviness in your chest drag you through the floor. You weren’t sure if there was anything worse than disappointing him, you preferred him fiery and fuming.

When James reached the Quidditch pitch for practice that day he seemed to have lost all of his energy, his feet dragging. He kept getting asked if he was okay and he kept saying yes even though it felt like someone had smashed him to bits and put him back together with nothing but scotch tape.

He played terribly, his usual charisma lost leaving his passes stale. He felt anger rising with every mistake he made, how could he let this happen? How could he let you have so much impact on him? How could one person missing from a stand of hundreds make him not even want to play? It was infuriating how obsessed he had become with you. Sirius and Remus had warned him this would happen, that his little crush would grow into a bulging monster, and they had been right. He simply couldn’t help it, you were stunning. And funny and brilliant and every other positive adjective he could possibly come up with, he would list what he liked about you for years if you asked. It was this reason he just couldn’t bring himself to confess, the only thing worse than having to keep you at arm's length was losing you altogether. And despite his friend's assurance that his feelings were returned he just couldn’t risk it, he couldn’t risk being wrong and not even being able to call you his friend anymore. Because, once again, he needed you.

So he played it up, with the petnames and the touches, he took what he could trying to make it obvious, to convince you to make the move he so desperately wanted to. But you hadn't, you had just blushed and giggled, turning his heart to mush.

And now he was sitting in an empty locker room, tears spilling down his cheeks because you couldn’t be at the most important game he had ever played, would ever play. He wiped them away desperately but they just kept coming, making his face feel hot and his head throb.

The ache didn’t go away over time like he thought it would but grew, weighing him down like a ball and chain. Everyone noticed, his friends, his teammates and worst of all you.

You kept apologizing, like it was your fault that his match had been scheduled on the one weekend you would be out of the castle. He could tell you felt terrible about it and it only made him feel worse that he wasn’t just bringing down his own performance but your own. If you didn’t pass your exam he was sure it would be his fault for making his own devastation at your departure so obvious.

The sixteenth approached with building anticipation, the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors that usually got on quite well had begun to shout obscenities at each other at dinner. Team members were taunted constantly in corridors on the way to classes, a duel had even broken out between two beaters, landing them both in the hospital wing for a short spell. But of course ever the strategist, the Ravenclaws had saved their best ammo for last.

It was Friday night before the match and you had already left giving James a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek ‘for luck’ that had actually improved his mood quite a bit. As if sensing this the Ravenclaw captain had materialized before him on his way back from dinner with a sick grin on his face.

“Heard not even your girlfriend wants to watch you lose tomorrow Potter.”

James flushed red, “Piss off, Robinson.”

He just laughed, “I mean after your horrid performance last match I bet you asked her to leave huh?”

James tried to swallow his fury but he was not doing very well, his fists bunching at his sides.

“Maybe when I win she’ll realize you're all talk and finally go on that date with me.” he taunts.

James knows this is very untrue, you had confessed to him many times that you found Robinson nothing short of annoying, claiming he had an even bigger head than himself, but he still felt jealousy rising in his gut. Would you think less of him if he lost again? Would you laugh about it behind his back? Would you give some other guy a kiss on the cheek and wish him luck instead? He wasn’t sure he could bear even the thought.

He strode past Robinson with a seething glance, “You're gonna be bloody crying by the time the match is over tomorrow.” He hissed and then marched up the stairs to a restless night of dreams involving you kissing some faceless guy in blue quidditch robes.

James felt sick the next morning, his head was throbbing behind his eyes and no matter how much bacon he tried to force into his mouth he just didn’t feel like eating. It wasn’t until Aada came up to him literally shaking from nerves that he realized he was just gonna have to pretend to be okay.

He gave his usual pep talk in the locker room, but his eyes were cold and hard instead of the usual glowing excitement that he alluded. The team was tense when they marched out onto the field, the sun was out and the sky was clear. A cold morning breeze swept across the grass as he shook hands with a smirking Robinson and he shivered.

The whistle blew and it began.

“Potter with the quaffle!” The commentator began, “Nice dodge there, oh that looked like it hurt! It’s Ravenclaw with it now.”

James growled rubbing his side where the bludger had hit him and racing after the girl who had snatched his fumble.

The game pushed on and James was surprised to find that while he was playing mediocre at best, the rest of the team seemed to be making up for it on the tenfold. Aada, who had been instructed to do nothing but annoy the Ravenclaw seeker until Gryffindor was eighty points up was doing a magnificent job, the extra time he had put into training her showing obviously in her skillful maneuvering and dives. The beaters had yet to miss a hit and twice James had been able to score with only the keeper as an obstacle.

Despite the fact that they had gone in at a significant disadvantage the Gryffindors were shockingly loud, James didn’t glance much at the crowd, afraid it would make him realize who wasn’t there more than who was, but he could hear them even over the whooshing of wind in his ears.

They were almost an hour into the game when the snitch was first spotted, but only 50 points up, Aada was unable to go for it and instead took the opportunity to run straight into the Ravenclaw keeper, nearly knocking him off his broom. She played it off beautifully, tears and all, and it cost them only one penalty shot which their keeper saved. James could have hugged them both.

When the quaffle was tossed after, Robinson had snatched it from James’ grasp and sped towards the hoops. A bludger caught him in the side and the quaffle spiraled from his grip down towards the Gryffindor crowd, James raced after it, his feet sweeping inches from the heads of his classmates when he caught it with a roll. It was then that something caught his eye.

A flag so large it was being held by four people was spread and waving mere inches from his face, the words, “Go Potter!” sprawled on it in red and gold ink that had been enchanted to send off sparks that crackled and snapped with golden light.

He looked down and saw you staring up at him, a red hat pulled over your head as you cranned up at him, waving your arms as wildly as you could possibly manage. You were grinning so wide he could see each of your teeth, your cheeks pink and eyes glinting as you cheered up at him.

When you locked eyes he felt his heart rise from his stomach and pound away in his chest. He wanted to drop into the stands that very moment, take you into his arms and kiss you stupid. But instead he sent you a wink and sped off towards the goals feeling like someone had just gifted him a pair of wings.

“Potter with the quaffle, bludger coming his way. A beautiful dodge!” The commentator yelled, “And he's looped Robinson as well, look at him go!”

James had never felt so confident in his life, and he scored with ease again and again, coming to do a victory lap round your flag each time he did.

“And Potter scores again!” shouted the loudspeakers, “He has been simply unstoppable! Gryffindor leads 160 to 80!”

The cheers were deafening around you and James once again hoovered above you momentarily, blowing you a kiss that caused your cheeks to light on fire. He was actually doing it, he was winning the match he had told you was impossible and pride swelled in your stomach. It wasn't ten minutes later when Aada caught the snitch and it was official, you had won, both the game and the cup.

The team hurdled to the ground and swarmed their seeker, but James had started in a run the opposite way, towards the crowd that was now rushing out onto the pitch.

He shoved past the first few to reach him and beelined for where you were jogging at him, arms spread.

You collided with such force that if he hadn’t lifted you into the air you were sure you would have toppled over onto the ground. His arms wrapped around your waist spinning you around with a shout, “You came!”

You nodded, smiling so hard it hurt, you looked down at him, his cheeks flushed, brown eyes glistening in the sunlight and you knew at that moment that it was meant to be. You took both hands and cupped his face pulling it into yours and kissing him feverishly.

There was a loud chorus of cheers and whoops around you but neither of you heard, too lost in the taste of one another. When you broke away he was grinning even wider, “You passed then?”

You had forgotten all about your test that morning, but he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t.

“Yeah, I disappeared as soon as they handed me my license.” You giggled, heart hammering in your chest, “Mum’s gonna kill me for missing dinner.”

“You’re a bloody treasure doll.” He laughed, and then he drew you into another kiss squeezing you tight around the middle as your hands ran through his hair. “My lucky charm.”

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

taglist: : @accio-rogers @roslea @sleepingalaska @the-natureofme @sarcasticallywitty @rosieweasley @dracosgoodgirl @inglourious-imagines @princess-jules47 @daedreams @d22malfoys @evyiione

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julianrahmat · 3 months

Text

If you like what I do, please consider supporting me on Patreon

"Draconid legends tell of the Arch Dragonlord who would descend from the heavens to intervene in the eons-old feud between Groudon and Kyogre. But this intervention would result in the complete devastation of Hoenn"

-Draconid Lorekeeper

Rayquaza, the Sky High Pokemon, has descended! It is the third mascot of the third generation of Pokemon games.

Pokemon

Rayquaza spends most of its life in the skies, and will never touch the earth for several millennia at a time. It feeds on water particles and fallen stars in the skies as it travels the world several times a year. It is said the worst storms endured by the Draconid people are caused by Rayquaza, as violent clashes in the sky seem to herald the coming of a hurricane in the Hoenn Region.

Rayquaza is another "final boss" sort of monster, and the battle takes place atop the Sky Pillar, a towering ancient structure in the center of a hurricane caused by Rayquaza's wrath. While Groudon and Kyogre's clash has been ended by the hunters of the League, Rayquaza's wrath remains unsatiable.

Rayquaza manipulates the weather by controlling the flow of the winds, and the weather can go from a bright sunny day to a violent hailstorm during the battle. To mitigate this hunters must prepare hot and cold drinks for field consumption, lest they suffer the effects of adverse weather. Rayquaza can instantly eliminate any hunters blown away by its Hurricane move, so hunters should retreat or take shelter when it executes this move, or they can risk it by trying to knock it down, as Rayquaza can be vulnerable at this time.

Armor

Rayquaza armor mitigates all weather effects, while providing buffs according to which weather is in effect. Sunny day improves attack, Sandstorm improves defense, Rain improves stamina regeneration and Hail mitigates sharpness decrease.

Weapons

Rayquaza weapons deal Dragon damage while grounded, and Flying damage while airborne

Outro

This release is a regular one, so patrons will be charged for it. If you like what I do please subscribe or share this on your socials (as soon as this is public). I'd love to continue doing this, but perhaps at one point I want to do a release that is just endemic life pokemon. Like Voltrobs as treasure mimics and Stunfisk as environmental traps.

Next will be Mega Rayquaza, stay tuned. And after that, new polls will be held. Happy Year of the Dragon everyone.

#monster hunter #pokemon #armor design #weapon design #pocket monster hunter #armor #weapon #Rayquaza

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humanpurposes · 8 months

Text

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause.

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess.

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond.

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her.

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that.

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain.

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy.

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice–

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty.

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here.

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him.

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter.

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes.

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.”

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers.

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again.

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless.

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy.

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess.

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x ofc #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond oneshot #aemond one eye #Spotify

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wroteclassicaly · 1 year

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Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, smut, NSFW, and vaginal sex!

A/N: Idk what this is, but I came up with it last night, so here you go. I miss posting (I’m working on stuff, though), and I figured I’d just go with the flow of this mini drabble idea. Love y’all! ❤️

Eddie sneaking into your window at night, because he’s woken up and he can’t stop squirming, needing to have you now. He usually opts for knocking or using the spare key you’d given him, but he kind of lost it in the mess that is his room (it’s buried under campaign idea sheets), and it’s late. His van is loud as it cruises down your street and finds your residence, his cock already aching in his black sweats. He’s fucking freezing, the only thing keeping him warm beside his sweats is a cut off white crop top with a faded Marlboro label (a shirt of Wayne’s he was given and made his own), his boots are halfway on and unlaced, making him nearly trip as he hobbles to your bedroom window and does his expert lock picking thing. It’s comical to try and clamber through a window with a raging boner.

He hisses when he successfully gains entry, latching the window behind him, then kicking off his boots to warm his toes in the comfort of your rug. Your form is curled around your pillow, your breathing even and steady. You look so fucking soft, so ripe. Eddie wants more than a taste. He slips easily out of his sweats and his shirt, boxers halfway down his hips, too painful to get off.

Eddie’s ring clad hand slides up and down your quilt covered side, sheets rustling as you slowly turn, his voice immediately easing your worried confusion. Those plush lips that taste like fresh cigarettes and cinnamon find your temple, kissing just lightly. “Mhm…? Eddie?” It’s a stifled whimper, an appreciative yawn. “What time s’ it?” You mumble.

With every letter you speak, Eddie is that much closer to losing it, the ache twisting in his gut. He’s beyond desperate, already peeling your layered blankets back and climbing in behind you, rolling his hips into your backside, cold hands finding hovering purchase on your tits beneath your shirt. Still the gentleman, he’s questioning you. “Can I? Need you so fucking bad, sweetheart. Drove over here in the sleet and rain just to have my girl and my sweet little pussy.”

Beyond the cove of your slowly awakening mind, arousal throbs between your thighs, making you arch into Eddie’s hands, whimpering when the wind soaked digits cool against your hot skin. A series of curses die in your throat, a gasp the only thing that escapes. Eddie’s hands pinch your nipples, tugging them into hardened peaks, continuing to rut into you, his boxers damn near sliding off his hips.

“Oh, fuck. You came all this way in shit weather just to do this?” You always sell yourself short, according to Eddie. Aside from the best lover you’ve had, he’s also your hype man/boyfriend.

You can practically feel his frown, his movements briefly halting, lips readying a kiss for your neck. When he speaks, it’s a warm gust of air on your ear, causing you to push your tits further into his palms. “Do what? Do—“ He dips his pelvis and drags his hard dick directly over your ass, making sure you really feel all of him through your sleep pants, before continuing. — “this?”

“Fuck. Help me get my pants and panties off, please.” You’re salivating, feeding off his energy, cock drunk and desperate now too.

Eddie has his boxers down over his ass and your pajama bottoms, complete with your soaked panties— off in seconds flat. His voice is still so raspy, wind bitten, his fingers finding your jaw as one hand leaves your shirt, tilting your mouth to his for a kiss. You help him maneuver your legs together, yours stretched back over his, the hair tickling the backs of your knees. His smell is surrounding you, fresh from his nightly shower, aftershave present, rainwater, and cigarettes from his crumbled pack. He’s breaking away to question you, blown pupils shaving off any remaining color in his irises. “Condom?”

You shake your head, forgoing the box you’d kept in your drawer. “Not tonight.”

Eddie slides inside you with ease, smacking your ass, grateful there’s a silhouette of a snowy sky and nearby street lamps framing your entire set of activities. He’s nosing into your neck, commenting on your request. “This your way of asking me to cum inside you, sweetheart?”

“I want it so fucking bad, Eds. Show me why you woke me up, baby.”

