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rynbutt · 8 days

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safe. | spencer reid.

You were pregnant but JJ had just left the team and they needed you. You hadn't told anyone; you hadn't even told Spencer.

my masterlist!

cw: fem!reader, pregnant!reader, guns, violence, mentions of murder, mentions of drugs (antidepressants and opioids), mentions of car accident, gunshot wounds, death of pregnant woman, general criminal minds themes.

wc: 6.2k

a/n: bruh this was a looooong one! dw some banging smut coming in the next one with post-prison reid >:3

now playing... Fare Well by Hozier

This was really starting to piss you off.

You fell to your knees as bile pushed up your throat, your skin paling as you vomited for the third time today. You tried to keep something, anything, down but you would just wind up curled in on yourself and sweating in the corner of the bathroom stall. You ate a couple of crackers and sipped on water to keep your empty stomach satiated– But you always ended up right back here on the bathroom floor with your head between your knees trying to will the pain away.

Emily noticed your pale complexion and how exhausted you looked, offering to get you some medicine or ask Hotch about sitting out of the next few cases. You told her you were fine, that it was just stress. That answer seemed to satisfy her enough, though she wasn’t fully convinced. To be fair, your workload had increased tenfold since JJ was forced to accept the job at the Pentagon, and you missed her terribly but you were proud of her. But you really could have used her advice right about now.

Because you swore this baby had it out for you.

You found out you were pregnant just over a week ago and you still hadn’t told Spencer. You were still wrapping your head around the whole thing because initially, you didn’t think you were pregnant, you just thought your body was dealing with the stress and workload in, frankly, a bizarre way. Hotch had wanted you to take over doing JJ’s job as communication liaison, which were rather important shoes to fill. He had total faith in your ability to do JJ’s job as well as do your own as a profiler, but you weren’t so sure anymore.

You would tell Spencer when you were ready and right now was not a good time. Everyone was surviving on four hours of sleep a night, far too many cups of coffee and sheer willpower. The absolute last thing they needed was to lose another team member. So you soldiered on like a champion– a champion who still held her head over the bureau’s less than impressive toilet while she threw her guts up.

“Y/N?” You didn’t even hear the bathroom door open, the ringing rattling around your skull distracting you from your surroundings. Penelope’s heels clicked against the tiles as she cautiously peered around the wall of the last stall where you kneeled on the ground. “Oh my god, sweet thing! What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, Pen,” your voice was hoarse when you finally replied. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and tried to smooth your hair down, attempting to look at least semi-presentable before you left the bathroom to pretend everything was okay.

“No, no, my girl, you are not fine!” Penelope stood in behind you, pulling your hair out of your face as you vomited the last remnant of your soul into the toilet. “You need to talk to Hotch, you’ve got a bug or something, my dear. You shouldn’t even be at work when you’re this sick, let me talk to him for you and you just go home–”

“I’m not sick, Penelope!” You didn’t mean to shout at her, you really didn’t, you just felt awful and felt like a shell of yourself with how poorly you’d been sleeping and eating paired with all the stress of doing JJ’s job as well as your own. It was just a lot.

Penelope went quiet but stayed close to you, still holding your hair as you sat back on your heels, running your hands down your face. She let out a soft sigh, knowing you didn’t mean to shout at her. Penelope was stressed too– everyone was.

“I’m sorry, Pen,” you mumbled, your throat hurting from all the vomiting and coughing you’d managed to do today– it had to be a record honestly.

Penelope just shook her head at you, reaching her hand out toward you, “you don’t have to apologise, sweet girl, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.” You shook your head, you still felt bad and shouting at sweet Penelope was not the way to deal with all the emotions swirling around in your head.

“It’s not fair,” you replied as she helped you to your feet, gently guiding you over to the basin to help you clean yourself up. “You’re stressed too, I didn’t mean to yell.”

Penelope brushed some of your hair out of your face, her gaze narrowing as she watched you, waiting for you to tell her what was going on. It never came and she knew she would have to push you a little. Penelope thought it was necessary though because seeing you like this was awful and she couldn’t even imagine how Spencer would react if he knew how sick you were.

“What’s going on?” Penelope’s voice was soft; gentle, just trying to get you to talk so she could help. You were stubborn when it came to asking for help and by the time you did, you had hurt yourself more than necessary trying to solve it yourself. Not this time though– Penelope refused.

“I’m okay–” you looked at Penelope and she raised her brows at you, not accepting that answer in the slightest. You sighed, knowing this is a fight you wouldn’t win. “I’m pregnant.”

Penelope’s jaw nearly hit the floor. She knew something was up with you but pregnant? That was not on this year's bingo card. “What?? Y/N that’s–�� she gauged your expression and she really couldn’t tell if you were upset or happy about being pregnant. She cut herself off before she finished her sentence, pulling her lips into a line. “Are we happy about this news or are we…?”

“We’re…” you were happy. Honestly, you were. You and Spencer had talked about having kids one day, ideally after you were married but that didn’t seem to be going to plan. You’d been with Spencer for three years, in the BAU for four, it’s not like your relationship was new or in the honeymoon phase, it just wasn’t the original plan and that scared the hell out of you. But you were happy to be carrying his child– the timing was just piss poor. “We’re happy… just scared.”

“Oh, baby,” Penelope cooed. “Of course you’re scared, it’s a huge adjustment. But I know you and I know Spencer, you guys will nail this parenting business.” Penelope managed to prove time and time again why she was your best friend. You often wondered if she knew you better than you knew yourself, which wouldn’t really surprise you given her job.

“I hope so.” You smiled softly, feeling somewhat human again after splashing water on your face and washing your hands. You knew Spencer would be a good dad, he was so good with kids and he was so gentle and patient with you. He was meant to be a dad. You just weren’t sure if you were meant to be a mother. You wanted to be a family with Spencer, it made you feel warm just thinking about it, but you were a person who worried about almost everything, even the things out of your control. What scared you was how in control you were.

“I’m surprised Spencer hasn’t told everyone, that boy is obsessed with you and you’re making him a dad? God, it must be killing him sitting on this–” Penelope suddenly looked at you wide-eyed, connecting the dots all on her own. You winced as you watched her figure it out, gritting your teeth as she let out a soft gasp. “You haven’t told him?!”

You covered your face with your hands, letting out a muffled squeal of frustration into your palms. You would tell him eventually, just not right now, he was far too busy and was already stressing about his own workload, you couldn’t imagine how much more stressed he would be if he found out you were still in the field while pregnant.

“Pen, please,” you turned to her, “please keep this to yourself. I– We can’t deal with this right now. JJ’s gone and everyone is worked to the bone, I can’t do this to everyone right now, especially Spencer.” Penelope looked at you sympathetically, you knew you were asking a lot of her to keep it to herself, especially when Penelope wasn’t great at keeping secrets.

“Y/N, sweetie, you’re going to have to tell them eventually– You’re an FBI Agent. Being in the field is so dangerous and you don’t just have yourself to think about anymore.” You knew Penelope was right. You carried a gun around for Christ’s sake, you literally hunted down serial killers, active shooters, total psychopaths and everything in between. The field was no place for a pregnant woman.

“I know, I know,” you sighed, resting both of your hands on the basin in front of you.

“...How far along are you?”

“Twelve weeks,” you said softly, resting your hand against your belly. You didn’t have much of a bump yet but you were sure it would sneak up on you before you even realised. Lucky for you, you wore a lot of baggy sweaters around the office so you had some wriggle room when it came to hiding it.

“...My money’s on a girl,” Penelope was trying to make you feel better. She really was helping because the idea of Spencer hosting tea parties, getting covered in kitten stickers and his hair being covered in tiny butterfly clips made your heart swell.

You let out a soft laugh, “I think so too.”

“Alright, my love, I think we should leave this bathroom before they send out a search party,” Penelope laughed, linking her arm with yours to guide you out of the bathroom.

You honestly did feel better after talking to Penelope and throwing the rest of your guts up. She made sure to remind you about ten times to call her if you needed anything, you promised you would because it did make you feel better knowing that someone knew about your pregnancy and you didn’t have to bear the weight of the news alone.

You sat down at your desk with a sigh, sipping on your water bottle to soothe your raw throat. You popped a piece of gum in your mouth, willing the taste of bile away. You let out a huff of air as you stared down at all the paperwork you had to do. Doing JJ’s job proved to be intense, especially when you were doing your own work on top of her’s. You picked up your pen when you felt Spencer press a kiss to the crown of your head as he placed a mug of hot coffee on your desk in front of you.

You smiled, craning your neck to look up at him. Spencer took the opportunity to kiss you softly, one of his hands resting on the side of your desk while the other rested on the back of your chair. You smiled against his lips, “shouldn’t you be working?” You teased.

“Are you trying to get me to go away?” Spencer looked at you curiously. You rolled your eyes playfully because of course you didn’t want him to go away. If anything, you wanted him to pick you up and take you home right this second.

“Yes, Spencer,” you replied sarcastically, “I’m trying to get you to go away.” Spencer wasn’t great with sarcasm but he had come to understand your humour over the years. He just grinned and pressed another kiss to your lips.

“Sarcasm is rooted in truth, angel,” Spencer retorted with a gentle smile.

“I am joking, but we both have a lot of work to do, Spence. I don’t know how I’m going to manage doing JJ’s job as well as my own,” you sighed, leaning back in your chair.

“There’s a reason Hotch wanted you to do it. I don’t think he could have picked anyone more capable,” Spencer replied. Maybe it was the hormones and the fact you were carrying a baby, but the comment made you want to cry. Spencer frowned as he watched your face fall, “what’s wrong, angel?”

“No, nothing,” You replied, sniffling quietly. You gave him a genuine smile, “I’m fine, Spence. I promise–”

“New case just came in,” Morgan called to the two of you, gesturing toward the meeting room at the back of the office with a manila folder in his hand.

You looked at Morgan with a confused expression because now it was your job to decide what cases the team took after JJ’s departure. Morgan told you the case went straight to Hotch this time; an old friend had called in a favour.

Spencer pulled a chair out for you, taking the seat right beside you in the meeting room. You opened the case file the moment Penelope dropped it in front of you.

“The victims are 20-year-old Evan Miller and 21-year-old Daniel Clark, both engineering students at Caltech. They were shot three days apart outside their family homes in the local area of Pasadena, California.” You followed along with Penelope as she gave a run down of the victims and the circumstances of their deaths.

The killings were straightforward, the UnSub didn’t try to dispose of the bodies and the men were simply shot in the head execution style. It didn’t seem like the doings of a serial killer who would usually seek some kind of sexual release from torturing and killing their victims. If anything, it seemed like revenge killings.

“They were just shot?” Emily questioned, eyebrows furrowed as she stared at the crime scene photos.

“Once in the head,” Hotch replied, “there were no witnesses around which suggests the UnSub knew the routine of the victims and the neighbourhood.”

“Could be a stalker?” Penelope suggested.

“Stalker victims are usually the object of a stalker’s affection, they rarely act in violence let alone such a blunt killing,” You replied, confused by the nature of such a straightforward murder.

Spencer flicked through the victim’s files, “the single shot to the head suggests the UnSub just wanted them dead. No physical evidence of sexual release or torture… This could be some kind of revenge killing.”

“Did these victims know each other?” You asked.

“According to their parents, they came from the same friend group,” Penelope replied.

“Wheels up in thirty. Garcia, you're coming with us. Get your go bag,” Hotch said, quickly standing up from his chair. Penelope made a small noise of surprise before quickly ushering out of the meeting room. Hotch didn’t usually have Penelope come along but given you were short a very valuable member of your team, Penelope had started coming along more often. Not that you would ever complain having Penelope around.

You pinned up the last of the crime scene photos on the board, standing back with your hands on your hips. Spencer was writing on the whiteboard next to you, jotting down all the things you knew about the victims and possible motives of the UnSub. Hotch and Morgan were engaging in formalities with the local detectives on the case while Penelope got herself settled in the makeshift office they had set up for the team.

“The parents of the victims are here,” Emily poked her head into the office. “Y/N, Hotch wants you to talk to Ben and Sarah Miller, I’ve got the Clarks.”

“Alright, I got it,” you replied, letting out a dejected sigh.

“You okay?” Spencer gently tucked some of your hair behind your ear, turning his full attention to you. You let out another sigh, nodding your head tiredly. “You can do this,” he said quietly, his eyes shifting between yours.

“Yeah, I know,” you smiled softly. Spencer planted a soft kiss on your cheek before leaving the office, leaving Spencer and Penelope alone.

“...I think she needs a break,” Penelope said after a beat.

Spencer looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, “what makes you say that?”

Penelope tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, “she’s doing JJ’s job and her own. I mean, I think she’s the right girl for the job but… you know what she’s like.”

Spencer sighed, he knew exactly what you were like. You always held yourself and your work to such a high standard and you often overworked yourself to make everyone happy. “Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to her when we get back to the hotel.”

“I think that’s a great idea, lover boy,” Penelope grinned.

You opened the office door, files in hand. Mr and Mrs Miller immediately stood up as you entered and you gave them a sympathetic smile. Mrs Miller had clearly been crying, still clutching a tissue in her hand while her husband paced around the office.

“Please, have a seat, Mr Miller,” you said gently.

“I’ll stand,” he replied firmly. You decided not to argue and sat down on the chair opposite the couch where Mrs Miller sat.

“Mrs Miller, I’m Agent L/N, I’m with the Behavioural Analysis Unit in the FBI–”

“FBI?” She questioned. “Was Evan in trouble?”

