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whitedarkmoonflower · 3 months

Text

Traitor

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: a big thank you to awesome and incredible @little-diable for having the wonderful and crazy idea to write this together. I loved it so much! You are such an amazing writer.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst

Summary: you thought you had been prepared for everything as you were sent to spy on Uhtred, until the moment you met a certain Danish warrior

Word Count: 4,8 K

Headers and dividers by the lovely @arcielee

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I'm not sure if this letter will ever get to you or if you'll even want to read it. But I couldn't leave without saying goodbye.

You probably already know, and it's true. I was sent to spy on Lord Uhtred, on orders from Lord Wihtgar, Uhtred’s cousin and the current ruler of Bebbanburg.

I came here as a spy and an enemy, full of suspicion, hate and disdain. I was sent to spy on a traitor of his own kin, on a heathen teamed up with the Danes to try and bring down my Lord, the rightful ruler of Bebbanburg.

But now, as I'm leaving, I want you to know I'm going as a friend and an ally, even if you can't quite believe it, even if you all rightfully see me as a traitor.

These past few months have taught me so much - about trust, relying on others, feeling accepted, and being valued. But most importantly, I've learned what it means to be loved.

I'm sorry. I know it's not enough, and it never will be…

"It's all blurred and smudged from here. I can't decipher it," Osferth looked up from the small piece of vellum he held in his hands. His gaze wandered around the dimly lit room before settling on the silhouette seated at the table, with elbows propped up and head resting on hands, fingers entwined in hair.

"Read it once more," Sihtric growled, his voice rough and slightly trembling.

"I've already read it to you five times. What do you expect to uncover?" Osferth shrugged. The sound of the bench falling echoed as Sihtric suddenly sprang to his feet, knocking it over and grabbed the cup from the table, draining it in a few hasty gulps. He stood there for a moment, examining it in his hand. Moments later, the cup was hurled to the ground with such force that it shattered into countless small pieces, causing Osferth to flinch.

"Nothing," venom dripped from Sihtric's voice, "I'm a fool, a damned idiot. How could I not see it? How could I be so blind?" he roared before storming out of the room.

It had been surprisingly easy, much easier than you had anticipated. It appeared that Uhtred had a soft spot for taking in masterless dogs and those less fortunate. All it took was a heart-wrenching tale of being captured by Scots as a child and raised as a warrior to win his acceptance. You couldn't help but feel a sense of disdain for his kind-heartedness and naivety. He truly didn't deserve to be called a Lord.

A Lord should be stern and ruthless, someone who instilled fear in their subordinates, devoid of the lower emotions like love and compassion that made people vulnerable to manipulation. This was what you had been taught, ingrained in you since childhood, nurtured by your mother's milk, and enforced by your father's strict hand.

You happened to be the sole child of Bebbanburg's commandant and the trusted right hand of Lord Ælfric Uhtredson. Your father had always yearned for a son, but fate had dealt him a different hand – a daughter, a fragile and small creature with large, inquisitive eyes and infectious laughter.

The carefree and joyful days of your childhood came to an abrupt end when your father finally acknowledged your existence. Around the age of ten, as it became apparent that your mother would not provide the male heir he so desperately desired, your father’s attention shifted to you.

And now, here you were – a grown woman, a trained warrior, and a cunning spy, with deep and sorrowful eyes, and a laughter that had been absent from your life for years. This was how you entered the service of Lord Uhtred.

“You’ve got a knack for it,” Finan chuckled approvingly, and you saw his hand extending towards you to help you up from the ground. You hesitated, uncertain if he genuinely meant it, half-expecting him to withdraw his hand at the last moment, his warm smile giving way to a mocking grin. He had bested you fair and square. Again. Finan the Agile, they called him, and rightly so.

He had the appearance of a large, affable bear, with warm brown eyes, that always seemed to twinkle mischievously. What a deception! That man moved as swiftly as lightning. Despite investing all your strength, skill, and effort, you found yourself seated in the dirt, gasping for breath. The surprise in your eyes was impossible to conceal as you kept glancing at his outstretched hand. Even though you knew by now that his hand would remain there, that you could rely on it and you could trust it not to turn against you, old habits died hard, etched into your very bones, causing you to hesitate once more.

Finally, you mustered the courage to grasp it, allowing Finan to help you to your feet. "That move earlier, when you suddenly changed direction and lunged to my left, almost caught me off guard. That was impressive," the bearded Irishman continued, his genuine smile unwavering. He retrieved your sword and handed it back to you. "Ready for another round?"

You thought you were prepared for anything. You were ready to fight for your place among the warriors, anticipating challenges and the disdain that comes with being an outsider, a newcomer, and a woman. You were prepared for the sly glances, whistles, and crude remarks, for unwelcome advances and dirty hands trying to grope you. Having been raised in the world of men, you knew their ways well.

"Hey, let the lady catch her breath," Osferth's ever-cheerful voice echoed across the yard as he approached with a pitcher and ale mugs in his hands. The shy former monk was undoubtedly the most peculiar addition to the pack around Uhtred. Why was he even carrying a sword? He seemed clueless about how to use it. Initially, you assumed he might be warming someone's bed, but it soon became evident that this was not the case.

There was no logical explanation for his presence in a warriors' camp, but there he was, offering a bashful smile as he filled the mugs with ale and handed the first one to you. You couldn't deny the calming and radiant aura that accompanied him, something intangible, something elusive that defied explanation. Always courteous and attentive, unwavering in his faith in God's benevolence, he carried the weight of being born out of wedlock with quiet dignity and bestowed genuine kindness upon those around him.

You had believed you were prepared for anything – ready to endure contempt and hatred, to withstand pain and humiliation, to employ your body as both a weapon and allure. You had experienced it all, endured it all, and each time emerged stronger. But there was one thing you hadn't been prepared for – to be accepted just as you were, to be treated with respect and appreciation. Friendship and loyalty had taken you by surprise, and above all, you had never anticipated being cared for and loved.

Love. It had been an empty word, devoid of real meaning to you. In this cursed world where power, authority, and control were the sole currencies of worth, there was no room for something as seemingly foolish as love. How could you have prepared for it when you had never felt it?

Love didn't strike you suddenly, nor did it assault your senses and reason. You might have recognized it then if it had. Instead, it arrived slowly, subtly, through tentative glances and concealed smiles, in the hesitant brush of fingers. It infiltrated your everyday life as helping hands to maintain your weapons or carry your saddlebag, as a casual shift to the side, making room for you at the fire, as unassuming inquiries when you appeared tired or unwell. The genuine care and attention that the reserved and initially withdrawn young Dane with that stern and piercing gaze framed by two mismatched eyes offered so effortlessly and unpretentiously wrapped around you like a soft, welcoming blanket. It dulled your wariness, dazzled you like freshly brewed ale, and you fell for it without regret.

“Fuck,” you moaned, eyes squeezed shut, hands pressed against the cold ground. You were lying flat on your back, unable to take another step. It had been a foolish mistake, really, one second you had tried to prove to the guys how easy it was to balance one too many cups of ale in your hands, the next you had found yourself on the ground. One of the other drunken guys had rammed into you, forcing you to the ground without another warning.

It had taken you a few seconds to realise what was going on, blinking the tears away that welled up in your eyes due to the pain sticking to your foot. Voices had echoed in your ears, growing louder by the second, forcing you to at least try and sit up. All you could do was watch how Finan had to hold back Sihtric, who was about to tear the guy to shreds.

You had murmured Sihtric’s name, hoping to catch his attention. If there was one thing you hated, it was being the centre of attention – and being the reason for a fight amongst the guys would definitely put you further into the said centre. It had taken Finan a few moments to get some distance between Sihtric and the guy, forcing the Dane to finally focus on you.

“Can you stand?” Sihtric had kneeled in front of you, worried eyes flickering between yours and the hurt ankle you pressed your hand against. A whimper had left you as you had to rise, plopping back to the ground with a huff. There was no use in denying the shame thumping through your veins, filling every inch of your body. Only as Sihtric had placed his hand on your chin, redirecting your gaze towards him, had you managed to look at the handsome Dane again, sending him a smile.

“Up you go.” Without another warning, Sihtric had picked you up, strong arms wrapped around your cold body. The shriek that had clawed through you had left Finan and Osferth laughing, watching Sihtric carry you towards the tent he was supposed to sleep in.

And now here you were, placed on the warm fur, eyes studying the Dane’s every move. You could tell that something was holding Sihtric back, not daring to touch you for more than a handful of moments, pulling away whenever his eyes found yours as if your mere closeness set fire through his body. It frustrated you, seeing him this weary, scared to touch your already battered body.

“Sihtric,” you murmured his name, once again sitting up to be closer to him. Your hand darted out to find his warm cheek, trying not to pay the way he seemed to hold his breath too much of your attention. Slowly your thumb began to move, stroking his soft skin, the small marks and scars littering his cheeks, marks you couldn’t help but admire. He emanated strength and danger, and yet you felt awfully safe around him, knowing that he’d always protect you – should you need it.

With your breath hitched in your chest, it took you a moment to realise what was happening. Sihtric had pressed his lips against yours, hand placed on the back of your head to keep you close, not daring to let you go. Your heart was racing, torn between excitement and confusion, since you had hoped you’d eventually find yourself in a situation like this, and yet you haven’t dared to overthink it much.

“I am sorry.” Suddenly he pulled away, trying to get some distance between the two as if you were some addicting poison he needed to stay away from. Your wide pupils followed his every haste movement, not understanding what was going on. “You’re hurt, I shouldn’t touch you, not like this.”

A soft laugh broke out of you, hand reaching out for him to pull Sihtric in for another kiss. The moan that clawed through him left you grinning against his mouth, slowly parting your lips to deepen the kiss. You found yourself pressed against the fur, with Sihtric hovering over you. Neither of you dared to break the kiss this time, not as his hands began to work on your clothes, not as you fought against the need to arch your back to let go of a deep moan.

“I want to take care of you, take away your pain. Will you let me?” His raspy voice shot shudders down your spine, eyes rolling back into your head the second his warm mouth found your chest. All you could do was moan his name, teeth running along your lower lip to somewhat try to be quiet, not wanting to attract the attention of nearby drunkards. Expectedly he sucked on your hardening nubs, grinning whenever you choked on his name. “My pretty shieldmaiden, the fiercest warrior I aim to claim.”

“Gods, Sihtric, more. Please.” Sihtric blindly followed your choked command, kissing his way down to your heat. You were dripping for him, needing to feel his hands and mouth on you before he could fuck you like you had dreamt of him doing for a while now. The way he groaned at your taste left you clenching around nothing, fingers holding onto the furs to try and ground yourself.

His colourful eyes watched you intently, not wanting to miss one single expression, telling him all about how you felt buried beneath him, with his mouth on you. You felt as if you were drowning, clinging to every breath you were allowed to inhale, close to passing out. But Sihtric was determined, wanting to push the most sinful yet most beautiful sensation through your body.

“I must have pleased the Gods for being allowed to feel you this close, you’re mine now.” A hum left you, unable to reply with words as he forced two fingers into your tightness. Your walls clenched around him, telling him that you were already close. The grin he wore on his lips was devilish as he spoke up once again, “Say it, say that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, fuck, only yours.” Your eyes rolled back into your head as you came on his fingers, whimpering his name. Sihtric’s thumb kept circling your pulsing bundle, prolonging the intense sensations for a few more moments. For a second it felt as if you were reborn, heart racing too fast, palms sweaty from the way you had tried to hold onto the furs.

You tried to rise from your position, wondering what he’d do next, but Sihtric kept you pressed to the ground, looking like Loki himself, the trickster with a grin that could fool anybody. With wide eyes, you watched Sihtric undress, leathers plopping to the ground to expose his carefully chiselled muscles, gracing his stomach, his arms, and his thighs. All you could do was choke on your breath as your eyes focused on his hard cock, begging for your touch, to feel you wrapped around him.

“I promised to take care of you, but I won’t be gentle, not when I’ve got you buried beneath me like that.” Sihtric’s voice dripped with possessiveness, lust, and excitement, once again leaving you covered in goosebumps. You nodded, unable to speak up as his mouth found yours, kissing you breathless while he aligned himself with your cunt. “Hold onto me, mark me up.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, clawing your fingernails into his warm skin, adding more scars to the ones he had collected on battlefields. And yet he’d be prouder of the ones you added than any other, he’d fight any war if it meant getting to be with you. The both of you moaned in unison as he pushed into you, forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

Sihtric hadn’t lied, he wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet, no, he fucked you like a man on a mission, a man who followed his lord’s commands. And you loved every moment of it, every rough thrust that managed to set your body ablaze, every thrust that left you choking on the air you were desperate for. Your nails left bloody marks down his shoulders, holding onto him as he fucked you on the fur, hoping that this was the first of many nights you’d spent on this fur together.

“You feel so good around me like the gods have crafted you for me, mine to own, mine to love.” Sihtric’s words almost drew tears to your eyes, desperately wanting to reply, to tell him about your feelings, but you couldn’t. You were too far gone, once again close to falling off the edge. With one last kiss pressed to your lips, you came, moaning his name into the cold night. Sihtric fucked you through your release, groaning into the crook of your neck as he came only a few seconds later.

You both panted heavily, slowly coming down from your highs, as your foggy mind gradually cleared, and your hazy gaze locked onto Sihtric's mismatched eyes.

This was the moment you always hated the most - the moment of harsh and uncomfortable truth, filled with awkward glances, whispered words, and hurried, clumsy movements. It was the time when one inevitably left, fumbling for clothes and murmuring promises that were never meant to be kept.

You had been on both sides often enough; it was neither new nor unexpected to you. However, for perhaps the first time in your life, you felt an inexplicable emotion creeping beneath your skin. It drove you to dig your fingers into the plush, sweat-soaked furs beneath you, restraining the impulse to pathetically wrap your arms around Sihtric's shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep him from leaving.

Sihtric crushed down beside you, his breath ragged, and his strong arms instinctively encircled you, pulling your back flush against his chest as though he feared you might disappear.

"Will you stay with me?" a hoarse whisper brushed against your ear, igniting a new sense of life within you.

"I couldn't leave even if I wanted to," you chuckled softly.

"Do you want to?"

"No, I don't," you whispered, turning to face him.

"Good, because I don't want you to either," Sihtric murmured, pressing his lips against yours.

I'm sorry I never found the courage to say these words to you. I always thought there would be enough time for that.

I just hope you felt it, I hope you sensed it, how much I loved you. And I still do. I want you to know that will never change. I will always love you, until my very last breath.

Tears welled up in your eyes, falling onto the vellum before you.

Muffled noises from outside caught your attention, and you hastily rolled it up, inadvertently smudging the ink where your tears had fallen. Time was running out; you had to leave. There had always been rumours of Uhtred having his own spies in Bebbanburg, though no one had ever managed to prove them. Today, you had seen him - the blacksmith from Bebbanburg, here in Rumcofa, in Uhtred’s hall. You had tried to hide, but it had been too late. He had seen you, his eyes glued to your pale face, as your heart frantically drummed against your ribs. He had recognized you, just as you had recognized him, and in that moment when your eyes met, you knew your mission had reached its end.

It was too late to confess your true purpose for coming here. You had wanted to reveal your real identity so many times, but the right moment had never seemed to come. And now, it was too late. Your past life had caught up with you, its cold, bony fingers slowly closing around your throat. You didn’t want to leave, but you couldn't stay.

Silence, absolute silence enveloped you, devoid of any sound—no voices, no footsteps, no creaking doors. There was nothing to attract your attention, it was as if the world itself had stilled, allowing your thoughts to flutter through your mind like startled birds, beating against the cage of your consciousness. You had never imagined that silence could be so agonisingly painful, so suffocating.

He will not come! He hates and detests you! You deserve it! The cruel voice echoed in your head, driving you to cover your ears with your hands. Growls of frustration escaped your lips, reverberating against the thick walls of Bebbanburg's dungeon, as you attempted to silence the relentless taunting.

Bebbanburg had fallen, or rather, it had been reclaimed by its rightful owner. You had always known this moment would come, understood that Uhtred would never relinquish his birthright, his lands, or the fortress of his ancestors. You had simultaneously dreaded and longed for this day, aware that it would spell both your doom and your salvation. And now, it was a reality.

God as your witness, you had tried to forget him. You had attempted to banish him from your thoughts, to expel the longing from your mind. For a time, you had even believed you had succeeded, drowning your yearning and hunger for Sihtric's touch, for his commanding yet gentle voice whose orders you had been so eager to obey, for the stern yet loving gaze of his mismatched eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went.

But the moment you laid eyes on him and Finan on the upper walkway, flanked by guards, you knew it had all been an illusion. You knew you had failed utterly. Your hand shot up instinctively, covering your mouth to stifle the scream threatening to erupt from your chest.

As if in a haze, you recalled following the guards, sneaking into the dungeon—this very dungeon whose walls you had been pounding in anger and despair for the past few hours, leaving your knuckles raw and bleeding. Then, like a bolt of lightning carrying God's wrath, like a spear hurled by an enemy's hand, it struck you. The coldness in Sihtric's gaze as he lifted his eyes from the lifeless bodies of the guards on the floor to meet yours froze the words forming on your lips, causing them to hang in the air before shattering into a thousand pieces upon the ground.

"You?" was the sole word that escaped Finan's lips as you swiftly cut through the ropes binding their hands, yet even that was laden with disdain and revulsion. You had shown them the way out, the concealed passage to the main hall, and they had left—no words exchanged, no glances shared, no turning back—just silence, relentless silence. The same oppressive silence lingered as Ælfwynn and Hild departed the fortress through the small, secret door you had revealed to them. Traitor, her eyes had silently screamed at you.

You could have fled, escaped, started anew far from this cursed fortress, far from everyone who governed your life. You could have been free. Yet, as tempting as it was, you knew there was no escaping yourself, no escaping the searing shame and longing that had gnawed at you from within all this time. You couldn't leave, not again.

It was Sihtric's hands that seized you, wrenching you to your feet and twisting your arms behind your back when they found you seated in the main hall, awaiting their arrival. You offered no resistance; the touch of him, even as his eyes blazed with hatred, sent shivers down your spine, and you allowed yourself to be dragged to the dungeon in silence. What could you say? How could you explain the inexplicable?

Leaning back against the cold and unforgiving stone wall, you felt the rugged surface digging into your skin even through your clothes as you slowly sank to the ground. Here you were, locked up in the dark and soundless cells beneath Bebbanburg, waiting for something you knew would never come. Closing your eyes, you let the silence envelop you, to become a part of you, to seep into your soul. You were alone, yet strangely, you felt free. No more lies, no more disguise. Just you.