You wouldn’t care if it was sex or not. With how much you love Eddie, he could barge in later than this to show you a potato chip he’d taken a bite out of and you wouldn’t give two fucks, but you would admire, because he’s Eddie. And he’s all yours.

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faebirdie · 8 months

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i need people to be careful about what they are sharing about hurricane hilary because i'm seeing a lot of false information being spread. namely, i'm seeing a lot of people say that it's a level 4 hurricane. which is true. but they aren't mentioning the very important caveat that by the time it reaches california, it will have largely declined and will instead simply be a tropical storm. which is still historic for california, but it's not quite as scary for people living there as it's being made out to be. It's not going to cause major issues with infrastructure or large-scale flooding like a full-blown hurricane would. the majority of people will be, at most, mildly inconvenienced by it.

i think the response to this storm is showing a very clear difference in how we treat natural disasters that hit areas associated with wealthy white people as opposed to one's that hit larger populations of black people like lots of the southeast. it makes me fear for how funding and help might be given to california, which needs it less, and then not be available next time somewhere like georgia or louisiana really need it.

it also has the average californian so freaked out that they are taking resources and focus away from the people around them that actually might be seriously affected by this. so please, if you are in california, look out for the homeless and/or lower income people in your area. do what you can to make sure they have access to adequate shelter to protect them from the wind and rain. and that they have enough food and water to stay put until this storm passes.

also just stay off the roads as much as possible. people already drive like assholes around here and will probably be even worse during this. everything should have calmed down by tuesday at the latest.

#robin talks #california #weather #hurricane #hurricane hilary #climate change #blm

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nouearth · 9 months

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the remedy for guilt.

clark kent x male reader.

summary: guilt, pain, and shame consumes clark as his nightmares have been haunted by the memory of lois.

wc: 2.5k. genre: angst, comfort. warnings: cavill!clark, clark has ptsd, nightmares, topic and depictions of death, mentions of blood and wounds.

request.

thunder blared and cracked to the man’s startle, and immediately, the sky unlocked with a haze, ghastly as if stolen from humanity. spirits of hard rain quickly crashed onto metal gates, barriers that ward off trespassers, and came down harder onto carved stones. it sank into the heart of earth after.

it was an orthodox setting some have found comfort in after painful months of mourning. clark wondered how incredibly cathartic mother nature’s tears would feel on his skin once it was his turn.

he flinched when a droplet does—burned—and the wind heckled.

in loving memory of lois lane, it was carved beautiful like her handwriting. she was always in a rush, chasing after the biggest scandals with a notepad in her hand, yet the scribe flowed with impressive structure, prideful in every stroke of her pen. kneeling on one leg, without a care that mud had inked uncomfortably into his pants, clark caressed the engraving of lois’ name, gently as if it was skin—her skin, and the gale laughed—louder now.

“—got you these flowers,” clark bitterly chuckled, gently waved the wrapped bundle of cream and pink rosebuds that the wind was sure to have blown away by now if it weren’t for his clench on them. “figured these colors would be a nice change of pace, so…”

the thunder approved clark’s choice of flowers.

“i’ll get going soon, but i just wanted to see you one more time before—“ the gale blew stronger, lifted clark’s bangs and almost his glasses, but they soon found refuge in his breast pouch. there was a beat of silence as the wind sang, unusual in its whistles. “before i head back to—“

there it was again.

a gentle croak that harmonized with the wind.

someone’s hurt. struck by lighting, maybe? if being drenched in the rain hadn’t strung him back to reality, the eery sound of help definitely woken clark to his senses. he was vigilant, carefully scanning his surroundings with his x-ray vision.

nothing out of the ordinary—

“help,” a voice squeaked from somewhere, barely audible, but clark managed to filter the gust out. he spun in place when a whisper attacked one ear then the next. defensively, he lifted himself off the ground and scanned the gravesite from a higher viewer. alert, yet calm.

no one.

“please, speak up!” clark roamed in the air, inspected every corner. the wind and rain fogged his endeavor, but he was determined. it grew louder now after several patrols, and relief settled because he was getting closer.

“help me,” it whispered in the fog, and the haze grew thicker, heavier. “please, help me. i can’t breathe!” it cried out now, desperate because safety was near, yet so far away. “please, where are you?!” it pleaded.

“I’m coming, stay put!” clark shouted, and he flew down, a bewildered frown etched into his face when the mist barricaded his arrival, knocking him back. “what the—“

it was like touching an invisible shield when clark curiously reached out, pressing a palm into nothing. thick air swallowed his hand and he pulled back when another cry startled. “hurry, please! i-i think I’m going to—” it choked.

“i—“ clark ascended higher now, challenged by the mystical fog. he was absolutely clueless, puzzled, but was later comforted because force was always on his side.

“i’m here!” the clock ticked in his head. thunder and lightning shook the atmosphere of earth, and the rain hit clark’s skin like bullets as he rushed down the gravesite, punching through the several layers of air. one by one, they unfurled, and clark grunted as if it could boost his strength at the very last layer. “please! help! oh god, i—”

“you’re…” it was sheer, unveiling the field of gravestones, and he could see something moving, waving, but the rain blurred his vision. “you’re…” the voice weakened.

harder now, clark punched several more times with a battle cry louder than the previous, through gritted teeth enough to break bone, and the fog cowered at the very last second, thinning in wispy strides from his force. the swing from his arm pulled him to the source with incredible force. it was out of his control now, the wind yanked, then drove him to the ground, dragging clark across the muddy field. absolute black had entered his vision, and he could only breathe. breathe in mud, rain, grass, as he was pulled everywhere but nowhere, yet somehow closer to the source of those dreadful cries.

“you’re...”

the voice croaked over him as clark was grounded, blindly face-planted into the soils until he wasn’t. his head slowly lifted by an unspeakable force, and the cry continued to creak like nails on a chalkboard, unbearably closer to his face. a cold breath bit at his skin and as if the spell was broken, clark snapped his eyes opened.

it was horrid. it took every little breath clark had in him, and he tried to shut his eyes. he couldn’t. the spell hadn’t been broken. it was a mere glamor as clark’s eyes began to stung, brimmed with tears as he was bewitched to stare into the bloody corpse of his former lover. “you were,” the more it croaked, layers of skin cracked and peeled off. clark shuddered, his eyelids unwillingly pulled to the heavens as he watched lois’ broken skin unveil bloody wounds, then flesh, then bone, as she ascended higher before him, like a deity, until his head was thrown back.

“TOO LATE.” the voice crackled like the thunder before it, and her corpse crumbled into ashes, spilling onto him like heavy rain.

a guttural inhale stirred you from your dreams, flinching, but it was the sudden movements within the bed that woke you into a fright, scrambling you in bed. equally, clark’s silhouette sat up and slumped against the headboard as he paced his breath. in and out, his pants began to slow, but it was the flicker of the lamp, unveiling reality, and then the warmth of your hand on his chest that pacified him.

“clark,” your voice made him turn and he watched you simulate a regular breathing pattern before following your guidance. “slow, just like that.” your hand rested over his beating heart, aiding its journey to its regular pace with calming strokes, while you held his distraught with assurance, locking it into a vault when you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. a job well-done, but also a measure to bring him back.

his breath was warm against yours, and he muttered a soft apology before pulling away, but keeping your hand to his chest, appreciative but silently afraid of letting you go.

“water?” before he could answer, you offered your cup of water that’s been sitting at the bedside table, and with two quick gulps, he soothed his throat.

it was a routine at this point. not every day, but at least once a week, clark would get night terrors that would startle you awake. others would’ve found it incredibly annoying, but you could never bring yourself to that thought. after what clark had told you, it would’ve been incredibly wounding for you to.

“i’m sorry,” clark sighed and pressed a warm hand to your cheek. you shook your head against it, mustering up a tired smile before pressing a kiss into his palm. he only pulled you closer to his side as you both lay breathless in bed. “let’s go back to sleep—“

“hah, you and i both know that won’t be happening.” chuckling, you playfully pushed him away before laying his head on your lap. he does so without any complaints, and an appreciative kiss to your stomach pressed. clark was always so protective of you, it was the least you could do for him. “want to talk about it?”

“no, it’s just…” clark’s gaze drafted to the wrinkles of your shirt, then he spent the majority of the silence inhaling your scent. it assured him that you were here—still here.

your fingers threaded through his locks in soothing rhythms, but clark’s frown remained. “lois again?”

“i didn’t mean to—“ he looked up, apologetic in the weary state of his gaze.

“clark,” your palm gently applied pressure to his temple, and you couldn’t help but to kiss him once more, then his nose, then his forehead, before pulling away. “she’s not… she shouldn’t be treated as if she didn’t exist.”

“I know,” clark hummed, agreeing yet reluctantly so. the strokes to his head—your touch—crumbled the protective walls of his nightmares and dreams, and a vault, mainly consisting of his insecurities and guilt, unlocked. “i know…”

one would agree that it was weird, offensive even, to talk about your ex-partner, more so if they had passed away. it gave the message that they still clung onto them, that they still loved them, that you were brought into someone’s life solely to fill that missing puzzle in their life. you’ve admitted that you struggled with that before, your self-esteem took a dive because you compared yourself to the impact she made on clark’s life. envious, you teared over.

but you’ve accepted it now. because clark’s dreams of lois wasn’t because he needed to replace her. the more he awakened you with his night terrors, it was telling that he was haunted by guilt—consumed by it. it ate him up on the inside. where the happiness that you would fill clark was immediately swallowed by regret, because the voice told him that he didn’t deserve to be happy.

clark agreed.

“i killed her, didn’t i?” his voice animated like the soft wrinkles on your shirt.

“you know that’s not true,” you frowned, and you pressed your palm to his cheek. “clark.”

“if i had been there quicker, if i had been stronger, if i had—“

“if you had abandoned the hundreds—thousands—of people in the city?” you questioned his blame, and he once again, looked up at you. orbs wet, glistening under the shade of dim lights. a sigh left your lips, and you continued the stokes to his head. “i know you’re superman, and… and you feel like you have to do everything—like you can do everything.”

“for the most part, you can.” your voice softened as well as your touch, until it came to a halt. warmth seeped into his head as you rested upon it. “but it’s frankly impossible to save everyone, you know that. and from what you’ve told me about lois, she would’ve wanted this outcome.”

“(m/n),”

“she probably would’ve forced you to, if i’m being honest.” you chuckled, and looked down at him, into his sober orbs. “and i could never, ever, know what you are going through. to have the safety of the planet fall on your shoulders. to fight those who try to destroy our planet. to take the life of those who do. to play god.”

“but what i do know is that,” clark gazed up now, his turn to caress your cheeks while you closed your eyes to the roughness of his hand. to the warm touch that has become a memory you would yearn for on a daily basis. “it’s not your fault. you had the impossible decision to choose between thousand of lives versus the love of your life, and i’d reckon you’d feel guilt either way, clark. and i’d also reckon that…”

“hm?”

your forehead pressed to his while his hand maintained on your cheek, and you blindly kissed at whatever was in front. his nose, lips, cheeks, features that you felt and cherished with all of your heart. all of your being. “you and lois knew the lives of thousands mattered the most.”

“i wouldn’t have had to make that decision had i been stronger, though.” clark reasoned, pulling away to sit up now, because guilt ate him again, as soon as you fed him his innocence. “if i was smarter, i would’ve been ten steps ahead. i would’ve figured out that the sun could heal me, to grant me more powers, to—”

“clark,” his mutters halted when you touched him again. though his back faced you, he knew the look you were giving him as he stared blankly, achingly into the wall. reassuring strokes lined his broad back before you leaned your forehead on it. “you can’t change the past.”

“it’s not about changing the past, it’s about,” he was frustrated, apologetic, sorrowful, all in one, and clark buried his face into his palms, muttering. “it’s about you. i can’t let it happen again. what if i lose you too?”

“you’re not going to lose me, clark.”

“we don’t know that—“ he sighed, lifting his head up, and then peered back at you. his wrinkles have never forested deeper, and exhaustion seeped into the fine lines. “it would break me. i wouldn’t know how to move on with myself, how to live, how to—“

“if that day ever comes, then i’m telling you now that i want you to make the right decision.” your arms wrapped around his waist, embracing him with the utmost warmth because in the pit of your stomach, in your deepest worries, you were afraid too. he was right. you never know if something might happen. whether from another attempted destruction of the world, or a simple heart attack, life was short.

“i need to keep you safe.”

“you already do, clark. and if something were to happen to me, then i trust that you will do your best to spare me from looking at death in the eye.” but clark’s hold to your hands sobered you, the warmth and beloved roughness like a potion, broke you free of those reckless thoughts, and you melted soft kisses along his upper back in appreciation, sighing. “but until then, i don’t want you spending the rest of your life worrying about me.”

“it’s my job to.” clark mindlessly played with your fingers, thinner than his. “to worry.”

“i know,” you squeezed tighter around him. “but i fell in love with clark kent, not the man of steel.”

“but—“

“if it’s my time to go, i don’t want you looking back at how we should’ve made more memories. you don’t need any more powers than you already have, clark.” you assured him with another kiss to his shoulder, and despite his refusal, he melted, leaning back into you. “you’ve kept me safe as you already are, and you will continue doing so until my very last breath.”

“until your very last breath…” he repeated, but you can hear the bitterness in his tone. chuckling, you soothed him with another kiss, to his other shoulder now.

“and until my last breath, i promise to also protect you as you will protect me. i may not be as strong as you are, and i may not be the sun that heals you.”

“(m/n),”

“but when the time comes, i assure you that your guilt will not be anchored to me. that you will no longer suffer because of me.”

“because i trust you.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

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stylesloveclub · 7 months

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Prose (sneak peek!)

In which y/n's taking way too many units, and Harry's the teaching assistant for her Literature class.

+++

He locks the door behind them, with y/n lingering closely by, waiting for him. “Do you live far?” he asks.

“No, not really. Just a 15 minute walk.” They walk towards the building exit, and Harry pulls out his umbrella. “Not too bad, as long as there isn’t a monsoon going on outside,” she finishes with a petulant grumble.

Harry chuckles lowly, his dimples shining brightly. “I was just going to offer… y’know, since it’s still raining and you’re umbrella-less…” his eyes twinkle teasingly, “I could drive you home? Wouldn’t want you to get soaked again when you’ve only just dried off.”

“Oh!” she bubbles, looking at him with wide eyes. “Really? You would do that?” He nods, but she presses, “Are you sure that wouldn’t be a hassle? I mean– like, really I could just stay here and read until the rain dies down–”

“S’not a hassle,” he reassures. “Y’don’t even know when the rain will be gone– could be all night. It’ll be cold, n’dark… it’d make me feel better knowing you got home safe, yeah?”