“We suspect he and his friend Daniel were killed by the same person,” you explained. Mrs Miller let out a soft gasp, her hand coming to rest over her mouth.

“Is it alright if I ask you a few questions about Evan?” You asked. Sarah didn’t say anything but she nodded her head, fresh tears forming in her eyes. “Daniel and Evan knew each other, right?”

“They went to high school together,” Sarah replied, her voice shaking. “They were so excited when they both got into Caltech,” she smiled sadly, fresh tears streaming down her face.

“Do you have any idea who killed our son?” Ben asked, his voice sounding angry.

“That’s what we’re here for,” you said, “we’re here to find who killed your son and why–”

“‘Why”?” Ben repeated, “he was just a kid.”

You sighed softly, “I understand that, sir. We’re just trying to figure out a possible connection.”

“Evan and Daniel were good kids. They would never hurt a fly,” Sarah frowned, sniffling softly as she began crying again.

“Did Daniel and Evan hang around the same social groups?” You asked, turning your attention to Mr Miller, who was still pacing around the office with his arms crossed. “Maybe in some kind of extracurricular activities?”

“They were both on the college basketball team,” Ben said after a beat. “Why? You think this asshole is going to kill more of these kids?”

“I am just trying to get an idea of the social groups Evan and Daniel were a part of,” you didn’t want to get into the gory details of why you were asking such questions and decided they were both far too emotional for you to keep asking them questions; you would let Hotch handle it. “I need to speak with my team but I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” You rested a hand on Mrs Miller’s shoulder and you couldn’t shake how much you missed JJ doing this part.

You let out a sigh as you left the office, rubbing the tension in the back of your neck. You slowly walked over to Hotch, “Evan was on the Caltech Basketball team, he and Daniel went to high school together and Evan’s parents were adamant he was a good kid. I think he was a good kid, just got involved with the wrong people.”

Hotch let out a breath, “I want you and Prentiss to go to the school, talk to the faculty, basketball team coach, anything you can get.”

You nodded, gesturing to Emily on the other side of the bullpen. She firmly nodded at you and the two of you left for the school.

The team worked the case for two days before another body showed up. Everyone was starting early and finishing late to find the person who was doing this and you worked closely with the detectives and other officers on the case. Hotch gave the profile as soon as the team was certain but given the demographic of the suburban areas he was targeting these boys, it was rather unremarkable. The third body belonged to 21-year-old Oliver Marsh, another Caltech student studying Physics. He was shot once in the head while walking his dog no further than a block from his house.

You stood in the middle of Oliver’s bedroom staring at the posters and certificates that littered his walls. Spencer rifled through papers on his desk, mostly finding papers related to physics journals and essays for school. Emily and David were downstairs talking to the parents while Hotch and Morgan went to see the crime scene.

You walked over to his bedside table pulling it open. There were a lot of birthday cards and a game boy but what caught your attention was the little clear yellow bottles with white caps. You lifted the first bottle out, reading the label–

“Oliver was taking Oxycodone,” you said softly, catching Spencer’s attention. “...And Escitalopram,” you spun on your heel, showing Spencer the two bottles. Spencer took the bottles from your hands, eyebrows furrowed as he carefully read the labels. “Chronic pain?” you suggested.

“Could be,” Spencer replied. “He could have been taking non-steroidal anti-inflammatories too, they’re typically over the counter.”

You rifled through the drawer again, pulling out a blue box, “Yeah, he was taking Ibuprofen too.”

“We should talk to the parents,” Spencer said. You nodded and the two of you ushered down the stairs to where his parents sat in the living room with David and Emily. “Was Oliver suffering from chronic pain?” Spencer quickly questioned before he even fully made it into the living room.

Oliver’s mother held a tissue to her nose, glancing at Emily with a confused expression. You put your hand on Spencer’s bicep, “Has Oliver injured himself recently? Maybe a fall or injury while playing sports?”

Oliver’s father shook his head, “No, not recently. He’s been on those antidepressants for a few years and takes the codeine when he has– had flare-ups.”

“Flare-ups?” David asked pointedly.

“He was in a car accident four years ago,” Mrs Marsh said, “He was in the passenger seat and was in a coma for two weeks… he hadn’t really been the same after that, got really sad and antisocial… he was in a lot of pain too.”

“He had to stop playing Football and running track, his body just couldn’t keep up,” Mr Marsh added, his eyes glazing over. “He lost a lot of friends, I don’t think I ever saw him hang out with anyone, Physics became everything to him.”

“Do you have evidence of his medical records anywhere?” Spencer asked. “Just so I can look them over.”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Mrs Marsh stood up, Spencer following her to their home office on the other side of the house.

You sat down across from Mr Marsh, “The accident he was in,” you started, “what happened?”

He looked at you with a pain in his eyes, “He was in the car with some of his friends and they were driving home from a party and it was late. I think they were all…” he hesitated for a moment, “they were all drunk.”

“Who was in the car?” Emily asked, not liking where this was going.

“...Evan Miller and Daniel Clark,” his father began to cry, holding his hand over his mouth. You felt your eyes widen, this was a revenge killing.

“Who was driving, Mr Marsh?” David asked quickly.

“Um, god–” He sniffled softly, “Peter… Peter something, he was older than them, I really don’t remember.”

“Thank you, Mr Marsh,” You stood up, quickly moving to the front door to call Penelope. You pulled out your phone, dialling her number. She picked up after the first ring.

“How may I be of service, oh queen of my country?” she sang, her fingers typing furiously against her keyboard.

“I need you to look into an accident for me, four years ago,” you said with your hand on your hip. “Oliver Marsh, Daniel Clark and Evan Miller were all in the accident too. See if you can find newspaper articles, news segments, anything– I think we know who the last target is.”

“Right, give me a moment,” Penelope replied. You heard her typing before she stopped, “Oh no…” she mumbled softly.

“What’s wrong, Pen?” You furrowed your brows.

“Peter Harvey,” Penelope sighed, “he’s the last boy… He was driving with three other high school boys; Oliver, Daniel and Evan when they struck an oncoming car and killed a pregnant woman on impact; her husband walked away without a scratch.”

“Shit.” You cursed, “What’s his name?”

“Jonathan Hughes, his wife was Katherine… she was 8 months pregnant, Y/N.” Penelope sounded so pained and you knew she was thinking of you and the small baby you were carrying. “Y/N…”

“I know, Pen… After this case wraps up… I’ll tell everyone,” you replied with a gentle sigh.

“And you’ll take time off?” Penelope sounded like she was lecturing you.

You smiled to yourself, “Yeah, Penelope. I’ll take some time off.”

“Okay… I’ll send Hotch and Morgan Jonathan’s last known address, I’m sending you Peter Harvey’s address–”

Your phone beeped as Penelope sent the address through. “Where would I be without you, Pen?”

“Nowhere good, my love,” you could hear the smile in her voice. You quickly hung up before walking back into the Marsh’s house.

Emily and David turned to look at you, “We’ve got him.”

“Alright, you guys go, I’ll grab Reid and we’ll be right behind you,” David waved you off and Emily quickly ushered the two of you to the car.

Emily was speeding toward the address Penelope had given you while you called Hotch and Morgan, filling them in on all the information Penelope had given you. They agreed to go to Jonathan’s address to hopefully intersect him before he left for Peter Harvey. You were always nervous when it came to these parts of the case because you couldn’t control the outcome no matter how hard you tried. A grieving man was going around killing these young men and while it was awful what he was doing; you could sympathise with him and the pain he was feeling over losing his wife and unborn child.

You instinctively rested a hand over your belly, your thumb stroking the small curve. You couldn’t even imagine how much pain Spencer would be in if he lost you, let alone your child too. You would tell him and you would ask Hotch about taking some time off later in your pregnancy and sitting out of cases like this.

“Shit he’s already here,” Emily cursed when she noticed Jonathan’s SUV parked a couple of blocks from Peter’s address. “Call Hotch.”

You dialled Hotch’s number and he picked up almost instantly, “What is it, L/N?”

“He’s already here, his SUV is parked a couple blocks down from Peter’s address. He’s already out looking for him,” You quickly said.

“We’re on our way, units are already on route,” he hung up after that.

Emily pulled the car up on the gutter, the car skidding to a stop. You immediately pushed the door open, holding your gun by your thigh as you ran across the lawn to Peter Harvey’s house. You knocked on the door and a woman answered after a beat.

“Mrs Harvey?” You asked, panting softly.

“Yes?”

“Is your son Peter here?”

“No, he went to the store down the street an hour ago, he should be back soon… What is this about?” She asked, her hand gripping the door in concern.

“We believe someone dangerous may be looking for your son,” Emily said. Mrs Harvey rested her hand over her mouth, a soft gasp leaving her lips.

“Mom?” You spun around and Peter stood with a plastic bag of groceries in his hand in the middle of the lawn.

It all happened almost in slow motion. You saw a figure wearing dark clothes stalking across the lawn and without even thinking, you darted toward Peter as the UnSub pulled the gun out of his coat, aiming it straight at Peter’s head. You could hear Emily yelling at Mrs Harvey to go back inside before she pulled out her gun and aimed it at the UnSub; but it was too late.

You shoved Peter to the ground as he fired, feeling the shot burn through your shoulder as both you and Peter fell to the ground. You instinctively pressed a hand to your burning shoulder, warm blood oozing from the wound and through your fingers.

“Jonathan Hughes?” You said, your breathing heavy as you tried to fight through the pain. He held his gun right in front of your face.

“Move,” he grunted, his eyes glassy.

“I know what happened to your wife,” you breathed trying to stall him as more police cars with blaring sirens pulled into the street.

“They killed her,” tears streamed down his face and you honestly felt bad for him.

“It was an accident,” you replied softly.

“They were drunk,” he almost yelled, his hand shaking as his gun was still trained on you.

“I know,” you said, “It was a stupid mistake that haunted them, Jonathan. I know it doesn’t change what happened but these boys–”

“They’re monsters!” he shouted, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

You saw David and Spencer get out of the car. Spencer’s heart was in his throat when he saw you kneeled on the ground, shielding Peter with your body while your hand and shirt were covered in your own blood. He didn’t even pick up his gun as he began stalking toward you.

“Y/N?” His voice was soft when he called you at first, then it turned to outright concern and anger, “Y/N? No, no!”

David grabbed Spencer’s arm, pulling him back as Spencer fought against him, trying to get to you. It was irrational and it was dangerous. David quickly picked up his walkie, “An agent has been shot, we need an ambulance.”

“Who was shot?!” Penelope’s voice rang out in the car as she spoke to Morgan and Hotch.

“I repeat, agent L/N is shot, we need an ambulance,” David spoke before putting his walkie away to hold Spencer back, pulling him to the ground.

“Morgan! Oh my god!” Penelope felt tears form in her eyes.

“It’s okay, babygirl, she’s going to be alright,” Morgan said, trying to reassure her as Hotch stepped on the accelerator.

“No, Morgan, you don’t understand–”

“We’re going to get an ambulance–”

“She’s pregnant!” Penelope blurted out, not knowing what else to say for them to understand the gravity of why Penelope was so upset and concerned.

Hotch hesitated for a moment, “She’s what?”

Penelope let out a shaky breath, “she’s twelve weeks pregnant, Hotch. She wasn’t going to tell anyone until after the case– and now she’s been shot.” Penelope began to cry, holding her hand over her mouth as tears slipped from her eyes.

Hotch hadn’t sped that fast since he found out Foyet was in his house. He cared about his team a lot and he had a soft spot for you even though he wouldn’t admit it. The tires skidded along the road as Hotch pulled on the handbrake, both him and Morgan training their guns on the UnSub as they approached.

Morgan’s heart hurt at the sight of you, your skin slightly paled as blood bloomed from your shoulder, drenching your arm and your hands. You looked so scared as the UnSub trained his gun on you, unmoving. Emily had her gun aimed at the UnSub, yelling for him to put it down.

“Jonathan Hughes!” Morgan’s voice caught your attention. “Put down the gun!”

“Don’t move!” Jonathan shouted, “I’ll shoot her!”

“No you won’t, man,” Morgan shook his head.

“How do you know that!? She’s in my way!” He shouted back.

“She’s pregnant,” Morgan sighed. Your eyes widened as you looked at Morgan, who looked back at you with a sad expression.

Spencer stopped fighting against David, his breathing evening out as the words fell on his ears. You were pregnant. You were carrying his baby and you got shot and now you had a gun held up in front of your face. Spencer didn’t even realise he was crying, his tears cold against his warm skin. All he could do was watch, there was nothing he could do.

Jonathan glanced at you as you held your hand over your belly. “W-What?”

Morgan reached a hand out as he got closer. “Just like your wife, Jonathan… You wouldn’t kill a pregnant woman like those boys did.”

Jonathan seemed to dissociate, staring at you with such a hurt expression as Morgan leapt forward, grabbing the gun from Jonathan’s hands and tossing it across the grass. He pushed Jonathan to the ground, pinning his hands behind his back. You let out a breath as you felt yourself grow tired. Emily caught you before you fell the rest of the way to the ground, holding you close to her body as she screamed for a medic.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Emily gently rocked you, “you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, tears running down your cheeks.

Your eyes were heavy as you attempted to pry them open.

You let out a shaky breath as you finally pulled your eyes open, the smell of disinfectant hit you first, followed by the sounds of beeping. You were in the hospital. You glanced down at your arm, an IV stuck in your arm while a pulse oximeter was clipped to your finger. Despite the fact the doctor had prescribed pain medication, you still felt like shit and your shoulder was killing you.