A creaking sound reached your ears, and you slowly, almost unwillingly, opened your eyes to meet whoever had decided to disturb your silence.

“I should have known.” You’d always recognise his voice, wrapping itself around you like the warm summer breeze. But now it wasn’t warm, no, it was set on freezing you, leaving marks that would forever remind you of your betrayal. Your eyes watched his every move, wondering, perhaps even fearing, that he’d step even closer.

God, how could you have betrayed the man who owned your heart? Why did you keep quiet, when he was right there to hold you, to take away your pain?

“A traitor, good for nothing. I should be ashamed that I touched you.” At first, his words hurt you, cutting deeper than the swords he had held before ever could. But the more you pondered on them, the more you found yourself focusing on the “should” that had rolled off his tongue.

“Should?” It was just a whisper leaving you, and yet it was enough to draw a sigh from Sihtric. He unlocked the cell and stepped into the small space you were forced to call your own.

“As much as I want to hate you for betraying my lord, for betraying my family, for betraying me I can’t. The Gods know how much I tried to.” Sihtric crouched down in front of you, his differently coloured eyes wandering over your features, unable to bite down the smile that tugged on his lips as you leaned closer. Carefully he cupped your cold cheek, pondering on his next move.

“I am sorry, so very sorry.” All he did was hum, dipping his head down to kiss you. You knew that he wouldn’t forgive you easily, but yet you hoped that he’d learn to, no matter what it took, you’d do it if it meant regaining his trust. Within seconds you were pulled to your feet, front pressed against the cold stones, away from him.

The whine rumbling through you left Sihtric chuckling, a sound so familiar and yet it dripped with something you weren’t used to, something dark, something that left your body covered in goosebumps. You wanted to look at him, it had been too many hours since you had last gotten the chance to, but Sihtric didn’t loosen his grip, not even as he freed you from the fabrics and leathers covering your body.

“You’ll take my cock and you’ll thank me for it. It’s the least you can do.” The sob that left you was almost pathetic, torn between the arousal thumping through your veins and the fear holding you hostage. Would he ever forgive you? Would he ever ask you to tell your side of the story? Thoughts that were lost the second he pushed into you from behind.

It had been too long since Sihtric had last touched you, and yet your body clung to him, begging him to keep on going, to fuck you like you were his. God, how much you wanted to be his, the one to care for, the one who’d hold you close whenever you needed him to. The way he moaned into your ear, hand placed over your mouth to keep you quiet, made you shudder in need.

“Fuck, they could hang me for humping a traitor, but you feel too good, you always have.” His pleasure-drunken words made you clench around him, eyes squeezed shut to keep your tears from rolling down your cheeks. This was your fault, your wrongdoing, and now you were paying the price, taking the cock of the man you loved, while he called you a traitor.

You whimpered his name, unable to keep on speaking as his cock nudged against the swollen spot, making you see stars. With your hands pressed against the cold stones, you tried to ground yourself, hoping that you wouldn’t pass out from the intense sensations, especially when he had you on your two feet.

The sounds of your bodies meeting grew louder as Sihtric felt your orgasm nearing, already done for, set on pushing you over the edge. Tears now dripped from your eyes, guided by the intense pleasure only Sihtric made you feel. Another choked gasp left you as you came on his cock, begging him to follow.

Sihtric came moments later, imprinting himself on your walls with a groan. The both of you were heavily panting, but while you had your eyes squeezed shut, Sihtric already pulled out of you, wordlessly redressing himself. Slowly you turned towards him, eyebrows furrowed, eyes glassy.

You wanted to beg him for forgiveness, once again desperate to regain his trust, but he kept on studying you, wordlessly. And without another word leaving him, he turned from you, leaving you behind, with the cell unlocked. He was giving you a way out, a test, nothing more than a test.

Taglist: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @hb8301 @zillahvathek @alexagirlie @gemini-mama @verenahx @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @willowbrookesblog @thenameswinter99 @ellabellabus07 @mcbuckyyyy @kirtseinw

#sihtric #sihtric x reader #the last kingdom #tlk #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric x you #sihtric fic #the last kingdom fic #tlk fanfic #sihtric smut

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petit-etoile · 6 months

Note

Astarion/Tav prompt (or Reformed Durge): "I would have you smile again. You will live to see these days renewed. No more despair." I know it's a Lord of the Rings quote but gosh if it doesn't remind me of them ;-;

this is the end of the world ( a time for something biblical )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 5,219 content warnings: canonical mentions of death, spoilers for the dark urge storyline & astarion's act iii romance, graphic mentions of injuries, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, mental health issues & physical ramifications from the tadpole + rejecting bhaal, i highly recommend listening to the exogenesis symphony by muse other tags: canon compliant, canon-typical violence, character study, introspection, hurt/comfort, whump, canon temporary character death, the dark urge as player character, codependency, religious imagery & symbolism, p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia, @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary: ‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Your life is mine,’ he says, cruel eyes gazing at you. ‘Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.’

‘I would rather die,’ you say.

His hateful eyes narrow dangerously. It was never a good idea to betray a god, nonetheless one who had created you so lovingly. His voice is a low growl when he dismisses you — and suddenly, white-hot pain shoots through your veins and threatens to swallow you whole. Bhaal raises his hand and your blood obeys.

‘You were made to conquer,’ he snarls. ‘To devour!’

‘I don’t need any of this,’ you spit out. ‘I don’t need you. The only family — I know are those who fight by my side! I will not be what you made me!’

The sickness in your belly surges until you think it will overcome you. You stagger forward until your knees hit the stone floor. Bhaal is forcing you to submit, to become what he had made Orin. This thing won’t have you, Astarion whispers against the curve of your ear. It won’t win. You’ve got this, darling. And I’ve got you. You want to believe him, but your blood-kin has done damage beyond repair. What were children beyond the sins of their father?

‘You reject my blood?’ Bhaal asks.

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘Then I shall reclaim it,’ he says, his promise a growl in his throat.

You were your father’s seed cultivated to perfection by determination and bravery. Now, you were nothing more than a disappointment to be snuffed out root and stem. You choke on the warmth in your throat. Your veins seem to have exploded beneath your skin. You sneeze, red oozing from every orifice.

‘I will make another who is worthy,’ says Bhaal, lifting his hand.

As he raises his hand, you are forced to kneel. Every single one of your muscles contracts in agony. The others might be shouting but you can hardly hear them over the roaring in your ears. Your blood is rejecting you. Festering inside your flesh like a disease. Like the skeleton carved into the wall, you weep blood down your neck. No matter how hard you try to close your eyes to prevent it, your rich ichor abandons you.

No, you want to tell him. The rot of his blood will end with you as it had with Orin. The abomination of murder will never set forth and harm another. You reach for the dagger at your hip and raise it, but the Avatar of Bhaal dissipates before you can strike. The weight of your body collapses forward.

Like a wounded beast, you keen loudly, shaking your head as if that will free your ears from the blood inside of them. You were born from this blood. You were created by this blood to be who you are today. Rejecting it should be like a sin — but if sin is a seed, you have eaten it willingly from the hand of mortality. If Bhaal is to reject you, then you will reject his godhood.

You close your eyes as blood overtakes your sight. You press your forehead into the stone to fight your fever. You shiver and gasp. You gargle on the proof of vitriol and lean into the chilled floor, resigned to your fate. At least you wouldn’t become a mindflayer…

“No!” Astarion wails. Your heart shatters. ‘No, please — Not you!’

I’m sorry, you say. You close your eyes and remember the color of the sun in his hair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. This isn’t what I wanted. Your fingers curl against the stone, and then — There’s nothing. Astarion touches the sleepless bruises beneath your eyes with such tenderness you forget his strength. You lean your cheek into his palm and sigh sleepily, but even as exhaustion overtakes your body, you shudder. You’re afraid to sleep, to dream. You don’t want to hurt anyone else ever again.

‘You have to rest, my love,’ he murmurs. He allows you to lay on his hand as though it were a pillow. ‘When was the last time you slept through the night?’

‘I’m not sure,’ you confess.

‘I might be a sleepless creature of the night,’ Astarion says, ‘but you… You needn’t fear your dreams when I am here. I’ll protect you no matter the cost.’

‘And who will protect you if I sleep?’ you ask.

You must be frowning, because Astarion uses his other hand to soothe the crease between your eyebrows. He sounds so outrageously heartbroken that you want to cry. You don’t want him to think he isn’t a comfort… You haven’t slept beside someone in so long, and the warmth of his body has always lulled you to your dreams peacefully until recently.

Astarion swallows thickly. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of this. I’m with you forever and always.’

But what if there isn’t an always?

‘There is always a future for you and I,’ Astarion vows. ‘Now sleep. He can’t control you as long as I’m around.’ When you open your eyes again, you’re greeted by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. His eyes are a soft cerise, and his cheeks are high and sleek, his lips plump and his hair soft and curled. An angel. You’re unable to control the way you reach your hand to touch his cheek, smearing a crystalline tear across his wan skin.

‘Who are you?’ you whisper, voice caught painfully in your throat.

‘Hush now, my love,’ he whispers. He presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, and when he pulls away, his lips are ruddy and wet. ‘Thank the gods… I thought I had lost you.’

Oh, you think. You remember now. This is the man from your dream… You try to recall the details of how you know him, but it’s hard to follow a train of thought. You turn from side to side. It’s so hard to move, to focus. Your limbs feel as though they are made of lead and marble. Everything aches. The tips of your fingers and your nails down to the little bones in your toes. Your head, though, is the only part of you free from intense pain. It’s as though a weight has been lifted from the veil of your memories. You rest your arm across your waist, too tired to keep it lifted.

‘Who…’ Your brows furrow in confusion. ‘Who am I?’

‘I know you were once a child full of life and love,’ the angel says to you, gently cradling your face in his hands. ‘I know one day you were afraid and unsure and half-mad. I know you stained the streets red with cruelty and devised a plan larger than all of Faerûn. But I know you are strong and that your heart is good. You saved the tieflings, and you saved the refugees, and now you will save the world that threatens to be plunged into darkness.’

You smile. ‘That doesn’t sound like me at all,’ you confess.

The angel shakes his hand, fingers pressing hard into your skin. His voice breaks. ‘But I know it to be true, so you must believe my every word. You are brave. You are kind. You are good. You are my love, and I know that I am loved by you in return. You are a protector,’ he tells you. ‘You have protected everyone, and now it is time to protect yourself. You have survived two gods and now you must survive a third.’

The knot in your throat grows larger with every word. You think you remember now. Yes, you can remember it all very clearly. You know the weight of his hands like baptism. You turn your cheek and kiss his palm, smudging his skin pink.

‘Astarion,’ you whisper.

Your love smiles down at you, your blood dribbling down his chin.

‘What happened?’

‘Let’s not worry about that,’ he shushes you, massaging the bruises beneath your eyes. ‘Come, let us get you cleaned up.’

‘I don’t think I can walk yet,’ you say. Admitting it makes you feel weak.

‘Don’t worry,’ Astarion says softly. ‘I can carry you.’

‘I will bloody your clothes,’ you say.

‘Bloody them,’ Astarion says. ‘I don’t care.’

Astarion does carry you. He carries you all the way back to the inn, to a private room just the two of you share. He orders a tub to bathe you in and then takes an hour to scrub your skin clean, carefully cleaning your gore from your hair and scalp.

You watch as Astarion passes a bar of soap against the skin of the top of your arm over and over again until it is red then pink then flesh. Then, he gently twists your wrist. He cleans the underside of your arm next, and your palm. He washes your fingers until they do nothing but shake in the cold air. You curl your fingers around his.

‘Was it hard?’ you ask him.

‘I will never forget the smell of your scent,’ Astarion replies.

He moves to wash the hollow between your collarbones, encouraging you to recline in the water. He washes your chest and your stomach until his grief washes over him in waves. His chin shakes until a sob escapes. He presses his face into your hair and wails softly into your crown. When he’s done weeping, Astarion returns to his cleansing. He speaks not of it again. There is so little of you left.

You often wonder how much of your brain is left between the parasite and the hole your father has left you. Sometimes Jaheira still looks at you as though the rot of your father isn’t entirely gone. You don’t blame her. You’re waiting for your control to snap. You were good once. You could be good again. You want to be good again.

Shadowheart smiles at you now. Lae’zel no longer frowns. Even Wyll has taken up eating beside you again when it’s nighttime and the adventure can go no more. Gale pours you an extra serving of wine. He says you need it. Karlach lets you hold Clive at night when Astarion goes hunting, and he goes hunting often now. It makes you wonder if your blood is vile.

Part of you wants to ask him if you’ve done something wrong. You’ve committed no crime, but you feel like you have. Your memories of before are slipping away. Your memories of now seem to do the same.

You wait in your tent that night for Astarion to return, your blanket pulled around your head and shoulders. You rehearse what you’re going to say. You want to reassure him you’re not angry. You just…feel loss. Empty. The loneliness nips at your bones like crows at carrion.

When Astarion slips inside, he looks guilty. It almost makes you want to change your mind, but you have to know. You feel as though you’re going mad. A flightless bird trapped in a cage. Like Dame Aylin trapped in Shadowfell. He refuses to meet your gaze.

‘Have I done something — ’

‘You,’ Astarion says through gritted teeth, ‘are perfect. Every time.’

You want to cry. ‘Then why do you avoid me?’

‘Avoid you?’ Astarion repeats incredulously. He looks at you now despairingly. ‘No, that isn’t what this is at all. I would never avoid you.’

‘You’re hunting more often,’ you say in a low tone, a whisper. Accusatory.

‘Can you blame me?’ he asks plainly.

It’s your turn to look away in shame. ‘If it’s too much, you should sleep somewhere else.’

‘I don’t want to be apart from you,’ Astarion says.

‘Then how do we fix this?’

‘You cannot fix what is not broken.’

‘Astarion,’ you plead. ‘Hold me or — I don’t know who I am anymore.’

Astarion wraps his arms around you before you can say another word. His lips are like a halo against your head. Each kiss he presses against your scalp is a prayer from a sinner. You turn your cheek, and he kisses you so passionately it makes your empty head spin.

You relearn who are you in his arms that night. And as he regales you with tales of your history, you think you can imagine them in your mind’s eye. He kisses your wrist. He tells you a happy memory when he kisses the curve of your belly, and when he kisses your ankle, he promises you that everything will be worth it.

It wasn’t you that was the problem. There wasn’t a problem, not really. Only an impiety he wanted to atone for. He struggles with telling you, but when he whispers it against your thigh, you understand.

‘Your blood,’ he says, voice strained. ‘I cannot escape the smell.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, but he shakes his head and his hair tickles your sensitive skin.

‘No, I — It is my shame,’ he confesses. ‘I’ll admit I’m a lech.’

Astarion struggles to put his words in a coherent structure. When you died, he was horrified and distraught. Only the gods know how hard he wept seeing you lifeless. Yet it was his vampiric nature that had betrayed him almost as much as your life’s blood had betrayed you. He felt hunger.

How could he be sad when he was so ravenous? Was he not an evil man, or is this what made him evil? That, in all of his beautiful tears and lamentation, the urge to devour you, bones and all, nearly consumed him? Your death was horrible, ugly, wretched. Your death was beautiful and coveted.

Astarion devours you again that night, mouthing and licking and sucking at your swollen core. He makes you a martyr in his grief. His tongue teases you over and over again. When you’ve climaxed once, Astarion seeks out to make you do it again until your legs are shaking violently and your voice has gone hoarse. He doesn’t take you that night, not in the traditional way, but he swallows you up regardless.

It isn’t until afterwards when he’s laying with his head on your chest that you understand his tragedy. It’s a misfortunate impossibility trying to grieve when you can’t stop salivating. Astarion thinks you’re horrified by the admission, but after knowing your past, it was hard to feel scandalized by anything.

You pet his curls away from his face, watching as he listens to the hum of your heartbeat. He might have it memorized by now, but each time it beats, Astarion’s eyelashes flutter with admiration. It is a hymn, a doxology, a liturgy that only he knows the words to. After all, he wrote them on your skin and immortalized them forevermore. He is so beautiful, you think, when there is no trouble to be seen.

You were once both trapped by your dark god’s design. You had set yourself free. You had sprouted the wings of a swan guided by the empathy you had planted in a garden as a child. It would be Astarion’s soon, and you would carry him in compassion until the thorn crown was placed upon his brow.

Astarion’s eyes are closed. In your perpetually confused state, you mistake him for having fallen asleep and resort to doing the same. The city becomes chilly at night and your skin is decorated with gooseflesh. He rises almost immediately and you try to chase after him, fingers piercing through a ghost.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ Astarion says immediately. He drags his cape from the corner of the tent and lays it across your shins. ‘You were shivering.’

‘I’m not used to this — ’ Will my mind ever be the same? ‘ — chill.’

‘I will be here,’ he promises. ‘Here, let me hold you for the night.’

You clumsily trade places with him, and he tucks your blanket and his cape around your body as tightly as he can. He kisses you passionately and you taste your familiarity in his mouth. It’s so sweet that you sigh. ‘I know what you did,’ Orin says hatefully, spitefully, cruelly. Her voice is like honey.

‘What have I done?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ she asks. ‘Filthy rotten blood-kin undeserving of our father’s gift!’

You repeat yourself. ‘What have I done?’

‘You,’ Orin spits, ‘think your grey matter deserves to be loved! I should carve it out! I should make it disgusting and sticky again! Split it’s skull open! You foul traitor!’

Slowly, you pull Orin into your chest. You hug her and smooth her hair down her back. Her arms wrap around you begrudgingly until the lovingkindness causes her to rupture. She sobs into your neck hideously, clinging to you. She wails and she wails until you are both children again staring up at your grandsire for approval.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Orin tells you, hiccuping. She wipes her nose with her fingers. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘I love you, blood-kin,’ you say. You kiss the top of her head.

‘Slaughter kin,’ she says sadly. She holds your hand with her snotty palm.

‘Sister,’ you say. In the coming weeks, your mind hardly gets better. Memories are still missing. You catch yourself gazing at the mirror longer than you expect to. You used to be so beautiful. It’s hard to recognize the face staring back at you. You touch one cheek and then the other. You turn your head and watch your jawline.

No, it still isn’t you.

You take the knife in your belt to your hair and begin cutting away pieces you don’t remember. You lean forward and smudge your eyes before sitting up straight and trying again. You recognize a part of yourself. You chase that feeling. You press your hand against your heart. You smile faintly. Astarion sobs so hard you think you might lose yourself. You’re at a loss of what to do. He’s alive but he keens like a dying deer. It’s supposed to be healing, you think. Cazador is dead. His reign of terror should end. Astarion is saved and he saved himself. You couldn’t be prouder of him.