“Gosh that’s… that’s really nice of you,” she says, almost pouting.

He just smiles, pushing the door open and opening his umbrella for the two of them to huddle under. His car is parked in the graduate student parking lot, so it’s not too far of a walk (although they’re doing more of a brisk speedwalk, trying to get out of the rain and wind as fast as possible). The rain patters harshly on top of his umbrella, but they manage to stay dry, shoulders brushing together and their warm bodies radiating heat onto each other.

He unlocks his car and opens the passenger's seat for her, making sure that she’s covered from the rain as she slides into her seat. He then runs over to his own side, quickly shutting his umbrella and throwing it into the backseat. His fingers are numb as he turns the car on, and he immediately blasts the heat for the two of them, putting his frozen fingers in front of the warm air. “God, not even three minutes out there n’ I’m already freezing m’bits off,” he mumbles to himself. He turns to her, and smiles when he sees her copying his actions, “Isn’t this so much better that walking home?”

All she can give is a nod, wriggling her fingers in front of his heaters. Her teeth are chattering as she barely manages to chatter out, “S’freezing.”

“Wind would’ve blown you away before you even made it home, I reckon.” He plays with the windshield wipers until they’re on the highest setting, but even then his windshield is blurry from the rain. He makes sure to drive extra slow and cautiously, reversing out at the speed of a snail and turning his high beams on.

It’s only when she’s sitting in the front seat of his car that a somewhat important thought floats to the forefront of her mind – “is this allowed?”

“Is what allowed?” He's half paying attention, half checking both sides of the road before turning left onto the street.

“Like– I mean you’re sort of my professor, I guess,” she stumbles over her words, “Is it… would you get in trouble? For like… giving me a ride?”

Harry’s eyebrows pinch thoughtfully, “Well, first of all– Dr. Richmond’s your professor, not me. Secondly– I don’t see why it would be against the rules. S’just a car ride,” he shrugs.

She relaxes in her seat, nodding. She supposes he’s right. It’s just a car ride.

“But– if anything,” he adds on with, turning to her momentarily with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Y/n’s lips curl. “Okay,” she giggles.

It’ll be their little secret. :)

+++

HELLOOOOOOO TUMBLR! TARRY COMING THIS SATURDAY 10/7! :) i hope u guys are excited for him he is super fall cozy vibes HEHE :) PARTS 1 AND 2 HAVE ALREADY BEEN POSTED ON MY PATREON!!! THIS IS NOT A PATREON EXCLUSIVE MEANING ALL OF IT WILL BE POSTED ON TUMBLR. PATREON JUST HAS EARLY ACCESS!!!!! CHECK OUT MY MASTERLIST FOR OTHER FICS HOPE U GUYS R EXCITED XOXO

#harry #harry styles #harry fic #harry styles fic #harry styles fan fic #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fluff

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statisticallymorelikely · 7 months

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00Q edit for @ironpe: demon!Q kidnapped

James gets the call at six in the morning, just a couple hours since he dragged himself out of the proverbial fire and back into the frying pan, the frying pan being the hotel room Q had secured for him for his post-mission wind down. Tanner's voice is haggard and grave on the other end of the line but James is not surprised. In fact, he'd been expecting something like this.

It had been years since he'd felt exposed, Q's power had been a reassuring companion in that time, but as he was escaping away on his motorcycle earlier that evening, an unease crawled up his back. He felt unprotected, a figurative shield sliding like water off his back. It was one thing to not have Q in his ear, but to not feel his presence at all was a different kind of vulnerability altogether. It was unnerving.

And so, he had been waiting for this call.

Tanner's voice washes over him as he relays details of Q's abduction, how they did it, who the assailants were and what they want in exchange. James listens idly, cleaning his guns almost on auto-pilot until he catches the only piece of information that matters to him: Q's estimated location. Finally given the scent, James goes on the hunt.

---

Q had been to church only once in his long and weary existence. It had been to tempt a priest. Having just been recently deployed to Earth, he was a trainee still. His supervisor had given him a list to accomplish: a tour of the classics, and what could be more stereotypical than convincing a priest that a few coins in his pocket was well-deserved. (After all, he took care of his flock so the flock should take care of his needs.)

What his supervisor failed to mention though was that temptations like those were best served via whispers in the wind at night while Q himself stayed right outside the window, because stepping onto consecrated land was excruciating. No, Q learned that lesson the hard way, and that pain is seared onto his memory forever, second only to Falling.

It's that same pain that's now coursing through his being, rendering him helpless on the floor of the abandoned church this terrorist group has chosen to hole up in. An outside observer would attribute his current state to the admittedly harsh beating he's been taking at the hands of their interrogator. But honestly, the blood and bruises are misleading. Endless punches and low level electrocution are nothing compared to the thrum of heaven in his bones, trying and failing to purify his wretched soul over and over again.

Finding a moment to think seems impossible and yet his mind eventually fights through the haze of pain and crawls its way toward James. He wonders how his little investment is doing. With Q incapacitated like this, his protective wards over James will surely be down. Q had inconveniently left him vulnerable during a crucial part of his mission, not that he had much choice. He hopes the madman hasn't gotten himself prematurely blown up, though it would be hilarious if he did. Maybe they can laugh about it together back in hell.

It's a little funny how much that thought comforts him.

---

James finds them in an abandoned church in a small town just outside Paris. Operatives like him are often referred to as ghosts. Terrifying yet unseen, taking enemies out quickly and quietly and then disappearing just as silently. Not this time though. This time, James is a demon. A furious tempest sent to rain down fiery judgment against those who have sinned.

He moves from room to room, searching, killing, no words, no hesitation. No need to interrogate anyone, he'll find Q when they're all dead. It doesn't take long, not with a vengeful double-oh on mission.

James opens the last door, down to the small catacombs, shoots the last two men and finally sets eyes on Q, sitting limp and lifeless in a corner.

"Q!"

He crouches down next to him, one hand coming up to check for a pulse on instinct. There isn't one. Q didn't need one, but James knows he likes to keep up appearances.

When he carries Q out of the church, there's a lump in James' throat as he looks down at the frail, bloody creature in his arms. Q may have damned him all those years ago, but they've also spent those years together, building a strange kind of trust amidst all the danger and death and bickering. He always wondered why Q didn't just let him die the moment he signed his contract, but also protected him, shared his power with him, and allowed him to do good. Now, he fears he may never get the chance to ask.

Numb, he trudges past the all the blood and the bodies, as he makes his way into the surrounding forest where he'd stashed his car. He walks past the fence, each step crushing overgrown grass underfoot getting heavier and heavier until James concedes and kneels down on the ground.

"Am I supposed to pray?" He bites out a bitter laugh, looking heavenward. "Is that what you want?!"

"No, you dolt," comes the hoarse whisper. "Just get me away from this place and I'll recover."

James gasps in relief, eyes watery as he holds Q tighter against his chest. "You prick, I thought you'd died."

"Oh, James," Q wheezes out. "I never knew you cared."

"You know what? Neither did I."

#00Q #007 #quartermaster #james bond #00Qedit #happy momf bebby #au edit tag #im so sorry for the rushed ending i ran out of both time and braincells #i hope you still like it #technically this same edit can just be regular old kidnapped Q #but i know you like the demon au we made together #demon Q

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delopsia · 10 months

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Reeth | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 10,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Brief Summary: Between his injuries and his insecurities, Rhett nearly falls apart. But you're there to put him back together again. Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, hurt/comfort (physically and emotionally), bodily injury, blood, brief mentions of violence and attempted murder, crying, brief appearance of food, Rhett's self-doubts and insecurities, rodeos, body worship & praise, I love you's, riding, overstimulation, happy ending. Inspired from the song Reeth by Penny and Sparrow.

There's something thumping.

A dull, insistent tap, tap, tap that seems to stop when you lift your head but restarts when your head reunites with the cool material of your pillow. Mayhaps the antics of a ghost you're not yet aware of in this big old rental home. Or maybe it's the antics of the boy down the road, who thinks ding-dong ditching is practical in a town where the men are trigger-happy, the land is flat, and driveways are a mile long at the bare minimum.

Or maybe it's your elderly neighbor pleading for help because her husband fell again.

Thunder rumbles, icy drops of rain pattering like a symphony against your metal roof. If it's not a tree limb, and someone is truly out the door, then something must be wrong. Lightning bathes your bedroom in a brief flash of white, and the longer you wait for the following boom of thunder, the thinner the air seems to become. Shit.

The last thing you feel like doing is crawling out of bed; you've only just begun to fall asleep, but alas, your feet hit the cold hardwood anyway. Sleepily padding down the hallway, past the kitchen, and toward the front door, where the knocking seems to have stopped once more. The house is silent as you peek out your window, fighting to get a glimpse of who may be at your door. The porch is empty, devoid of anything but leaves blown up against the house.

But there's movement down your cracked sidewalk. A tall figure stumbling away from your door.

Icy wind blasts the door open, ripping the handle from your hand as it rushes past. Strong enough to knock over picture frames and the knick-knacks from the table by the door, but you hardly notice it. "Rhett?"

That has to be him because he slows to a halt. It's dark, but it's hard to miss the way he minds his left foot as he turns. That's him, that's him, and you're trying to come to him, but you can't move. Feet frozen to the wet concrete of your porch step.

Even the downpour cannot wash the blood from his face. Dripping from the bridge of his nose. A gash in his left cheekbone. And from somewhere up in his hairline, streaking down his forehead. He opens his mouth, but the only thing to come out is crimson liquid. Pouring down his chin. Staining his flannel.

The sound of your name cuts through the air. Garbled by blood that he can't swallow down. Drowned out by the rain. And the wind that rustles through trees. And the thunder that rattles the ground.

He's speaking again, but you don't understand him. Tripping over his own feet. Reaching out for you. Like you're just out of his reach. A sob pierces through the air because his arms come up empty. Mutters it again.

"Help."

His knees crumble out from under him.

And he drops.

You can't move quickly enough.

Running out into the pouring rain. Uncaring of how the freezing rain feels like tiny bullets upon your skin. Can't hear the slam of thunder because it's washed out by the wail of a cowboy.

A cowboy who can't lift himself up as he reaches for you. Whimpers your name when you drop into the grass and pull him up into your arms. His head heavy against your chest. Trembling with such a force that you shake with him. Those once strong arms wind around you. Dangling loosely. Not strong enough to do anything more.

The dull glow of your porch light illuminates more than you can bear to witness.

Bruises mottle his cheek, knuckle shaped and leading up to a deep, blackened bruise in the corner of his left eye. So close, it's easy to catch onto the split in his scalp, sliced open by something sharper than human nails. Reaches down to his left ear, takes a small divot out of the shell of it. There's a matching one on his forearm, scrawling up through his beloved bull-skull tattoo, and that's only what you can see at a glance.

"Baby," whispering into his uninjured ear, cradling him to your chest, "what happened?"

Lightning flickers; no sound to it, but he flinches into you anyway, shudders worse than the leaves in the trees as the autumn wind howls past. "It's my fault," his voice cracking, unable to hold together. "t's my fault...I started it."

In the back of your head, you can still hear yourself asking him to keep out of trouble; a bar fight a month doesn't sound like a lot until you're the one patching him up. You can't even begin to count the number of times you've been witness to the aftermath of what cheap beer and a small disagreement can lead to. "Rhett..." it slips out on its own.

"I'll be good!" He hiccups, "I'll—I'll be good! I'm sorry!" Choking on tears and blood and rain that you can't wipe away quickly enough. Still tries to talk as he coughs, beginnings of more I'm sorry's that never fully leave his frantic tongue.

His arms squeeze tighter. Yet they're still a shadow of their usual strength as he squirms closer. "Please don't...please don't leave me out..." stammering, can hardly get his head up against your chest like he's trying so hard to do. "Please don't...don't..."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," and you're shushing him, soothing your hands over his messy face, and his head is heavy as he leans into it like he can't keep his own head up without help. "Rhett, look at me, breathe."

"Don't—don't leave..." sucking in harsh breaths he can't catch, mouth moving, but not a thing coming out.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," you're whispering, and for a second, you think the storm has calmed just long enough for him to hear your words. Frigid rain has long since soaked through your clothes, and you need to go inside, but all you can think about is pulling this trembling cowboy closer.

"I've got you. I promise," cooing into his ear, stroking the back of his head. "You're alright; I've got you." His cold nose finally finds its way into the crook of your neck, and you don't care if the blood stains your shirt or not.

The wind screams past your head, feels like it'll rip the clothes right off your body. Tiny pellets of hail strike at your skin, and you think they might just pierce through you. "Let's get you inside, alright?"

You're surprised that he's got the strength to nod, never mind get back up to his feet. A heavy weight against you, his arm slung over your shoulders because he can't support much weight on his left foot. This screeching wind has the pair of you teetering from side to side, and his foot catches on the first stair of your small porch.

And this part is easy; he knows this routine too well. Stumbling down your short hallway and into the bathroom, damn near collapsing onto the floor when you reach down to turn on the water to the bathtub.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Asking as you help him unbutton his shirt, revealing a myriad of deep red and purple marks that will surely worsen come morning. The handiwork of angry fists and the sharp edge of a steel-toe boot kicking at his ribs while he was down.

"Perry..." he starts; those eyes flutter, and just like that, he stops. Like he's still recollecting the rest of the story.

Well, that explains it.

Bar fights are almost always broken up before they can do damage such as this, and you've almost always had to come down to the police station to release him of Sherrif Joy's care. And even though you've seen firsthand how the Tillerson brothers are always looking for a fight with their neighbors, they know when enough is enough.

Luke and Rhett have been at each other's throats for years, but Luke doesn't kick a man while he's down. Where's the fun in an opponent who doesn't fight back?

Rhett's nemesis of a neighbor has more respect for him than his own brother.

The worst part is getting Rhett's legs over the edge of your clawfoot bath, and you're thankful that you've already seen the worst of his injuries because you don't think you can bear seeing another open wound.

"Was he drunk?" Only asking indirect questions as you rub this soapy cloth across his cheek. Washing away the dirt and blood that's caked to his skin until you can see his pretty face once more.

"He flew off the handle at mom," he sniffles, reaching up to rub a drop of water from his nose, "'n my smartass decided that was a good time to say that his temper is why Rebecca ran."