A soft noise caught your attention and you glanced at the chair next to your bed, Spencer sound asleep in a chair with a hospital blanket draped over him. You smiled softly as you saw the flowers, balloons and plushies littered around your room, most likely a courtesy of Penelope.

“She’s awake,” Morgan smiled, standing in the doorway.

You grinned at him, “Hi, Derek.”

Morgan slowly walked over to your bed. “Feeling okay, pretty girl?” Morgan gently grabbed your hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

“I’m okay,” you replied. You almost didn’t want to ask but you knew you had to, “...is the baby okay?”

“Your baby is fine,” Morgan replied with a soft smile. You let out a breath of relief as you placed a hand over your tummy protectively. “...You scared the life out of everyone though.”

“I know,” you sighed.

“Especially your lover boy,” Morgan said, “he hasn’t left your side.”

“Sounds like my Spencer,” you laughed softly.

“Y/N?” Spencer’s voice was laced with sleep as he opened his eyes. He quickly got up, ditching the blanket on the floor to tend to you.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Morgan quickly said before leaving the room.

Spencer’s warm hands cupped your face as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I thought I lost you, Y/N.” He let out a breath, pulling away to stare at your face and stroke your cheeks with his thumbs. You reached a hand up to grip his forearm.

“I’m sorry–”

“You don’t need to–”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Tears formed in your eyes as you stared up at him, searching for any kind of anger or resentment. There wasn’t any, he could never be mad at you.

“I wouldn’t have let you come on the case,” he replied after a beat. “I wouldn’t have let you leave the house.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you… I knew you would be protective– more protective,” you corrected with a soft smile.

“I’m aware,” Spencer pulled his lips into a tight smile. “You know the odds of… complications are higher in the first trimester, angel. You should have told me,” he frowned.

“I know, Spence,” you sighed. “I just wanted to make sure I was in the clear before I told you… I understand being shot isn’t necessarily helping with that but–”

“I understand,” he replied. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You stared at him for a moment, “are you happy?”

“Happy?”

“That I’m pregnant? I know we’re not married and our jobs are crazy but–”

Spencer cut you off by pressing a kiss to your lips, he pulled away slightly, “I’ve never been more happy,” he whispered.

You beamed with happiness, a bright smile tugging on your lips. Spencer hesitantly pressed a hand to your belly, his thumb stroking your tiny bump.

“Penelope thinks it’s a girl,” you muttered.

“...What do you think?” He asked curiously.

“I think she might be right,” you giggled softly.

“You know you can’t actually tell yet,” Spencer said and you rolled your eyes playfully.

“You asked what I thought!” you retorted.

He laughed softly, “Yes, you’re right, you’re right.”

“Mmm, did that taste like poison to admit?”

“Are gunshot victims supposed to be this mouthy?”

a/n: phew! i hope you guys liked it <3 i know i disappeared for a hot minute but here she is!!!

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bluejutdae · 12 days

Text

“Oh, let there be hotel complaints” | Chan x you

warnings: nsfw, D/s dynamics, face and pussy slapping, overstimulation, mention of safewords, Daddy kink.

This is just Chan brain rot and my mind gently suggested me the image of first time inexperienced Dom Chan who wants to try some BDSM but he’s too scared to hurt you so he decides he’a going to try on himself all that he’s gonna do to you…

Title from Dinner & Diatribes by Hozier

Chan has had plenty of vanilla sex, but then you introduced him to BDSM, and especially the concepts of Doms and Subs, and something switched in him. He started reading online forums and blogs. And when the topic arose again, he clearly told you he’s interested, but he won’t do it yet. Because the thing is: despite how hard even just reading stuff about it makes him, he has no experience, and he won’t risk hurting you.

So, he does what any good Dom should do in his eyes, he tries things on himself.

One day you turn home to find his face red and a bit swollen, but when you ask about it, he just distracts you with filthy kisses. What you don’t know is that he slapped and slapped and slapped himself until he deemed he had found the right strength to use.

Another day he disappears for the whole afternoon and, when you see him in the living room, he looks flushed and a little exhausted, but giddy. Just like Changbin when he maxes out at the gym and he’s incredibly tired but proud of himself. What you don’t know is that he spent the afternoon edging himself with a vibrator on his shaft and his tip and, after hours of denying himself, he came and proceeded to overstimulate himself, because it’s only logical to pair up the two experiences, right?

What you noticed though, is that there’s a change in him. He’s more assertive with you on some days, makes sure you eat and doesn’t let you go to sleep if you haven’t removed your makeup. Pushes you to sleep more when he knows you have had a bad day at work, and every time you comply and thank him for taking care of you, he kisses a little filthier, holds you a little firmer.

It’s months later when he asks if you can try something kinkier. You’re excited and happy and you start to mentally prepare yourself to be a good teacher without forgetting this is about pleasure. But then Chan shows you exactly how deep the still water runs deep.

“You’re gonna sit there” he says and he’s so commanding yet sexy you melt instantly. “And we’re gonna have a quick talk. Nothing too extreme is going to happen today, but I need to establish some rules”. You nod in response, and he looks at you with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “You’re gonna use your pretty words, baby girl.” That’s it. Not a suggestion, not an option, a rule. Fuck, you knew he would be good at this.

“I understand.”

He’s quick with the rules: you must verbally answer, you’re gonna use the traffic light system for now, you must use the safe word if you need to, and the moment you think something’s wrong he’s gonna stop. You also must ask for what you want, not just take it.

Not too long later you’re on the bed, shirt previously discarded and clad only in your panties. And Chan is completely dressed, hovering over you. He’s been kissing you deeply and touching you just enough to make you want so much more. You’re embarrassingly wet and you’re sure you’ll have to throw away your panties. He’s holding your crossed arms at the wrists and, in doing so, he’s holding you down. You try to buck and raise your ass to relieve some of the dull aching you’re feeling in your core. “C’mon Channie, touch me.”

“But I am touching you…” he replies with a smirk on his lips. His free hand caresses your face, and he tests the gives of your lower lip with his thumb. When you suck on it, though, he takes it away and shakes his head. “What did I say?” You are lost, what happened? Did he say something?

“You’re just a cockhungry whore, uh? You can’t even wait for me to give you something, you’re so greedy you just want to take and take.”

Oh.

The realization in your face makes Chan smile. “There it is… tell me what you did wrong, and I might consider going easy on you.”

“I didn’t ask to suck your thumb-” he knows there’s something you want to add, he knows about your Daddy kink. And it turns him so fucking on, but he’s not gonna press about it. He considers your words and considers just letting it slide, but there’s flames licking at his insides.

“Too bad you didn’t ask, uh?”

Sudden, sharp pain irradiates on your left cheek and it’s less the pain and more the surprise that makes you gasp and, less than a second later, moan. Chan wants to apologize, years of conditioning making him feel guilty and mean and abusive, but he can’t deny what he feels.

He grabs your face, fingers splayed where he slapped mere seconds ago, wet thumb digging into the opposite cheek and kisses you messy and filthy, sucking your tongue in his mouth. Chan removes the last piece of clothing you have on and sits on his knees, with his thighs slightly spread apart. He holds your legs open with firm hands, one on your calf and the other clamped around your knee. He’s just… staring at your pussy. You try to squirm away and close your legs, but his eyes are suddenly on you. There’s a warning in his face that accompanies a displeased sound. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry” you blurt out trying to repair something before you do too much damage. You can feel wetness dripping down your folds, and Chan can too. “You’re so wet. Fuck, you love being on display for me…” He has never felt this. There’s a power rush, a shiver starting from his spine and moving towards opposite endings: towards his brain, making him lose words and making him want to act up, want to deliciously destroy you, making a mess of you and then put you back together; and on the other ending, traveling south towards his cock and balls. He’s been ready to cum the moment he sat you down and you agreed to do this.

“Love, are you just going to stare at me?” You ask when you grow too impatient to keep sitting still, a bit embarrassed too by his too focused staring. He shakes his head, and there is a quiet chuckle that can be heard in the room. His lips raise in a slow smirk, like he’s just been made aware of a secret, and you didn’t. And maybe he did.

Chan made plans for tonight. Plural. You told him you like not knowing everything in advance, so he planned different plans based on your responses to his actions. It was harder than organizing recording sessions. But since he saw your reactions earlier, he decides to stick to a precise plan. So, he acts in it.

Quickly and hard he delivers a slap on your inner thigh, the pain is a delicious sensation, hot and cold at the same time. A moment later the skin reddens to show Chan’s handprint and if possible, his cock gets ever harder. It twitches a little from where it’s hidden, head flushed and red, slowly but constantly leaking precum, forming a wet stain on his slacks .

“Fuck Chan!” You cry to his direction, eyes closed shut and brows knit in pleasure. You can feel heat where he hit you, and you want to press your fingers into it, wanting to feel the warmth and the pain and the pleasure. The moment you are ready to ask him for something, he delivers another slap in the same place. This time, though, Chan doesn’t let you breathe it out, doesn’t let you take your time to recover from it, no. He rakes his nails on your hot skin, watches as the skin quickly goes from red to white and to an even redder red where he scratched you. Digs his digits into your skin and revels in your gasps, feeling hot and ready to lose control, if a wind would blow in the room, he would cum in an instant. He’s ready for your next moan, your next gasp, but you’re quiet and your legs are trembling, and he’s scared he’s gone too far. He’s on the verge of apologizing, carrying you to the bathroom for a warm bath and cuddles and more apologies when he realizes he read you wrong. He didn’t give you too much, he gave you exactly what you needed, because -unbelievably so, for him- you’re coming. Clit untouched and your sopping hole twitching and throbbing around nothing, but you’re clearly coming. This is a different one, though. You’ve never been quiet while having an orgasm, but watching you with more attention calms him down, you look fine. He kisses you from your thigh to your cheekbone, stopping to nibble at your nipples, tongue lapping at your skin and sucking quick marks on you. “My pretty slut” a kiss on the nose, “you’re so greedy” a kiss on the right cheek, “your little pussy came untouched” a kiss on the forehead, “now I must give it some attention” a kiss on your chin. “Tell me your color?” He adds, tone sweeter and a hand caressing your face like you’re made of the finest glass.

“Green”. A smile appears on his face and he manhandles you to straddle his slacks covered thigh. Your wetness is seeping through the fabric, you squirm and he can see you’re embarrassed. “I told you I was gonna give it some attention. I want my baby girl to feel good.” He grabs you by your hips and forces you to move and grind your pussy on the fabric of his slacks. One of his hands sneaks into your hair and he pulls, stopping you from hiding into his neck. “No hiding. And stop hiding all your pretty sounds from me.”

The pleasure mixed with the overstimulation are overwhelming, and Chan’s new role is playing a big role in the moment and your arousal. His fingers are probably going to leave bruises in your skin, and you can’t wait to stand in front of a mirror to see them. Chan hands guide you back and forth and soon you’re clenching around nothing, “m’close Channie”, too desperate to control your movements.

“It’s okay, my baby. Just ask for it.” His hard cock is begging to be touched, still in the confines of his underwear and trousers. Yet, he has never been this hard and close to coming untouched. Your moans, the redness on your cheeks, the sweat matting your hair to your forehead and your incessant moans and cries of pleasure are making him lose his mind.

“Please Channie, can I cum?” You pant. “Let me cum, Daddy.” The last word is whispered, muffled into his shoulder but he hears it anyway. And he understands why you like it, the name giving him power, giving him a specific role, giving him the chance to give you exactly what you need.

“Then cum for Daddy.”

He watches you as cum, hands guiding your movements and his muscles flexing to give you as much pleasure as he can. He loves you like this, unabashed and free, vulnerable just for him.

But having you moaning and screaming his name is not enough. He doesn’t stop when you try to take a moment to collect yourself, he fixes his hold on your hips and forces your movements again. Back and forth, back and forth, again and again and it doesn’t matter how loud you whine, it doesn't matter your overstimulation, what matters now is making you cum another time. Anytime he pushes you towards him, he also pushes you down, setting an unforgiving pace that is torture on your sensitive clit. He’s relentless, but after just a few minutes you’re both rewarded with your legs clamping down on his thigh as you cum again. Unbelievably so, watching your second orgasm triggers his own orgasm and he moans your name loudly. He kisses you, messy and hungry, lips demanding and tongue insistent, claiming even your breath.

You’re gripping his shirt so hard, your fingers hurt. He delicately lays you down onto the bed and kisses you softly. As soon as his breathing comes back to normal, his worries come back too.

“Are you okay, baby? Did I hurt you? Was it too much? What do yo-“ you interrupt him with silly, quick kisses, trying to diminish his worries.

“I am more than okay.” A kiss. “I feel perfect.” A kiss. “You were perfect.” A kiss. “You’re always perfect, love.” A kiss. “I love you.” A kiss.

You kiss some more and he insists on showering together so he can take care of you and make sure you drink water and eat some fruit and chocolate. He tells you all about trying on himself what he did to you, and you’ve never loved him more.