Slowly, you step forward one foot after another. You collapse to your knees at his side. It’s easy to pull Rhapsody from his fingers. You drop it by his side. Slowly, as if in a dream, you hold him like you held Orin. Astarion sobs harshly into your collarbone and clings to you so tightly you might break.

‘I thought — I thought — ’ he cries brokenly.

I thought it would make me feel better, he says without saying. You shush him and pet his hair. Cazador’s blood smears against your cheek when Astarion burrows his face into your neck. You let him linger. You aren’t sure how long you sit on the hard marbled floors, but when you stand up, your knees creak so loud you’re almost insecure about it.

This time, it’s your turn to carry Astarion. He won’t let you pick him up, but you hold him by his waist. You carry him past your allies, past the onlookers who once saw you in opposition. You order the maids to bring you a bath, and as Astarion hiccups in the water, you bathe him.

You wash the taint of Cazador from his body. The soap cleans the dirt and the blood and the memory. You wash his chest and his belly and Astarion thanks you hoarsely. He looks at you, and his eyes are so wide and beautiful that you cry too.

Dying isn’t easy. It isn’t beautiful or romantic or a sweeping gesture. Dying is painful and hideous and ugly, and you have saved Astarion from a lifetime of torment. Rather, he did it by himself with your help. You swipe the soap against his cheeks and use a rag to clear it away. Astarion’s hair is somehow curlier when it’s wet, and you part the curls so they’ll dry without tangling.

Astarion watches you miserably as you towel his hair. You wipe droplets of water off his skin and slowly slide him into his smallclothes. He accepts your blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, staring at the wooden floor, at his feet.

‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I would never let you be alone,’ you say.

It isn’t what you bought the room for. Really, you only wanted to wipe the blood from his face but now, you climb into the sheets next to Astarion and hold him tightly. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about the future. He doesn’t want to talk about his siblings either or the thousands of spawn waiting to hang on his every word.

And you can’t even blame him. The gods know how long it took for your tongue to become free from the weight that held it still after you betrayed your father. Karlach said you talked a lot before, but now it’s hard to say anything without wondering if your words are in the right order. Astarion cries softly as if to not awaken you from your slumber, but you can’t fall asleep. You can’t toss or turn either, but dreams evade you.

Dawn peeks through the window. Dawn-bringer, Jergal had called you. You slide out of bed carefully then and cross the room. You draw the curtains shut. Astarion watches you curiously from where he burrows in the sheets. His brow furrows adorably when you climb back into bed and plaster yourself to his spine.

‘Ah,’ you say monotonously. ‘The sun is gone. I suppose we'll stay in until it returns.’

After a day of lounging, Astarion still isn’t ready to talk about what’s on his mind but he watches you do your favorite mundane mortal things with explicit interest. He has you read the book you’re reading aloud, and if it takes you a few hours to struggle through one chapter, he says nothing about it.

Every once in a while, another one of your companions comes to sit in.

Lae’zel tries to commend Astarion for his warrior’s heart without sounding stilted, but eventually she gives up on complimenting him to sympathetically let him know she understands. They had all seen Vlaakith. Karlach brings Clive by and carefully arranges him in the bed next to Astarion. She tells him that he’s fucking awesome and asks permission to hug him.

The touch nearly sends him spiraling.

Gale approaches in his usual manner. He brings Astarion a bottle of wine spiked with blood and lets him know he’s available to chat whenever Astarion feels up to it. Wyll spends thirty minutes apologizing for the bad blood between them, which is funny considering their bickering was hardly vitriolic. Shadowheart visits and gifts him a perfume that makes his lip wobble dangerously.

Jaheira, Minsc, Boo and Halsin come together solemnly. They might be the least offensive of the bunch. Boo gives Astarion a thousand kisses on his cheeks, and Jaheira finally tells them a story of her youth. Halsin has Astarion drink a potion, not because he’s injured physically, but because it should help with his pain. Minsc tries teaching you a Rashemen dance, but Astarion laughs for the first time that day and you do too.

‘It is good,’ Jaheira says, ‘to see you both smile again.’

You touch your mouth shyly. Your cheeks are sore. Astarion’s smile fades slightly but returns in full, timid confidence lighting his features once more. Halsin crosses the room and opens the curtains you’ve closed. The light douses the room in holiness, and you turn your face to watch the sunset, unafraid of what the future will bring.

‘That which troubles you will soon be over,’ she promises. She pats Astarion’s hand, and although she doesn’t say it, you know he’s her son. ‘You will live to see these days renewed. There will be no more despair.’

You’re both left alone again together. Astarion beckons you to the bed instead of your chair and you join him, carefully sitting atop the covers, a respectable distance between your thighs. You inhale carefully.

‘You did the right thing,’ you say. ‘Not completing the Black Mass.’

‘Perhaps I had inspiration,’ Astarion replies. ‘You had a chance to become the Slayer, a being more powerful than you could have known. But you didn’t.’

‘I betrayed my father,’ you whisper, staring at your hands. ‘And he killed me for it.’

‘And if I had completed Cazador’s ritual,’ Astarion says, ‘I would have become Mephistopheles’s whore. I refuse to bow to the whims of others. Being an Ascendent…was blinding me to the truth.’

You look at him curiously then. He confesses to you his sins. He has thought of ascending, and thought of it often but it was never to protect himself. After a certain point, he wanted to protect you too. Your Urges had been mistaken for something else then. A possession, an invasion. Astarion sought to exorcise you of your demons.

But when you had died and the diseased lifeblood fled from your veins, Astarion realized the truth. The ascension would not have helped him protect you. It would have tainted him. It would have contorted him. Rising above all other vampires, Astarion would have become cruel like those before him. He does not want to be cruel to you. He wants to learn kindness as you have. He reaches for it like he chases the sun.

Astarion takes you by the hand, smoothing your skin with his thumb over and over. His skin is cold beneath yours. You curl your fingers into his. He did not want to make you a slave, not again. Not to him.

‘You are the dawn-bringer,’ Astarion says. ‘Even if I never see the sun again, I am free.’

‘I love you,’ you say, voice shaking. ‘I’ll be with you. In the darkness.’

‘You fool,’ Astarion laughs affectionately. He leans across the distance and kisses your temple. ‘There is no darkness. You are daylight incarnate.’

You look at him sharply.

‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he says. ‘It’s…been on my mind all day, but I think it’s time. Say you’ll come away with me.’

You and Astarion dress slowly. You would follow him almost anywhere, but this is different. There’s something to be done. You don’t dress in armor, and for that you’re almost grateful. You’re tired of fighting. You’re tired of seeing blood.

But it isn’t blood or anything blood related that Astarion takes you to see. One minute, you are wandering Baldur’s Gate at night, and the next, you’ve come to the hollow of a tree where a gravestone is coated in vines.

‘This…is where my old life began,’ Astarion tells you softly. ‘Beneath there, I was turned into a monster. But Cazador is dead now and I get to decide my own fate.’

Astarion tells you in painful detail about his transformation. How his wounds fused themselves shut but the pain never went away. He tells you about breaking through the wood of his demise and the fear that flooded his veins and how, just when he thought he had found his savior, Cazador had laughed wickedly with his cruel glowing eyes.

‘I was his,’ Astarion murmurs, ‘but not anymore.’

He kneels before you on the dirt before his tombstone and bows his head. The prodigal son returned home. The sight of it causes your heart to squeeze. You want to step away but you can’t. You’re afraid.

‘There is nothing left of the person I was before,’ he tells you. ‘I am free to become who I want to be, free to start a new journey. I have all the time in the world to figure out who I am and what I want, but I think I know.’

‘I love you,’ you say again. ‘You’re what I want.’

‘You were by my side through all of this,’ Astarion says, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. ‘And now I want you to christen me. Inaugurate me here on the site of my rebirth.’

This is another dream. You hold your hands over Astarion’s head and sprinkle imaginary water over his head. His eyes close instinctively. Love washes over him, something golden. You kneel down and pluck a flower from the earth and it does not bleed. Relief floods your veins. For once, you touch something and it does not rot. Carefully, like a ghost, you slide the flower into Astarion’s hair and watch as his crimson eyes spill open with tears and devotion.

Astarion kisses you, and for the first time in a long time, he presses his body against yours. He takes you that night in the dirt. His leg is tucked under yours, his cock against your core, his lips never leaving yours. Astarion recites verses in your ears until you burst with ecstasy, tightening around him so much that he can hardly move. He cradles the back of your head to comfort you as he drinks your blood. He cradles your head tonight because he loves you.

‘I am yours,’ he whispers against your skin, ‘and you are mine.’ You aren’t sure when or how Astarion has the time, but he presents you with a gift the night before the world ends. He wears a matching flower from his grave pinned to his armor at all times now. And on his hand, a ring with a silver band. He slides one over your finger as well and kisses your palm as you slowly realize what it means.

The family you’ve chosen throws you a celebration. The next day, Dammon arrives and shows you your repaired armor now dyed white.

You cry for hours out of happiness. ‘This could be the last chance we have for this,’ you whisper to Astarion.

Everyone keeps telling you that a light has returned to your eye, but you don’t see it. It isn’t until you’re laying naked with Astarion again, his skin pressed against yours, that you think you can see it too.

Astarion fucks you tenderly until you’re sore, and you cry and plead sweet things against his shoulder while he holds you safe in his arms. When the pleasure becomes too much and your spine arches from the mattress, he pulls you into his lap and holds you safe against his chest. You kiss him until your lips are sore.

‘Your life is mine,’ Astarion murmurs. ‘You belong with me, my love.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you moan weakly.

He has taken you again and again this evening. He doesn’t say it, but Astarion is afraid of what tomorrow might bring. You have outsmarted gods and men. You have found goodness where there was nothing but darkness. You refuse to be afraid now.

‘We were made to conquer,’ Astarion says. His mouth is like a fire across your cheekbone. You shudder around his cock.

‘Take my love,’ Astarion commands you, so you do.

You kiss a ruby bruise into his neck, and Astarion fills you with a grunt. He doesn’t part from you. He guides you back down into the sheets and burrows against your body as if determined to climb between your ribs. You smile. Astarion has already made a home in your bones and flesh. He has eaten the rot from your core and recreated you anew. You were not his sin but his salvation. Perhaps he was yours too.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #extremely #aeristarion #coded #from ，carcosa .#anonymous #my fic #this might be my favorite thing i've written in a really long time #i think it vaguely fits the prompt i tried my best #sometimes...................sometimes.

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indigosunsetao3 · 4 days

Text

The Date

Warnings: Jealousy, Manipulation, Smut

Third expansion of the Ex Husband Price list.

The lawn was out of hand. You had been letting it grow, not bothering to venture out to the shed to even pretend to know how to use the mower. John would show up and take care of it like he always did, even if you told him not to. You had the sense that he was letting it go on until you cracked and called him but you wouldn't, not this time. He would have to be the one that gave him.

But then you received a deposit in your bank account. It was the exact amount John sent you via check. You find it odd; he always sent a check just to agitate you. But you woke up with an email alert one morning that the money had arrived at 12:01 in the morning. Maybe he was out of town for work. Fine. You'd just wait for the next check and keep watching the weeds and lawn grow.

Then the next check came via deposit two weeks later. The email alert was once again at 12:01 in the morning. It was as if it were on schedule to automatically draft out of his account to yours. That sets your nerves on edge a bit. He wasn't sending checks and he had set up an automatic payment.

Then an anonymous letter in your mail box a few days later made you realize you really had to do something with the lawn. Apparently some neighbors were 'concerned' about the overgrowth and wanted to inquire as to if you 'needed assistance'. It was enough to piss you off that you debated on just leaving it for another month just to make them even more 'concerned'. But in the end you hired the teenage boy down the street to clean it up and give him an extra large tip for how much of a mess it was.

After six weeks of silence from John you finally gave in. He had never been quiet this long. Even when you were freshly divorced and he was deep in a mission he always reached out one way or another. You stare at the phone trying to figure out who to call after three calls to him go right to voicemail. His parents are long dead, no siblings to speak of and you had only met a distant cousin once at the wedding. You tried Gaz, he had always been the most reasonable of John's men. But he didn't answer. The call at least rang a few times before going to voicemail so his phone wasn't off and he didn't decline it. You don't leave a message.

By week nine you've become desperate. You drove by John's apartment to see his truck is parked outside of it but by the looks of it, it's been there a while. You circled back a few more times over the following days and it doesn't move. There are also never any lights on inside his place.

At week ten, against your better judgement, you try Ghost. His Lieutenant had always been a stand off guy but Price had told you in the very beginning if something happened to him Simon would be the one in contact.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. The automated voice for his voicemail box answers up and you hesitate before leaving a very brief message asking him to have John call you. You make up a lie about an issue with John's payments to you, before hanging up. Simon never calls you back, and neither does John.

Three months have gone by and now you're mad. No one has reached out to you. Not a single call returned. You had even gone as far to dig through old files of John's you still had that he never picked up to try and find other contacts. Not a single person picks up or returns messages. No emails are ever answered and you've run out of options.

Every twos week though, John's money is deposited into your account like clockwork at 12:01 in the morning. You think that has to be a good sign, that he is fine because the money would run out eventually.

It's a false hope. You know how much money John has from his work. Those deposits could continue without him adding more money to his bank account for years to come. But if he was dead, surely they'd freeze his assets? Someone would reach out to you as next of kin since you were all that was left of his family. Even if you were the ex-wife.

Maybe he really was done this time. Maybe he decided you weren't worth the time or effort. You had been the one to ask for divorce, to have him served the papers and hounded him to sign them. You should be happy that he finally cut ties, that he was moving on which meant you also needed to move on.

Fine.

The dating pool is dismal. You finally download a few dating apps after your friends give you recommendations and it's a nightmare. The men on there are all too young for your taste or, after a bit of internet stalking, you find they are actually still married and looking for some action on the side. Then the ones you think may actually work end up boring, lack any sort of personality or they just disappear after talking for a few days.

Three failed dates makes you think you need to give it up. Maybe dating wasn't for you, at least not right now.

But finally one of them clicks. Luca. He's attractive enough, the reason you had swiped right on him to start, even if a few years younger. You talk for a bit, play the game of getting to know one another over text and eventually level up to some flirtatious pictures. It's fun. He always greets you in the morning with a good morning text and keeps the conversation going throughout the day. He's paid you much more attention than any other guy has for what seems like months.

You keep your options open though. Finding that a few men have shown interest in you and you match with a couple of them as well. No need to tie yourself down, not yet. You had just gotten out of a marriage, commitment was not at the top of your list. You chat with them, keeping the conversation going...yet you find you are neglecting a few of them in favor of talking to Luca. They don't quiet disappear, some actually strangely persistent which boosts your confidence a bit more after all the other failures.

Four months of John being gone and you are going out on a date that you are actually excited about.

Luca had arranged the whole thing; an art exhibit, drinks and dinner. He insists on picking you up, arriving with flowers, and opens the car door for you. The art is mediocre in your opinion, but you weren't there for that. You were there for Luca who is attentive to anything you could potentially want or need. He orders top shelf drinks at the small hole in the wall lounge and makes sure your table at the restaurant is tucked in the back so you can talk in privacy.

By the end of the night you decide you're taking him home with you; and not just because he's the one driving. On the car ride back, with a pleasant buzz vibrating through your body, you slide your legs open a bit wider when Luca rests his hand on your thigh. He grins to himself but doesn't verbally let on that he's noticed. Instead he gently swipes his thumb over the soft skin there, letting his hand venture a few inches higher every time he returns to touching you after shifting gears in his sporty little car.

When he takes the exit toward your house you offer for him to come in for a nightcap, which he agrees to. His pinky gently swipes over the lace of your underwear, his hand so far up your skirt he barely has to move. It's chaste as if to test the waters after all the teasing. You grin at him, resisting grabbing his wrist to guide him to fully you touch you as he pulls into your driveway.

"Is the lace for-" he paused as he throws his car into neutral and pulls the brake. "Who is that?" His eyes are locked out the windscreen and you twist to look at what he's seeing, you had been too busy watching him drive to even look at your house.

There in the headlights is a man standing by a truck. You know that truck, and you know that man.

John.

Four months of nothing and here he was, leaning casually against his vehicle as if you were late to meet him. The relief that floods you to see that he is actually alive is soon replaced by anger. How fucking dare he. Four months of radio silence. No calls, no emails, no one reaching out to return your increasingly desperate messages. And now this, of all the nights.

"John," you say as you stare at Price. Your hand gently pushes Luca's off your leg, as if afraid John will see.

John doesn't move from his casual position as he looks toward the car. The cigar in his left hand flares bright as inhales and the gesture is calm, but you know him. You can practically feel the seething anger from this far away.

"Who is he?" Luca asks, his voice a little unnerved as he watches John. John is staring daggers right at Luca even if he couldn't really see in the car thanks to the bright LED headlights. "Do we need to call the authorities?"

"What?" You stammer tearing your eyes from John back to him. "Oh no. He's my ex husband," you explain and Luca's eyes widen in disbelief. You had told him you were recently divorced so that wasn't the shocking part, it was more the fact your larger than life ex was sitting there like a dad waiting for his kid that was late for curfew. "He must have just gotten back from deployment. I have no idea why he's here."

"Deployment," Luca repeats back, his eyes darting between you and John, obviously a bit nervous. John still hasn't moved, he's still taking his time savoring his stupid cigar. "If he's your ex, why is he at your house then?"

"I have no idea," you say truthfully. "But I fully intend to find out and send him on his way. Bastard thinks he can ignore me for four months then show up as he pleases," you seethe as you grab your clutch from the floor.

"Do you need me to-" Luca starts as he reaches for his keys as if he were going to climb out the car with you.

"No!" You say a bit too fast, "no it's alright. No need for you to deal with my mess," you smooth over. Truth is you are fairly certain John would murder Luca if he even moved to open the drivers side door.

"I'll call you in the morning. Make sure everything is alright?" Luca asks, actually seemingly a bit relieved you told him no to getting out with you. He doesn't seem impressed by the whole situation but his self preservation keeps him from saying or doing anything else.

"Yes, please. I really did have a nice night," you say genuinely. You do not want John to ruin the one good thing that has happened to you in a long time. He wasn't going to win everything, damn it.

Just as you lean over to press a kiss to Luca's cheek you see John adjust. John pushes up from the truck and takes one last long drag of the cigar before throwing it into the darkness of the lawn. Asshole. You had actually been paying to maintain the stupid thing and he's just discarding his things around like he owns the place.

And, as if he did truly own the place, John walks up to your house and produces a key to let himself in. He doesn't look back as he walks inside and shuts the door, though a second later the porch light clicks on for you.