You hate the way that he whimpers when you have to wash the blood from his scalp. Clean water stinging at somewhat-open wounds, only further upset when you carefully scrub dried blood from his hair. The sight of these cuts makes your stomach twist sourly, but they're closing without assistance; no need for DIY stitches or a two-hour hospital trip. Not yet, at least.

"I think...he," Rhett's eyes flicker up to yours, swollen and red; if he had any tears left, they'd be streaking down his cheeks by now, "he tried to...he tried to kill me."

"And your parents didn't..." you're trying to find what to say, scrambling for thought; what do you say? "They didn't stop him?"

His response takes a while to come.

Silent as you dry him with a towel and help him step into some clothes he's left in case of unplanned sleepovers. Doesn't find what to say as you apply ointment to his wounds and wrap his sliced forearm. His eyes speak a million and one words, but they don't string together into full sentences. A hurt that doesn't restrict itself to physical pain alone.

"Want some ice cream?" You chirp, holding his hand as he gingerly sinks onto your couch.

Those saddened eyes light up like little blue fireworks, knows that you've still got a pint of his favorite in the freezer. Chocolate chip cookie dough. His head bobs with a nod, a small, "please," falling off his bitten tongue.

You'll forever take pride in being the one to introduce him to this flavor. Originally, you'd only done it to keep him from nibbling on your baking endeavors before they even touched the oven. Now, you keep it around just to see him brighten up after a long day.

Who would have thought that they make ice cream flavors that are not Royal's beloved vanilla bean?

But his hands are trembling far too hard. Spoon tumbling out of his flimsy grip and falling into his lap before he can even scoop any ice cream onto it. His frown deepens. Tries again, reaching for the spoon, but he can't seem to pick it up. Fingers poking and prodding, trying to pick up something that they simply cannot grasp.

"Here," picking up that evasive spoon, "let me help you."

There's that smile.

Sheepish, the tips of his ears burning with red, wobbling lips parting, wrapping around the spoon. Doesn't seem to know what to do with himself as you settle down next to him and spoon-feed him his ice cream.

Especially doesn't know what to do when the bowl is empty, and he impulsively sputters a quiet, "More?" Soft-spoken and shy, afraid to ask for such a thing.

You leave him with a kiss on his frozen lips and return with the whole damn container. And so what if you let him eat over half of the ice cream that you just bought yesterday? You don't even care that there are tornado sirens blaring outside your home or that Rhett wants to give you sticky kisses that you can feel lingering on your face.

The storm worsens after his head settles against your chest, listening to the thump of your heartbeat. Your arms have long since wrapped around him, cradling that big, strong body of his and humming when a sniffle wracks through him. The wind howls as loud as she can; you simply turn up the volume to the television.

It's been nearly two hours when Rhett finally responds to your question. And you've nearly forgotten that you even asked if his parents stopped Perry or not.

"Ma jumped in when Perry got ahold of the kitchen knife," he mutters, his eyes fixated on the movie playing on the screen, "Dad got me by my collar 'n hauled me out back."

Your thumb soothes across the short stubble of his jaw, freshly shaved this morning and already growing back in. Just as stubborn as he is.

He's quiet again, but only for a moment, "He threw me my keys 'n locked me out."

"But they didn't lock Perry out?" You already know the answer to your question; not surprised in the slightest when Rhett rumbles a small 'no.'

You hate to imagine what would happen to him if you weren't around to patch him back up.

It's hard remembering just how you got into bed.

Regardless of how and when it happened, you find yourself waking up late into the morning. Cozied up in a big, warm bed with a soft cowboy snuggled into the space beneath your chin, little wisps of his hair tickling your skin.

It's almost strange to wake up and find him still in bed. On most days, he's off to the ranch before dawn, busting his ass for a full hour before the rest of the family arrives to pick up where they left off. But you suppose being locked out of your own home warrants a day or two of skipping work.

Your lips press to his forehead, and faintly, you can feel him smile into the crook of your neck.

"Mornin," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep, vibrating against your neck. Tilts his head back just far enough to take a look at you, eyes barely open. "'m sorry for showin' up in the middle of the night," pauses to kiss your wrist as you reach to tuck his hair behind his ear, smiling weakly, just for a moment, "I shouldn't 've woken you up."

"You're allowed to come to me when you're hurt, Rhett," tilting his head up to meet your eye as you speak, "You'd do the same for me if I was in that situation."

He's quiet at that.

And you're not sure who it was that taught him he's not worthy of being cared for when he's hurt, but you hope they forever regret it. You can't stand the way he frowns and snuggles back into you, doesn't quite believe your words because someone has been telling him otherwise for his entire life.

It could be the fault of his father, who has gone as far as to teach him that boys don't have birthdays and that they should never cry in front of another person. Maybe it's the fault of his mother for standing by and never stepping in, even when she knew better. Hell, maybe it's the fault of his brother, who blames everyone but himself for his temper.

Rhett should be laying in bed, letting himself heal and taking it easy on himself, but he follows you out of bed, lingers in the kitchen while you cook, and tries to help where he can. Stretches his weary limbs after breakfast, pushing through a pain so severe that his eyes water as he raises his arms above his head.

"Are you really sure about riding tonight?" You find yourself asking, running a comb through his hair all the while. He's not particularly happy about it, but he's got some knots in the longer parts, and he's never been one to complain about his hair being played with. Forced scowl melting into upturned lips and smiling eyes.

"I ain't hurt that bad," he says, and you're sure that he believes that to be true, too. Stubborn to the end, this one.

Your nails rake down the back of his neck, tracing down the soft bumps of his spine, just to watch his back arch into your touch, flinching when he shifts his ribs too much. "You can hardly walk straight, baby."

"'m fine," he meets your eye through the reflection of the mirror, confident as he pushes his poorly forged narrative, "'ve ridden through worse."

Maybe, but most of those 'ridden through worse' times have been fueled by the elusive gift of adrenaline, biting away the pain until the moment the stadium lights shut off for the night. These injuries have had time for the hurt to set in and for sore muscles to tighten.

But you can't say you're surprised when Rhett digs out his gear and, admittedly, slowly gets ready for tonight. He can hardly button his flannel, never mind wriggling into his slightly too-tight jeans and fumbling with his chaps until you take pity on him and help him out. Sliding the thick material up his thighs and giving his ass a playful little squeeze when you're done, all to see him jump.

"You leave my ass alone!" He squeaks, swatting your offending hand away.

All you can do is wink; you've already won. "Too late, cowboy." And his pale cheeks are blazing with crimson. For a minute there, he's got you near convinced that he is feeling better.

Until you catch his facade slipping.

He limps to his truck, parked precariously in your driveway, crawls into the driver's side with all the speed and ease of a ninety-year-old man, his face twisting as he upsets just about every injury he's got.

"'m fine," he insists as you settle into the passenger seat.

"'m fine," he says when he puts too much weight on his left foot and gasps at the sudden bite of pain.

"'m fine," he promises right before he steals his good-luck kiss from your lips and hobbles off to join his buddies before they finish their warmups without him.

You expect to find Cecelia, Amy, and Royal up in the bleachers, in their spot tucked off into the far corner. They always sit in the same space, where it's easy to hop down and beat the rush of the crowd when the rodeo comes to a close. But they're not there. An empty gap that never fills.

At least, it doesn't fill until you catch the familiar, warm eyes of deputy sheriff Joy, her wife, and daughter in tow. "Now, this may be a dumb question because I know who usually sits here with you," she pauses, glancing around the stadium once more. Packed to the brim. Not another space to be seen. "But is the space next to you taken?"

"It's all yours," sliding over to make space for them, "I don't think they'll be coming tonight."

Joy and her wife have been nothing but kind to you ever since you stumbled into this hidden town way back when. And maybe that's why, when she asks about where the rest of the Abbotts are, you tell her. Recounting your memory starting from when you awoke last night, not missing a detail.

You only pause to watch as Rhett comes bursting out of the chute.

His body twisting, right hand held high as he hangs tight. But this bull is mean. Knocks him around like he weighs nothing. Kicking up plumes of red dirt. Never has more than two feet on the ground at a time. Almost smacks Rhett in the face with his horns. Yet, your cowboy manages to stay on until the buzzer sounds. Diving into the dirt in the same, not-so-graceful fashion as his usual.

One good ride. Two more to go.

"This ain't somethin' I'm supposed to go repeatin'," Joy begins, not a moment after Rhett's disappeared from sight, "but I have good reason to tell you that if nobody stepped in to stop Perry last night, Rhett wouldn't have even made it to his truck."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. But nothing comes out.

She seems to think for a moment, carefully analyzing her words before they ever leave her mouth. "It's cruel to say, but Rhett's safer if he's not in that house."

You hate that she has a point. You're no stranger to Perry and his temper, either.

And then Rhett's up again, firing out of the chute for a second time. His right hand once again held high to the sky as that bull drops into a spiral. Kicking, twisting, and Rhett's glued to this bull's back.

Until he's not.

The bull makes a sudden twist to the left. And Rhett's falling. Sideways. No time to react. Left shoulder crashing into the cold, hard ground. Tumbling.

But the bull is still bucking. Spiraling, trying to get that flank strap off. Uncaring as he all but jumps over Rhett's body. Misses him completely. Hooves mere inches away from his face as it turns a sharp left again.

Heavy hooves dig into Rhett's stomach.

Once.

Twice.

Darting away just as quickly, still bucking as those bullfighters step in. Urging him away.

Rhett's not getting up.

But he's coiled in on himself. A minuscule ball that doesn't budge until one of the bullfighters rushes in. Yanks him up from the ground and hauls him toward an open chute. Rhett's feet are moving, but they're slow. Struggling to keep up as he's all but drug across the dirt.

"They won't stop you from seeing him if I go with you," Joy's already ripping you from your stupor, taking you by the hand. "Come on."

You have no memory of standing up, nor do you recall anything on the way down the stairs. The flickering of the scoreboard briefly steals your attention; Rhett's name no longer occupies the number two slot, but you can't look to find where he's dropped down to. Your ears ring, muffling the chaotic chatter of the rodeo grounds into near silence.

Joy's leading you somewhere you've never been before; past security, through staff-only gates, and around sharp corners that never seem to end. Places you can't hope to memorize as she hauls you down toward a collection of familiar faces. Rodeo friends that Rhett's introduced you to in the past; you don't recall their names. Nor do you hear their voices as they point you toward where he's at.

The ringing fades within an instant.

"He took off on us," one of them is saying, and he's looking dead at you like you can do something about this, "talk him out of riding again, would you?"

It's not hard to find Rhett. The riders all point you down past the bull chutes, a one-way path that leads directly into the tree line. He's curled himself beneath the thick trunk of an old oak, trembling hand wrapped around an empty can of Rainier Beer.

He hates Rainier.

"Hey, cowboy," he jolts at the sound of your voice, surprised features instantaneously wrinkling into something pained, jaw clenched, grunting as his injuries bite at his nerves with razor-sharp teeth.

"You shouldn't..." his voice fades, chest heaving, "shouldn't be back here."

That rough 'n tough front dissolves the moment you settle next to him. He's muttering to himself, unable to keep upright as he all but collapses into your chest, right arm coiling around you, the left one dangling at his side, limp as can be.

"I'm the biggest fuck up out here," he sputters, weak against your neck.

"That's not true," you're carefully wrapping your arms around him, hand tangling into his hair as you hold him to you; it's last night all over again, only this time, he wails. A noise that bursts past his lips, wetness forming at your shoulder, and he's shaking and muttering something you can't understand, and there's blood seeping through his shirt and, and—

"That's not true at all," repeating yourself, murmuring into his ear, stroking the back of his head. Can't reach any further, not with that heavy vest in the way. "Look how far you've come; you're in the finals, Rhett. That means something."

Two of his buddies are coming around the corner, and you don't need to know their names to know what they're doing back here.

"Don't touch me," Rhett's snarling like a cornered animal, but they're unphased. A silent team as one grabs him by his collar, pulls him back, and the other gets ahold of his dislocated arm. "Don't! I'm fine! Don't, don't, don't—!"

Crackles soar past your ears. Bones popping back into place. Loud.

But not as loud as the ear-piercing cry that tears through the air. Raw. Torn. The kind of sound that hurts you to see more than it does to hear.

And Rhett's crumbling back into your arms, tears streaming down his cheeks like waterfalls, sobbing into your chest. As broken as the bones in his body. His shoulders tremble as he cries out again, pawing at your sides. Can't lift his arms to hang onto you.

"It's okay, it's okay," you don't know if those words are meant for him or for yourself. You've barely got the strength to wave his buddies on; you've got him, you'll look after him from here.

His voice is caught in his quivering throat. Choked off noises that barely form words. "You...shouldn't," shaking his head against you, over and over, "shouldn't be dealin' with this."

Something in your gut twists at that. "Rhett..."

"Look out there! My own fuckin' family ain't—ain't here for a reason," he blurts, and he's trying to look up and meet your eye, but he can't lift his own head. Too heavy for his beaten body to carry.

A choked sob rattles past his lips, "How are you meant to feel safe when I can't even hold my own in a fight I started?" He's reeling back, grimacing, clutching at his lower belly. Still has hoof-shaped prints of dirt on his clothes.

"All I do is worry you 'n put you through hell," and you hate how Rhett can say these things so easily. Weakly voicing thoughts that have probably been running through his head for months. Years, even.

His bloodshot eyes burst open as your shaky hands rise to cradle his cheeks. Thumbs stroking away dirt, sweat, and tears to find the remarkably soft skin beneath. Always so soft. Even with all that scruff on his jaw.

There's blood in his smile, wobbly, but there, some involuntary thing that always happens when you tuck his hair back behind his ear. You're leaning in, ignoring the dirt and grime as you meet those quivering lips with your own. Nothing but a soft lock that you can only hope gets him to hear what you're trying to say.

"You deserve someone...someone who can give you better than...this," he's talking softly, voice hitching around a sudden gasp for air, "Look at me... 'm a broken piece of trash, most days."

With a shuddered breath, you begin to speak, "Do you think that I kiss you because of what you give to me?" ignoring the bits of rock that dig into your knees as you bear your weight on them, attention laced solely on this cowboy of yours. The one you've always known would break, eventually, because he's not his father. Never has been, no matter how much he tries to force it.

His head doesn't nod, but you can see the burning 'yes' in his eyes. Once so vibrantly blue, now a muted hue.

"Well, it goes to show that you're not listening when I say that I know what I deserve," your forehead comes to rest against his, peering into those eyes that you can still become lost in, even all these years later, "And you're not listening when I tell you that you are worth more than you've ever realized."