#bluejutdae #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #skz #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan smut #chan smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #Thiana writes Chan

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french-goodbye · 8 months

Text

in the low lamplight

summary: your boyfriend is perfect, except for one tiny little detail.

warnings: conversations about sex; dry humping; consensual slapping and chocking; praise kink; fingering; p in v sex. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, 18+.

notes: i'm tired of experienced steve and virgin reader all the time. i want steve and confident slutty reader who's more experienced than him and blows his mind. also a little praise kink bc i feel like my boy would be insanely into that. also my first time writing smut!!! i! am! nervous! title from work song by hozier.

it's not that steve is bad in bed, it's quite the opposite actually. but he's just... extremely vanilla. and you totally get it. most of his sexual experiences were with young suburban girls in the back of his car or in his room when his parents weren't home. he was a couple of girls' first time and knowing steve, he probably put their own comfort above his wants. not probably, definitely.

you just wish he was... kinkier. nothing too intense, just something a little more exciting. and it's not that you don't get to cum, you totally do. he knows exactly how to move inside of you, the spots that make your body burn in need and he gives the best head ever, which is a nice bonus.

but after three months together and having sex everytime you have the opportunity to, because you're still in the honeymoon stage of the relationship, it's getting kinda repetitive. it's always missionary, maybe you on top if you're in a particularly bossy mood. but he nevers puts you on all fours or asks you to sit on his face or even sixty-nine. nothing.

you know steve's attracted to you (he isn't exactly shy to tell you how much) so you know that's not the issue, so you've tried so hard to subtly ask him to be rougher, you've tried placing his hand on your neck and squeezing, you've tried guiding his hands to your ass, but you've had no success so far. every single time he'll respectfully pull his hand away and press them to your shoulder or keep them there but not do anything.

but tonight. tonight is the night, you've decided. his parents are out of town (as usual) and it's just you two in the house, you've made sure he's free the whole day the tomorrow (no driving little shits around or shifts at the video store) so you'll have the whole friday night and the next day to yourselves.

you even splurged a bit and purchased a set of overpriced lingerie, way too expensive for just two little scraps of fabric and shaved, exfoliated and moisturized your entire body the night before. you still haven't approached the subject with him, but you've already planned a careful yet objective way to approach the subject and even practiced what you'd say in the mirror and bought a cosmo magazine. you're not exactly proud of yourself for that last one.

your plan is finally set in motion after you and steve get home from work and throw yourselves on his couch, half watching a movie and eat leftovers from the dinner you cooked the night before. when you're both done, you tell him you need a shower, where you use that lavender soap he likes and spray on the perfume he gave you on your birthday. after you're done, he's waiting in his room for you, halfheartedly flipping through the book you're currently reading.

"you can take your shower now" you tell him distractedly, holding the towel you've wrapped around yourself tightly to your body. he finally looks up and realizes your state of undress, his eyebrows shooting up.

"what are you doing?"

you stop going through your over night bag to throw him a confused look, "what are you talking about?"

"you used that soap i like, and that perfume i gave you that you only use on special occasions..." he stands up from the bed and stalks to you, watching you from narrowed eyes, like he's suspicious you're planning his murder. "what are you planning?"

you fake surprise, your hand coming up to clutch imaginary pearls. "me? why would i scheme something against my dear loving boyfriend?"

he looks at you unimpressed and you stand on your tip toes to rest your hands on his chest, his hands coming to support you on your waist and you whisper next to his ear, "okay, maybe i do have something planned... why don't you go take your shower and find out?"

he glances at you one last time before squeezing your waist and letting you go.

"fine..." he sighs dramatically, "i'll go"

once he's locked the door behind him, you put on your recently purchased underwear and bra on. you throw on one of his old highschool t-shirts since he once mentioned how much he likes seeing you wearing them.

by the time he gets out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam surrounding him, you're sitting on his bed, rubbing lotion on your legs and he's shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants, that hang low on his hips, his hair half dry as he finishes towel drying it.

you tsk and shake your head disheartened. "oh- wow, okay, harrington"

he glances at you once and goes back to drying his hair. "huh?"

"the chest, the scandalous dick print..." you explain and gesticulate towards him. "are you trying to seduce me or something?"

"why are you looking at my dick? you interested?" your stomach burns with insinuation but you ignore him, simply tucking your lotion back into your bag.

"i mean... it's hard not to notice when you're whoring yourself around" you shrug with fake nonchalance.

he scoffs loudly at you, going back into the bathroom quickly to hang both of your towels and getting on your way when you're about to climb on the bed after having dropped your bag in the corner.

"i'm whoring myself?" he looms over you, hand resting on your shoulder to snap the strap of your bra that's peeking from his shirt "you're the one wearing a new bra babe."

you don't answer, simply slapping his hand away and climbing on the bed, intentionally giving him a peek of your ass as you finally sit near the foot of the bed, with your legs crossed.

"why don't you turn off the lights and come take a look?"

he earnestly complies, almost tripping on a sweater he left on the bedroom floor earlier that day as he does what you asked. he lights the lampshade on his bedside table and walk towards you, leaning down to reach you when you stop him.

"no" you say firmly. "go sit on the bed, near the headboard."

he complies, but not without giving you a look. "ooh, bossy"

you turn to watch him and can't help the spark that lights up in your tummy. he looks ridiculous attractive, hair fluffy from not being styled properly, his hairy chest all on display for you and his thick spread legs giving a privileged view of his dick in those sweatpants. it's almost criminal, but you swallow it down and keep going with your plan.

you crawl to him on all fours, purposefully, until you're between his legs.

"i don't know about bossing " you run a long manicured fingernail through his thick chest hair. "but i was thinking about something i'd like to try with you..." you only stop when your fingers are almost at his waistband and you swirl your fingers around his bellybutton. you glance at his face and he almost looks dazed, eyes following your finger avidly.

hook, line and sinker.

your boyfriend was almost too easy sometimes.

"yeah, babe... whatever you want" you hold back your laughter and finally climb on top of his legs, his eyes following the curve of your hips and your bare legs as you straddle him.

"how do you feel about chocking?" you ask, making his gaze shift to your face.

"chocking? are you serious?"

"yeah, i think it'd be really good to have your hands around my neck" his fingers dig tightly on your hips, but you can tell he's still unsure.

"what if i hurt you?"

"if it makes you feel better, we can have a safe word and we can immediately stop if one of us says it. no questions asked"

"what if you can't speak?"

"then i can just tap you three times, like this?" you demonstrate, tapping his shoulder. "is that okay?"

he nods quietly, so you ask: "what if i do it on you first so you know what it feels like?"

"yeah, sure"

you gently put your hands on his throat, not applying pressure yet, just resting there.

"you just have to make sure you squeeze the sides, not on top so you don't stop airflow" you explain, spreading your fingers so they're on each side of his throat and squeezing carefully. steve himself is more surprised than you when his breath stutters and he lets an almost groan out.

"did you like that?"

"fuck yeah, that's super hot" he tells you breathlessly, surprising you with a forceful kiss. he manages to distract you, his tongue slipping into your mouth and brushing against yours as his fingers squeeze your hips and start guiding you to grind on his lap. you let him call the shots for a moment, slowly moving your hips against his now half hard cock and sinking your fingers on his hair to scratch his scalp lovingly.

however, when his hands start to wander underneath your borrowed shirt you bite his lip softly, letting it slot back in place as you pull away.

he's about to complain, big brown eyes staring at you and almost pouting. you press your pointer finger to his lips, silencing him, hips still moving at a torturously slow pace against him.

"there's one more thing, actually" you move your finger away and trace his bottom lip carefully.

"more?" his eyebrows raise in question.

"what about you... i don't know, maybe you can be a rough with me? like slapping me a little bit"

"slapping?! babe, i don't wanna hurt you and i don't-"

"you slap my ass all the time!" you accuse him, reminding him of all the times you'd walk past him or bend down and he had slapped your butt teasingly.

"yeah, jokingly"

"babe, i trust you" you grip his face, forcing him to look at you. "i know you'd never hurt me if i didn't ask you to. i just think it'd be really hot, and who knows... maybe you'll like it too. and if you really don't like it we'll never speak of this again" you shrug, gently pushing his hair from his face.

"you sure?" you nod and press a quick kiss to his lips.

"if you wanna stop just say red, okay? anytime."

"yeah, i like that"

"you'll tell me if you wanna stop, right?" you press another quick kiss to his lips in thanks.

he nods eagerly "you too, okay? just say the word and we'll stop" you nod in agreement. "okay... but now what? do i just... jump right into it?"

"no... what about we start the way we always do before having sex?" you smirk, starting to move your hips in slow circular motions again and his hands slide down your back to slip under your t-shirt again.

he laughs huskily next to ear, making you shiver. "we're really good at that", his lips make contact with the skin of your neck, pressing open mouthed kisses there. you keep moving on top of him, hands sinking into his hair and keeping him there.

"fuck, steve" you whine when he sucks at a sensitive spot on your neck, his hands squeezing your thighs roughly, moulding fat like dough underneath his fingertips.

suddenly you feel a sharp sting on your backside as steve slaps your ass. you whine deep in your throat and your hips stutter in their rhythm against his lap.

"oh, you really like it when i do that"

"god, i do" you breathlessly tell him with a smile, tugging his hair harshly to guide him to your mouth. "you like this too, don't you? just wanna give me what i need, huh baby?"

"i do, i do. just want my girl to feel good" he whines against your mouth, while he spreads your ass and digs his fingers into your skin.

you kiss him some more, until you can feel his now hard cock against you, through the lace fabric of your underwear and his sweatpants. his hand lift up your t-shirt and carefully takes it off of you.

"god, you're gorgeous" you push on his chest gently until his back is against the headboard so you can show him the whole thing, from the intricate lace to the small straps keeping everything together. "you got this for me?" he teases you, his hands playing with your underwear, pulling it and letting it snap against the skin of your hip.

"yeah..." you answer distractedly, his cock rubbing in a very nice spot near your covered clit. his hand moves up to cup your breast, his thumb rubbing your pebbled nipple through your bra. "you like it?"

"fuck yeah, i love it" one of his hand cups your breast, while the other pushes the fabric of your bra down so he can pull and twist your nipple.

you're already a mess on top of him, feeling the wetness on your underwear sticking to your folds, when he lowers his head to suck your nipple into his mouth and his hand plays with your other breast. the nails of your left hand dig half crescent moons on his bare shoulders while the other tug on his hair to keep him there and your head drops back in pleasure.

his hand stops massaging your breasts and you're about to complain when you feel it start to slip down your stomach and hook under your underwear to rub his fingers through your wetness, his knuckles grazing your clit. you hold him tighter, a loud moan leaving your lips when he sinks two fingers inside of you.

"yes, yes, yes, baby" you whine, hiding your face in his hair as he realeases your nipple with a lewd pop.

"you're so fucking wet" he rasps against you and sucks a mark on the swell of your breast, pumping his fingers in and out of you as the palm of his hand rubbing on your clit everytime he moves. "god, you feel so good around my fingers. can't wait to have my dick inside you."

you're lost in the rhythm of it, his palm brushing your clit at every stroke, the feeling of his lips sucking on your chest and his hips bucking underneath yours occasionally. but you finally reach your peak when his free hand slips down your back and slaps your ass again, harder this time, palming it underneath his fingertips.

"that's it... come for me, baby" you pull him to your mouth again as you come down and he guides you through it, still feeling yourself clenching on his fingers as you twitch in his lap.

"god, you're so fucking hot" you whisper against his mouth, still breathless. "you're so good to me, baby. such a good boy"

suddenly, he's holding you tighter and manhandling you, roughly dropping you on your back and looming over you between your knees. before you can react, he's ripping off his sweatpants and throwing it on his bedroom floor.

he stands completely naked in front of you, helping you spread your legs. you eye him lustfully, from his mussed hair to his throbbing cock standing tall, the tip pink and dripping with a little pre cum.

"can i go down on you?" you ask him avidly, starting to lift yourself up but he stops you, holding your wrist above your body.

"nuh-uh, baby. i'm gonna blow my load if you do that" he denies and you giggle, about to complain when he licks the palm of his free hand and strokes himself one, two, three times, shutting you up real quick. he's starting to align himself with your entrance when you stop him.

"wait, wait" he stops immediately.

"what? what's wrong?"

"i want you from behind"

he groans, dropping his head on the curve of your neck and letting go of your wrists. "you really can't say shit like that to me if you want me to last"

you giggle and tap his shoulder sympathetically, "you'll live". you lightly scratch his back, sliding your hands from his shoulder to his lower back and wrap your legs around his hips, feeling the tip of his cock nudging your inner thigh. "now... why don't you put me on my knees, handsome?"

he quickly moves to reposition you, helping you lift yourself up and pushing your spine down gently when you get on your knees. you lower your torso all the way until your chest is pressed against his bedsheets, lifting your ass up.

"fuck, baby. you look so good like this" he says when he slots himself behind you.

"maybe you should listen to me more, harrington" you tease, looking at him from over your shoulder as he kneads your ass.

"maybe i should, pretty girl" he answers distractedly, and you feel his thumb spreading your entrance. "look at this pretty pussy"

you moan and try to wriggle in the hold he has on your hips, "steeeve-"

he laugh mockingly and starts rubbing the head of his cock against your folds. "you this desperate babe?"

before you can answer he starts sinking himself inside, both of you sighing at the feeling. when he's finally inside you can't help the moan that escapes you, his big cock filling you up beautifully and the stretch in this position making you feel so full. however, his strokes are slow and languid and while that's nice, it's not exactly what you need.

"come on, babe" you grumble, trying to rock your hips against his grip. "fuck me like you mean it"

he scoffs and speeds up, his hand wrapping around your hair to press your face against his mattress and to keep you still, changing the angle slightly and pressing right against your spot inside of you.

"is this how you want it?" he huffs, slapping you again.

"oh god, yes. right there!"

he pulls you up until you're both kneeling on the bed, his hips slapping against your ass. his free hand climbs up your chest until it's resting on your neck. "do you want-?"