"Talk to you in the morning," Luca says, though his tone doesn't sound promising. Fucking hell if John took this away from you, you were going to murder him yourself.

Scrambling out of the car you shut the door, not bothering to look back, as you stomp up the front walkway. You need to deal with John right now, you can fix things with Luca later.

The front door is unlocked as you bang it open and you slam it shut behind you before yelling out for John. He doesn't answer.

The downstairs is still dark but the light in the upstairs hallway is on so you know that is where he's gone. Throwing your clutch onto the couch, the stupid fucking couch that you hadn't bought a cover for yet, you proceed upstairs. Your feet are screaming at the brutal steps you take and at the top you find your bedroom door is open, though the lights are off.

"John Price you better not being in MY goddamn bedroom," you snap as you walk over and swing the door open. He is. He's standing on the other side of the bed, one hand holding back the curtain to peer down at the street where Luca is driving away.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You yell as cross your arms over your chest. "Four months and you decide now is the time to show up? Fuck you John," your hands shake, as if in need to throw something at him. "Fuck you for disappearing and fuck all of your men for never returning a single message. I thought you were missing, thought you were dead," you continue to rant. "But you show up in my driveway like it's your house?" You laugh sarcastically. "I don't want you here, I want you out. You want to disappear from the face of the Earth? Then fucking disappear. Forever."

Your chest is heaving. All the hurt and pain from four months of worry had flown out of you before you really could think about it. And yet, and fucking yet, John just calmly watches you from his position by the window. His arms are crossed over his chest as he assesses you and you find yourself lifting your chin at his appraisal as if to dare him to say something.

"Worried about me, love?" He asks with a cocky smirk.

"Are you serious?" You snap as you gesture your arm for him to get out. "Go John, get out of my house. I don't want to see you. I don't want you here. And leave the key." You gesture again as he hasn't even moved from his spot.

"Gaz and Simon said you called," John says simply as he finally uncrosses his arms and moves around the edge of the bed toward you. "Laswell said you even dug up one of her alias emails to message her. Got my ass right chewed for leaving that lying around," he smirks as an embarrassed flush creeps up your chest.

"Well fuck her too for not answering me," you say, stepping a bit to the side as John gets closer. "And fuck you for thinking it's funny," you barely whisper.

"Never said it was funny," he answers as he crowds you between the dresser and wall. He's not too close, not yet, but just his presence makes you feel like you are suffocating under him. "Why did you call so much? Did you miss me?"

"I was worried," you finally say with an exasperated tone. "You were always just...around. Then you stopped showing up. Stopped sending the checks. I thought something had happened," you reason. "Just because I divorced you doesn't mean I want you dead," you pause, "well before. Now you can fuck right off. All of you can. Leaving me scared out of my mind, desperate for a scrap of news. Someone could have called me. But no. You decide to just, what, toy with me?" You reach out and shove his chest, the anger flaring back up, and move to go around him. "Just go John."

He catches your wrist though and he tugs you back to face him, spinning you on your heels so you stumble a few steps. You snap your arm back to get him to let go but he holds firm and then pulls you toward him, using your off balance stance to his advantage until you're pressed against him.

"I had work," John says simply, his other hand coming up to gently tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear. "You didn't seem too lonely though. Had a few dates it looks like," he smirks though it doesn't meet his eyes, his hand tilting your chin up to look at him. "Find anyone you fancy? How many boys you bring home?"

"Piss. Off." You snarl, mad at yourself for leaning into the gentle gesture he had given you before he went for the jugular like he always did. "What does it matter if I've been on dates? You left, not me."

"I left because you made me leave," John counters. "You filed for divorce. You always tell me to leave. You are the one who wanted me gone." He tilts his head to the side a bit, his signature move when he knows he's correct and dares you to fight him on it. You don't because he's right.

"You know why. You know why I filed," you start and when he doesn't answer you forge on. "Because your first love is your job, it's always your job. I can't be second to it. I can't be your after thought." You push at his chest with your hands but he holds you fast, even as you dig your nails into the fabric of his thin shirt. "And you did it again," you laugh though there is no humor in the sound. "Screw you, John, for assuming that I'd be okay being second best in your life."

"My duty is my job," John answers, "you knew that when all of this started. You accepted it when I warned you. You came back time and again when I tried to give you an out," he states, his tone starting to rise to anger now. "I tried to push you away, but you were persistent. You were determined to make me love you. Showing up on the damn base and nearly bowling Gaz over when he told you to leave because you knew I was in my office avoiding you." He pauses as you cut your eyes to him and you swear there's a hint of pride in his voice from that bold act.

"Then when I finally did allow myself to love you, against my own better judgement, that's when you decided you couldn't do it anymore. That you couldn't handle it. So, sweetheart, fuck you for making me love you then deciding you didn't want me anymore." He finishes with sarcasm but you can see the hurt behind his eyes. Always hiding his emotions, careful to keep that guard up and everyone at arms length, even you.

"I'm not having this conversation," you say after a second, tucking another stray hair behind your ear. This confession out of him had been the most honest one you had ever gotten. But you didn't want it right now. You wanted to be mad, wanted to be furious and to storm about the house in your rage. "You could have said all this before but it's too late now. Just like you are too late to get back this time. I've finally moved on." Lie.

"Is that why you practically shoved the pretty boy off you and followed me inside?" John asks quirking an eyebrow. "You could have easily just left. Yet you came after me and had him leave," he leans so his face is barely an inch away from yours. "Doesn't sound like you've moved on," he smirks.

"You went into my house, of course I am going to follow you! I also want to know where you get the damn audacity to just show up and act like nothing has happened." You snarl pushing again but his arms are like vices around you.

"Because, sweetheart, we both know nothing has happened." He reaches up and grabs one of the clips in your hair and pulls it free with a swift motion and tosses it to the ground. It's one he had given you, a gift from his many travels, and the green jeweled tip reflects in the dim light from the hallway as it falls to the floor. "I knew you'd follow me," he grabs the second one, the first ones twin, tossing to the floor as well. You feel your hair fall down the nape of your neck.

"You may have filed that paperwork, may storm and rant like a petulant child," he runs his hands through your freed hair, almost massaging your scalp as he shakes your hair loose, before grabbing a handful and yanking your head back causing you to gasp. "But you haven't moved on from me. You need me, miss me," he searches your eyes as you stare up at him. He knows he's won, he can see the way your eyes are searing into him, the way your breath hitches in anticpation.

He crushes your upturned lips with his, nearly sucking all the oxygen out of your lungs with the brutal assault before pulling back. "And you know I'm yours until the world burns to ash," he finishes, his lips grazing over yours as he talks.

You know he's right. You know that no matter what, John Price was going to be part of your life because he was yours and you were his. You had broken him down, made him love you and now there was no other option for either you. There was no life after John, not a real one anyway. Time and again you would come back to one another, through all the fights, the anger and pain it would still be the both of you.

You kiss him back with fervor, your fingers fisting his shirt in your hands and he doesn't waste time finding the zipper on your dress. He has it undone in a matter of seconds and he doesn't savor taking it off you. His hands are rough as he shoves the off the shoulder sleeves down further as you wriggle out of them, his booted feet kicking away the silky material without a second glance.

"Splurged for new lingerie for this date?" He mutters as he takes in the lacey matching number you had worn. "Poor Luca is missing out," he smirks as his hands slides down your sides before finding the delicate dark green lace. His fingers hook into the material before he pulls on them, hard. The tearing noise echoes around the room, followed by your offended gasp.

"John!" You snap as you look down at the tattered pieces on the floor. You hadn't even caught onto the fact he knew the name of your date without you ever mentioning his name. His eyes are racking over your freshly exposed lower body and you watch him raptly, enjoying the hunger in his face.

"Oops," he taunts. He would be damned if you kept lingerie you bought with another man in mind. "It was very pretty," he teases as he grinds his boot down knowing the dirt under them is marring the material beyond repair.

John pushes you back toward the bed, one hand snaking around your back to brace you as he bends you onto the mattress. You sigh into the kiss as his lips find yours again, your hands running along his back to grab at his shirt. You tug it up, pulling as far as you can before he assists you the rest of the way. He leans back and uses one arm to pull it over his head, exposing his tanned and toned chest and the soft stomach that hides the taught muscles underneath.

"Don't you dare," you threaten as his hands come down to the small joint of lace between your breasts. He doesn't listen. He yanks on the lace, jolting you up off the bed a bit in his strength, and rips the bra clean in half. "Damn it John," you say as he pushes the tattered pieces off your skin before your words turn into a groan as his calloused hands find your breasts and grab palmfuls of each.

"I'll buy you more," he answers simply as he bends down to kiss at your neck, his fingers pinching and teasing your nipples as you squirm. "Just for me," he warns as he bites down on the soft skin near your collarbone.

"Just you," you agree as his lips move to your sternum and up your right breast to lick teasingly at one of your nipples. You arch up, pushing him to continue, as his now free hand slides down your plush hips and leg. He's surprisingly gentle as he hooks one of his hands behind your knee and hikes it up, spreading you underneath him. His fingers trace long sweeping lines up and down the sensitive skin on the back of your thigh as you whine.

"I can already feel how wet you are," John says before he bites down on your abused nipple then moving to the other one. "Already down your legs already," he continues as his other hand pushes your left leg up to match the right. You're completely spread, and pinned, under him and you can feel the roughness of his jeans barely pushing against your clit.

"Please," you whine as you try to push your hips up for some more friction, pressure, even if his belt buckle was dangerously close. He doesn't give it to you though, he pulls away slightly and you huff frustrated as your hands move to grab at his lower back and tug him down. He doesn't move his hips but he does relent and let his fingers swipe up your leg and right over your center.

"Because you asked so nicely," he answers, fingers teasing outside of your entrance as his palm grinds down against your clit. He adjusts so his face is hovering over yours, watching you as you twist your head to the side to try and breathe, your hand pushing your hair off your face. "So fucking needy for me," he says as he feels you try to bare down and push his fingers into you. "I love watching you like this. So desperate," he pushes your face with the hand that is braced near your head so you look up at him.

You don't give him a chance to talk more, your hands coming up behind his head and tugging him down to kiss you. Just as you open your mouth to let his tongue sweep in, he pushes a finger into you causing you to groan into him. He begins a slow and delicious pump, adding a second finger without warning, though it slides in without resistance.

"Always so ready for me," he praises as your hands scramble at his back. "What's the record for how fast I've gotten you to cum?" he teases as he curls his fingers inside of you, hitting that soft spot, "five minutes?" He bites at your lip and tugs it gently. "I think I'm about to beat it. You've missed me," he smirks as he picks up the pace, letting you rock your hips in rhythm to his ministrations.

He wasn't wrong, you aren't sure how fast it was but you feel the snap of coiling tension release in your belly as John gently strokes your inner walls. It's pure bliss that you feel as you arch up on the bed, your body almost trying to get away from the sensation as he continues to push you through it. It's a good thing you didn't leave the bedroom window open when you left the house earlier or the whole street would have known with how loud you cried out.

While you come down you feel John pull his fingers out and you pant as he slides the two fingers in his mouth to suck them clean. You're staring at him blatantly, not bothering to even try to shy away and close your legs, as has he moves to undo his belt. His eyes are boring into you as he slips out of his pants and kicks them away, he hadn't bothered with boxers this evening.

"Pretty little thing," he grins as his hand finds your center again and he runs his index finger over your center and clit, causing you to twitch a bit. He grabs your hips to yank you to the edge of the bed where he's standing. He rests one hand on your lower belly before the other grabs his own heavy, leaking, cock to guide it to your entrance.

He slides in with one easy thrust, not an ounce of resistance. Your body ached for him and it was more than ready to welcome him back home.

You both moan together as he bottoms out and with his hand pressing on your lower belly you know he can feel himself within you. He smirks as he pulls back and thrusts back in, his fingers clenching a bit over your soft skin at the sensation. He keeps up the slow movements, savoring the feel, enjoying watching your face as you rock along with each roll of his hips.

Soft and slow were a rarity between you, especially as of late, too desperate for one another to take your time. So it doesn't take long for him to increase his speed.

"Fuck John, fuck," you whine as he has both of your hips in his hands, pulling you down onto him as he fucks into you. You clench down as his expertly trained fingers find your clit again and he groans at the tension. "There, right--John," your words are a babbling, panting, mess as he pushes you toward that edge. But then he pauses and you drop your head back onto the bed from where you had bent up to watch him slide in and out of you. A frustrated groan leaving your lips; you were so damn close.

"Patience," John admonishes, "you've already had one." He smirks as he grabs your legs and pulls them up so your ankles are resting on his shoulders. In this position you feel him slide that fraction of an inch deeper and you gasp. You know you're going to be sore for days after this position but damn if it didn't feel good in the moment. And the soreness was more of a delicious ache, a sweet sting of a reminder of how John thoroughly wrecked you.

"There it is," he grinds out, more to himself than you. You know he can feel he's kissing your cervix. The pressure is a bit painful for a moment as he experimentally rocks, as if letting you prepare yourself. Satisfied you aren't whining in pain his hands grip your thighs like vices to hold you in place as he fucks you proper. "Fuck sweetheart, so fucking tight," he practically grunts out.

You don't have a response. Your hands are holding onto the comforter for dear life to keep yourself from being pushed to far back up the bed. Your throat is growing dry from the panting and groaning, unable to contain yourself as you feel his rigid head run rub against that spot over and over again. "John," you cry out, a warning and a plea.

"I know sweetheart," he answers, his tone comforting as he twists his head to softly kiss the inside of your ankle. "I can feel you-fuck," he breaks off speaking as you tense, arching up as if your body was a coiling spring getting ready to snap.

Two more rolls of his hips and you fall apart. Your hands grasp at his on your thighs, scrambling at his fingers for some sort of grounding. He loosens his grip just a bit and holds your fingers as you fall over the edge, whining his name as you feel him twitch inside you as he comes. The wet squelching sounds that fill the room as John rides out his orgasm are filthy, delicious and most importantly wonderful.

Your hands fall limply back down to the bed as you come down, John finally letting go of their painful grip on your thighs as he finishes. His hands are gentle as he lowers your shaking legs down from his shoulders and he bends down to kiss you. Careful to not pull out just yet, knowing that you savored that connection. Something that he had denied you these past few times in a cruel power move.

You kiss him a few times as he smooths the sweaty hair off your forehead and neck. You can feel the sheen of sweat down his back as you run your hands up and down the hard, scar marked skin. He doesn't move away from you as you pull him further down onto you and nuzzle against his neck, just breathing him in. You missed this, missed this second half of the intimacy with him. While the first half was always more fun, the second half was what sealed your connection. Something you hadn't felt with him in over a year.

"Get comfortable," John says after a few minutes of silence and you've laid back, shutting your eyes just enjoying the moment. He pulls out of you slowly and you snap your eyes open at that. Fear that he was leaving must have been evident in your eyes because he pauses, "I'm not going anywhere."

You nod, using your elbows and hands to move yourself up the bed and to dig at the blankets to get under them. John walks around to his side of the bed, the side you never touched, and slides in next to you. His hands smooth over your body as he tugs you tight against his chest, his face half buried in your hair as he holds you.

"I've missed you," he says quietly after a long while. A confession he would only let slip in the dark where you can't see his face, and one you potentially wouldn't hear.

You smile to yourself as you grip the back of his hand that is between your breasts a little tighter. An acknowledgement of his words, too tired to speak as you are on the brink of sleep. You feel him gently kiss the back of your shoulder before you slip into slumber.

John's phone lights up in his discarded jeans pocket an hour later. It's a text from Soap with the simple message "It's done." John checks the phone once he knows your asleep before curling back up behind you, leaving you none the wiser.

John had known all about your venture into the dating pool. He had his men monitoring your activity, using fake email accounts to corral you into a very specific algorithm; one that Alex Keller may or may not have cracked. A favor John called in to his old friend in the CIA and Alex hadn't asked a single question. And maybe John himself had been two or three of those men that seemed promising. The ones that had chatted you up only to disappear after a few days, leaving you on read. And perhaps Ghost had scared off some of your in person dates when men managed to slip past their careful caging of your dating pool.

Luca had been an unforeseen issue. He was compatible, a good match for you really, and Gaz hadn't been able to work him out of your interest no matter how tempting his words had been behind the fake profiles. So when the in person date had been arranged (a simple phone call to the phone company allowed John to get a transcription of your texts) John had been sure to be waiting for you when you got home.

And for good measure Soap had been waiting for Luca when he got to his own home. Soap had been lounging casually on the bench in his foyer to give Luca a simple warning. Never call you or text you again. The man had been too spooked to do anything but nod at Soap's words. Johnny patted him jovially on the shoulder and slipped back out, dropping the key he pilfered a few days ago in the little dish by the door.

When you wake up a few hours later and climb into John's lap to sleepily ride him you don't see the cocky grin on his face in the dark. You assume the blissed out kisses he gives you are from you grinding down on him and not the fact he knows his plans have worked.

You're his again.

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Tag Request: @shadofireshinobi

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod #fanfic #cod fanfic #my fic #ExH!Price #john price cod #cod john price #john price x reader #captain price x reader #18+ content

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baby-jaguar · 7 months

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CoD Western AU and Mail Order Spouse Trope

Howdy!

Welcome to my version of a Wild West AU & Mail-Order Spouse Trope. Introduction of the reader scenario will be down below and a little digital art will be added in to show our lovely options of spouses. This is Gender Neutral.

This was my first Au and trope project I’ve worked on. While I learn and decide how I want to upload this, I hope everyone enjoys or just gets a kick out of this!

Introduction & Backstory

Your life wasn’t awful, per se, but sometimes you wonder if you say that to yourself to cope with what you’ve been through. Simply put, you were your family's breadwinner, caretaker, and damage controller. You were poor-ish, where you had to use scraps of fabrics to make your clothes, but yet your father could always afford a bottle to be in his hand, and your mother out on the porch smoking whatever she needed that day to cope and try to be a mom and wife.

Coat of many colors indeed.

You worked, and you have worked from a young age to continuously support your family as you didn't have a choice if you wanted to keep the roof over your head. Although, you were thankful that your mother was adamant you went to the schoolhouse and got at least a good amount of education.

After attending school for a few years until puberty, you were in the working class; your job as a domestic servant included the taste of farmhand, tailoring, and working to cann fruits that were grown on the farm. After a long shift on the warm and humid spring day, you walked back home to hear your father yelling as usual but stopped when you heard your name being spoken.