And he's searching.

Never has been good at words, but he's stellar at finding even a single wrinkle of doubt in a face. Puffy eyes flickering across your features, to your nose, cheeks, chin, lips, but they freeze when they meet your gaze. A puff of breath escapes him. Eyes flickering closed as he leans into you.

He's looked for doubt. Denial. A scent of a lie.

He hasn't found it.

"It hurts," whispering, barely audible over the roar of the crowd, as a buzzer sounds.

"I know," whispering in return, and you think your voice might have cracked.

"But I need to..." his head twists to look back at the stadium, flinching as he tries to look over his swollen shoulder, "I need to do this. It's...it's my last..."

A part of you already knew he was going to lead back around to that. "You're sure?"

With a deep breath, he smiles. Something familiar flickering back to life within him. And that's all that needs to be said.

When you'd stumbled over here, unable to keep in tune with Joy's valiant step, you'd thought it was the physical pain that had brought Rhett to his knees. Body beaten and abused beyond its breaking point, taking him down and swallowing him up in a pit of metaphorical flames.

But as you leave him with a gentle squeeze of the hand. And you listen to him argue with his buddies on your walk to rejoin Joy; you can't help but realize that sometimes, it's the internal wounds that hurt the most.

Because, would you know it, Rhett Abbott rides like he's never been hurt at all.

His right hand held high as that raging bull bucks and twists beneath him. Hundreds of pounds of muscle fighting to get him off. Turning with every buck. Never has more than two hooves on the ground at once.

Two decades ago, Royal Abbott took the Amelia County Rodeo by storm. Won four back-to-back seasons before he suffered a concussion so severe his wife served him an ultimatum. Quit riding or divorce. Rhett's got all but one of those season wins recorded on an old VHS tape. He's played it a million times, the excited giggles of his five-year-old self blaring through the speakers, shaky, unclear footage barely depicting a thing as Royal reclaimed his rodeo crown over and over again.

But out of all those tapes, of all those wins, the crowd never roared as loud as they do when Rhett's name soars back to first place.

"Down, boy!"

But your squeals are no use; Rhett's already drug you down, your bodies bouncing painfully against the mattress. His elbow digging into your side. You think your knee smacked into his tailbone. Limbs hopelessly tangling. His hair somehow in your mouth. And he's grunting because his belly is still sore, but he's too stubborn to acknowledge it.

"What did the doctor just say, huh?" You're trying not to giggle, but it's bubbling out of you anyway.

"Dunno, two hours ago is a long time," he deadpans, refusing to move off of you. At least, not until you start reaching for one of the throw pillows. "Sorry! Sorry!" Squirming, rolling off of you and onto the mattress, where he belongs. "Just tryin' to make the most of these painkillers."

Looking at him now and thinking back on the events of earlier, it's hard to believe that all this has happened within the same night. Normalcy shouldn't have come this quickly. This easily. Even so, it's fleeting; the moment this medicine wears off, Rhett's going to be a lump on the couch for the next week, at the least.

But right now, he's nuzzling his cold nose into your cheek, red and freshly bitten by the chilly autumn wind. Smiling as you look over to him, smiles as he realizes that you've caught on to what he's asking for.

If it were any other day, you'd tease him, make him voice exactly what he wants, and play coy when he isn't specific enough. But you've pushed him enough by taking his keys and driving him to the hospital, and that little impatient grunt of his is so damn hard to resist.

Rhett hums. Leans into your kiss with all the grace of a fat cat in the sun, rolling lazily into you, his hand skittering up your side. In no hurry to explore each other, the sugary taste of cola still fresh on his tongue, meeting your own in fleeting, shy touches. You wonder if he can taste the same on your own, the evidence of a stolen sip while he wasn't looking.

His body shudders with a shiver that runs through him from head to toe. Squirming even closer to you—

"Fuck," his eyes screw shut as he clutches at his lower belly, hissing.

"You alright?" He's nodding before you've even finished your question, doesn't open his eyes. You're not sure that you entirely believe him. "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this yet."

Images flicker behind your eyelids. Memories. The heavy hooves of a bull that damn near ripped him apart. The rippling crack of a shoulder put back into place, and the earth-shattering cry that followed.

Oh, but why do Rhett's eyes have to sadden like that? Gaze dropping to the comforter, afraid to look at you, like a kid who's just been scolded, "But..."

"Rhett, look at you. You're hurt." you're curling your hand around his cheek, stroking the thin skin beneath his eye, still a touch swollen from crying, "It's a wonder that you're even walking after tonight."

"It doesn't hurt that bad, I promise it, it—" stumbling over his words, "It doesn't...it doesn't hurt."

"I know, I know," you're trying to shush him, but he's still muttering under his breath. False promises that neither of you believes, "but you're hurt. Look at your poor stomach, Rhett."

Your hand wanders to the lower hem of his shirt, gently tugging it up to reveal the abused skin beneath. Once milky white, now a horrific mottling of dark yellows, blues, and purples. That protective vest bore the brunt of most of it, but gear can only do so much.

Rhett's shaking hands reach for yours, pushing them away, "I can...keep my clothes on?" Already beginning to tug his shirt back down, concealing those bruises once more, "You don't have to...you don't have to see..."

"Baby..." is that what this is about? What his body looks like? "That's not..."

You don't know how to finish your sentence.

Rhett's never been good with words. Might not fully understand, even if you handcraft a poem on the spot meant just for him. But maybe, he'll hear you if you voice your thoughts with more than just words...

The mattress squeaks as you begin to move, gingerly swinging your leg over to straddle his thighs. Not sure if his beaten hips can handle any pressure on them, as you lean forward to press your lips to his clothed chest. Working your way up to his open mouth.

"I know you're not fond of them, but I love these lips of yours," you only allow him one kiss because he'll shut you up if you allow him anything more. "And I love seeing them swell after I've given you too many kisses."

Oh, and it's hard to miss those eyes, the way they widen a little, catching onto what you're doing. "And I love these eyes of yours, how they can go from bright blue to nearly black with the simplest change in lighting," his gaze darts away, shy, "you don't speak a lot, but your eyes are always talking. "

Your fingertip runs across his bottom lip, watching how his tongue daringly darts out to lick the pad of it. Leaves a thin, glistening trail as you trace toward his lower jaw, stroking past three-day-old scruff to find the pale white line of a scar, courtesy of a bar fight. "And this old scar, from when we first met..." pausing to stroke down his neck, finding a matching mark beneath his chin, "this one, too..."

"I have a scar there?" He's reaching up, rubbing where your finger rests.

Humming, you press a kiss to each minuscule mark, fingers running along the sides of his neck as you work your way to the soft space beneath his ear. "And the noise you make when I suck on the skin here," pressing your lips there, pleased to hear that involuntary gasp as you apply a little suction, "is worth its weight in gold."

"You don't...you don't have to do this..." his voice vibrates against your mouth, some deep rumbling that could put you to sleep on the spot.

"I know," beginning to work your way down now, popping open the buttons of this soft, pearl-snap flannel that he loves so much, "but I want to."

The final button comes loose, breaking away to expose his wonderfully pale chest, remarkably soft for a cowboy. Skin like silk beneath your palms, roaming over the broad expanse of him. Thumbs drifting overtop sensitive, dusky pink nipples on their way to trace up his ticklish sides. He's too sore for his back to arch off the back, but oh, does he try.

"And this scar, too..." pressing kisses to the prominent, raised skin near the meet of his left shoulder, beneath his collarbone, "I wasn't there to see it, but you've told me the story so many times that I feel like I was."

Now you're working across, tongue trailing until you can lave over the black ink that occupies the right side of his chest. "And this tattoo you got when you were sixteen, using the fake ID that you still carry in your wallet," the lines are no longer crisp, but you wouldn't have it any other way, "You tell me you hate it, but it just goes to show how dedicated you can be when your heart is in it."

Rhett's breathing shifts, deepening as you work lower; already knows where your mouth is going.

"Then there are these cute little nipples," spiraling around the little nub with your tongue, right hand working his other one in perfect synchrony. Feeling them roll against your touch, drinking in the whimper that he can't swallow down. "Always so sensitive for me."

Your assault only stops long enough for you to switch sides, working the right one with the same enthusiasm as the first. A simple thing that has Rhett bracing his hand on your bicep. Needs something to hang onto that isn't the comforter.

When you pull away, inspecting your handiwork, you're more than pleased to find that pale pink has blossomed into bright red. Just as swollen and wet as his lips.

Again, you're moving. Never in one place for too long, working your way down his bruised belly. Pressing feather-light kisses to each and every mark that mar his flesh; maybe if you pepper enough to them, they'll heal faster. All the while unclasping his buckle and tugging the zipper down.

"Can you lift your hips for me?" Hooking your fingers into his waistband as you ask.

His hips lift, shaky as you pull his jeans and boxers down all in one go; hardly has the strength to let you get the material past his ass. But then you're tugging it down his legs, and he's collapsing against the mattress with a pained grunt. Chest heaving with the effort.

As soon as those jeans hit the floor, you're pressing your mouth to the inside of his ankle, overtop a darkened bruise; you're not sure how Perry gave him this, and you don't think you want the answer, either.

Traveling up again, following the dots of four mosquito bites that trail up to his knee, licking the trail of a series of stretch marks that lead you all the way up to his inner thigh. These soft, plush thighs that so few have had the pleasure of seeing.

"I love these thighs," your words muffled because you can't bring your mouth away from them for more than a second. "They fit so nicely in my hands, perfect to squeeze." He squirms as you suck darkened marks into that pale flesh, soothing them with your tongue. Working your way up to where his cock twitches against his lower belly, needy.

But you've got a few more pit stops to make first.

Namely, these hips. Boney and a little sharp. There's a bruise on his left one, not from Perry, not from the hooves of a bull, but from the edge of your kitchen counter. He's been smacking into it so long that it's become a customary thing.

"And your hips," gripping them in your hands, feeling them writhe, because he'd rather your tongue trace away from his hip and closer to somewhere else. "I love getting to sneak up behind you and grab them, even when you roll your eyes like you are now."

Rhett freezes at that.

A creature of habit, he is.

"The dimples in your spine, right above your cute ass that you always struggle to get into your jeans," you can't pepper those spots with attention, not right now, but you'll get to another day. For now, you're very happy with tracing your nails up his thighs, watching him wriggle once more. "You're lucky I can't make you roll over, Abbott."

He's quiet as you move over to his arm, paying your attention to the thick muscle that you've drooled over more times than you can count, "I love your biceps, even if you think they're not as big as you want them to be."

"And I love your forearms, so strong, even when they don't need to be," It's trying to move, trying to stroke your shoulder, a little difficult for you to lower your head, but you make it work. "And this tattoo you impulsively got three days before you met me." The wound there doesn't look as bad now that it's had a day to heal. A perfect slice through the ink that almost looks intentional.

But you're not done, "And these veins..." tongue poking past your lips once more, tracing over them, "so easy to trace and get you riled up."

His knuckles brush against your cheek, lightly stroking. The back of his hand right there for you to nip at, lazily soothing over with your mouth after. "I love these hands of yours, calloused and worn beyond their years," Don't care that you're getting a little carried away as you lick up his fingers. "Tough enough to hold onto a bull, yet always so gentle when you touch me with them."

As you wonder about what part of him you should lavish with attention next, your eyes flick up.

Oh, that's not what you expected at all.

His eyes glassy and wide, thin trails of tears shining on his cheeks, mouth opening and closing, wrapping around the shapes of words but unable to voice them. The same word over and over, so familiar...

"And you, Rhett," rising again as you speak, taking his wet cheeks into your hands, warm beneath your touch, "the sweetest cowboy I could have ever met, with the biggest heart I've ever seen." "There aren't enough words in the English language to depict just how much I love you."

Your name tumbles out of him. Hardly a whisper, voice cracking, wavering.

That's the only thing he can say as his arms wind around you and pull your body against his, burying his face within the crook of your shoulder. A sob rattles out of him, but it's different compared to the ones you've been hearing as of late.

"I love you," he murmurs into your collar, vibrating up your neck, "I love you."

You only mean to shift your weight, unintentionally brushing your thigh between his legs and Rhett whines.

As he lays back against the mattress, and your noses press together, peering back into one another's eyes, you reach down. Finally, finally, wrapping your palm around his dripping cock. Hard as can be, the tip glistening in the light as you loosely stroke him.

"Is that what you were wanting, cowboy?" Your answer comes in the form of him reaching toward the bedside table, getting ahold of the new bottle of lube sitting atop it. So new that you have to stop and remove the plastic from it before you can properly slick him up.

His hips rise off the bed, needily chasing your touch, the sweet whimper in his throat dancing with the wet sounds of the lube. Always so responsive for you, and you've hardly done anything to him.

"Hah, that..." Rhett's eyes screw shut, head bobbing from side to side, as your thumb polishes over his head, working over the slit and all. "But...you."

"You don't need to worry about me," on its own, your mind darts to what lurks in the box next to your bed. Plenty of things to play with. "I don't wanna hurt you, remember?"

Rhett's not having it. Bottom lip pouting. "But it feels better when I know you're feelin' good, too," His voice high, breathy, "Please?"

He could sell you on a one-way ticket to the moon if he really wanted to.

He must know he's convinced you, too, because he's already pulling your shirt over your head. Hands roaming up your sides, cupping your breasts in his big palms, still wet from your ventures with your tongue. Then go your pants, joining Rhett's on the floor with the quietest noise.

"Now, what if I really do hurt you?" Your palm runs over his belly, watching how he tenses despite your feather-light touch. So, so sore. Bound to be worse in the morning.

His left-hand trembles as he drizzles lube onto his fingers; it should be resting in his sling like the doctor ordered, but between the walk from the truck to the house, he's wriggled out of it. "Ain't too worried 'bout that."

"But—"

Wet fingers slip between your folds, lazily pausing to stroke your clit on their way to their destination. "If I can ride a bull, y'sure as hell can ride me."

Stubborn to the damn end.

And you want to complain. Never let him hear the end of how you don't want to hurt him. But two of those wicked fingers of his are pushing into you without the slightest warning, and your higher thinking vanishes within an instant. Stolen away by the drag of calloused fingertips, has you shuddering before they've even passed the second knuckle.

A chuckle bubbles out of Rhett's chest, darkened eyes glinting; he knows what he's doing. Grinning to himself as he begins to those fingers of his in and out of you, eyelashes fluttering when you clench around them.