"yes, i want it. please, please, choke me" you interrupt, begging him to keep going, begging him for more. his fingers carefully start squeezing you throat and you wrap your hand around his to guide him until the pressure is just right.

"squeezing my cock so tight, baby. should've told me you wanted this sooner."

you don't get to answer, his free hand suddenly slipping down to rub circles on your clit and you're gone, your orgasm hitting you like a fright train. he helps you ride it out, until you gently pull his hand away and bend down again, resting your weight on your elbows.

"your turn, baby" you tell him, tilting your head slightly so you can see him.

he starts babbling and pressing you harder against the bed, a clear sign that he's close himself. he bends down, his chest against your back until he can stretch his hand out to hold yours against the mattress and he can babble against your ear about how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how much he loves being inside you.

"that's it, babe. you made me feel so good, it's your turn now" you tell him, still slightly breathless and sensitive around his cock. "please come, need you to come so bad"

"god, i'm gonna cum" and it's all it takes to feel him pull out and finish himself off on your back. you're both still for a second as you catch your breath and he squeezes your hand still intertwined in his gently. when you turn your face to the side to see him, he presses a kiss to your cheek.

he taps your hips gently as he gets up and goes to the bathroom, coming back quickly to wipe you and himself clean with a wet washcloth. when he's done he throws it on top of the rest of his dirty laundry, still thrown on his bedroom floor.

when he finally turns to you, you're finally laying on your back and getting comfortable on his pillow. steve throws himself next to you and his arms immediately wrap around your waist. you hug him back, guiding his head to rest on top of your bare chest, now littered with purpling marks.

"you had fun, pretty girl?"

"you couldn't tell?" you laughter, his head shaking slightly against your chest as you comb his hair away from his face and his breath against your skin.

"god, i'm obsessed with you" he complains, hiding his face on your boob. you laugh, gently coaxing his face away so you can see him.

"that's good," you smooth the messy hairs on his eyebrow. "i'm pretty obsessed with you too"

"we're pretty perfect for each other then"

"you should keep me forever" you tease, tracing his features gently. he presses a kiss to your sternum and gets comfortable against you.

"maybe i will"

it sounds like a pretty good deal.

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington smut #i wrote this instead of working on my thesis 😃#i wasn't sure if i should post this but i got so much love on my last fic it made me braver so 🙃#mine

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last-words-ofashootingstar · 7 months

Text

Cornflower Blue

SPOOKTOBER SPECIAL

❥Yandere Outlaw Song Mingi x fem reader

➯a/n: this is my darkest fic yet imo, be sure to read the contents and take care of yourself! also im super proud of this, it took like three months tbh and i still didn't get to fit in everything i wanted to. enjoy some yandere minki 💙

✃The moonlight seeps in through the sheer curtains and paints your skin in a haze of blue. The bruise on your temple like a water color bloom.

♫ "You love me 'till you wear me out, then you love me more." -Cornflower Blue, Flower Face ♫"Love's never been more than pain, so Baby, show me how bad you hurt." -Dog Days, Ethel Cain ♫"My Babe would never fret about what my hands and my body done- if The Lord don't forgive me, I'd still have my Baby." -Work Song, Hozier ♫"I just wanted to be yours. Can I be yours? Just tell me I'm yours." - Strangers, Ethel Cain ♫

✫彡wordcount: 14k

♡'･ᴗ･'♡(ಡ‸ಡ) (>ᴗ•) genre: plot heavy smut, yandere, angst

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: GOOD LORD WHAT HAVE I DONE ??? wild west au, HEAVY yandere themes, murder, reader near death experience, mingi is CRAZY, bribery, manipulation, threatening, gun violence/shoot-out, injuries, invasion of privacy, 'off-screen' death of main characters, kidnapping, NSFW; multiple sex scenes, masterbation, unprotected(BOO), first time, head(reader receiving), size difference, spit, breeding kink, overstim, biiiiiig dick mingi (i'm a sucker😞), praise, dirty talk, soft sex turned rough, extreme possessiveness

not edited, definitely grammatical errors 🥲

⁂taglist: @stvrfir3 @tunaasan @marievllr-abg @nini4m @senpai-of-doom

MATURE UNDER CUT MDNI

"Ellis~" Your sing song tone echoes out through the alleyway, crates of stored food blocking your view. "Oh, my! Is that a corn snake?" You yelled out dramatically, crouching down behind a crate.

"Where?!" The young boys voice gets closer by the second until he runs up to you and you snatch him up.

"Wraa! I got you!" He laughs loudly, an heart-full sound that rings out in the dead town. Everyone has gone besides very few to a new market up North. "I've caught you, and I'll eat you up!" You pull him up as he yells and laughs and swing him around as you twirl to the main road. "I'll have ye for supper," you laugh with your best witch-like voice.

"No, I'm not tasty!"

"No? Well... I guess I shouldn't do this then!" You playfully nom at his sweatered shoulder, tickling his ribs.

"Auntie, please, I'll do it! I'll sweep!"

You stand up like nothing ever happened and smile, "great, Miss Carmen will be most pleased." You had recruited multiple of the youngsters left behind to help you maintain the vacant homes while the market took place, and some off them were less than happy to have been roped in. "Would you like me to carry you?"

"Ye' , please!" His smile is missing a tooth, and it makes you chuckle.

You place him over your hip and begin the short walk, planning out the rest of the days chores in your head when he screams, "horsie!"

You follow the path his chubby fingers points to, and find a large figure riding in past the town sign on a similarly large white horse. His face is obscured by his large droopy hat, but that isn't what makes you suspicious at first.

The man riding into town has multiple guns on his figure.

You scramble to the side of the dirt path and hold Ellis' head to your shoulder, looking up at the stranger as he slows his horse to come to a stop right infront of you.

"Hello, Si-"

"Auntie, I'm scared." Despite your best efforts, the young boy had caught a glimpse of the towering and dangerous-looking man, shivering in your hold.

You crouch down and set him down carefully, rubbing his back for a moment before you turn him in the direction you want him to go, "run off to the schoolhouse, tell Maria to come and cook up our guest a meal. You can do that, right?"

He rubs his eyes and peeks at the man before looking back to you, nodding eagerly. "Go on and get, then." You pat his shoulder and watch him run before turning to the man.

"Room and board, Sir?" You speak formally to the hidden man.

"Yes." He speaks simply, swinging his leg and jumping down from the horse.

He's no less intimidating now that he's technically level with you. He looms over you like a shadow and places a chill in your bones. "Is this place a ghost town?" He has an accent that you can't place, but you lock onto it anyhow because it's quite clear he isn't from around here. You look away from him, trying to hide your nerves at the fact that he's the first real stranger you've ever met.

"No, Sir. Most are away to sell our spring crops." He hums shortly in response, watching you closely from under the shadow his hat casts over his eyes as you grab his horses reigns. You can feel the way his eyes bore into your every move as you begin waking, "follow me, then."

It's a silent and most awkward walk down the deserted main street, and you can still feel his gaze burning into your back as you lead his horse into the stables.

"So, where are you from, stranger?"

"Away." Your feeble attempt at small talk is shut down by the man immediately as he stands in the large doorway, broad shoulders nearly touching its sides.

"Very well," you step back out of the horse's temporary home, and are put in the shadow his large frame casts. "Uhm, my name is (Y/n)," you extend your hand, trying to remember your manners despite the fear in your gut.

He takes your hand, roughly. You can't tell if he means to- or if he's just that strong. "Mingi."

His hand is cold. It shocks you. You pull away from his grip and push past him, head lowered. You've quickly found that you don't enjoy strangers. "Miss Maria can help you get settled, show you around if you like. Nothin' much to do 'round here besides drink or play ball." You ramble on as you head to the bar, just down the road. You don't have to look behind you to know he's following. You can feel his gaze locked in on your back, that same feeling you get when men at the bar have one too many or that time when a wild boar almost got you.

The bar isn't anything special, though nothing in the town is really. He looks around, silently. A few wooden booths and rickety tables. A pool table. A small island that separates the main floor and the bartenders area. Beyond that, he can see a kitchen. He almost thought his luck had run out when he rode into the seemingly deserted town, and then he saw you twirling the young boy into the main road.

He nods his head, maybe subconsciously, to say he's pleased enough to stay. "Up this way," your voice echoes in the empty space, and you touch his arm ever so lightly to get his attention. The staircase is hidden by the corner, and he has to crouch to ascend them. When he does, he's pleasantly surprised.

The room has a homey, lived in feel to it. Well, most of it. It's a large space, walls decorated with dried flowers and boxed in dead insects, chalk drawings of all kinds of things on the dark oak walls. There's a slanted shelf that's adorned with carved wooden trinkets and toys, most of which have a small layer of dust if he looks hard enough. A large open window is on the back wall, facing the town, and a dresser that fits perfectly under it. The bed on the left side of the dresser is messy, a large fur blanket that's bundled up to expose pristine white sheets.

The part that doesn't look as lived in is on the right side of the dresser. An fresh lantern candle placed neatly on the made bed, dark red sheets and grey comforter.

"I hope you don't mind a roommate... I'm not here for the most part, I won't be in your hair." You're shuffling around quickly, hiding a few things that he didn't get to inspect into the left side of the dresser. "You can," you gulp, clearly uncomfortable with the silent man, "you can put your things away in these drawers if you like."

He stands, like a scarecrow, holding his rucksack tightly. When he moves, you flinch, sliding closer to what he now placed together is your bed. He chooses to ignore that, sitting down on the other bed and feeling the soft fabric. "You own this place?"

You're taken aback by his unprovoked speaking, gathering you thoughts as you sit across from him on your own bed. "Uh, no. A man named Louis owns this and the bar."

"Hm. And you?"

"I work down in the bar, bartending and such. So he lets me stay."

A small smirk plays at his lips, hidden by his hat as he looks around again. You've clearly lived here a long while. There's more to your story than just working downstairs. "Kind of him."

"Very. You may be able to thank him for his hospitality, he gets back in a few days." You pause for a moment before you ask tentatively, "how long will you be staying?"

He stands and turns his back to you as he takes off his hat, beginning to unpack his bag. "Few weeks maybe."

"Ah," you draw quietly, anxiety growing in your gut. The very few visitors you could remember stayed for only days, if that. Even then, they weren't total strangers. They were people that others in town knew from the market or city.

"Hope you don't mind a roommate," he turns back around and tosses a look your way as he starts to fold his clothing into the unoccupied drawers. And if the air wasn't gone from your lungs by now, it is now. This stranger, Mingi, is the most handsome being you've ever laid your eyes upon.

His eyebrows are softly arched, beautifully curved nose and lips. And his eyes- oh, his eyes. You swear you could get lost in them. And it seems you do, staring at the man despite the fact your intuition is telling you to look away. "Handsome, I know."

A heat flushes your face and you force yourself to look away as he smirks your way, "w-well, you know, uh- let me go and fetch Miss Maria, you must be famished!"

With that, you're down the stairs and out the bar. He watches as you speed walk away through the window, blissfully unaware that he's opened up your drawers to have a deeper look into his roommate.

༄

You dodged the handsome stranger until you no longer could, the sun was setting and there were no more excuses to be found to avoid going back home. He wasn't in the room when you returned, but the bathroom door was closed and you could see the flickering of a candle from the cracks.

You lit a few candles on the dresser before the sun fully set, taking some deep breaths as you heard him moving around. You remove your boots, a groan of relief settling behind your lips as you wiggle your toes.

As you're unfolding your night gown, the door to the bathroom creaks open. "Hello, Miss," he greets, much warmer than his earlier aura.

"Mingi," you greet back with a small smile, "have you found your way around well?" You shift your weight uncomfortably as he tilts his head at you, as if he's trying to read you.

"Mhm, this ghost town isn't as bad as I thought," he sits down on his bed, rolling his head with a groan.

"Very good, maybe when the other return you'll find it even better." You can't wait for the day. His presence makes you... uneasy, is the best way to put it. You know he could easily over power you and the others. Elderly, young, and women who don't have a single idea of self defense. Maybe that was stupid on your towns part- but you needed all of the hands on deck to sell the bountiful harvest.

You excuse yourself and lock the bathroom door behind you, double checking before you begin to remove your day clothes. As you change, you start to wonder if maybe Mingi was just uncomfortable around strangers as well. He's seemed to have warmed up quite a bit to you. You'll have to ask Maria in the morning about their encounter.

Perhaps he won't be as bad as you expected- "Oh, dear me!" You stumble as you re-enter the room, covering your eyes with your hands. "Uhm, Mingi?"

"I'm just cleaning my wound," he chuckles, watching you with a glint in his eyes.

You peek through your fingers, keeping your hands to your face to hide.

Indeed, he's shirtless. Your eyes hadn't played a trick on you.

You swallow the gathering wetness in your mouth as you peer at his naked torso. He's slim, toned in all the right places. His arms are something of a dream to you, and you have to force yourself to look away from them as sinful thoughts begin growing in your mind.

Instead, you take a look at the wound he referred to. A shallow gash going from his hip around and around to his back. The edges of it are already scarring, leaving only the middle of it as a wound.

You slowly approach the end of his bed, hands resting on the metal bed frame. "May I ask?"

"Every man his enemies. Mine happen to be good with throwing knives."

"Is that why you carry all those weapons?" The question has been nagging you. He has so many. And you don't like them. You don't like that they are in your home. He's left them on his side of the dresser.

"Perhaps." He groans as he tries to reach around and clean the part of the cut that stretches onto his back. "Would... would you be so kind, (Y/n)?"