“As soon as we sell that damn nuisance, we’ll be rolling in dough. I can’t believe that damn bastard politician wants our kin. Said once he’s back from his campaign up north he’ll come meet ‘em.” He laughs before taking another swig of his drink, your mother laughing along with him as she has a lit pipe in the house for the first time in a long time.

Now, you to truly understand the depravity of this; the seriousness of her celebrating with a lit drug inside the house.

Your stomach drops, nausea rolling over you at the thought of them selling you off to the old and decrepit wealthy politician for marriage to get money. Money that they’ll blow through, having never learned to control their vices turned addictions.

A cold sweat breaks out on you as you swallow down the urge to expel the minimal amount of food in your worn-out body, and promptly turn around and walk back into town.

Walking the dark streets, you navigate quietly and hide behind the shadows of the night with only a few dimly lit light posts flickering their oil flame light. While walking the edge of the closed shops, you see a dirty newspaper thrown on the ground and almost step over it until a small headline catches your eye.

“FRONTIER MEN, LOOKING FOR CAPABLE SPOUSE”

Your eyes scan quickly over the matrimony company advertising for men located in the frontier lands, each searching for promising spouses and wanting to marry soon. You read over the information, seeing that the listed men below are located in newly booming towns out west, a few even located in mining towns or having their own company.

Your body zings with a chill of adrenaline at the thought of diving head first into chance and change, but you knew something much better could be awaiting you…

Should you do it?

looking around, the humid and small town looks back at you as you enter a hardened state of mind; What would become if you stayed here? The disgusting politician's new toy just to break? Your parents are already planning on how to drain their funds dry within a month of letting their addictions take over? You don't have friends, your boss is the closest thing to one just because you spend hours each and every day working.

Yeah.

You're gonna fucking do it.

Taking a seat, your eyes quickly scan down the page of advertisements, looking over the small blurbs of descriptions offered. The correspondence cost would be 10 cents, meaning you have one chance to get his attention and get the new life you need.

Simon Riley Biography, Meeting Simon,

John Price Biography, Meeting John

Kyle Garrick Biography, Meeting Kyle

John MacTavish Biography, Meeting Johnny

Phillip Graves Biography, Meeting Phillip

Alejandro Vargas Biography, Meeting Alejandro

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sm-baby · 4 months

Note

Question miss mushy

When you first found the amazing digital circus what was your first impression?

I though " oh silly funny essentric universe-- there is a jester so theres probably mideival themes with a king and a kingom... I can try different genres, sure! " And then turns out the genre appealed to my interest more than expected... Which is sci-fi... Oh nooo

The moment I saw jax on tiktok, I knew he was overrated.

I adored Ragatha and hated how relatable she was (I honestly thought she would be my favorite)

I found Caine silly funny and just thought hed be a casual interest (so wrong)

I adored Pomni because she was a protagonist with an actual personality

LOVED kinger... Saw him and was like " me too." And added him to my kin list.

Everyone else I had no opinion on until I got to study their character.

I thought Caine was gonna be a William Afton situation before I learned he was ai... I was about to get so burnt out with the "evil person trapping everyone" so I rolled my eyes.... But then I learned that he was ai and it peaked my interest. I love that take. I also adore ai characters so it just added more love points for the guy.

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queenshelby · 1 month

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An Illicit Affair

Part 27: Hard Choices

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

After thinking about it for several minutes, Max finally picked up the phone and called his father. His voice was tight, muscles tensed with anger and resentment. Cillian answered on the first ring, his voice guarded.

"Max?" he asked tentatively, unsure of what was going on. "Are you alright?" he wanted to know, seeing that Max had ignored his attempts to make contact with him during recent times, so his call surprised Cillian.

Max took a deep breath, his shoulders tensing. "No, dad, I am not alright," he replied tersely. stammering slightly.

Cillian's heart skipped a beat. "What's wrong, Max? Tell me where you are and I'll come right away," Cillian said urgently.

"It's not me that needs help, dad. It's Y/N. She's been in an accident, and she's in the hospital," Max said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"She was hit by a car," he added quietly, trying to process the information himself while Cillian gasped silently.

Cillian's heart clenched, and he could feel the air being knocked out of him. He breathed heavily, his mind racing with questions. "Is she okay? Did they say anything about her injuries? Which hospital is she in?" Cillian asked, trying to hold onto his composure., blurting out questions almost incoherently.

"She's at the university hospital. She's stable, but they had to remove one of her kidneys. Her leg is shattered too, and I don't know what to do, dad, they're asking me to make decisions about her treatment, but I can't do that," Max said, his voice breaking slightly.

Cillian took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "Max, listen to me. I'm on my way," Cillian said, his voice cracking as he quickly slipped into his boots and reached for his wallet and key.

"Okay," Max replied, his voice quiet as he hung up the phone. "He is coming right now," he then informed Lucy, causing her to let out a sigh of relief before asking the attending doctor whether he could leave now.

The doctor, however, told him that he could not seeing that it was still him who was listed as your next of kin rather than Cillian and, what Max said next, surprised both Lucy and the surgeon.

"Yeah, but that's a mistake. They are kind of together," Max said, avoiding the surgeon's gaze as his cheeks burned up with embaressment and discomfort.

The surgeon raised an eyebrow, surprised by Max's words. "I am confused," he said, looking back and forth between Lucy and Max. "Are you telling me that your father is the patient's partner rather than you?" the doctor asked, trying to make sense of what Max had just told him.

Lucy's heartbeat quickened. This was the moment of truth. She had promised Y/N that she would never reveal their affair to Cillian. It was their secret to keep. But at this point, Lucy couldn't care less as all she wanted was for Y/N to be taken care of by someone who loved her and who could make informed decisions about her medical treatment.

Lucy nodded. "Yeah, kind of," she thus affirmed, her voice strong and confident while Max simply swallowed harshly and nodded. "But it's more complicated than that," she then said, trying to downplay the gravity of the affair as she held her breath waiting for the doctor's response even though she knew he wouldn't approve.

However, the surgeon simply nodded, seemingly understanding the implications of Lucy's words. "Alright then, I'll have one of the interns prepare the forms to appoint him as a next of kin, but until the patient is conscious and can confirm that she would intend someone other than the person listed on her current records to make those decisions for her, we have to keep working under the assumption that Max has the authority to do so," the surgeon explained, causing both Lucy and Max to nod in agreement.

Max, however, still looked uncomfortable and out of sorts, but as the gravity of the situation began to sink in, Max knew that he had to put aside his personal feelings and do what was best for you. He couldn't let his own ego and personal feelings get in the way of your care and well being.

"So, what I suggest is that we will wait until your father gets here and, when he arrives, I will discuss the treatment plan with the both of you for you to decide on together ," the surgeon offered kindly, noticing the strain on Max's face.

Max nodded, still looking uncomfortable. "That sounds good," he finally said, his voice quiet and, just as Max spoke to the surgeon, his father came running towards them.

Cillian's eyes scanned the area, taking in the white-tiled floors and the antiseptic smell of the hospital. "Where is she? Is she okay?" Cillian asked, his voice laced with concern as he approached his son, Lucy and the doctor.

Lucy stepped forwards, her voice steady, and her gaze direct. "She is stable, but that's about it," she said honestly, and Cillian nodded, his eyes still scanning the area.

Max could see that his father's eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying , and he felt a pang of sympathy for him. He knew that his father cared for you deeply, and that the thought of you being in danger would be tearing him apart inside.

The surgeon nodded in agreement. "Indeed, she is in stable condition, but her injuries are severe. She has a head injury and she is unconscious and has been ever since she arrived, we think it is most likely a concussion from the impact," he explained to Cillian.

"Can I see her?" Cillian asked with tear filled eyes. His hands were shaking, and Lucy could see the worry etched onto his face.

"I am afraid that this isn't possible. She is still in theatre and we will need to make a decision with regards to her leg. Currently, her right leg is severely damaged, and we have three options. We can isolate the injuries until she can recover from her concussion and while her body deals with impacts from the dialysis for her left kidney," the doctor began before taking a deep breath. "But the problem with this approach is that the leg will be beyond repair once isolated and she will need surgery in a few weeks to go through an amputation procedure," the doctor explained professionally and, immediately, his heart dropped. "It's the safest option and the one I would recommend to ensure her recovery," he explained again, leaving Cillian utterly speechless.

"And the other options are?" Cillian finally managed to ask, his voice barely audible as he struggled to process the doctor's words.

"The other options are not ideal, I'm afraid. The second option is to perform emergency surgery to repair the leg, but there's a risk that she could have an adverse reaction to the anesthesia given her current state, and there's a significant chance that her leg may not heal completely even with the surgery," the doctor replied gravely.

"And the third option?" Cillian asked, bracing himself for the worst.

"The third option is to amputate the leg immediately," the doctor explained, his voice gentle but firm.

Cillian felt his heart drop. He couldn't believe what he was hearing as you were lying in a hospital bed, fighting for your life, and he had to make a decision that could potentially change the course of your life forever.

He turned to Max and Lucy, his eyes pleading for guidance.

"What is the success rate if you were to proceed with option two? And how soon would the operation have to take place?" Cillian asked with surmounting dread and anxiety.

The surgeon looked at Cillian with a grave expression, knowing that the answer he was about to provide would not be easy to hear. "The success rate for option two is only around sixty percent given the severity of the damage. There is a considerable risk of infection and nerve damage. The operation would need to be performed as soon as possible, as any delay would decrease the chances of success," he replied honestly, making sure to convey the importance of this decision. "The main issue is that she is concussed and, by performing this surgery, we will put her at risk of stroke or brain damage," he further added.

Cillian took a deep breath, trying to push down the anger and frustration that was rising within him. How could this have happened?

"So she could die during the surgery?" Max interjected , his voice laced with disbelief and the surgeon nodded gravely. "That's a huge risk to take, dad," he added, looking at Cillian, his gaze full of concern.

"It is, but it's one that we might have to take," Cillian said, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt overwhelmed with emotions. Fear, anger, guilt, and love all warred within him.

"But we can't," Max said, shaking his head. "I am not going to sign off on something that could kill her!"

"Max, think about it," his father said. "What would Y/N want to do?" Cillian asked gently, as if trying to remind Max of the person who was at the center of this whole ordeal. It was your life on the line, and they needed to make a decision that would respect your wishes as much as possible.

Lucy nodded, her eyes misty. "I agree with your dad, Max. We need to consider what she would want. All she wants is to be surgeon herself. She studied so hard for this. She also wants to go travelling still, hiking, running, living her best life," she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

Max took a deep breath, trying to process everything that was happening.

"Dad?" Max asked, his voice quiet and uncertain. "Are you sure about this?" Max asked again, searching his father's face for any signs of uncertainty.

Cillian took a deep breath, holding Max's gaze. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, his voice firm and steady. "Y/N is a fighter and she would want us to have the surgeons try and save her leg. If anyone can pull through this, it's her," he said, trying to inject some optimism into his words.

"But what if she dies?" Max asked, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Cillian took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Max's. "Then that is on me, not you," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

Max looked away, pained. "Fine," he finally said. "We'll go with option two." He would sign the consent forms, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was a mistake.

The surgeon nodded, taking the consent forms from a nurse and handing them to Max.

"Very well then. We will proceed with option two. I will notify the surgical team to prepare for the operation," he said, watching as Max signed his name on the dotted line. "It will be a long and difficult road ahead, but I am confident that with time, rehabilitation, and support, Y/N can recover from this," he added, giving Max a reassuring smile before turning to leave.

Lucy watched the surgeon go, feeling a mixture of relief and unease.

She turned back to Max and Cillian, both of whom were lost in their own thoughts. She desperately wanted to tell Cillian about the stalker you had told her about, but knew that now was not the time. Now was the time for focusing on getting you better and Cillian was clearly struggling to keep his composure as he waited for the surgical team to prepare for the operation.

Lucy took a deep breath and moved closer to Cillian, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "She is going to be okay," she said, her voice soft and soothing.

Cillian looked at her, his eyes filled with gratitude for her presence and support. "I hope so," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't lose her, you know. I just can't," Cillian said, his eyes filling up with tears.

Lucy's heart ached for him. She knew how much he loved you, and it was clear that the thought of losing you was enough to break him.

"She's a fighter," Lucy reassured him while even Max remained quiet, no longer caring about the somewhat strange dynamics in his family right now.

It was irrelevant compared to the life-and-death situation they were currently facing and all he hoped for was a favorable outcome for you.

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#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murhpy #cillian fanfic #cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy fanfic

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siampie · 2 months

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Finding You || Chapter 1

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings/tags: pinning, childhood trauma, eldest daughter syndrome

A/N: Okay, wrote this in two days and couldn’t wait to share it with you guys. Alright, hear me out. I’ve rewatched Kin while writing this chapter, and I realized that there is a house right next to Michael’s and they share the same driveway. After some research, I’ve learned they are called semi-detached house. They share a main wall. Usually, they are mirrored. It isn’t the case in Kin. And I kept it that way. So, be prepared for some shenanigans or not. I’m not really sure what I’m gonna do with that information. If you have some ideas just drop them in the comments. It could be fun for future chapters. So, I’m happy to share the result of my investigation. I also hope I did a good job in writing Michael’s brief POV. And forgive my attempt at writing an Irish accent. I don’t think I did a good job. But I’ll let you be the judge of that. Can you also tell that the only other person I really like from this family is Birdy? I hope you’ll like this first chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter List || Next chapter

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Tag list: @marytheweefrenchie, @sunflowersandsapphires, @schneeflocky, @danzer8705, @shouldbestudying41

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Dublin, Ireland. When you decided a few months ago to move out, Dublin wasn’t even on your list of destination. You didn’t even think of it. But there you were. You jumped the sea, as they would say back home. You had crossed two oceans to reach this beautiful city. To start anew.

After your father passed away, a little over two years ago, you needed a fresh start. You had spent a decade taking care of him while he was sick and in recovery. Working small jobs, barely having any friends or barely going out. You lived to take care of him and nothing else. When he died, you were saddened, yes. But you had felt relief more than anything. And then, you had felt guilty for it. He was your father and you loved him. Although, resentment had taken over in the last few years. Not just towards your father, towards your siblings too. Still, you loved him.

Why Dublin? You did not know. Why not Dublin? As you were making the decision to move out of your current place—place you had shared with your father—you had seen an ad that promoted travels to Ireland. It looked so beautiful and so green. It looked so inviting and you thought to yourself; Ireland seemed like the perfect place to start over.

So, there you were, settling into your new home. Your father had not forgotten what you had sacrificed while you took care of him. In his last will, he had left you a significant amount of money to do as you pleased. He wasn’t rich by any means, the money he had left was significant for someone like you. A couple of hundred thousand euros. When you heard the news, you were surprised by that. You had not realized that your father had saved up so much money. You even wondered where it had come from since you were the one who had managed his financials in the later years. You were not complaining though. He had left you enough to start over. It had been enough for you to move country and buy your new house.

Of course, your siblings had been supportive in your decision. Giving you their blessings, not that you had needed it. Not really. It had made your decision to move easier though. The most supportive of them was your youngest brother; Matthew. It was funny to you that he was now your greatest support. Growing up you both hated each other. You were his eldest of five years. You fought constantly, always at each other’s throats. And now, you were the closest you had ever been. He was the one you turned to when you needed help. And every time, he needed help he turned to you. It wasn’t that you did not trust your two other siblings but you trusted him the most. And they knew it.

You had started a new job too. You worked at a call center for an insurance company. Providing people with the help they needed for their house after a housefire or for water damages, or even after they had been robbed. It was not your dream job but it was a job. It paid the bills and the groceries. You had no reason to complain really. Except about the people that were calling and sometimes being rude on the phone. You understood that it was taking too long for some of them but you couldn’t go against the system. There were rules you had to follow and you were doing your best to provide them the help they needed. However, some of them had a tendency to forget that you were also human. And yelling at you, was not going to make you go faster.

Funniest part about you working in a call center was that you hated talking on the phone. As an introvert, you hated phone conversation. Your sister; Mary knew it more than anyone. You had told her that you always get annoyed every time she called. You did talk to her on the phone and you always ended up having a good time on the phone. But it always felt as though she was being rude anytime she called you. So, that you chose to work in a call center, was a laughable idea. Because every time the phone rang, which was pretty often in your line of work, you hated it. Sure, you had a script to follow but some of those problems were specific and you needed to think on the spot. Which you weren’t really good at. That was why you loved texting more than you loved calling. At least, when you were texting you had time to think of an answer. On the phone, you were pulling answers out of your ass. And they weren’t sometimes the best. Also, staring at a screen all day was draining.

In spite of that, you loved your new house and your new life so far. It was all perfect. Except maybe for the fact that you were living next door to criminals. You knew you should have questioned it when the house was sold to you for a low price. You knew it was low because it was Dublin and houses all over the market were much more expensive. But this one went to you for a price you could actually afford. You had gone in expecting to have to rent the place and when they offered to sell it to you instead. You had agreed. However, the realtor had failed to tell you who were your neighbors.

As soon as you had moved into your new home, one of your neighbors had brought you a housewarming gift. A sweet lady that lived across the street from you. Her name was Bridget Goggins but she went by Birdy. She had long and dark curly hair. Blue eyes and a kind smile. She had shown you nothing but kindness and you had appreciated it. You immediately took a liking in her. She had told you that her nephew Jimmy, his wife and his two sons lived two houses down from yours. And she had briefly mentioned her nephew; Michael. Apparently, he lived right next to you. He had been gone for some time. And that explained why the house was empty. For you, at the time, you had not seen anything wrong with it. It was just a neighbor being friendly to you and making you feel welcome.

She had been nice. Very nice. Albeit a little too curious about you and your family. Your lips were tight. You did not like to share information about yourself. And you were protective of your family. You gave her very basic and vague information. It wasn’t against her. It was just a thing your father had trained you to do. He had drilled into your brain to not share information about your family, because people would use it against you. So, you mostly hid things about your family and even, lied to some. You didn’t lie to Birdy; you just didn’t tell her much. And neither did she. And you respected that.

You would later learn that the Kinsella, Birdy’s family, were notorious criminals. They dealt in drugs trafficking mostly and may have been involved in a few murders. Specifically, Michael Kinsella. He had been gone alright. Eight years in prison for manslaughter, of his own wife. And it all clicked. The low price, the empty house next door, Birdy being way too curious about you. It all made sense. And it also scared you. You did not want to get involved with the Kinsella. Not if they were going to create problems for you.

You kept to yourself mostly. You barely saw Jimmy and his wife anyway. It was easy to avoid them. As for Birdy, it was slightly more complicated. The woman seemed to always know when to find you. And since you did not want to be rude to her, not just because she was a criminal. But mainly because you were a pushover, you could not refuse her. You kept your distance as best as you could. Although, it was impossible for you not to take a liking in her. She was most of the time motherly towards you. And you had craved that sort of affection since the day your mother had walked out of your life. And as much as you wanted to avoid the Kinsella because of their line of work, you found it hard to just pull away from Birdy. You liked her very much. Against your better judgement.