Your attention darts to his neglected cock, laying haphazardly against his belly, precum spilling out of his tip like a leaky faucet. Perfect to reach for and torment, sliding your thumb over his cock head, spreading it around him.

Rhett's hips jerk, a breath bursting out of him, "St—hah, stop that."

One little touch, and he's twitching in your hand. It's only been a week since the last time. Is he that sensitive already?

Those fingers of his twist, cooking to drive against something that has your thighs quivering, letting go of his cock to brace yourself against the bed. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

"Alright," reaching down, you take hold of his wrist and pull him out of you. Disappointed by the loss of his fingers, even though you know you'll get something better in just a moment. "But just remember, this was your idea."

"I know it," Rhett's good hand rises to settle on your hip as you move to straddle him. Contentedly rubbing the skin there as you take hold of him once more, guiding his leaking tip between your folds.

And who's to stop you from lazily rubbing him against your clit, gentle spirals that makes your fingertips tingle. It's hard telling if Rhett moans first or if it's you all along, gasping together like it's all you know how to do.

"Fuck," muttering under his breath, peering up at you from beneath thick lashes. "That's...different..."

Your hand twitches. Pulls him back far enough to catch on your entrance. Ends your fun too soon, but the delicious pressure of him against you is too good to miss. With a shaky breath, you sink down on him, eyes falling shut at the stretch of him.

Rhett's panting like a dog beneath you, the hand on your hip growing loose as you slowly but surely take him. God, he's so thick, and it's not fair. Stretching you wide, his plush head dragging against the walls of your cunt. So hard to relax when he seems to fill you completely, bordering the line between a perfect fit and a little too much.

His hip bones press into your ass as you bottom out. Your chest heaving, heart pounding in your chest. Think you can feel him throbbing inside of you, subtle little pulses of his cock that make you jolt.

"Are you alright?" You ask. Struggling to open your eyes.

Rhett's hand rises, smoothing up your waist and settling on your breast, pressing his palm against it. "Think I outta be askin' you that, darlin'."

You're more than alright.

Carefully, you lean forward, bracing one hand on the mattress, the other on his heaving chest, steering clear of his bruises. On its own, your thumb flicks over his nipple, gasping when he jolts up into you.

"Y'gotta leave those alone," he fusses, but he doesn't stop you from craning your neck to suck on one of them. Worrying the hardening bud between your teeth, listening to him whine at the attention, only letting go once it's begun to swell once more.

Before he can open his mouth again, you begin to move.

Raising yourself up, feeling him twitch inside of you, then sinking right back down. Starting shallow, for his sake more than your own. Breathing out a silent noise as you feel him move inside of you, thick length massaging against a particular bundle of nerves within you, without the slightest effort.

"Fuck, fuck, you're tight," he whimpers, eyes barely open as he peers up at you, hair spread out beneath his head in a messy halo. "Baby, baby..."

"Is that what you were needing, cowboy?" Teasing, not bothering to fight the noises he's working out of you. Feeling those devilish hips swivel. The best he can do.

And those lewd little noises are spilling out of him like a waterfall. Whimpers carried to your ears by his short, quickened breaths, "uhuh."

Drawing yourself up quicker now, settling into a comfortable rhythm that lets you feel the drag of his cock head inside of your pussy. Filling you impossibly well, so deep that you're not sure how he fits.

"Can feel you flutterin' round me," his voice gravelly, absolutely hypnotized by the way your body moves on top of him. Even that shaky left hand is rising, settling on your thigh, needs to feel your muscles flex with your motions.

On your own, you clamp down around him; almost regret it because the noise he makes sends something stirring to life within you. Warm. Familiar.

"Again," Rhett babbles, head rolling side to side, "please—please, do that again."

Your thighs are beginning to ache, forces your pace to fall into something shallower as you squeeze down around him once more. Oh, oh, oh, how he jerks up into you at that. Rips a surprised cry out of you as his hips come off the mattress, slamming into you.

"Fuck, Rhett," your eyes bursting open; don't remember closing them.

"'M already close," his voice an octave higher, words punctuated by the smack of skin on skin. Biting on his lips, trying to swallow down those noises you're working out of him.

Your hand trembles as it rises to pull his lip free of his teeth, replacing it with your thumb. That short, hot tongue swirls around on it, lazily sucking on it, eyes falling shut. So, so focused. "You gonna cum for me, cowboy?"

He can't speak, too busy with your finger, can only nod and hum. It's easy, pressing down on his tongue, pinning it down if only to feel it writhe.

"Come on, sweet boy," you're cooing, urging him on, fighting to keep yourself going. He's already twitching in you. Little jerks of his cock that always bubble to the surface when he's close. "Cum."

Those pretty blue eyes roll back into his head. And with the quitest sob, he cums.

Muscles flexing as he jolts up into you, back arching despite it all, the hand on your thigh squeezing tight. A familiar heat fills you. Ropes of sticky, hot cum, pumping inside, already beginning to spill out as you ride him through it. Gradually slowing, pulling your thumb from his slackened mouth, watching him spin back down from the clouds.

"Keep," he's interrupted by a desperate gasp for air. "Keep goin'."

Well, that's new. "Are you sure?" Because you can already feel him beginning to soften inside of you, spent.

"Wanna feel you cum 'round me," pleading like his life depends on it, voice gone raspy, "Please, please, please."

Something about the way he says it stirs something to life within you. Ache in your thighs seeming to disappear as you begin to move once more, too distracted by the way he reaches down, pressing rough fingers to your sensitive clit. Regaining your rhythm once more, dizzied by the delicious thickness of him inside of you. Sickeningly loud squelch be damned.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," babbling under his breath, Rhett's fighting to keep his eyes open. Hungry gaze eating up the sight of you, using him for your own pleasure.

"Good boy," leaning back, savoring how he's twitching in your pussy, already beginning to harden once more, "hang on for me."

And Rhett's shaking. His muscles tremoring as heat blooms between your legs, thumb struggling to spiral around your swollen clit, shaking too damn hard to stay steady. Downright vibrating. His thighs spasm beneath you, whimpering high in his throat, and he sounds so, so pretty like that. Looks it too.

Just the sight of him has you clenching around him like a vice, head beginning to spin. Rhythm faltering as you all but chase the heat starting to spread between your legs, spurred on by his trembling thumb and the drag of his plush head against the inside of you. Skin prickling. Close, close, close.

His hips jolt up on their own. Once. Twice. And you're gone.

A silent noise stumbling out of you as your eyes screw shut. Body freezing. Pulsing around him as your orgasm washes over you like a ton of bricks. Distantly aware that you're falling forward. Head coming to rest against his collar. Stars dancing beneath your eyelids. A dull tingling in your limbs.

Rhett's hips jolt one more time. Short. Jerky. And you're distantly aware that he's cumming again.

You wonder if this is how it feels to take a hard fall off a bull. A brief blankness in memory, followed by the slow opening of eyes. Barely able to recall where you are before the ache in your thighs comes knocking at the door.

"Don't..." Rhett whispers, lips tickling your ear, "Don't move...just for a minute."

You're glad that he asked because you don't think you can move. "Can I convince you on a bath and a movie?" Because if you two stay on this bed for too long, you'll have to rewash this comforter.

"Will you get in with me?" And if you thought his lips tickled, then his hot breath is a different monster entirely.

"Of course, I will," pressing a kiss to his collar before finishing your sentence. "Whatever you want, cowboy." And it seems you may have left him a few hickeys because you don't recall him having bruises here.

"Whatever I want?" And you can hear the cocky grin in his voice.

God, why did you ever tell him that? "...that's what I said."

He seems to think for a minute. Looking for something that will truly test your resolve, simply to see if you're true to your word. "Then d'you think you can put that sling back on me after?" How dare he sound so shy, with his softening dick still in you. "Shits startin' to hurt."

"Where did you put it?"

"I haven't the slightest clue."

How you wind up finding it hanging off the top of the refrigerator is anyone's guess.

Thunk.

"Shit!" Rhett's voice echoes from the kitchen; you don't need to think to know what just happened. "Fuck this fucking—I'm not gonna miss this damn counter!"

The landlord is gonna shave some funds off your deposit for the dent your poor cowboy has put into that tabletop. That you know for sure.

"Consider it a parting gift," you chirp, scooping up the last of your boxes. Picture frames, delicately wrapped in old newspaper and towels.

When you'd moved into this house, you had a grand total of ten boxes. Hardly anything to your name, other than essentials you'd scrapped up from yard sales and big box store sales. Just little old you in a big house that's seen more life than you could have ever hoped to live

But now, as you finally, finally move out of this century-old place, you've got more boxes than you can count. Cookware, throw pillows, knick-knacks brought to you by a cowboy who didn't know how to court you. Stacks of DVDs and CDs, a stuffed bull bought at a rodeo, plaid curtains and blankets, memories galore.

Rhett's lingering by the door. Big hands reaching out to take the box from you; it's not heavy, but you've given up on bickering about who can carry what.

His gaze is heavy, falling to focus on the box. Index finger tapping on the cardboard, in its own uneasy tune.

"You alright?" You chirp, surprised by how your voice carries in this house now that it's completely empty.

His boot taps the ground. If you were outside, he'd be kicking the dirt. "Are you really sure you want a home with me in it?"

The hardwood squeaks beneath your feet as you step forward, crouching to catch his eye. They lock with yours, following as you rise once more. "I can't imagine a house without you in it, cowboy," licking the pad of your thumb, wiping away a streak of dirt from his cheek. "Even if you do try to distract me with kisses, so you can steal cookie dough off the tray."

His gaze falls again. The tips of his ears go red, smiling to himself like it's your first date all over again.

Your hands squish his cheeks. They've gotten a touch thicker now that he's exchanged bull riding for lazy nights on the couch with you. And they're perfect. "What are you?"

His eyelashes flutter. Mouth opening, then closing, only to open again. "Worth it." And then he's twisting his head to bite your thumb and darting out the open door. Tripping over his own feet as you come after him. Giggling, yelling his futile, I'm sorry's, despite provoking this all on his own.

Yeah, you're glad you picked this cowboy.

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rustedhearts · 3 months

Text

listening to 'asleep' by the smiths

tw: child loss

"do you think it'll be sunny all the time?"

"hmm...the occasional rainy day might be nice."

"mm. i like rain."

on the muted floral colors of your pillowcase, steve turns his head. hair whooshing with the gentle shift, splaying out in hazelnut colors. the green of his sweatshirt has faded in the wash, blown soft by the wind on the drying line outside the window. overhead, it blares the orange and yellow light of mid-afternoon.

he's looking at you, eyes flicking over your profile. "yeah...me too"

there's an old water stain on the ceiling that steve once said is shaped like an elephant. you think it just looks more like a blob. but you have been staring at it above your bed for far too many years.

"it's nice," you whisper, trying not to give into his peering.

steve continues anyway, letting his cheek touch the flattened pillow. your bedsheets are rumpled between your bodies, cushioning yesterday's clothes. you never changed when you came home. couldn't get past the bed.

"yeah...it is," he agrees just as quietly.

his finger enters the plain of your palm, grazing the skin so delicately that it tickles. you twitch at the touch, a smile ghosting over your mouth. he wants to capture it—this moment—in a photograph and paste it on the old wallpapered wall. in this tiny trailer, where you'd spent your youth, where you shared a home. where you dreamed of worlds outside of the one the pair of you were continually stuck in.

"how would we go?"

"a plane. a plane with the fanciest seats and all the roasted peanuts you want. and they hand out free headsets and airplane pillows."

you let your eyes flutter closed, humming again. "layover?"

steve swallows, and against the stiff quiet of the room, it echoes. a dog barks somewhere, a few rows away. children scuttle and chatter. it's saturday, and there are much better things to do.

you never knew fridays could be capable of what yesterday was.

"one," steve replies, still running circles over your palm. "texas."

your lips wiggle into another half-grin. closing your eyes makes you tired, and the room feels warm. regaining circulation, losing blood—it fatigues.

"that's out of the way."

steve shrugs, though you can't see it. he can't stop looking at you. he's worried if he stops, you'll disappear. he's always worried you'll disappear.

"just a little fun. it lasts a day, and we'll go to the rodeo. get an iced tea for the flight home."

"an iced tea," you marvel breathily.

steve swallows again. it clicks and sizzles down his throat. he swallows a lot when he feels tears coming on. your nostrils flare with the onset of your own.

"yeah," he agrees, mumbling now. "with all the sugar you want."

"l-lemons?"

"lemons, too."

snapping your eyes open, you flick your head over and bump into his nose. he shuffles closer, nuzzling the tips of them together. the breath he releases seems needed. your hands claps together between your sandwiched bodies.

almost twenty-four hours since you left the clinic. hours of collecting bedsores between waddled and winced trips to the bathroom. not once in those long, taffy-pulled hours did you cry.

but here they are, those inevitable tears.

"you th-think she'll have l-lemons, too?" you whimper, lip wobbling.

steve presses his forehead against your own. when his eyes close, they squeeze free hot tears.

"y-yeah, honey. she lives in a world full of lemons."

you sniffle and sink further into his soft and colorful clothes. "good. she liked lemons."

his thumb catches a tear beading down your cheek blindly. "yeah, she did."

for three weeks after the first test, all you did was drink iced tea with lemons.

it might be silly to think that in heaven, god gives away something so small, but one could only hope.

#rolly!#steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb

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jeridandridge · 9 months

Note

Hi! Idk if your asks are open rn, I know you got a lot in your requests. But I thought of this little fluffy idea and you're my fave writer on here so I thought I'd throw it your way and see if you liked it enough to write it!

It's a dark and stormy night and Melissa takes reader to a scary movie for date night, which basically scars the reader (in a cute funny way obvs lol) and she has to stay over at Melissa's bc she is terrified. But what she doesn't know is Melissa is low-key also terrified. Every floorboard creaking, shadows on the walls, trees knocking against the windows 👻👻👻 you know?

Cute, fluffy, funny with a happy ending. If ya feel like it!

💕💕

This was so much fun to write I hope you dig it! Thank you for the request. 🩷

Deadites and Baseball Bats.

“Cmon, Mel.” You chuckle jogging up to the door to hold it open for your girlfriend. It was starting to rain outside and you knew it would only get worse throughout the night.

“Ya know I still don’t know why you picked this one, hon.” She quirks a brow as you two get to the snack area. You’d made sure to get the tickets for the movie the day before, mostly because you knew that way you wouldn’t chicken out.

“It’s supposed to be really good! My brother showed me the original when I was way too little now I wanna see this one.” You smile at the memory. You like some horror, but it still scared you. Hell, Michael meyers was a figure in your nightmares even when you were in high school.