It's your turn to be the silent type. You move to sit beside him, taking the damp rag and jar of salve with shaking hands. You haven't been this close to him until now. You haven't been this close to any man, really.

He smells shockingly good.

He shivers as you begin cleaning up his wound, and you apologize under your breath.

Unbeknownst to you, that was not a shiver of pain.

He's always been the nosy type. He couldn't help himself but try to get to know you through your belongings while you were gone. And he struck a pot of gold when he found your diary.

The entries dated back seven years. And he read through all seven of them. With every word, he became more and more infatuated with you. And your touch on his body solidified that infatuation. It felt right. Your innocent, helping touch turned his infatuation into something more sinister.

So, no. It was not a shiver of pain.

"There you go," you can't help but stroke the large expanse of his back once you've finished, it's a work of art. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice.

But, oh, does he. He has to bite his lip to hold back a moan, looking down at his lap. His member twitching to life from the smallest, most pure of your touches. "Thank you kindly." He forces out, breathily.

You're in your own bed much to quickly for his liking, hiding under your blanket. "Goodnight, Mingi. I shall see you in the morning."

༄

"Hello, stranger," you smile at him as steps out of the building, earning one back. "Slept well, I hope?"

"Very, thank you." He takes a seat on the steps of the bar next to you and watches the sun grow higher in the sky. "May I ask you a personal question, (Y/n)?"

"I suppose so," you shift slightly, toying with the strings on your boots. While your knees are pulled up to the step just below your bottom, his feet stretch all the way off of the steps and onto the dirt.

"Where is your family?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well... it's just, you're a beautiful young woman. Don't you have a husband and a couple of rug-rats?"

"Rug-rats," you repeated with a chuckle, shaking your head. "No, no rug-rats."

"And a husband?"

"The closest I have to a husband is Castle... my mutt." You look to him with a bigger smile, your nerves and anxiety around him unwinding. When he laughs, you feel a flutter in your stomach that makes them disappear completely.

You turn back to the sun as it rises, trying to convince yourself that the heat you feel on your cheeks is from the warmness of it. "Why do you ask?"

He hums, leaning back on his elbows and allowing his eyes to flick up and down as they observe you. "Wanted to know my chances."

"Oh!" You look back at him, his eyes shining with that glint once more, "the cow boy is a flirt? I see."

"I'm not a cowboy."

"No?" You lean back and join him, crossing your legs. Maria had told you just earlier that he was strange, that she sensed a darkness about him. But you only felt warmth and light. "What are you then, Mingi?"

"An outlaw." The smirk on his lips makes you think he's joking, and you let out a laugh.

If only you knew that Mingi was being truthful.

༄

The wagons roll into town the next morning, bright and early. You're still asleep when the first one comes, but the happy hollering from Maria wakes you and Mingi both with a start.

He's dazed and confused, rolling around and glaring at at ceiling above him. While you, well you nearly jump out of your skin to run downstairs.

Still in your nightgown and soft socks, you almost slip and fall as you jump off of the last stair and slide into the main area. "Lou!" You collide into him and sway happily as the older man lifts you up in his arms.

"There's my girl! You been holdin' us down?" He sets you down carefully and inspects you, making sure you've been kept safe in his time away.

"You know I have," you give him a wide and toothy smile, "how was the new market?"

"Oh, it was wonderful, dear! Next time I should take you both with me, so many new things," he reaches into his satchel, handing his wife something small and shiney.

Mingi, in his own sleep clothes- a loose pair of pants, slowly descends the stairs, silent as a mouse as he watches the three of you.

Miss Maria, the older woman with a scarf permanently affixed to her head, looks down at the ring with a teary smile. "Oh, Louis, you shouldn't have." You lift yourself up and sit on one of the tables, watching the two kiss with a small smile.

"Why shouldn't I? A man is meant to spoil his wife, isn't that what I always say? Besides, we made quite the profit this time around." His wrinkled hand cups her cheek, and you can't help but coo at their affection.

"Y'all are too stinkin' cute." Maria looks away bashfully, admiring the ring on her hand. While Louis turns to you with a smile, which fades as quickly as it came.

"And who is this?" His hand is on his belt, twitching at his pistol as he spots Mingi coming up behind you. You turn, and then back, moving his hand away from his weapon.

"That's Mingi, he got here a few days ago. A traveler." You don't know if that last part is necessarily true. Mingi never did tell you why he was passing by your isolated town. "He's quite alright."

"He's half naked- and so are you! Young lady-"

"Lou!" Maria is flabbergasted by what he seems to be implying, while you don't seem to see the innuendo. Of course you are? You just awoke.

Mingi stays silent, and simply extends his hand to Louis. When he doesn't take it, he puts it back to his side, joining you at the table. It seems to you that Mingi is indeed weary of strangers. He seems only comfortable with you. Yesterday, he followed you around almost like a lost dog. Insisting that he wanted to help you with your daily chores.

His eyes flick down to your chest. Sure, he's seen you in your nightgown. But that was in the moon or candle light. The sunlight from the many bar windows exposes just how sheer it is. He can see your nipples if he looks hard enough. And, oh, he's looking.

And Louis notices, ears flushing red with anger as the strange traveler looks you up and down. "Alright, dear, go get dressed."

"Oh, but I wish to hear of the market! Unc-"

"Now, (Y/n)."

With a sigh, you slide off of the table, patting Mingis exposed shoulder as you pass him. He goes to follow you back upstairs when Louis grips his wrist. Hard.

Maria is fiddling with her new ring, almost cowering behind her husband as she feels Mingis aura once again. She can't seem to pinpoint why. But she doesn't like this man one bit. He's done nothing to her, to anyone for that matter. But she feels an evilness seep from his gaze.

"Have a seat, Mingi." Louis doesn't seem to like him either. Maybe because of his silent demeanor or the way he was ogling you.

He does so, with a bored expression, plopping down on one of the wooden booths. Louis slides into the booth seat across from him, waving Maria off. She doesn't need to be told twice. She doesn't want to be near that man for one second more than necessary.

Alone in the seating area, the two men stare silently at one another. As if sizing each other up.

Louis is the first one to break, reaching into his pocket. A rusted old locket is slid across the scratched table top, and Mingi catches it before it falls into his lap.

As he opens it up, he sees a picture of two people in either of the slots. One, a woman with a wide smile. The other, a man looking down at the baby held to his chest. Their features seem... familiar.

"Her parents."

He looks up slowly, and sees the older man leaning back, "I'm sorry?"

"Those are her parents. My little sister and her husband. Died seven years ago. Train crash. Hit a cow on the tracks. Hate those damned things. They can't slow down quick enough to avoid hittin' something."

It's silent again, save for the sounds of Maria cooking up a storm in the back of the kitchen.

He looks down at the pictures again. Seven years ago... that's when your diary entries start. But you never mentioned the crash. Did you just decide to forget about it? Move on?

Louis can almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he looks at the worn photo. Before Mingi can ask, Louis is answering. "I seen the way you looked at my little girl. The same way I look at my Maria. So Imma tell you," he points to the locket, "I made a promise the day that train crashed. You know what that promise was?"

"No."

"That I'd gut anyone who ever laid an evil finger on that girl."

"Maria!" They hear you coming back down, and Louis snatches up the locket from Mingis hands as he stands. You stop briefly and look at them, but move on when you see Louis smiling down at him. "Have you seen my vest?" Your voice grows distant as you join your Aunt in the kitchen, unaware that the smile was followed by a threat.

"Don't make me gut you, boy."

༄

"You're so soft," you mutter as you brush the white mare with your fingers, stood just outside of her stable. She neighs loudly at you. "Oh, I know. So many strange horses, you must be frightened."

The once empty stable house was now filled again, everyone was back in town by high-noon. She seems like her owner, and like you. She doesn't like strangers. She nearly kicked the short door down when you approached with a handful of hay.

A few minutes later, she's letting you pet her. You're stood on a stool, bent over the edge of the door to dust the dirt off of her white coat. "You're a sweet girl, huh?" You smile at the animal, receiving more neighs in response.

"Who you talking to?"

The abrupt interruption makes you stumble, nearly falling off of the wobbly stool. You steady yourself on the door and look back, throwing a smile his way when you see it's Mingi. "Your horse."

He joins your side at the door, holding his hand out to his mare. "You know she can't talk back, right?"

"Don't mean she can't listen."

He smiles at your response. You really are a kind soul, giving affection to an animal that can't give you anything in return.

"Busy, Miss (Y/n)?"

You shake your head. Nobody has come by the bar yet, and you don't think anyone will for a while. They're all spending time with their families.

"How about a ride, then?" He's opening up the door before you can respond, making your upper body follow it, legs outstretched to stay on the stool.

"Oh- I don't... I don't know how."

He keeps putting the saddle on the horse despite your words, a smile playing at his lips. By the way your smiling as well, he knows you want to. "I can teach you. Are you afraid?"

"I must admit... a bit."

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

You hop down from the stool and move it out of the way as Mingi walks the mare out of her stable, following close behind him with a wide smile. You get a few strange looks from townspeople as you and the towering stranger stop in the middle of the main dirt road.

One pair of eyes watches you even closer. Louis stands from his rocking chair on the porch of the bar, staring dumbfounded as Mingi picks you up and helps you onto the animal. Jaw dropped as he hops up and sits in the saddle right behind you, hands guiding yours to hold the reigns. Before he can even get off of the porch, the both of you are galloping out of town.

The cool October air against your face as you slowly gain speed feels freeing, like it's washing your very soul. Your nerves are still shaking a bit, and you lean your back into Mingis chest, holding onto the reigns tightly. You jump ever so slightly when one of his hands rests over your stomach, gently holding you.

"Don't worry," he says, "I've been riding since I was a child."

And so, you don't worry. You let the freeing feeling wash over you, relaxing into him and letting the mare take you where ever she pleases. Which just so happens to be the furthest you can ever remember being from town. You nearly forget that Mingi is even with you until you feel his hand move away from your stomach.

He grabs the reigns, his hand over yours as he pull her head back carefully, slowing her to a stop in the middle of a field. He pulls your hands back with his and settles them in your lap, atop of your bundled up skirts.

She lowers her head and starts chewing on some of the green grass. You look up at the sky, clear and bright.

"Not so scary, right?" Mingi speaks up gently, his hands never leaving your own as he looks up at the baby blue with you.

"Not at all, though maybe it's because you did all of the work," you let out a small laugh, turning your hands palms up and letting him weave his fingers into yours, enveloping you in warmth. "Is this what your life is like?"

The endless expanse of nature staring back at you, birds chirping their lovely songs.

"For the most part." He doesn't want to tell you about the other parts of his life. The bloody and harsh parts. You don't need to hear about that. Not when you're so pure and soft in comparison.

"I like it. I can see why you don't settle, cowboy."

"I'm not a cowboy."

A grin on both your faces, a comfortable silence overcomes you for a moment. He leans and slowly, almost nervously, rests his forehead on your shoulder. When you don't make a move to lean away, he absolutely melts into you. His heart beating loudly in his ears, he's shocked you haven't looked back to look for a marching band with how loud it is.

"I think I may stay a little while longer," he whispers tenderly into your back.

"I think I may like that."

You revel in each others touch for a few more moments before he moves, scooting back away from your backside. "Let's stretch our legs." Before you can complain, he's jumped off the horse and is holding out his arms for you. Deciding 'why not', you lean over and let him essentially pull you off her back.

You stretch your arms over your head as you wander, smiling back at him.

Oh, he could get addicted to that smile.

Directed at him, and him alone.

He watches with a flicker in his eyes as you start gathering wild flowers, folding up the rim of his hat to get a better look. You start braiding them together, fingers working nimbly. The song of nature overcoming you as you work, and he admires from a few feet away.

You look like an angel, the sun beaming down on you and shining from behind you like a halo as you turn and face him. "Crouch down, big boy," you tease him softly, a heat creeping up your face as you see him blushing.

He leans down, letting you affix the flowers around his hat. When he comes back up, he does a small twirl, "how do I look?"

"Pretty!" It slips your lips before you have the chance to think, and it makes him blush all the harder.

"Let me see," he takes his hat off, short hair wild and blowing with the breeze.

He pulls the hat over your head in the next second, and the large accessory falls over your eyes. He laughs, hand over his mouth as you tilt your head up and peek at him from under the rim. "How do I look?"

"Like a doll," he exclaims breathlessly, eyes not leaving you for a single second as he takes in the sight of you in his hat. The wind blowing your loose hairs and skirts. A shy smile stretching your lips as you look away, admiring the sky as he admires you.

"Oh, hush."

"It's only true." He comes behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders loosely.

You have to remember how to breath as he looks over your shoulder at you, shit-eating-smirk on his lips. "Doll~"

"We should head back!" You squeal, ducking out of his arms as heat overwhelms your body. He only laughs, and the melodic sound echoes in the field.

"Alright then, up you get," he hoists you back onto the saddle, hands lingering on your exposed thighs as your skirt pools around your hips while he hooks his boot into the stirrup.

And you're off again, this time slowly. Like he knows that you crave to spend time with him as much as he does you.

༄

It's a few days later when he awakes in the night. The moon his only source of light. His breaths uneven and heavy.

Why did he have to wake up? That dream was ethereal, it nearly made him ascend to the heavens.

He groans as he flips onto his stomach, not a atom of shock in his being as he feels his hardness pressing into the mattress. Not after he just experienced the wettest dream of his life.