Apart from living near the Kinsella, your life was quite good here in Dublin. You were settling in nicely. And you loved your house. It was yours, and you made it cozy and warm. It was your own little haven. You loved coming back to it after a long day of work.

Sitting on your couch, you were unwinding after the long day you just had. You heard a distant peel of laughter. When you crossed path with Birdy this morning and she had offered to drop you off, she had mentioned the return of her nephew Michael. She was going to buy some party food for the evening. So, you knew what it meant, your neighbors were celebrating the return of the prodigal son.

And soon, the empty house next door would not be so empty anymore.

It made you nervous for some reason. You were about to share a yard with a murderer. You did not know what to expect. Hopefully, with you two sharing a wall, you’d know how to avoid him. You groaned out loud realizing that Birdy might create problems in the future. You had grown closer to the woman in spite of yourself. And she made it a habit to come and visit you sometimes. Whether you liked it or not you may actually cross path with Michael Kinsella.

“That was a short reunion.” You mused out loud when you heard the distant goodbyes. You switched off your television before going upstairs, to get ready for bed.

You had fell into a fitful sleep that night. Knowing that a man capable of murder was sleeping next door to you, made you feel unsafe. You had lived months in your home, knowing well you lived next to criminals. And yet, it was the man next door that made you feel unsafe in your own bed. And you had not seen him yet. And you had no intention to.

Lack of sleep did not make for a good day at work. You prided yourself in being a very patient person. You had trained yourself though. When you were younger; in the years that followed your mother’s leaving; you had been a very short tempered and moody person. And being a teenager at the time did not help the matter. You would explode at random at the people around you. And it was always your family that was on the receiving end. Did it come from anger? Or grief? Or even sadness? You did not really know. You were pretty sure it was a combination of it all. What really helped though, was your family making fun of you every time you did lose your patience. They would apologize profusely, with a smile on their faces, while bowing to you. The overreaction from them made you laugh every single time. It made you realize how ridiculous you could be. It made you realize you had no business being this enraged because they breathed in your direction.

However, what made you really snap out of it, though, was your sister. You did not remember what was said or when it was really. All you remembered was that one morning during breakfast, your sister was speaking to you and you snapped at her. For no reason at all. And it had brought tears to her eyes. It had hurt her. And it made you realize that you never wanted to make your sister feel this way ever again. She was your only sister and your best-friend, and you needed to treat her better. You needed to treat the people around you better. So, you took it upon yourself to think before you spoke. You stopped yourself before you could snap. Always, taking a deep breath and gave yourself a few seconds before opening your mouth. And sometimes, you just kept quiet and walked away. It had helped you over the years in growing more patient. And also, nowadays, you did not give as much of a fuck as you did back then. It took a lot more for you to lose your temper.

Lack of sleep, on the other hand—never made a good friend when it came to keeping yourself in check. Everything and everyone irritated you. If they glanced at you or even opened their mouth to speak to you, you would get annoyed. But you did keep yourself in control the whole day. You kept yourself in control with your colleagues and with the clients on the phone. And now, you were terribly exhausted. You couldn’t wait to just drop in your bed and be dead to the world for the next twelve hours.

“Hey, Birdy.” You greeted quietly as you got to your house. She was on your neighbor’s doorstep about to go in.

“Hello, pet.” She smiled at you. “You look properly tired, dear. What happened to ya?”

“I feel like it too.” You snorted. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. But I’m going to make up for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “You’re visiting the new neighbor?”

“I’m bringing him some proper food.” She showed you the trays she was holding. “There’s some here fer ya.”

You sighed. “You didn’t have to, Birdy.”

“I like taking care of ya.” Birdy answered with a soft smile. “Come on, take it.”

“Alright.” You yielded before taking the tray off of her hands.

“Have you met Mikey yet?”

“Can’t say I had the pleasure.” You shook your head, fishing for your keys.

“Wanna come and say hi?” She offered.

Your lips twitched up in the corners. “Not really. Another time, perhaps?” You unlocked your door.

“Yeah, another time.” Birdy smiled at you as you disappeared into your house. As she, herself, disappeared into your neighbor’s house.

Michael was sitting on his sofa, a book in his lap. He had not been reading, not really. His thoughts kept going back to his daughter Anna. He couldn't resist the temptation to go and see her. He had kept his distance but he had taken everything in him to not get up and run to her.

She had looked so grown since he last saw her. She was no longer a child; she was growing to be a young and beautiful woman. Eight years had been a long time away from her. He had missed out on so much. He missed her so much it was hard to breathe sometimes. He had to do things right by her. He needed to do what was right, if he wanted to have her back in his life.

He would straighten out his act. He would stop dealing with the family business. He would keep out of it. He would do everything he could just so he could have her back in his life. It was the most important thing to him at this moment. Anna was the most important thing to him at this time. He must do right by her.

Muffled voices from outside drew his attention away from his own thoughts. He had recognized Birdy but the second voice did not belong to someone he knew. He couldn’t hear much of what was being said. But Birdy and you had seemed really close by the sound of it.

Birdy had pushed the door open and stepped in. “Good evenin’ Mickey.” She greeted him softly. “Brought ya some proper food.” She said showing him the covered dish she had in her hands.

Michael smiled back at her. “Thank ya, Birdy. But ya didn’t have to do that.”

Birdy walked into the kitchen. “Of course, I had to.” She placed the dish on the kitchen counter.

“Who were ya talking to?” Michael couldn’t help but ask. He was curious to know more about you. Especially if Birdy seemed to be close to you.

“Your new neighbor.” She replied taking off her coat. And then gave him your name.

So, that was you; Michael thought. He had caught a brief glimpse of your shadow through your large window, after he had come back from Jimmy’s. The curtains were drawn. But he had seen you through them as you moved around your kitchen. For as far as he could remember, the house next door had always been empty. People tend to refuse to buy once they knew who would be their neighbor. And he couldn’t blame them. It was now strange for him to suddenly have a neighbor after all those years.

The empty house next door would not be so empty anymore.

“She’s a real sweet girl, ya know. A hard worker too. But a bit lonely.” Birdy opened his fridge. “She could use some more friends.”

“Yeah?”

“So could ya.” Birdy wore a small smirk on her face. “I’ll put this in the fridge. Ya can have it later. I’ll get you a few more bits, Mikey. Fill this up for ya.”

“Nah, ya don’t have to go to any trouble. I could do that.” Michael moved to the sofa’s armrest.

“It’s not trouble.” Birdy told him strongly. Before moving next to the stairs. “Not for family.” She smiled at him. “Missed havin’ ya around, Mikey. We all have. We’ve all been waitin’ for ya to get out.” Michael hummed in response. “Especially Frank and your brother. It’s been tough on them without you.” She said softly, gazing back at him. “Carryin’’ the load all on their own. I mean Eric is—he’s a good boy. But he’s not you.” She gave a small shrug.

Frank had put her up to this. Michael just knew it. He knew what she was getting at. Frank wanted him back, in the family business. But he couldn’t do that. Not if he wanted to see Anna again. He wouldn’t change his mind about this.

“But you’re back now,” Birdy said and Michael nodded in response. “That’s the main thing.”

“Yeah.”

Birdy walked up to him. “You understand what I’m sayin’. I know you do. You’re not like your mother. You’re a Kinsella. And we stick together.” And she leaned and rested a light peck to his lips. “Always.”

You probably would have gone another night with a restless sleep if your body was not so exhausted. You had heated up some of the food Birdy had brought you. Although, living next to crime lords was not ideal, Birdy made it easier by taking care of you. As much as you had taken a liking in her. She had taken one in you. Always showing up at your door with extra food or inviting you over to share a cup of tea or coffee. The only issue was that you did not know if she was being sincere with you. You didn’t entirely trust her. Your lack of trust may not have been entirely due to her being a Kinsella. It was also due to your past. You had been burned too many times before and you didn’t know whether she had ulterior motives or not. But you had wanted to trust her more. You really wanted to.

Although, you knew you shouldn’t want that.

You were in a better state of mind that morning. You had your coffee; you were awake and rested. And you hoped for a better day at work.

“Good mornin’.”

You gasped as you turned sharply to face your neighbor. You had not paid attention to your surroundings, too focused on going through your morning routine.

“M’ sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” He softly chuckled.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly. “I just—wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”

Your heart started to gallop like a wild horse under your ribcage. You were facing the neighbor; you did not want to face. The man who had been sent to prison for manslaughter. You had to remind yourself of that. Because in spite of what you knew, the man standing in front of you was quite handsome. with his thick beard and dark hair. And his hazel eyes were beautiful and seemed kind.

“I’m Michael.” He put out his hand.

Your eyes snapped to his hand. You should probably take it. You really shouldn’t but this would be rude, wouldn’t it? “I know.” You said and introduced yourself. Making the final decision to put your hand in his. His calloused fingers felt rough against yours but his grip was warm and gentle. “Your new neighbor.”

“I know. Birdy told me.”

“Yeah.” You smiled quickly. You pulled your hand out of his grip. “I have to go. I—I don’t want to be late for work.”

“Okay.” His face fell slighty, and you momentarily felt bad.

“It was nice meeting you, Michael.” You said. You did not want him to think that you were running away from him.

“Yeah, you too.” He gave you a tight smile.

“Yeah, bye.” You turned away quickly and made your way to the end of your street where your colleague was waiting for you.

Real criminals didn’t look like criminals, you needed to remind yourself of that. No matter what you may think, Michael still killed people. He only got caught for the murder of his wife. He didn’t matter that he seemed kind. He didn’t matter that he looked handsome. He was still dangerous.

“Fuck!” You cussed as you were getting closer to your colleague’s car. “I’m in trouble.”

Chapter List || Next chapter

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x fem! reader #michael kinsella fic #michael kinsella #michael kinsella fluff #kin rte #kin bbc

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asumofwords · 1 year

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: I feel so bad for the reader, no matter what she does, it seems like something is always waiting around the corner for her. Aemond is only going to get a lot worse...

Chapter 25: The Usurper

The Chamber of the Painted Table was lined with guards and knights, your mothers supporters and families all standing around its sides.

Candles were placed under the table in order to light the carvings, a glowing map of the realm outlining the many lands.

Winterfell sat at the north of the table, an engraved castle and triangles to signify the terrain. The rivers looked like long glowing veins, connecting all of the realm together.

Rhaenyra was the last in the room to arrive.

You and your father stood proudly at the head of the table as she arrived. Your anger towards him singed your veins but now was not the time.

He had motioned for you to stand with him, noting that your brothers were off to the side and you had obeyed. You thought that Jacaerys should be where you stood, now that Rhaenyra had officially named him her successor.

Why had Daemon not brought him to his side?

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” Daemon's voice rang loudly through the room, all bowed to show their respect.

All but Rhaenys, who you eyed warily.

“Your Grace.” Your father spoke once more, addressing Rhaenyra who stood tall with the crown seated upon her head. A large black cloak was held together by a clasp over her shoulders, with a deep red lining peeking through.

Your mother stepped towards the table, and the Queens guards stepped forward with her. You watched as your mother looked uncomfortable by their movement before she motioned with her hand gently for them to stay put.

Rhaena stepped forth with a goblet, holding it out towards your mother with steady hands.

“Wine, My Queen.” She spoke gently, smiling upwards. Rhaenyra hesitated, before grasping the goblet.

“Thank you, Rhaena.” She paused, before nodding her head towards the table, “Come.''

Your mothers first deed as Queen was to bring women to the table.

But you were already waiting.

As they walked, she motioned to your cousin/sister Baela to join her to stand in front of the table, opposite you. Rhaenyra stared at her King Consort Daemon.

The air was still. The tension in the air was palpable and you felt unease spread through the Lords on the sides. You waited for her to address the room, but before she did that her eyes flicked to yours, lips slightly pursing before looking back at her husband.

“What is our standing?” The Queen asked.

“We have 30 knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and 300 men-at-arms.” Your father listed off before continuing, “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

Maester Gerardys leant forward to speak, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.”

Your mother pointed to the map, slender finger stretched towards the Vale, “My Lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

Jacaerys stepped forward and began to place markers on the lands of our allies. His stern face concentrated on the task ahead. How he had changed so suddenly, the boy you knew was now a man.

Jacaerys could no longer be a boy, he was now next in line for the throne. The successor. The heir to the realm.

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace.” Spoke the Maester, “With Prince Daemons acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Your fathers eyes did not move from the table, and you felt the urge to speak.

“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed.” You argued, “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

Your mother watched you, eyes proud as you addressed the room, though something else was present.

“I’m going to treat with him myself.” Came the smooth timbre of your father, as he did not once look at you, instead eyed your mother.

There was an undeniable tension between the two.

Steffan Darklyn’s soft voice carried across the table, “What of Storms End and Winterfell?”

Another man who you believed to be Bartimos responded, “There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow.”

Queen Rhaenyras face twitched in thought, “Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his fathers promises.”

A knight with short grey hair stepped forward to grasp at a different shaped marker. He placed the ace shaped metal roughly onto the seat of House Baratheon.

Jacaerys timidly stepped forward, softly placing a new marker over Rooks nest. Your mother turned to address Princess Rhaenys, who stood behind watching from afar.

“What news from Driftmark?”

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone.”

“To declare for his Queen.” Came the petty reply of your father.

“The Velaryon fleet is in my husband's yoke. He decides where they sail.” Came Rhaenys' curt reply.

“We shall pray for both you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snakes return to good health.” The Queen spoke. Rhaenys bowed her head and smiled. “Theres no port on the Narrow Sea would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.”

“And our enemies?” Your mother continued, turning to look at the table once more, awaiting for her council to respond.

“We have no friends among the Lannisters.” Your father sneered.

You huffed a laugh continuing for your father, “Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

Your mother gave you another look, something she hadn’t given you before. It almost set you on edge.

“Without the Lannisters, we are not like to finding allies west of the Golden Tooth.” Rhaenyra replied.

An ace shaped marker was set above River Run on the table.

Daemon looked down at the table, hands fiddling in front of him subtly, “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

An old man, with little to no white hair left on his head, robes of black and red stood forward, “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace,” He bowed towards your father before turning to look at your mother, “But talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Your mother liked across the table incredulously, “The Greens have dragons as well.”

Your father sharp voice interrupted your mother.

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syndor, Syrax, Caraxes and Meleys.”

“Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.” He finished.

“Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war.” The Queen argued.

“There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on Dragonmont, still riderless.” Your father shot back.

Your hands tightened at your sides.

“They are riderless for a reason, father.” You snipped but he continued, “There are three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

“And who is to ride them?” Your mother asked, her tone mocking her husband.

“Dragonstone has 13 to their 4.” Your father started, but you cut him off once more.

“Yet only one has seen war, and that is the one-eyed cravens. Aemond rides the largest and one of the oldest dragons in the world. Vhagar has seen war and has won it. Do we not see this as a disadvantage?” You argued.

Your father ignored you, still looking at your mother, where Rhaena stood shyly beside her.

“I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont.” Daemon roughly placed the Dark Sister blade against the table and walked around to the side beside Jacaerys.

“Now we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.” He roughly picked up and placed a metal marker on the table, the clunk echoing through the room, “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround Kings Landing with dragons.” He continued excitedly.

“And we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.” His head turns to look at you, then back at your Queen, who stood still angrily staring at the Rogue Prince.

Before your mother could respond, Ser Eryyk came walking from behind, “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Your heart raced in your chest and you rushed to walk to your mothers side, your father bellowing out a command to the room.

“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.” He barked, racing back to the head of the table to grab the Dark Sister blade before leaving the chambers.

You looked to your mother who stared impassively at the table.

“My Queen,” You said gently, “Do you wish for me to mount Syndor?” You asked softly, Rhaena standing beside you waiting for commands from Rhaenyra.

A beat passed before your mother turned her head to you, looking you up and down before responding, voice strong and decisive.

“No. Go with Daemon.” And with that she turned to leave the chambers, all those present bowing as she passed, before moving to their duties.

Your feet carried you swiftly to catch up with your father, the sight of his silver hair moving with the breeze of his pace making you speed further.

“Kepa.” You called, as you tried to catch up.

He did not turn.

“Kepa.” You called again. He did not stop nor did he falter. You stopped in your place.

You would not chase him.

“Daemon!” You yelled, and finally his steps came to a slow halt. The man turned his head, not to look at you, but to show you his profile indicating that he was listening. You walked to stand in front of him.

“Are you so impatient to start a war, that you wish to demean mother in front of her own council? Her own men?” You accused, breaths coming out roughly through your nose.

The Rogue Prince did not reply, instead looked at you with a blank face.

“Do you truly have nothing to say to me?” You asked, shaking your head in disbelief.

Silence.

You felt if there was any more silence after today you would go mad.

“Answer me!” You shoved his broad chest, hands slapping roughly against him.

The Prince did not budge, though his eyes softened.

“We are wasting time.” He muttered, turning on his heel to start walking as you stood in shock.

Your father had a habit of being a cunt to people, but you were never on the receiving end of it.

“You are a coward.” You gritted through your teeth.

The King Consort stopped abruptly, turning around once more to march back up to you.

“I have lost more in one day than you could ever imagine.” He growled. “Move.” He flicked his head to the side and began to walk.

You sniffed, straightening yourself before walking beside him. The walls of the castle were lined in lit torches as the sun began to set. But a shadow had begun to fall over your family.

Knights and guards walked behind the two of you as you marched out the front of the large stone doors, before beginning down the winding path outside.

As you looked behind you in search of your mother, you saw the castle. It was lit with flames along its sides and in the pathways. The sun's final rays giving the large stone walls an ominous glow.

You looked back at your father, who had slowed his steps for you to catch up. As you returned to his side he looked down at you, face stern yet his eyes soft.

“You know that I love you deeply, and I know that you wish to tear my head off. Though you must learn there is a time and a place, and now is not the time, nor the place.”

You went to open your mouth to argue but he beat you to it, “You may scorn me later. For now, you must control your anger and your tongue.”

You bit the insides of your cheeks, tasting the bitter tang of copper as your teeth cut through the soft flesh. Hands curled into tight fists before releasing them you took a large breath in, holding as you continued down the path before releasing it roughly though your nose.

A large circular space opened on the path, and you stood with your father waiting. Ahead of you, a large stone entrance to the castle. Large steel doors opened wide for the unwelcome guests with two large watch towers flanking each side.