“You saw Evil Dead when you were a kid?!” Melissa’s eyes go wide and you can’t help but laugh at her expression as you reach for her hand.

“I told you my brother wasn’t the best babysitter.”

You pay for your usual snack of popcorn and a bag of peanut M&Ms to share, even though Melissa always tells you to just sneak stuff in. In the theater you sit munching on your snacks waiting for the movie to start.

“I wonder how scary this one’s gonna be.” Melissa hums as the lights dim. When the movie starts you scoot closer to your girlfriend noting how the atmosphere in the movie is just like how it is outside now. Rain pelting down and dark. Too dark.

The movie starts out easy enough, but eventually your find yourself hiding your face in your girlfriends hair. “That’s not what a cheese grater is for!” You squeak.

“Woah!” Melissa lets out pushing further back into her seat, her hand on your thigh.

Throughout the movie you play peekaboo through your girlfriends hair, holding onto her arm for dear life.

“That’s more blood than when they got my uncle Tony.” Melissa winces.

You start to relax when the character wields the iconic chainsaw, finally killing the mutant deadite. After the movie you let out a breath and stand up blown away and terrified of what you watched.

“I can’t believe she went after all her kids.” The red head comments as you two head out of the theater.

“I mean, it wasn’t really her, the deadite was just using her.” You reason, your face falling when you get to the lobby. The glass doors give you a peak of an angry dark purple sky and lightning striking through black clouds.

“Ready to make a run for it, hon?” Melissa asks resting her hand on your lower back.

You nod pushing the door open.

“You can’t help but laugh when you two reach the car, Melissa trying to fix her soaking wet hair.

“Oh baby.” You laugh reaching over to wipe away smeared mascara. “My little raccoon.” You tease.

“Shut up, scaredy cat.” She teases you getting the car moving. As you two head home you can’t help but jump when a roll of thunder crashes seemingly right above you.

“Fuck.” You mutter looking out the window. The sky had grown even darker, making it look much later than 10 o’clock. The wind whipping around rattles the car and you reach over holding the sleeve of Melissa’s leather jacket.

Back at home you two get in shaking off the water.

“I’m gonna get some candles out just in case. That wind is too strong.” Melissa comments heading upstairs.

For some reason, when Melissa goes upstairs you feel like a child again, feet stuck in cement blocks unable to move with fear running through you. You think of how ridiculous it is.

“It’s just a movie.” You tell yourself moving through the house to get to the kitchen. All of a sudden you hear a zap and everything goes black.

“Oh fuck.” You cry out, your heart racing. “Mel!”

“I’m comin I’m comin, hon.” She huffs flicking a lighter for the candle in her hand.

Your hand grips the door frame and you don’t let go until you see your girlfriend glowing in the candle light.

“If I weren’t so freaked out id tell you how hot you look in that candlelight.” You breathe out with a nervous laugh.

Melissa moves through the dimly lit area holding the large glass candle.

“You’re scared and you still manage to flirt.” She chuckles wrapping her arm around your waist. “Cmon, baby I’ll keep you safe.” She teases.

“That movie was terrifying! I don’t know why I did that.”

“But we did have fun.” Melissa smiles in the dark. When you two get to your bedroom she sets the candle down on the dresser and moves to light more.

You strip getting rid of your wet clothes and changing into your sweatpants and one of Melissa’s eagles shirts.

You take a step forward and when you do the hardwood floor creaks forcing you to freeze.

“What was-“ Melissa whips around, stoping when she sees you on a certain part of the floor.

“Is the big and tough Melissa Schemmenti scared too?” You tease climbing into bed.

“I am not! It sounded weird, I didn’t know if- whatever.” She waves her hand continuing to take her makeup off. You sit in bed with the blanket pulled up to your chin, your phone in hand you scroll trying to take your mind off of the howling wind outside and the freaky deadites.

“Remind me to get rid of the cheese grater.” Melissa hums climbing in next to you.

“Oh god.” You shudder remembering the scene. “No cheese graters or tattoo machines in this house.”

“Deal.” The red head laughs wrapping her arm around you. You shift scooting back to have her behind you. She holds you a little tighter than she normally does, the sound of the rain hitting the window starts to lull you to sleep until youre jolted out of your haze by the sound of glass breaking and a door slamming.

“What the fuck was that?!” Melissa bolts up resting her hand on your hip. You sit up completely still, listening for anything else.

“Hopefully not a possessed angry zombie mother.” You hiss getting up with the red head. Melissa grabs her bedroom bat and you stand behind her, hands on her back as you both creep through the house.

“If I ever get possessed you better take me out.” She whispers.

“You got it, baby.” You agree, completely tense as you both get down the hall.

“It’s in the bathroom!” she hisses looking at the now closed door.

“I’ll kick it open, you swing.” You whisper standing on the opposite side of the door frame. Your girlfriend gives you a nod and you move like a lightening bolt kicking the door in and moving to the side again as Melissa winds her arms up ready to swing.

“Oh my god.” Melissa sighs bringing a hand to her chest. You look in past her seeing the bathroom window broken and a tree branch through it.

“So not a deadite” you sigh in relief. Melissa steps forward and you pull her back by the arm. “Stop, you’re gonna step on glass. It’s too dark to deal with this right now.”

Melissa puts her arms down closing the door again.

“We’ll have to wait until the morning to do something about that.” She hums.

You can’t help but smile standing beside her. “Thank you for protecting me from deaites and tree branches.”

Melissa laughs intertwining your fingers pulling you back to the bedroom.

“I think we have to put a no scary movies in the dark rule in place.”

“Deal. Big time deal.”

#abbott elementary #lisa ann walter #wlw #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #lgbtq+ fiction

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violettduchess · 1 year

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A/N: @dear-mrs-otome your request has taken me on quite the journey. I hope I've managed to do your Prince right and that you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. 💜

Technically, this is part of my Broken Heartstrings series under the prompt: Only One Bed which I have been dying to write and was really excited to do with Silvio, demanding as he is.

Silvio x f! reader

Word Count: 5093

Of all the people to share a carriage ride back to the palace with, Silvio Ricci is the last one you would have chosen. You glance at him, sitting there across from you in the darkened carriage as it sways over the uneven country roads. His face is currently set to a sharp scowl, his impossibly blue eyes staring out the glass window. Not that he can see much. The world outside is black, streaked with shots of gray as the rain continues to fall, pelting the carriage’s roof and windows with a loud rat-a-tat-tat sound.

Only his occasional annoyed sighs interrupt the steady drumming of the rain. You pull your thin, black silk shawl tighter around your bare shoulders, turning to stare out your own darkened window. You’ll be grateful when you reach the palace and can change out of your tightly corseted ball gown. As enchanting as it is with its ivory-colored satin and black lace trimming, you are looking forward to being able to breathe again. And bend properly.

“Only Rhodolite would have a ball way out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

Your jaw clenches and the rolling sound of thunder echoes the irritation you feel at his snide tone.

“The Count holds this ball once a year at his country estate which is one of the most elegant–”

The Prince of Benitoite scoffs loudly. “Elegant my ass.”

You are really beginning to question Sariel’s decree that you ride back to the palace with this pompous royal. You’re more likely to lodge your heeled shoe in his temple than make pleasant small talk.

“Prince Silvio, do you have to be so-” You’re interrupted by another boom of thunder, this one loud enough to rattle the carriage. You hear the frightened whine of the horse over the continued sound of heavy rain. Some part of you is not surprised when it rolls to a stop. A moment later there is a rapping at the window and you lean over, opening the carriage door. A rush of wet, cold air invades the dry interior.

“The hell we stopped for?” Silvio yells above the din of the downpour.

The driver, battling the gusting wind to keep his hat on his head and the rain out of his eyes, has to yell back in order to be heard. “‘Storm has gotten too bad, your highness! We can’t keep traveling in this weather!” He glances over his shoulder, blinking against the water pelting his face.. “We passed an inn just a short ways back! We should head there for shelter!”

You expect him to argue and for a half a moment, his lips part and it looks like he might. But then the sky explodes into a sheet of white as lightning bares its teeth. Silvio’s gaze shifts from the sky back to the driver and you’re given a glimpse of a man who understands and respects the power of a storm. He nods once in affirmation.

The driver looks relieved that he won’t have to argue with the haughty prince and closes the carriage door. A moment later you feel it turn, heading back in the direction it came. You wonder whether or not you should comment on the prince’s amenability when he snorts in disgust, moving his expensive leather boots away from a puddle of water that the rain had blown onto the carriage floor.

Nope, still an ass, you think with a sigh and ride the rest of the way to the inn in silence, with only the turbulent sound of the storm echoing through the carriage.

“Whaddaya mean there’s only one room left?” Silvio’s jewelry and the many gold adornments on his ocean-blue jacket gleam in the light of the hearth fire inside the common room of the inn. “You’re talking to a Prince of Benitoite! I could buy this whole place out from under ya in a day.”

The beleaguered innkeeper crosses his burly arms, glaring at the prince from under bushy white eyebrows.

“As I said already, Your Highness, I got one room left. You can take it or leave it.” He turns to the driver who has returned from securing the horse, safe and sound in the barn. “It’s not much, sir, but you can have a spot in front of the hearth. It’ll warm you up, dry you off.”

Silvio’s booted foot hits the wooden planks of the inn’s floor. “And your room? What if I demand to commandeer your bed?”

The innkeeper grins through his full, white beard. “You’d certainly give my wife the thrill of her life, Your Highness.”

You would laugh at the startled look on Silvio’s face but you have another pressing problem. “So I have a choice between the floor and….sharing a room with him?”

Genuinely sorry, the innkeeper nods, his gaze darting to the prince. “I apologize, my lady. Truly.”

You turn to face Silvio and his scowl. With a jangle, he snatches the room key from the counter where the innkeeper left it and marches off toward the narrow, winding staircase that leads to the second story of the inn.

You follow with one last glance at the common room.

Maybe the floor wouldn’t be that bad.

The room is at the very end of the hallway, nestled under the slanted inn roof. You notice several things right away when you step inside: There is one round glass window through which you can watch the way the rain is being flung through the night by a restless, howling wind. A small oil lamp is lit, resting on the nightstand of the lone bed. It is larger than you expected, taking up close to half of the small room. A tiny, worn table and single chair are tucked into a narrow corner. And there is absolutely nothing else in the room except a Prince of Benitoite, whose pale head almost brushes the rafters, standing in the middle with his arms crossed, glowering in disdain.

“What a dump.”

Irritation trumps politeness and you hear yourself snap at him. “You’re welcome to take your royal ass back down to the common room and sleep with the driver. Or perhaps the barn with the horses is more to your liking.”

He turns sharply, his clothing and jewelry jingling softly under the sounds of the storm. His gaze, the blue of a midsummer sky, lingers and you wonder if he’s going to snap at you for speaking to him that way. Or comment on your language. Instead he surprises you by doing neither. His lips curve into a grin and you are utterly unprepared for the way a smile changes his face. What was begrudgingly handsome transforms into blindingly beautiful. Butterflies are born, fluttering their wings in your stomach, sending up a breeze that comes out as a huff of air as you march over to the side of the bed closest to the window and sit, leaning down to undo the straps of your shoes.

He watches you, crossing his arms. “Whatcha doin’?”

You keep your back to him as you pull off one shoe and begin undoing the other. “Getting ready for bed.”

He glances at the bed with its single, quilted blanket and two pillows. Then he begins unbuttoning his dress jacket. “Fine. You can have the blanket. Maybe it’ll make the chair or floor more comfortable.”

Standing, you turn around to face him. He’s carefully removed his jacket and has folded it so all its golden ornaments are wrapped inside of it.

“What do you mean ‘the chair or floor’? The bed is big enough for us both. I refuse to–What on earth are you doing?” You watch, brows raised as he begins tucking his jacket underneath his pillow.

“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell, one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” He steps back, satisfied that you can’t see the jacket anymore and then faces his next bothersome obstacle, the one shaking her head with her hands on her hips. Hips, he notices, that are temptingly accented by the flair of her ballgown. His gaze follows the stiff waistline up the strapless bodice where he can’t help but notice other things the gown accents. How had he not noticed your–

Your voice snaps him out of it.

“Prince or not, that’s ridiculous.”

Aaaaaand you’re yappin’ again. He ignores your comment, kicking off his expensive leather boots in a move so casually effortless it stirs those annoying butterflies again and then with a sigh, lays down on the bed. He’s left all of his jewelry on, his golden rings and earrings and necklaces which strikes you as very uncomfortable but he seems right at home, stretching out his long limbs in a way that seems to swallow all that space the bed seemed to have at first glance.

Best to get ready and go to sleep immediately.

With that thought, you realize something-and the raucous storm outside has nothing on the roar of panic flooding your body.

Your ivory and black ball gown is beautiful. And you were laced into this beautiful ivory and black ball gown by a trusted female servant. Laced into it wearing nothing but a pair of soft silken drawers which stop mid-thigh.

You consider trying to sleep in the gown. No. You wouldn’t be able to move. It’s too tight at the waist and chest and too voluminous in the skirt.

Which means…..you turn slowly to see Silvio has rolled over, his back to you. Great. He’s gone to sleep already.

You clear your throat.

No response.

You do it again louder.

He doesn’t move.

“Silvio!”

His name does it. “The fuck you want, lady?!” He’s rolled halfway around, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“I….” This hurts to admit and you wish you were in the room with anyone else. “I can’t undo my gown.”

“So sleep in it,” he says, each word drawn out slowly like he’s talking to a small child. He mutters something in the language of Benitoite you can just tell is rude and insulting.

You grit your teeth. He starts to roll back over.

“I can’t. It’s too tight to sleep in and the skirt is big.”

Outside the thunder rolls, low and foreboding. Silence swallows the room and you know your cheeks are warm. Maybe he won’t notice in the dim light.

He jangles as he pushes himself up now, hair pale as moonlight falling across his forehead and cheek as he tilts his head. And then slowly, oh so slowly, he grins in a way that corkscrews a blaze of heat right through you.

“So lemme make sure I got this. You’re askin’ me to undress you?”

You steel yourself. “And to give me your shirt.”

That wipes the grin right off his face. “Whaddaya mean ‘give you my shirt’? Do you know-”

“I’m sure it’s more expensive than all the buildings in Rhodolite but I am going to sleep in that bed and I am not going to do it in just my undergarment!”