You looked like a Goddess below him, head tossed to the side and exposing all of the marks he left on your neck. The bed rocked in time with the yells of his names that left your bruised lips. Over and over. Louder and louder. Your eyes rolled back, your chest rising and falling as you tried desperately to keep up with his pace.

He's certain that's your rightful place, taking his cock and calling his name, soul intertwined with his. "Fuck..." Just six days and you have him wrapped around your little finger. He's never felt like this. You must be the one.

He can't help but look over at your bed across the room as his hand travels into his pants. His eyes nearly flutter shut, but he forces them open once again.

You're a restless sleeper, he's discovered. Your torso is pressed into the mattress while your hips are rotated slightly up, one leg hiked up and making your nightgown slip past the round of your ass.

God, your subconscious must know what he's doing.

That's the only 'reasonable' conclusion Mingis lustful mind can come to as you moan in your sleep, rolling onto your back and spread your legs to get comfortable. It takes every fiber of self control in him not to pounce on you and take you right there.

He's content to fuck himself silly for the moment, and he's almost ashamed at how fast his release comes- but he can't help it. You look so fucking delectable and he hasn't touched himself since before he rolled into town.

He bites into his pillow with a growl, eyes never leaving your peaceful form until he's overstimulated himself into oblivion. His arm sore and cock even sorer, he finally lets up, breathing heavily into the quiet night.

As he slinks to the bathroom and cleans himself up, he wonders what it would be like to feel your body close to him after such a release. Well-

Why not find out?

He leans over your bed with tears in his eyes, gently grabbing your arm and calling out to you.

"Min?" The nickname that you utter while half asleep almost has him ready to go again, but he pushes it away as you sit up groggily and look at him with concern written on your face.

"I don't feel too well, Doll... Can I sleep with you? Keep me warm?"

You feel his head with the back of your hand, a frown on your face as you feel his heated flesh- unknowing of the true cause.

"Mh, come on, big boy," you scoot to the wall that your beds on and lift your fur blanket, a sleepy smile on your features as he dives into the bed. The metal frame creaks under both of your weight but neither of you pay it any mind.

He melts into your body heat, wrapping his arms around your waist and keeping you close.

It's so much better than he imagined.

༄

That's the best sleep you've ever had. You felt so safe and warm. And Mingi doesn't feel any different, he hasn't had a restful sleep like that since he was only a boy. You seem to have kept his reoccurring nightmares of his past away.

All the damage he's done and all the pain he's endured, wiped away as you rested your head on his shoulder.

Your legs are tangled together, arms wrapped around one another. Your head in his neck and his chin resting gently on top of it. Soft, gentle breaths as the both of you wake.

Rain beats down on the roof, creating a soft and steady melody.

Neither of you can tell how much time has elapsed, but it doesn't seem like it's ever enough. So when you finally sit up, a pout forms on his features.

You feel his forehead, a smile on yours. "No fever."

"Hm, maybe a night bug." He sits up and swings his legs over the bed, facing into the room to hide his growing blush as the memories of his dream flood his mind.

He feels the bed shift under your weight as you crawl up behind him. "I had a dream last night," you whisper as you gently rub up his back.

"Mh?"

"Mhm." Your heart flutters as you muster up the courage to continue speaking, "a dream of you and I."

"Oh, do tell."

And tell, you do.

"Well... it began with you and I, sat in the bar. A few too many drinks in our bodies. A few kisses... A few touches... and then we came up here." His breath hitches in his throat, surely he's still dreaming. This is an elaborate trick of the brain. "Mingi?"

"Y-yes?" He wants to both explode with joy and collapse with embarrassment.

"Will you touch me? Will you kiss me? I'm sorry if that's wildly inappropriate- oh it is, I'm so ter-"

Your rambling is cut off as his lips collide with yours ever so softly. One of his hands cups your cheek, the other finds purchase on the small of your back.

He slowly pushes his weight onto you, laying you down on your back as your lips meld together. A curse falls past his lips as you ghost your fingertips over his abs.

He kisses down your jaw, savoring every inch of your skin until he reaches your covered breasts. He looks up, and the look in his eyes makes the heat in your belly grow ten-fold. "Can I see you?"

With the slightest nod of your head, he's slipped the straps of your nightgown down and tugged it down past your chest. His mind is racing. His heart is about to beat out of his chest. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He whispers, voice rough and barely heard over the storm raging outside.

His calloused hands trail down your chest, ghosting over the pebbled flesh on your breast and down to your skirt. You can't help the gasp that escapes you when he lifts it up, letting your entire nightdress rest in a bunch on your stomach. He's already panting, and he hasn't even touched you.

You're just so beautiful. You're a Goddess in his eyes.

He smiles up at you as he lowers himself, your legs spread by his wide shoulders. "I'm going to make you cum your brains out, Doll~"

Before you can even question what he means, his tongue is darting out and swiping up the length of your cunt. "Ah!" Your back is arched off the bed at the simple motion, and it solidifies his theory that you're a virgin. Your keening at the littlest bit of attention, your poor neglected pussy is begging for more.

You slap your hand over your mouth at the noise, looking shocked that it even came from you. He can't help the chuckle that vibrates in his throat- that is, before his taste buds register the most delicious, mind blowing juice he's ever had the pleasure of putting in his mouth. "Oh, fuck..." Then he's just as flustered as you are, diving back in between your thighs like a man starved.

The little noises that manage to slip past your hand urge him on even more than the way that your wetness just keeps coming and coming and coming as he slurps it all up. His tongue darts and licks and rolls all over you, and you can't even register all of the pleasure you're getting from it- it feels that good.

He slips his arms under your thighs and grips them tightly to ground himself as he allows himself to drown in you. He lets his instincts do all of the work, enjoying himself more than he ever has. His nose nudges against your clit as he slurps noisily.

The way you taste. The way you smell. The way you sound. The way you feel.

All of it. All of you. He's going mad with lust. With love. He's going to explode, he truly believes it. And then you call his name.

"Mingi—"

So sweet and desperate, absolute music to his red hot ears as he sucks the bundle of nerves above your sopping wet heat. He doesn't even register that you've cum all over his chin until youre tugging at his hair roughly and forcing him away from your throbbing pussy.

He moans out loud as you harshly pull him away, jaw dropped as he pants. "You taste so good, Doll," he slurs drunkenly. Your essence has gotten him drunker than any alcohol ever could.

You're panting even heavier, chest rising and falling quickly as you tremble in the aftershocks of your first orgasm that's come from another person.

He rubs his finger tips over your thighs gently, luring you back down to Earth as he gawks at you. You swear that there's hearts in his shining eyes.

"W-" your attempt at words comes out as jumbled whine, and you let yourself fall back into the pillow.

"It's okay, Baby," he coos, licking his lips as he sits up, folding his legs under him and pulling your limp hips into his lap.

The new nickname makes your cunt twitch, and he catches it. "Oh, you like that, hm?" His index and middle finger spread you wide, and he purses his lips- spitting directly onto your sensitive hole. "C'mon, talk to me, pretty Baby."

"G-god!" You cry out embarrassedly, forever thankful for the angry storm outside that hides your sounds from any neighbors. "Yes, I do, I really do," you draw out, grabbing the sides of his thighs as he teases your entrance. You're still hyper sensitive, twitching with every small movement he makes.

And he absolutely revels in it.

"Yeah? I bet no one ever made you feel that good before," he smirks, letting another wad of spit hit your hole.

"Nuh-uh," you shake your head, peering up at him, and your next words make it hard for him to keep his composure. "Stay. Stay here and- and fuck me."

Little do you know, after that first night- he lost any plans he had of ever leaving.

"I will never leave you," and he means it. He has no plans of ever letting you go. And he's about to let you know that.

He slides you back off his lap and lays over you, holding your head with one hand as the other guides his leaking tip into you. "Oh, ngh," you whine, holding onto his biceps tightly. He bites his lips as he feels your walls for the first time. So warm and tight around him. So soft. "M-min, be gentle," you whimper, leaning up and hiding in his chest.

"Don't worry, Doll, we'll go slow" he strokes your head gently, slowly -oh, so slowly- sinking into your tight core. "Such a pretty little thing, so fuckin' tight f'me," he growls, and again as the noise makes you clench around him. "Gonna have to stretch your little pussy out before I can even move, you've got me in a fucking vice, Baby."

"Mingi, d-don't talk like that, it's dirty," you pant into his chest, the warm air making goosebumps form.

"Well, look at you," he nearly purrs, pulling your head back from his chest gently, "look." You blink a few times, taking in the sinful scene.

Your legs spread around his slowly moving hips. His thick monster of a cock gradually disappearing into your stretched folds.

"Can't not be dirty while we're breaking in this cute little cunt," he says matter-of-factly, looking down at said cunt while it clenches around the half of his cock that's he's managed to sink in. A lewd moan leaves his parted lips, looking back to you as you whimper and fidget. "Hey, hey," he coos, cupping your face in his palms. "Half way there, Doll. How's it feel?"

"Like you're gonna split me in half," you ramble out, looking up at him with the softest eyes he's ever seen. "Please, c-can we take a break? You're jus' so big..."

"Of course, sweet girl," he leans down, careful to keep his hips locked despite how badly he just want to slam into your welcoming heat, and kisses you. Stroking your cheek bones with his thumbs. "You feel so good, like heaven."

The praise makes your rapidly beating heart skip a beat. "Mingi?"

"Yes," he moans in response, looking deep into your eyes.

"I think I'm falling in love with you." The sudden confession makes his cock twitch, his heart jumping into his throat. "Is that silly?"

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, which are admittedly a chaotic mess.

"If it is, we would be silly together."

"You mean-"

"Yes."

You grip his shoulders and lean up, pressing your lips to his in an act of pure desire. The both of you get lost in each other, tongues darting out and lapping at one another like a lifeline.

Sufficiently covered in each others spit, you pull back. "Keep going, I want to take all of you." You have a newfound confidence after your short trade of admissions, demanding that he go on and fuck you.

A few more moments of excruciating stretching pass when you suddenly feel his pelvis flush with your clit, both of you panting like wild animals as you feel each other completely.

"Holy shit, Baby," he sneers, resting his face in the crook of your neck, taking in deep breaths of your scent to keep himself from jack hammering into you. You are truly the best thing to ever happen to him, and your cunt molding into the shape of him is just a bonus.

There are no words that you can find in your brain. All if it is wiped away as you feel his rock hard cock stretching you out, filling you wall to wall. When he breaths out, a content sigh into your neck, you feel the veins on his length pressing into your gummy walls. "Hah~" Is all you can manage, thoughts turned into mush as he begins to slowly pull back out- just an fraction of an inch. Before sliding back in quickly. "Fuck!"

"Doll, please, please," he whimpers, holding onto your waist tightly as he rolls his hips, "please say you're ready, I don't know how long I can take it."

"Y-" the second the first syllable is utter from your lips, he's already pulled out half way, "yes!" He thrust back in, steady and slow at first.

Words are lost between you - minds absolutely flooding with hormones as he begins thrusting harder, faster. Moans, groans, loud whimpers. The slapping of your skin is so loud that even the rain pounding at the window can't drown it out.

He's stuffing you beyond your wildest imagination. His cock was made to stretch you so deliciously, and your pussy was made to take it.

It's his dream coming to life, quite literally, as your eyes roll back to the depths of your head and you're squeezing him tighter than before. It's almost impossible for him to keep thrusting, but he finds a way.

He grips your hips tight and is making you bounce on his cock effortlessly, all the while pounding his hips into yours. He's so deep inside of you, it feels like he can feel the same coil in your gut that you do. And it's about shatter.

He slips a hand down and begins swirling his fingers over your clit, pushing you off the edge roughly, making you cream over his member with a broken yell of his name. He leans in, all of his weight on you as fucks you through it harshly. His lips right next to your ear.

"You. Are. Mine."

And with that, a warmth like no other spreads inside of you.

༄

Nearly two months passed like they were nothing, days seemed to fly with you by his side.

He felt he finally had a place where he belonged.

He found himself work cleaning peoples guns in the bar, even selling and trading some.

He had a bed to go to at the end of the day. After that first time together, you both rearranged the room. Pushing your beds together under the window and putting the dresser on the wall.

He had the other half of his soul. You. He knew everything there was to know about you, and you knew everything there was to know about him. Well- all he was willing to tell. Sometimes, there was a dark glint in his eyes that made you feel like you didn't know the full story of the man you shared your life with. But all doubt faded away when he smiled at you.

All was well- more than well. It was perfect.

Until a group of strangers rode into town. Strangers to the town. But strangers to Mingi, they were not.

He walked into the bar and Mingis heart stopped. He saw all of his hard work to get you, to settle, to make a life- all of it- vanish. It disappeared.

"Fuck me," he groans, keeping his head low and cursing himself for not wearing his hat today. He hopes that he'll go unnoticed. But that hope is squashed when the man slides into the booth across from him.

"Well, slap my ass and call me Pamela. Song Mingi!" The rowdy man immediately catches Louis' attention from behind the bar.

"Why are you here, Buck?" Mingi keeps his tone low, hostile.

"You know why I'm here. You want in?" The man, Buck, has a smirk playing mischievously on his lips.

"No. You, and whoever else you drug into this town are leaving. This town is off limits."

Buck lets out a shrill chuckle, "says who?"

"Says me. This is my town. Get the fuck out before I shoot you." Mingi growls, placing his pistol on the table, finger twitching at the trigger.