As you stood you watched the doorway, waiting for the sight of the Greens.

Anticipation prickled your skin, and you felt a wave of anxiety course through you as you looked to the skies. It was beginning to become overcast with large clouds forming above you. You wondered if you would hear ‘Dracarys’ called out from above by your younger uncle.

Though not much time had passed, the anticipation made it feel like an eternity. Daemon paced in front of you, his restlessness making you uneasy, though you schooled your nerves.

You walked forward to intercept your fathers next pace, holding his hand gently before nodding your head upwards.

There, at the gates came the figure of Otto Hightower, behind him half a dozen men. You could tell that your father was itching to use his sword, hand resting atop the hilt of it, fingers strumming loudly against the metal.

“Gīda aōla, kepa.” (Calm yourself, father.) You gently spoke, hoping to put the man in front of you at ease.

By now, Otto and his men had reached the open space in the path before you. He stood in hideous green robes, a trim of fur around the collar, with the pin of the Hand sitting snuggly upon his breast.

His hair was fluffed back by the winds of his journey on the sea, and you thought he looked awfully uncomfortable, though smug. You noted one of the Maesters from Kings Landing stood behind him.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” Came the pompous drone of Otto Hightower.

The Rogue Princes hands were both on Dark Sister as you stood beside him watching. Your fathers head tilting to the side. You knew he was thinking of slaying Otto in the same manner he did the younger Valeryon Prince.

“I’ve been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?” He asked.

Your father simply nodded in agitation.

No words were spoken as you both stared at Otto Hightower and behind you, the large screech of Syrax resonated throughout the sky. Both you and your father watched calmly as Otto's eyes were drawn to the noise behind you.

The sounds of beating wings flowed above you, and a gust of wind moved your hair.

Above you was your mother, crown strong upon her head as she rode Syrax. The great golden dragon let out a loud roar as it flew behind Otto and his men. Otto tensed, body rigid as he watched the dragon land behind them, trapping him and his men between Daemon and Syrax.

The Rogue Prince smirked with pride as he watched Queen Rhaenyra’s dragon cause Ottos men to clutch their swords in fear, ducking as Syrax screeched loudly into the air. You let out a small huff of a laugh, your father eyeing you from the side as you could not contain the joy of witnessing their fear.

Your mother sat proudly atop the dragon as it bellowed, lowering itself to let Rhaenyra dismount, before walking through the men to come stand beside you and your father. She did not pass a glance to Otto, and his face held shock as he witnessed King Viserys crown atop her head.

“Princess Rhaenyra.”

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now.” Your mother spoke, “And you all are traitors to the realm.”

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.” Hightower's eyes slid to your figure beside your father before looking back at the woman in front of him.

“Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your true born son, Jacaerys, upon your death.”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Dragonstone was yours to claim. Dragonstone was to be your holding, not Jacaerys'.

You sucked in an angry breath, fingers curling into your palm sharply.

“Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark,” Otto continued. Your father shifted on his feet, both hands on two seperate swords now as he looked at you, then to your mother, watching for her word.

“And all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honour at court:”

Your father stiffened beside your mother. You watched him in your periphery as you knew that these ‘offers’ were to insult your family further, especially Daemon, who had a long standing history of hatred between himself and Otto.

The Hightower continued, “Aegon the Younger as the King's squire, Viserys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any Knight or Lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Your mind was reeling. Your name had not been mentioned.

Had Aegon forgot of your existence? Or were you, as a woman not important enough in the Greens eyes to be given any ‘grace’ from the King.

Daemon itched forward sneering, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.”

Your lips twitched into a smirk as you watched the prideful mask of Otto Hightower slip at your fathers profanity.

Though just as quick as the mask slipped, it was put back, “Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conquerors crown, wields the Conquerors sword,-”

“Does Aegon even know how to pick up a sword? Besides the little one he stuffs inside half of Flea Bottom?” You sneered. Your father huffed a laugh beside you.

Otto continued as though you were not there, “-Has the Conquerors name. He was anointed by a Septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have also received, and are at present, considering generous terms from their King.”

“Stark, Tully and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.” Queen Rhaenyra spoke.

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess.”

Otto began to stalk forwards, the knights behind your mother clutching their swords, “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Your mother stormed forward, rushing Otto, his guards behind him reaching for their swords. Her hand grasped the pin of the Hand on his breast, ripping it off of him.

“You are no more Hand than Aegon is King.” She sneered, flinging the pin over the walkway into the depths below.

“Fucking traitor!” She hissed, close to his face.

You took two steps forward, as you watched the knights behind Otto become anxious, tipping back and forth on their feet waiting for a command.

Queen Rhaenyra's shoulders moved with every harsh breath, anger rolling through her in waves.

“Aegon is not fit to rule, anyone with two eyes could see that. Though I suppose with your one-eyed craven it may be hard to look past a man who falls asleep in his cup.” You growled, stepping closer to your mother.

Otto looked at you as if you were nothing, treated you as though you were nothing, holding your gaze as you heaved angry breaths.

“Grand Maester.” Otto called, eyeing your mother again.

The Maester stepped forward, chains on his robes noisily clinking as he reached his hand into the arm of his robe. Your body twitched as he produced a sheet of paper, handing it to Otto silently.

“What the fuck is this?” The King Consort growled, as Otto handed an old torn piece of paper to your mother.

Rhaenyra faltered as she opened it, staring down at the worn page.

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace.” He spoke quietly to your mother before starting again.

He turned to look at you, “And yours. The Queen wished to encourage you to accept Prince Aemond's offer in marriage.”

He looked back to your mother, your breath was caught in your chest.

You wanted to scream.

“Princess Y/n would live out her days in the Red Keep with Prince Aemond, who is the second son of King Viserys. Third in line for the Iron Throne. The Princess would have access to all in Kings Landing and would be treated fairly and kindly by the Prince. Queen Alicent believes this is a way for us to further unify our families with the King's gracious offers. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.” He concluded.

Your fathers voice cracked through the air, “She can have her answer now, stuffed in her fathers mouth along with his withering cock.” He threatened.

You lifted your head higher looking down at Otto as your mother shook her head softly, a tear falling down her cheek.

“Lets end this mummer's farce.” Your father barked, unsheathing Dark Sister from his side, his knights behind him following.

This set off a chain reaction, the knights behind Otto drew their swords, awaiting a command from the withered old man in front of them.

You stood strong, unflinching in the space between your mother and father, unwavering from your spot. You wished to see Otto's blood spilled upon the ground at your feet. The viscous liquid could seep deeply into your pores and all would be well.

“Ser Eryyk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” Your father commanded, Rhaenyra looking back at him as she stayed quiet.

Syrax roared behind Otto and his men, the dragon sensing your mothers unease. The large golden beast reared back, flapping its wings agitatedly.

“No.” Came the strong voice of your mother, as she peered back at you and your father.

Prince Daemon sheathed his sword at her behest.

“Kings Landing will have my answer on the morrow.” Queen Rhaenyra concluded, before swiftly turning away from Otto and his men.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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bellaxgiornata · 11 months

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Safe Haven [Chapter Twelve]

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 6.6k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains violence, drug use, domestic abuse, smut, hurt/comfort, angst, mutual pining, friends to lovers

a/n: This is a long one where we finally get their first date! And there's angst at the end of it, too... Also big thanks to @loveroftoomanyfandoms for figuring out what Michael is actually reading in Kin! Feedback is always appreciated!

Tag list: @loveroftoomanyfandoms @farfromstrange @rotscinema @1988-fiend @shouldbestudying41 @shiorimakibawrites @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattmurdocksstarlight @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18 @mattkinsella @ms-murdockswift @theetherealbloom @24hflower @mattmurdocksscars @schneeflocky @the-nursery @lionalsowrites

Drawing the warm ceramic mug to your lips, you drank down more of your vanilla latte. The hot liquid was surprisingly not too sweet, the bold taste of the roast actually coming through as it passed over your tongue. You decided you liked this coffee shop, and not just because it was now going to hold the memory of your first date with Michael, but they apparently knew how to make a good cup of coffee.

Across from you at the table, Michael’s fingers were tapping against the side of his steaming mug of coffee, his chin resting in the palm of his other hand. His eyes were locked on yours, crinkles forming at the corners of them and that dimple visible just beneath his beard on his right cheek. He sat there silently, continuing to simply smile at you.

He had just been contentedly watching you as if that alone was enough for him for the past couple of minutes. You swore if he kept looking at you like he’d been doing ever since you’d both sat down, you’d end up throwing yourself over the small table separating the pair of you and crushing your mouth to his. Just that look of enraptured interest he had for you so plainly written across his face was alone increasing your arousal–or maybe it had just been vastly too long since either of you had last had sex. Either way, you were getting turned on and you could feel the sexual tension increasing to a palpable level in the air around the pair of you. Didn’t matter that you were both in public in a coffee shop and Michael was wearing a bulletproof vest under his sweater and jacket. Somehow that only added to your increasing desire.

“You just going to stare at me for the duration of this date?” you asked him, lowering the mug back to the table and wrapping both of your hands around it. “Or do you actually want to talk to me?”

Michael chuckled, that intense look of fondness never leaving his face. “Well I have a beautiful woman sittin’ across from me, and it’s quite early in the mornin’. Maybe I’m a bit distracted?” he teased.

That also didn’t help you control the desire to jump him publicly.

“Laying it on thick, I see,” you joked, unable to fight the smile on your own mouth.

“Well I told ya it may be a bit before I can take ya on another proper date again,” he explained. “And it did take me two times to get ya to say yes to me to begin with.” He shrugged. “Maybe I just want to make sure it won’t take ya six times before ya say yes next time?”

You laughed, surprised at how funny he actually was when you got a little bit past the awkward, brooding, mysterious exterior. Shaking your head at him, your eyes dropped down to the mug of coffee before you. On your walk to the coffee shop this morning Michael had been noticeably more comfortable with you than he had been the last time the pair of you had taken a walk together. Although there had unfortunately been no kissing or hand holding, he had somehow still managed to slip in a bit of overt flirting despite the main topic of conversation.

As you’d both walked to the shop for your date, Michael had been explaining how he really shouldn’t be out of his house because of the feud that had been started between his family and their supplier–this Eamon character that Birdy had initially accused you of getting close to Michael for the Serpents for. Apparently anyone selling for Eamon that had a gun was going to be on the lookout for a Kinsella or anyone working with the family. There had been a very high bounty put on Michael’s head and it wasn’t exactly safe for him to be out–even in public. Which didn’t exactly surprise you, considering how he’d walked into a crowded bar himself a few nights ago and shot the man who’d been responsible for Jamie’s death. But Michael had repeatedly assured you the bounty was still such early news that there wasn’t a high risk of anyone tailing him yet. He’d made sure no one was before he’d come to get you from your sister’s this morning.

To you, it sounded like this feud was more of a war. Especially with the way he was wearing a bulletproof vest under his clothes and occasionally scanning out the window to make sure no one suspicious was watching the pair of you. He’d even intentionally picked a table near a back exit in case the pair of you needed to bolt, and he’d positioned himself so he could keep an eye on the door and still be between you and it. Which was a detail you hadn’t missed.

“So you’re a writer, yeah?” he asked.

His question drew your eyes back up from your mug and to his face. He’d sat up straighter in his chair now, his chin no longer resting in his palm. You watched as he drew his mug to his lips, your eyes momentarily distracted by the movement–and his mouth. It had been too long since you’d last had the opportunity to kiss him, and you really had wanted to pick up where you’d left off the other morning.

“Yeah, I am,” you answered, your eyes finally meeting his again.

“What’s that like?” he asked next.

You shrugged a shoulder, mulling over the question. “It’s nice, I suppose,” you told him. “I get to work from wherever I want–clearly,” you said, shooting him a small smile to which he returned. “Other than making deadlines there’s not too much daily stress during the writing part of things. I mean, besides the pressure I put on myself to actually, you know, write.”

Michael chuckled, leaning his elbows onto the table as he drew himself closer towards you. “And what exactly do you write about?” he questioned.

“I uh, have a series about a family,” you began awkwardly, your eyes dropping down to your coffee mug. “And they do…nefarious things to make money.”

“Such as…?” he prompted curiously.

“Drug trafficking,” you answered, eyes still averted. “Money laundering. Blackmail. Murder.”

“Well that’s…rather dark,” he mused.

Your eyes slid up towards his, one of your brows arching back at him. The corner of his lip twitched upwards in response.

“I am aware of the irony,” he replied, grinning. “I take it ya took inspiration from your life?”

“Something like that,” you admitted.

Michael’s dark brows pulled together on his forehead, a crease forming between them. “I’m surprised your ex-fiance allowed that. He knew that’s what ya wrote ‘bout?”

Nodding, you drew your mug back up to your lips for another drink. You swallowed down the coffee before you answered.

“He knew,” you simply said. “My sister had actually gotten in with one of the Serpents back in the day–before I’d ever met Victor. He’d gone by the nickname Lucky. He actually had epilepsy and was the reason why I knew what to do that other night when I…met you.”

“Mmm,” Michael hummed out, his gaze still intently watching you. “Wondered 'bout that.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes dropped back down to your nervously fidgeting hands. Your fingers began to drum along the ceramic mug as you spoke; you didn’t particularly like to think about the outlaw MC.

“I’d started writing the series back then,” you told him. “My sister and I, we didn’t exactly have a great childhood. I’d stayed behind and forwent college just to make sure she’d been safe and taken care of until she graduated. I worked two jobs just trying to pay the bills while our mom just…” you slowly trailed off, shaking your head. “But Megan she–she fell for Lucky when he was still a prospect for the Serpents, right before she graduated high school. She was really serious about him. And I started hearing these stories–in the news and from my sister–and I just…I don’t know, I started writing,” you finished lamely with a shrug.

“So ya published them before ya met your ex?” Michael asked.

“The first one, yeah,” you said, your focus returning to his curious face. “The series name The Road to Hell was a quiet nod to the Serpents of Hell MC. Even though it's not actually about a motorcycle club and doesn’t specifically mention any real crimes they committed–because I’m not an idiot and wasn’t trying to get myself killed. But I was apparently good at it. At writing. And I needed the money because a high school education wasn’t getting me shit. So my publisher picked it up. They loved it and contracted me for more and well, that’s what I do, I guess.”

“I’m assumin’ somethin’ happened to this Lucky considerin’ Megan isn’t with him now?” Michael asked.

“Killed,” you answered with a nod. “He’s the reason why Megan went to school to become a nurse.”

Michael frowned at your response. “’M sorry to hear that.”

You shrugged, bringing your coffee back to your mouth for another drink. Swallowing the warm liquid down, you eyed his handsome face across the table from you. This wasn't exactly what you wanted to talk about.

“Not a very light topic for a date,” you mused as you lowered the mug. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? Something not depressing unlike what I just told you.”

A small smile returned to Michael’s face, one of his hands sliding across the wooden table towards yours. He reached up, gripping onto your right hand and pulling it away from your coffee mug down to the table with his. The gesture instantly stilled your nervous fidgeting, your eyes dropping down to watch as he slowly entwined his fingers with yours. Your heart beat a little harder in your chest.

“What d’ya want to know?” he asked.

Eyes slowly making their way up towards his face, you felt your breath coming in shallower. That look from earlier had returned to his face, and in turn, so had your previous state of arousal.

How fast can I get you home and in my bed?

Bottom lip slipping between your teeth, you tried hard to fight that question from accidentally falling out of your mouth. Michael’s gaze had inevitably dropped down to where you were chewing your lip, his own tongue slowly sliding out to wet his lips as his eyes lingered.

If you didn’t get ahold of yourself soon you’d be dragging him out the back door behind you and seeing how far you could get with him before your mind brought reason back to you. And as tempting as that sounded, that’s not what you were doing here. Blinking hard a few times, your eyes darted out of the window beside you, trying to break whatever trance his eyes had somehow put you into again.

“I don’t know,” you said with a shrug. “Any hobbies?”

Michael huffed out a laugh, the sound catching your attention again. He was shaking his head as he raised his mug to his lips with his other hand. You watched as his throat bobbed while he drank the coffee down, your tongue running along the back of your teeth as you shifted in your seat, all too aware of the heat from his hand wrapped around yours.

“Ya know where I’ve been the past eight years, yeah?” he asked, lowering his mug back to the table. “Didn’ exactly have the opportunity for hobbies.”

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So you go back home after this and then you do what? Sit on your sofa and stare into the void? There’s got to be something you enjoy.”

He chuckled as his hand not holding yours rose up to scratch at his beard. Your left hand curled around your mug, desperately trying to ignore the way your fingers itched to feel the rasp of it beneath them.

“So I’m goin’ home alone after this?” Michael teased. “That what you’re sayin’?”

Your own brows rose onto your forehead, lips parting in surprise as you gaped back at him. “I–I wasn’t saying that, exactly,” you stammered out.

A slow smile spread along Michael’s mouth, his hand rubbing along his chin as he continued to watch you from across the table. There was definitely some sort of look in his eye, something that had your pulse at a consistent, increased pace again.

“I enjoy readin’,” he said. “‘M not really into watchin’ shows, but I read.”

It took you a moment to realize he was answering your question about his hobbies. But as you sat across from him, your coffee almost finished, you’d found your brain was still stuck on one thing. Shifting again in your seat, you tried hard to focus on the conversation and not how badly you wanted the man you were talking to. The fact that he enjoyed reading was only adding to his attractiveness.

“And uh, what exactly do you like to read?” you asked, the question coming out unintentionally a little breathless.

Michael seemed to catch the change in your tone, his head tilting to the side as he quietly studied you for a moment. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting to keep yourself from inviting him back to your place right here and now. Though it was beginning to feel like a losing battle. You felt like you might combust if you sat here much longer with him staring at you like that and you pretending like you weren’t dying to do more than just talk.

Clearing your throat, you tried to shove those thoughts away again.

"Actually, let me guess," you began, trying to focus on the conversation. "You don't seem like you'd be into horror and suspense."

"Get enough o' that in my life already," Michael agreed, nodding.

Your eyes narrowed as you examined him closely. "Not romance, either. Or science fiction," you ruled out, noticing the way his smile grew. "Nonfiction?"

Michael shrugged a shoulder. "Dependin' on the topic, yeah."

Becoming interested in this guessing game, you rested your elbow on the table and leaned forward, your right hand still entwined with his. Michael copied the gesture, that flicker of something still in his eyes, his mouth seemingly permanently drawn up into a grin as he lessened the gap between the pair of you at the table.

"Historical fiction?" you asked.

"On occasion," he replied huskily.

Pressing your lips together, you wondered how the hell he was making this conversation so hot. The way he’d gripped your hand a bit firmer in his wasn’t helping.