Your tone is firm, much more confident than you actually feel. Again the thunder outside is the only sound as he stares, those cobalt blue eyes fixed on you with the intensity and depth of a storm-tossed ocean.

“Please.” It comes out small, a tiny crack in the wall of confidence you’ve been presenting him with. The word has slipped out, unbidden and the heat in your face feels unbearable. Have you lost your mind, asking him to do this? “N-Nevermind, I’ll-”

Your stammering drops off as he stands, his elegant fingers reaching under soft white ruffles to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He does not meet your gaze and you wonder if that darkness in his face is a blush to match your own. Then the white shirt is off and he’s standing before you, his upper body surprisingly sculpted and shockingly bare. His necklaces lay against his fair skin and there is something so intimate about the sight your breath catches.

“So the lady likes what she sees.” Dragging your gaze away from all the exposed skin and corded muscle, you see that grin has returned to those lips and you draw a quick breath, spinning around and presenting him with your back (which happens to conveniently hide a blush so fierce it must be glowing.)

“Just get on with it.”

The wooden floorboards creak underfoot as he crosses to where you are standing. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this close to him before. You didn’t dance together at the ball and as far as you can remember the only time you’ve ever touched was when you first met and he offered you his hand, a sharp thrust in your direction that felt more like he was going to stab you with an invisible dagger than an introduction.

But now he is so close you can smell his cologne, something unexpectedly soft that vaguely reminds you of the sea on a dark, clear night. Your body is electric with an awareness that ripples across your skin with every inhale and exhale he makes. Outside, the rain is endless, the thunder unflagging. But their sounds are drowned out by the sudden pounding of your heart, by the beat of a thousand butterfly wings sending your blood rushing through your veins like the current of a wild river. He begins pulling on the satin bow of your gown, undoing the careful knot.

“The laces can be tricky,” you say just to say something, anything. Is that really your voice, so breathy and soft?

You realize your mistake instantly because he answers you and his voice is right by your ear, curling around the shell of it.

“I got more than enough experience with knots,” he murmurs.

“Because of all the people you’ve bedded,” you mutter. Why did you say that? And why does the thought of Silvio in bed with anyone make your fingers curl into your palms?

He’s released the knot and begins loosening the stays, tucking those nimble fingers underneath each crisscross and tugging, not roughly as you would have imagined but with precision, loosening each section deliberately, skillfully.

“Because I’m a sailor,” he says matter-of-factly, surprising you yet again. He tugs again and the bodice of your gown suddenly slips, sending you scrambling to keep the whole thing up. He leans closer still, his lips mere centimeters from your ear. “And because of all the people I’ve bedded.” He’s undone your gown but you’re being wrapped up again, this time in his silken, serpentine words..

Your heart leaps in your chest and you stumble away, holding up your dress with both arms, swallowing against the unexplainable tightness in your throat.

“Your shirt.” You hold the ivory satin to your chest with one arm and hold out your free hand, palm up. He practically strolls back to the bed (how he manages to do that in such a small space is a mystery), picks up his shirt and with a shameless grin, throws it at you.

You don’t reach for it with both hands as he may have hoped, instead catching it one-handed and there is a flash of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Admiration? Both?

“Turn around.”

He lifts his hand, jeweled rings on nearly every finger and covers his eyes.

“Silvio.” Consternation swells his name. It looks like he’s peeking.

“What? I ain’t lookin’!”

There is too much running wildly through your mind, too many blurry thoughts twisting in incomprehensible circles to worry about whether or not the man is going to sneak a look at you or not. You turn your back to him and let your gown drop to the floor with a whoosh.

He didn’t plan to look. But the rings on his fingers don’t allow him to hold them together completely and when your dress makes that sound, his eyes open of their own accord and through the narrow space between his fingers he catches a glimpse of your naked back. The curve of your hip and dip of your waist. The shapely line of your legs.

The thunder rumbles a warning and he quickly closes his eyes again, alarmed at the sharp, hot pang of want slicing its way through his body. You? No. He doesn’t want–

One blue eye slowly opens, this time without any excuse. You’re wearing his shirt. It falls to the back of your knees and somehow looks better than any dress ever would. There is a tension slowly winding its way across his neck, his shoulders, a tightening in his gut at the sight. And then you turn, buttoning the final few buttons and his mouth goes dry at the fleeting glimpse of your décolleté. .

What the fuck…..He forces his eyes closed again, his jaw clenched against the swift desire you unknowingly provoked.

You scramble towards the bed and dive under the blanket, pulling it up and over your chest.

“Okay,” you murmur. “You can look now.”

He mumbles something that sounds like “Finally”, his voice oddly hoarse, as he lays back down but on top of the covers.

“You can get under the covers. You’ll get cold if–”

“I’m fine, lady,” he snaps, a dog snarling at the hand offering it a pet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have no shirt on and it’s not all that warm in here. You’ll get sick.”

“I don’t get sick,” he says haughtily and for a moment, your exasperation overrules the awkwardness.

“Fine. Whatever you say.” You pointedly roll away from him, trying to ignore how soft his shirt is, how good it smells, how comforting it is against your skin as the world outside rages with wind and water.

“This bed sucks.” His voice is rough, irritated. You glance over your shoulder. He’s laying on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at the slanted wooden beams of the ceiling. Despite the bareness of his upper body, it’s his profile that captures your attention. The fall of his pale hair. The slant of his cheekbones. The straight, aristocratic nose. His perfectly sculpted lips. A sudden, wild thought bursts through the chaos of your mind: what would they feel like on your lips? On your skin?

Outside the thunder booms, a furious sound so powerful it shakes the window, like a giant quaking the earth with its powerful steps. A small cry of surprise and trepidation escapes you.

He turns his head. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

You roll onto your back, not wanting to face the window and the darkness outside. An uncontrollable shiver rolls through you and you tug the covers up, closer to your chin.

“Rhodolite doesn’t have storms like this often." Your heart is hammering because of the deafening clap of thunder, right? It has nothing to do with the preposterous thoughts spinning like coins through your head just before.

“Benitoite does.” He returns his gaze to the dark wooden beams above. “Be grateful you’re not on the deck of a ship durin’ a storm like this.”

You glance at the window, illuminated by a burst of lightning and then turn, rolling completely away from it to face him.

“What was it like?”

Silvio glances at you, then quickly back to the ceiling. “This little rain shower’s got nothin’ on a storm that crept up on us while we were out to sea, sailin’ back from Tanzanite…..”

He speaks and you listen, each word a small fairy light blinking into existence, leading you down a path, away from the storm outside the small guesthouse in the middle of the Rhodolite countryside, and into the eye of a hurricane. One that rocks the carrack Silvio is on, homeward bound from far-away Tanzanite.

He paints the picture so well, his voice low, blending in with the unrelenting barrage of rain on the darkened window pane. You can see him in your mind’s eye, soaked through, swallowing salt water and his fear as he clings to wet, stinging ropes, his boots sliding across the slick deck. Men’s shouts fade into the roar of the wind. A body is plucked from the ship and tossed like a ragdoll through the howling wind, lost forever to the churning, briny depths. The ocean is enraged, a wild beast bucking and kicking blindly. The ship groans and tilts, battered by the winds, tossed by the wild waves. Silvio’s vision is blurred as he seeks out the helmsman, valiantly still at the massive wooden wheel and makes his way across the dangerously open deck. A wall of water slams into him and he knows if he doesn’t fight, he will be washed out to sea. Dogged determination fills him. Out here he isn’t a prince, fighting for his father’s approval, fighting to be seen as someone worthy. Out here in the elements he is a man, fighting for his very survival, all his gold and jewels and titles worn down to nothing by the wild storm, like mighty mountains that have been reduced to pebbles by the persistence of rain over centuries. He roars in the face of the wind and the rain, clawing his way up to the petrified helmsman. “Insieme!!” Together.. His ringed fingers wrap around the wooden handles, between those of the helmsman. Their gazes meet and as lightning blanches the sky, they both turn with all their might……

“The sea claimed four men that night. Ain’t small, the price of lovin’ her.” He trails off, the experience slowly fading back into the mist of his memory. His blue eyes, darker and softer than you’ve ever seen them, blink as he returns to the small room at the top of the inn and the woman lying next to him.

You’re still on your side, facing him, your gaze held completely at attention by his face, his voice. His story not only distracted you from the storm outside, but had pulled you in, had you inching closer, heart hammering in your chest as you hung on every word.

But he’s run out of words, that barrier now gone, and there is nothing between you. Just your gaze locked with his, your chest rising and falling as you stare into those azure depths, wondering if the tempest outside will be what causes you to helplessly fall into all that blue, another voyager lost in the ocean of his eyes.

You may be balancing on attraction’s razor-thin edge, but he is no better off. All he can think about is the softness in your expression, the part of your lips, and how he wants nothing more than to capture them and steal the taste of your mouth for himself, hoard it along with the other treasures he already has of you from tonight. The line of your bare back, the light in your eyes, the whisper of your breathing. Just a few centimeters and he would touch you. A few more and he could-

A loud clap of thunder breaks the moment, snapping it in two. You jump, shaken from the hold his gaze had on you, a loud gasp escaping your throat. He jerks back, suddenly aware of just how close the two of you were. There is a faint flush across his cheekbones as he runs a hand through his soft, silvery hair.

“Stop bein’ such a baby. I just told ya how this is nothin’.”

That imperious tone feels like an affront after hearing him speak so softly before. You pull away as if stung and then gather yourself together so he won’t see the glimmer of hurt in your eyes.

“I’m not a baby. I was just startled and–” The way he’s tilting his head, a derisive smirk on his lips sends a flare of annoyance through you. “You know what? Just forget it.” Angrily you roll away from him, yanking the covers up over your shoulder. You don’t see the flash of disappointment in his eyes, the way his fingers reflexively uncurled when you turned away, his body knowing what it wants long before his mind.

You don’t see how long his gaze lingers on you before he finally forces himself to look away.

Sleep does not find you. You lay there as the oil lamp sputters out and the room is filled with dark shadows that scatter briefly when bright bursts of lightning illuminate the sky, a sky that continues to rampage with gusts of wind and cries of thunder.

Every single inch of you is aware of how close he is. You feel when he shifts his body, the movement disturbing the bedding. You’re still wrapped in the softness of his shirt, surrounded by his scent. And now you can hear the even sounds of his breathing.

Taking a chance, you glance over your shoulder.

He’s asleep on his side, still facing you, his pillow tucked between his arm and his head. You should turn away and continue your battle with wakefulness. You should stop staring at the locks of argent hair across his forehead. The curve of his arm. The graceful line of his torso.

Outside the thunder rolls. Your heart echoes its tremor.

You do eventually turn away from him but find yourself very slowly inching your way backwards, moving towards him until your body is touching his, the blanket still between you. Despite the coolness of the room, he has stayed on top of it. There is an almost palpable relief in the feeling of his form, the solidness of his body. The storm feels less angry, less destructive. Being this close to him feels right in a way you don’t want to explore, a nebulous thing on the horizon of your heart that you want to keep at bay.

And then he shifts in his sleep, throwing his arm around you and pulls you even closer against him.

You’re grateful he’s asleep or else the sudden galloping of your heart would surely wake him. It takes several breaths to calm the storm of butterflies in your chest, kicked up by your heart’s sudden racing. They settle down, wings still opening and closing at the feel of his strong arm, the curve of his body around yours. But there is also something warm slowly washing over you. A cocoon, a safe haven where you can finally close your eyes, finally feel the storm’s energy not as an enemy but as a companion, accompanying you as you drift off to sleep at last.

Silvio feels the way your body relaxes, the tension seeping from your muscles as you fall asleep, soft and trusting in his embrace.

If you only knew he has been awake throughout.

He stays awake for a long time, loath to move even a centimeter, feeling the warmth of your body through the blanket and listening to the sound of the rain.

Epilogue:

“Get up, lady. I need my shirt back.”

That voice falls into the still waters of sleep, hooking itself into your consciousness and drags you slowly to the surface.

Sleepily you push yourself up, raising a hand against the bright beam of sunlight spilling into the room.

Pushing your tousled hair out of your face, you find the Prince of Benitoite standing beside the bed, his jacket flung over his bare shoulder, one hand on his hip as he stares down at you. “Let’s go. We’re gettin’ out of this dump. Driver’s already waitin’.”

Irritation rears its little horned head and your eyes narrow.

“Good morning to you too.”

He ignores that and stretches out his hand. “My shirt.”

And we’re back to this. You sigh.

“Go wait outside the door.”

He regards you a moment and then turns on his boot heel and leaves the room. With a grimace you climb out of the warm bed, padding barefoot across the wooden floor until you’re by the entrance. As quickly as you can, you unbutton his white shirt and then stick your hand out the door with it dangling from two fingers.

He mutters something that you cut off with a slam, eyes closing for a moment as you catch your breath.

Did last night really happen? Was he….kind? And….warm? Did you really sleep in his arms?

A bang on the door jerks you out of your thoughts. “Move it or lose it!”

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Go already! I’ll be there!”

Somehow you are able to wrangle yourself back into your ball gown. Tying the back is tricky but you manage to get it closed enough to avoid any indecency. A quick re-pinning of your hair and buckling of your shoes and you're making your way down the wooden staircase. The innkeeper is at the counter, smiling through his fuzzy white beard in greeting.

“Morning, my lady,” he calls cheerfully.

The door to the inn is open and you can see the driver loading a few things back onto the carriage. Silvio is already inside.

“Thank you again for your hospitality, sir. I’m afraid I don’t have any coin for our stay, but I’ll be sure to return as soon as possible to pay-”

The older man shakes his head, waving you to a stop with his hand. “Oh no, no need for that my lady. Your…er…roommate already took care of it.”

You’re unable to hold back the surprise in your voice as you glance at the carriage and then back to the innkeeper. “He did?”

His eyes gleam as he reaches into the pocket of his worn vest and again, shock squeezes a silent gasp from your lips. In his work-worn, calloused hand, he’s holding two of Silvio’s bejeweled rings. His words from last night flash through your mind.

—“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” –

The innkeep is oblivious to your stunned expression. “These’ll pay for any damage the storm caused and then some. I told that young man, he's welcome here anytime.”

You finally find your voice. “I….I’m glad to hear that. Thank you again.”

He bids you farewell as you walk outside into the startlingly bright sunlight. The smell of petrichor fills the air, the ground still damp as you walk towards the carriage.

The hazy feeling of something born in the fury of the storm….

Something nameless.

Something undeniable.

Something Silvio has awoken.

….is rising on delicate butterfly wings, inching its way closer to the realm of your heart.

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