"Mmm, not a mystery reader," you continued, watching as he shook his head. "Classic lit?"

Michael’s grin widened further. "I enjoy some, yeah," he answered.

Resting your chin in your hand, your index finger absently tapped against your lips as you thought. You only became aware of the gesture when Michael’s eyes dropped down, staring at your mouth yet again. That's when you'd intentionally began running your finger back and forth along your bottom lip slowly, enjoying the way his eyes followed the movement. Apparently you weren't the only one thinking about that right now.

"I'm guessing you're not into bodice rippers," you teased, intentionally directing the conversation towards sex.

Michael’s brows shot up onto his forehead, his eyes returning to yours. "Bodice rippers?" he asked with a laugh. "Is that what I'm thinkin' it is?"

You grinned, nodding. "Yeah, you know, smut. Those books with the overly buff men on the cover and a woman who's heaving bosom looks like it's about to pop out of her top?"

Michael cracked up, his eyes creasing as he tried to contain his laughter. "No Grace," he answered, his shoulders shaking with his barely contained mirth, "I can't say that I read… bodice rippers . But now ya got me wonderin' if you do."

A large smile drew wide across your own face. "Oh I have an entire series of them I wrote," you told him enthusiastically, fighting down your own laughter when his mouth dropped open in shock. "About a pirate and a virgin–well, I guess she's not a virgin anymore. Not with everything they've done with the buried treasure they've found…"

Michael continued to gawk at you from across the table and you swore you saw pink tinge his cheeks. When you saw him struggling to form a coherent thought, you burst into a laugh.

"I'm kidding," you assured him. "I don't have a smutty series about a pirate–but I bet you I’d make a fortune if I did."

He visibly relaxed in his seat, a laugh falling out of him. "Ya definitely had me there," he said. "Wasn't sure if ya were serious and how I was s'posed to respond to that."

"Yeah, I could tell," you said with a laugh of your own. "Pretty sure I made you blush, Mr. Kinsella."

His hand squeezed yours as he chuckled again, his eyes falling back down to his mug. “I don’ know ‘bout that,” he muttered.

“So what are you reading?” you asked him finally.

“Currently?” he asked, continuing when you nodded. “ East of Eden.”

Eyebrows raising onto your forehead, you hummed out a curious noise. The corner of his lip twitched.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said innocently with a shrug. “You seem like you’d read Steinbeck is all.”

His eyes narrowed playfully at you. "And what's that s'posed to mean?" he asked.

"That you should probably find something lighter to read," you teased.

You picked up your coffee mug and downed the rest of your latte, enjoying the bemused expression on Michael’s face as he watched you. Setting the empty mug back onto the table, your eyes dropped back down to your enjoined hands. His thumb suddenly brushed a light stroke across your knuckles and you felt that excited, giddy feeling wash over you. Yet again you found yourself wishing you weren't in a public setting.

“D’ya want another coffee?” he asked, head gesturing to your now empty mug.

“Actually,” you began slowly, eyes gradually returning to his face, “Do you…maybe want to head back?”

Something flickered across his face at your question, an expression so fleeting you barely just caught it before you saw him quickly control his reaction. He cleared his throat, picking up his almost empty mug of coffee, his focus on the remaining liquid as he spoke.

“Already wantin’ an end to this date?” he asked.

“I was thinking more like…moving the date back to my place?” you suggested. “Megan isn’t home and well, you wouldn’t have to keep glancing out the window and being on edge.”

“If that’s what ya would like to do,” he said casually, his eyes still almost nervously avoiding yours as he downed the rest of his coffee.

“And is that what you would like to do?” you questioned back.

Michael paused, his gaze very gradually drawing up from his mug to meet yours. That flicker of something was in his eyes again as he stared back at you for a moment. You felt a heat rising up to your cheeks, but not from embarrassment this time. You wanted to see where this was going to go, and you certainly weren’t thinking about stopping things like last time.

“I’d like that, yeah,” he eventually answered.

You tried to fight back the smile on your lips as Michael released your hand finally, grabbing your empty coffee cup along with his and telling you that he’d take care of them. Your eyes lingered on Michael’s back as he stepped away to deposit them on a nearby cart. Rising from your own chair, you slipped your jacket back on and mentally prepared to face the chilly morning air that seemed to be a constant in Dublin.

When Michael had made his way back to you, your heart skipped in your chest at the sight of his offered hand. Eagerly you slipped yours into it, smiling when you saw his own smile light up his entire face. He led the pair of you out of the coffee shop, his head darting around looking out the shop windows as he walked, clearly keeping an eye out for anyone who looked suspicious.

He’d held the door of the shop open for you, only releasing the hold he had on your hand to do so until you were outside on the sidewalk. His hand swiftly grasped back onto yours, entwining his fingers through your own when you both fell in step beside each other. Biting your lip, your gaze dropped down to your feet as you walked, your shoulder brushing alongside his with each step.

For a few minutes the pair of you had walked in comfortable silence, your mind on the things you’d like to do to him back at Megan’s place. Though you found yourself wondering what he was thinking about right now and if it was something along the same lines.

“I hope–hope ya had a good time,” Michael said nervously, finally breaking the silence.

Your hand squeezed his reassuringly as you glanced at him beside you over your shoulder. His head turned, a small smile on his mouth as he took in the look on your face.

“I did,” you assured him. “Wouldn’t be inviting you back with me if I hadn’t.”

“Quite bold of ya, too,” he mused.

A coy smile spread along your lips in response. “And quite bold of you to assume that’s what I meant,” you countered.

Michael’s expression quickly shifted to something sheepish, his mouth opening and closing for a moment. He looked absolutely adorable as his pace slowed beside you and he grew further flustered.

“Oh, I–I just thought–I mean, you’re right, I shouldn’ have–” he broke off, clearly trying to find the right words.

You laughed, shaking your head and watching his expression slightly relax at the sound. “I did mean that, actually,” you told him. “But you’re cute when you get flustered.”

Michael breathed out a laugh, his head ducking down as his other hand came to rub at the back of his neck. “Don’ think anyone’s called me cute before,” he muttered.

“Well I just did. And I think you are,” you pointed out, eyes still lingering on his handsome face. “Among other things,” you added, the words spilling out of you before you could stop them.

Michael looked up at you from underneath his lashes; there was something undeniably hungry in his eyes as he held you in his stare. That desire you’d been feeling all morning was only steadily growing within you as you saw his eyes scanning your face in the silence that followed, searching for something that you sincerely hoped he found there. But something caught his eye just past your shoulder, his focus shifting as his lips thinned. His expression quickly became serious and your eyes narrowed curiously back at him.

Michael straightened beside you, his posture going rigid as his head spun forward. His hand tightened around yours as he quickened his pace. You were forced to increase your stride to keep up as he pulled you along beside him.

“What–”

“Can’ tell if we’re bein’ followed,” he responded in a hushed tone. “Just keep your head down, pet. Act normal. Don' want somethin' happenin' to ya."

Your heart sped up in your chest for a different reason now, adrenaline flooding you at his words. Someone was following you? Someone looking for that bounty on Michael’s head he’d told you about this morning? The familiar cold prickle of fear rose the hairs along the back of your neck, your jaw tensing as you grit your teeth together.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted someone on the other side of the street. There was a black hood pulled up over their head, making it impossible to make out their face. Their hands were stuffed in the pockets of their sweatshirt, but with them so far across the street, you couldn’t tell if there was a gun in one of their pockets or not. It looked as if they had turned their head towards the pair of you across the street before focusing back on the sidewalk before them.

Were they following Michael then? Here to shoot him and claim the bounty Eamon had put out?

Michael abruptly tugged you sideways, startling you as he pulled you down a small side street. You willingly followed after him, still practically being dragged behind him until he suddenly stopped and turned, grabbing both of your shoulders in his hands. He pushed your back up into the brick wall of the nearby building without warning, a surprised gasp falling out of you at the impact. Michael's arms were soon caging you in between them, the front of him coming to press against the front of you. His face was just inches from yours now, panic and fear written plainly in his eyes as yours met his.

"Just stay right there, pet. I got ya," he murmured, his left hand moving from off the wall to gently cradle the back of your head, easing it down to rest against his chest. "'M so sorry. Didn' think anyone was followin' us when we left."

You didn't respond, too busy trying to control your own increasing panic. Your hands fisted the material of his sweater as your heart thundered loudly in your own ears. Eyes snapping shut, you tried to focus on the smokey cinnamon scent of him, letting it fill your nose as you buried it further into his chest. Michael pressed himself more firmly to the front of you when you'd exhaled an audible, shuddering breath.

"'S'alrigh', I got ya," he whispered, his cheek resting along the top of your head, his other hand still firmly cradling the back of your head to him. "Won' let anythin' happen to ya."

Seconds later you felt Michael tense against you, his entire body going rigid as he covered you with himself. Your fingers curled tighter around his sweater, the solid bulletproof vest underneath it reassuring you in this moment that he would be alright–he had to be. You heard his breath catch in his throat with how closely you were burrowed against him as you waited for what felt like the inevitable, tears pricking at your eyes.

But nothing happened.

The moment felt like it dragged on for minutes, time slowing down, but no gunshot ever rang out. Very slowly Michael raised his head from the top of yours, but he didn't release his hold on you so you remained latched to the front of him. Whoever had been across the street must’ve passed by already now, but Michael was clearly trying to wait them out to make sure they really weren’t about to double back and shoot him. It was a few minutes before he finally broke the silence, your body feeling like it was stuck in a state of panic while you waited.

"I–I think they're gone," Michael whispered. "Musta been nothin' after all."

His hand on the back of your head gently smoothed down your hair a few times, the comforting feel of it drawing a shudder out of you. Gradually you pulled away from his chest, finally releasing the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Michael was looking down at you, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Ya alrigh’, Grace?” he asked softly.

Nodding, your hands continued to keep a firm hold to his sweater underneath his open jacket. Michael’s hand on the back of your head slid forward, gently cupping your cheek and tilting your face up towards his. That sorrowful, regretful look was back in his eyes again as they held yours. Your heart continued to beat wildly in your chest from a mixture of the residual fear and adrenaline, along with the admiration at how easily Michael chose to shield you with himself in the heat of the moment.

“‘M so sorry, Grace,” he repeated. “Fuck, I shouldn’ have taken ya out this mornin’. I didn’ think it’d be a worry today because–”

You lunged forward, closing the brief space between the pair of you and cutting him off when you pressed your mouth to his. Hands releasing the death grip you’d had on his sweater, they came up to grab either side of his face, holding him firmly to you. It took Michael a second to recover from the shock of your action before he was kissing you back, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip. You gasped into his mouth when he pushed you back into the brick wall, his tongue slipping inside when you did.

You moaned next–a loud, throaty sound that only spurred him on. Michael’s tongue was feverishly lapping at yours, the feeling leaving you breathless as your hands made their way back into his hair, gripping the dark strands firmly in your fists. You didn’t know if it was due to the fear of being shot, the flirty, lustful thoughts you’d been having for the duration of the date, or a combination of the two, but you found yourself needing him.

Without thinking, completely forgetting that you were still in public, your hips pressed forward into Michael. His tongue slid back out of your mouth, his teeth biting down on your lip and tugging in response. He rumbled out a noise from deep within his chest as he nipped at your lip. You whined at the sound, pulling at his hair and trying to urge him to continue. Releasing your lip from between his teeth, Michael shook his head briefly. The pair of you stood there on the side street, clinging to each other and breathing heavily.

“Not here,” Michael panted out.

Eyelids falling shut, your head rolled back against the brick building behind you. He was right, now wasn’t the time. Reluctantly you released the grip you had on his hair, your hands instead coming to land against Michael’s chest. You took a moment, trying to catch your breath and calm your body down–from the kiss and the panic–as you felt both of his hands coming to rest along your hips. You could hear the way he was breathing heavily before you, just as out of breath as you were.

After a minute you finally opened your eyes, focusing back on him in front of you. Michael’s shoulders were heaving a little less visibly now, one corner of his mouth curling upwards at you. Licking your lips, you tried hard to push those thoughts aside for the duration of the walk back to your place with him.

“Why don’t we just–just continue this when we get back?” you suggested.

“Probably a better idea,” he agreed.

Michael extended his hand towards you and you easily slipped your hand back into his. The pair of you made your way down the side street and towards the sidewalk, but Michael had come to a stop just before it, making you wait behind him while he surveyed the area. When he seemed satisfied you were safe, he gave your hand a little tug and the two of you continued on your walk.

The entire walk back felt like it had taken forever with every flirtatious look the pair of you kept sending each other. You’d both tried to make conversation, but it seemed only one thing was on either of your minds, making it difficult to keep a topic going for long. By the time you’d reached your street, Michael had already convinced you to come back to his place instead because it was always empty, unlike your place where Megan could theoretically show up unexpectedly.

That was how the pair of you found yourselves once again wrapped around each other. Michael had been reaching for his house key in his pocket to unlock his front door. Unable to wait, you’d grabbed onto the edge of his jacket and pulled him towards you. He didn’t hesitate to respond to you this time, his mouth diving straight down towards yours.

He was kissing you feverishly again, clearly still as worked up from earlier as you were. His hands flew back to your hips, gripping them tight as he walked you the handful of steps backwards until you’d hit the stone fence behind you. Your own hands slid up his chest, wishing you could rip the vest off of him now that you were back because you wanted to feel him beneath your hands instead.

His mouth soon broke from yours, his lips making their way down to your jaw. His beard lightly tickled against your skin as he trailed a few open mouthed kisses along the length of it, a moan vibrating in your throat. The moment he sucked a patch of your skin into his mouth, your eyes rolled back and your head landed against the brick wall behind you. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers digging into the thick material of his jacket as you sighed out a noise of pleasure. His mouth felt so goddamn good.

As he continued to focus on your neck, one of his hands slid down from your hip, making its way around to palm your ass over your jeans. His large hand squeezed and the sound that it drew from your throat would’ve been mortifying if it hadn’t caused him to suck another patch of skin along your neck into his mouth.

“ Fuck, Michael,” you breathed out.

You could feel the wet heat building between your thighs when he drew back from your neck, his plush lips damp with his saliva. His face was slightly flushed, that hungry look in his eyes again. God, you needed him badly.

Throwing all thought out, you pulled him towards you with the arms you had wrapped around his neck. Your lips crashed onto his, kissing him with every bit of that urgent hunger you felt burning inside of you. The pair of you were panting for air against each others' mouths, the kiss a mix of teeth and tongue as you gave yourself over to your desire. When you’d sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, your tongue dancing along the length of it, Michael had let out a groan that had your cunt clenching around nothing.

Releasing his lip from your mouth, your heated gaze locked onto Michael’s. The pair of you were still wrapped around each other, lips swollen from all of the kissing. Michael’s hand was still slowly kneading at your ass over your jeans as your lips parted, the words ‘I want you’ about to fall from them, but then an irritated voice rang out from just behind Michael and the pair of you froze.

“Ya got to be kiddin’ me, Michael!”

He immediately broke away from you, taking a few steps back as your hands inevitably fell to your sides with him now out of reach. Breath still coming in shallow pants, you felt a sharp pang hit you in the chest at how quickly he’d broken apart from you at the appearance of Amanda.

“I've been callin' ya all mornin', Michael," she continued bitterly. "I came over here to talk to ya ‘bout somethin’ important and I find ya over here pawin' at her? Ya shouldn' even be draggin’ an outsider into our shite with everythin' goin' on!” Amanda snapped.

"Amanda," Michael began, his tone placating.

“What if somethin' had happened and I couldn' get ahold o' ya, huh?" she barreled on. "Somethin' like what happened to Jaime? Because ya were too busy lookin’ for a quick fuck with the neighbor?”

Michael ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he eyed her. “Now’s not really the time for this, Amanda,” Michael shot back.

For some reason the fact that he hadn’t immediately clarified that you weren’t just a quick fuck had your chest tightening uncomfortably. Surely you meant more to him than that, even if you two didn’t know each other quite that well yet, right? It had seemed like you’d had a good date, and Birdy had said he seemed interested in you. Yet still, it hurt all the more that he’d not corrected her because you knew that Amanda had certainly meant something to him in the past, considering he’d had an affair with her despite her being married to his brother.

Did she still mean something to him?

“It’s important, Michael,” Amanda said, her eyes taking a moment to rake you over with a look of disdain. “Certainly more important than whatever is goin' on here.”

“Can’t it wait?” he pressed.

Amanda’s eyes narrowed back at Michael. “ No, Michael, it can’t. Your family needs ya. More than your neighbor needs ya for a fuck,” she growled, gesturing a hand at you. “ She’s not important. Family is.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief at her words and the blatant disrespect in them. Gaze flying towards Michael, you expected him to say something–anything at all–but all he did was sigh, his shoulders sagging as he did. Slowly his head turned over his shoulder back towards you, a sad, apologetic look in his eyes.

“Grace,” he began, “I’m gonna have to deal with this right now.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock. Was he serious? He was going to let her talk about you like that and then just ask you to leave? As if that’s all you really were was a quick fuck at what was now becoming an inconvenient time?

Eyes hardening back at him, you felt anger and jealousy beginning to burn inside of you. How had you misread this situation so badly? You thought there was more going on between the pair of you, but apparently that was one-sided. Of course he’d just want a fuck fresh out of prison, and you were easy pussy next door, weren’t you? Seemingly desperate yourself.

Michael’s brows drew together at the change in your expression, confusion slowly drawing across his face as he turned towards you more fully. His mouth opened as if he was going to say more, but you cut him off.

“Don’t worry about it, Michael,” you retorted coldly, beginning to make your way past him.

“Grace–”

“And don’t call me, either,” you added.

“Grace,” he tried again.

You saw Michael reach out to grab your arm as you passed by, but you pulled it out of his reach. At the end of the driveway, you saw a faint smirk spread on Amanda’s lips as she watched the scene unfolding before her, crossing her arms over her chest as you neared. When you walked past her, it took every bit of your strength to resist smacking that pleased look right from her face.

You rounded the stone fence and made your way back to Megan’s house, ignoring the sound of Michael’s voice behind you. He only stopped calling your name when you heard Amanda tell him to–as if she apparently still had some pull over him.

Drawing the house key out of your coat pocket, you bit the tip of your tongue as you unlocked the front door. You didn’t want either of them to hear you crying; you were waiting to do that after you’d locked the door behind you and buried yourself in your sister’s couch cushions where no one could witness the tears.

Because of course he must still want her, even after eight years in prison. What an idiot you were to think you were more than easy sex to him. You were just a distraction from her.

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x f!reader #michael kinsella #kin amc #kin fanficiton

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