That gets Louis' full attention, his hand immediately unlocking the safety on his gun as he makes his way over. "Mingi, who's your friend?" He hates to admit, but he's grown fond of Mingi over these long winter days.

"He's leaving. Ain't that right?" Mingi tilts his head at Buck, who takes a look around. Multiple patrons of the bar have their hands on their guns, ready to draw.

He isn't stupid. Mingi is apart of these people now and they'll protect him.

"Yeah, that's right." He slides out of the booth, giving Mingi a seemingly innocent smile. But Mingi knows him all too well. "I'm glad you finally found yourself a nice girl to settle down with."

With that finally threatening congratulations, he's back out the bar the way he came. Mingi watches from the window with wide eyes as he joins the posse of men outside. As soon as they start wandering away, looking into shops and other such buildings Mingi has come to be so fond of, he snaps into action.

He runs up the stairs, nearly bumping his head. They've been casing the town, that's the only way he'd know about you.

"Mingi!" Louis follows after him, slowed by age.

He finds him reaching under the bed, staring bamboozled as he places gun after gun after gun into the mattress. "Mingi!"

He ignores the panicking man, loading all of them up. "Son!" His head snaps up, tears threatening his waterline.

"Louis, they're going to raid the town."

"What...?"

"I don't have time to explain, I have to go- go get (Y/n). You need to gather everyone who knows how to shoot. I n-"

"Boy, I don't care much for nonsense."

"Listen to me, Louis!" He clearly panicked, an expression he's never seen from him before. "What reason do I have to lie? This is my home too! This is my home and my woman, and I'll be damned if I let Buckey fuck-face and his thugs ruin it!" In his panic, Mingi doesn't notice the ring that falls from his bag as he gets out more ammunition.

Louis bends down next to Mingi and picks it up, puzzle pieces falling together in his mind.

Mingi snatches it back and shoves it in the bag.

"You're gonna propose to my little girl?"

"Not if we all die," Mingi responds shortly, shoving an armful of guns into Louis.

They share a look.

It seems Mingi made a similar promise to himself about you.

"Go and fetch her, don't raise any suspicion. If the townspeople know what's coming, it'll start a panic."

Mingi gives him a short nod. To say yes, sir. To say thank you.

He keeps his head down, hat covering his face as he weaves his way to the very back of the town. Trying his damnedest to avoid everyone from his past.

When he successfully makes it to the river, he spots you and is filled with relief.

You hum quietly to yourself, bundled up in his large poncho to protect yourself from the frigid January weather as you clean your clothes.

The harsh winds whip your loose hairs around, makes the clothes on the line flap loudly.

"(Y/n)!"

"Hey, Darlin-" He pulls you up, holding you close to his side as he drags you away, "what're you doing?"

"Just keep your head down, when we get back to the bar, go to our room, lock yourself in the bathroom. Okay?"

"Min, you're scarin' me..."

"Do you understand?" He asks firmly, stopping at the edge of town, turning you to face him.

He looks deadly serious. You haven't seen this kind of look since the first day you met. So you nod, committing what he said to memory.

"I love you," he kisses you deeply, shortly.

And then he drags you through town, and into the bar. But he pushes you right behind him when you walk in.

Buck has Miss Maria and Louis tied up, pushed to the floor. The few patrons are gone, and the yelling outside tells him Louis' plan to keep things calm has failed. Multiple men are rummaging around the bar, cleaning out the register. He can't hear any noise above them, and he's thankful that the entrance to your small home is so well hidden by the corner.

He feels you grip the back of his leather jacket, and he's about to turn and tell you to run when he feels you get ripped away.

Your scream echos in the building as one of Bucks men tears you away, and Mingi has to stop himself from shooting the man the second he puts his hands on you. Doing that will just get you all killed.

He's deadly silent as he watches the man toss you to the floor. His gun was drawn the second you got tore away, and he's itching to use it.

You try to scramble away, but Buck comes up behind you and places his boot on your back, shoving you back down with a thud. Maria is sobbing uncontrollably into her hands, Louis' jaw is locked in anger as he looks away.

He bends down, putting more pressure on your spine. He grips your hair and turns your face to the side. "Well, well," he smirks, "you're even prettier up close, ain't you?"

Everyone stops in their tracks as you spit in his face. "Fuck you!" One of the men closest to you has a gun to your head in the next second, but you refuse to break.

"Feisty, I like that," he shoves your head to the floor, hitting it against it roughly. Mingi is seeing red as the world around him resumes, men ransacking the bar and chortling at your family. His family.

"Buck."

"Oh?" He turns, leaving you on the floor, "got something to say, pansy?"

"Yeah." His eyes flick to yours as you push yourself up dizzily, and over to one of the booths before Buck even realizes he's looked away. "You need a key for the safe. I gonna give it to you, and youre gonna take it and leave."

"Is that so? That's what's gonna happen?"

"That's what's gonna happen."

"You really lost your guts, aye? Found a nice girl and a cozy town and decided you're too good for this life, I see."

Mingi slips his pistol back into its holster on his hip, sauntering over to the bar with all eyes on him. He stands infront of Maria and Louis, shielding them from what's about to come. "You see it how it is, then." He lifts up the pot of dying chrysanthemums in the middle of the wooden island and scoops up the key. His eyes spot you curling up under the booth he glanced at. Thank goodness you got the message.

Cause shit is about to hit the fan.

He tosses the key to Buck, and as his hands raise up to catch it-

He puts a bullet in his brain.

You can't help the scream that rips past your lips, covering your ears and hiding your face in your knees.

As the men behind the bar start shooting at him, he ducks, shielding the older couple as the men infront of them begin firing. But he's too quick. Only one of them gets close, grazing his shoulder and stunning him briefly. He drops his pistol and takes the larger gun off of his back, propping it up over the island blindly and spraying the rest of the men in a hail of bullets.

And then all is silent.

With a heavy heart, you look up from your lap. The building is covered in blood, light seeps in from the holes in the walls caused by stray bullets. Maria is crying silently. Louis is looking at Mingi in shock as he falls onto his backside, holding his bleeding shoulder.

"What the hell was that, boy?"

"That was me saving your ass."

༄

Mingi and Louis, with the help of a few good samaritans, cleared the bodies out of the bar and drug them to the outskirts of town. Leaving them for the coyotes and bears. If it were up to him, Mingi would have hung them up as an example.

Maria, seemingly in shock, scrubs the floor with a blank face as you fix up the register and dig out all of the bars belongings from the bandits bags.

You feel a roll of papers at the bottom of one of the bag. A silent hum of amusement leaves you as you see what it is. They kept their own wanted posters. Proud of what they've done. You flip through them. Maybe out of morbid curiosity of who your boyfriend just gunned down. And then you get to one who you know wasn't a victim.

Because he was the gunner.

Mingis face in a sketch stares up at you.

WANTED.

DO NOT APPROACH. ALERT THE AUTHORITIES.

DANGEROUS FUGITIVE. SONG MINGI.

The door to the bar swings open.

The world spins around you as you look up from the drawing. And come face to face with it, brought to life.

"Mingi..."

"Are you okay, Doll?"

You can't seem to find any words that describe the way your heart is breaking. Louis approaches you first, his own heart stopping as he sees what's held in your trembling hands. He tears it from you, glaring down like it's a hallucination.

"Who are you?" Is all you can manage to whisper, backing away with a grip on your uncles sleeve as Mingi steps forward.

"What is that?" He nods to the paper, although deep down he has an idea of what it is.

Maria snaps out of her trance, joining your side, a gasp leaving her lips as she looks back and forth from the paper to Mingi.

"You get out of here, you never show your face in this town again," Louis grips the man's collar and pulls him to his level, "You're lucky my girls are watching or I'd hold true to my promise."

Mingi shoves him away and grabs the paper from Maria, his worst thoughts come true as he sees himself staring back at him.

"Wh..." He trails of in a whisper, heart breaking into a million pieces as you look at him fearfully. Like you did the first time you met. He thought he'd never have to see that look again. "(Y/n), please, hear me out."

Maria holds you to her chest as he approaches. "I knew I sensed evil in you, boy." She bares her teeth at him as she seethes, like a wild mother bear.

"Leave," your voice trembles, raw with all of the emotions that are flooding you. You lean further into your aunts arms as he reaches out for you. "You lied to me! I never want to see you again! I ought to turn you in!"

"You have to believe me, I'm not like that anymore. Baby, listen! I only did what I had to to survive, you don't understand. I'm not like them!" He fights against Louis as he drags him to the door. "Please, I love you!" He's thrown off the porch, only getting a glimpse of you as you crumble to the floor before the door is slammed in his face.

༄

Mingi drapes his mare's reigns over a poll, trudging through the snow until he's at a familiar door.

He doesn't bother knocking. He barges in and stares down at the man at the desk.

"Mingi, long time no s-"

"I have a job for you." He slaps down a wad of cash, "more where this came from when you're done."

The man sighs, but takes the cash, thumbing through it. "And why don't you do it?"

Mingi ignores the question. "Louis and Maria Donelley. Shoot them, make it quick. (Y/n) (L/n). Tie her up on the tracks."

He hesitates for a moment. But in the end, "More where this came from, huh?"

༄

It's been three days since Mingi has gone away. Rather, since he was forced away by his past and your reaction to it.

You've slept for most of that time. Cried the rest. You barely eat. Barely talk. You hardly even move off your side of the once-shared bed.

Maria, Louis, all of your friends tried to comfort you. Telling you that he was just a fling. That the one for you will come around and make all of the pain Mingi left disappear.

They don't know that Mingi was the one.

He made you so happy. Happier than you'd ever been. He made everything seem... right.

"Hey, Dear," Louis knocks at the wall, slowly coming ascending into the room.

"I don't want the soup, Uncle Lou..."

"Auntie!" Ellis comes barreling past Louis and jumps onto the bed, hugging you tightly.

"Ellis? Hey, Buddy!" You force a smile as you hug him back, sitting up with a groan and holding the child in your lap. "How you been?"

Ellis goes on and on about what the new teacher from the city is teaching his class, a big smile on his face. Louis sees the smile pulling at your lips in the slightest, and he excuses himself silently.

He, admittedly, is a very good distraction from your pain.

You spend quite a few hours playing with him, catching up on the things that are going on in town. He drops the ball onto the jacks and giggles loudly as it rolls away, under the bed. "I'll get it, set us up another round."

You bend down and feel around for it blinding, heart skipping a beat as you feel Mingis bag. You haven't found the courage to touch any of his things, even if to throw them away.

You move away from it and grip the ball, rolling it back to Ellis. "El, I'm feeling a bit tired, why don't you come back tomorrow."

"Aw... okay! I'll bring Violet and we can play outside!"

"See you then, Kiddo," you ruffle his hair as he passes you to leave.

It was a nice break from your sorrows while it lasted.

You crawl back into your half of the bed as the sun sets in the window above it, pulling Mingis pillow into your arms as you sob yourself to sleep once again.

Deep into the night, you feel the bed dip. You open your eyes with the littlest inkling of hope that Mingi has returned despite your harsh words his way.

But you're only met with a stranger.

You open your mouth to scream, but only get a small squeak out before you are met with a hit on the head.

༄

You awake as your body is tossed into the air, a loud groan leaving you as you collide with something hard. Through your blurry vision, you can see the moon high above you.

You look to the side, and you put two and two together that you're in a wooden cart as you see the stranger from above your bed riding on a horse that's got you attached to it. "Hey-" You croak out, getting his attention.

"Morning!" He yells, making you wince. You have a splitting headache. "Just in time for the show," he mumbles under his breath, pulling the horse to a stop.

You can hear him shuffling around in the snow, and you try to sit up before you realize you can't. Your entire body is tied in a thick rope.

The back of the cart opens up, and you try -you try so hard- to shimmy away as he reaches in and grabs your foot. But to no avail.

He pulls you from the cart and lets you fall into the snow. It wets the back of your nightgown and hair, soaks your thin socks and makes you shiver. You don't think you've ever been this scared. Even during the shootout, Mingi was there to protect you.

You watch with a fresh set of tears brewing in your eyes as you watch the man double knot some ropes onto the tracks. "Oh my God..."

He ignores as you begin to beg for your life, telling him all sorts of things about you to try and make him sympathetic. "- and his name is Louis, he took me in when my parents died! Uncle Lou and Aunt Maria, please! She'd die of heartbreak!" He scoffs, knowing she's already dead. So is Uncle Lou.

He followed Mingis request and made it quick.

He pulls you by your binds to the tracks, the metal on the tracks is the coldest thing you've ever felt and it makes you yelp. You cry out in the night as he begins tying the ropes on the tracks to the ropes on your body.

"Please, why are you doing this?!" Your voice shook with pure horror, tugging at the ropes that were wrapped around your entire body and tied to the tracks by the bandit. He crouched down at your feet and smirked, his simple answer making you cry all the harder.

"Why not?"

All of your pleas and prayers fall to deaf ears as the man turns away and to his cart, rummaging in his chest. The tracks begins to shake and you begin to except your fate. You turn your head to the side and watch the pebbles rumble, your sobs visible in puffs of air as you exhale into the harsh winter air.

A loud thud and a groan makes you look back, and you see a tall figure on a familiar white horse.

"Mingi!" He drops the crowbar he used to whack the man as he rode past.

He looks back at you briefly- his face hidden by his droopy hat. But you can tell he's pissed. His jaw clenched and shoulders tense before a gunshot rings out and he ducks and rolls off of Mare, slapping her to make her run away as he draws his own gun.

Between the rattling of the tracks and the thrumming of your heart, you can barely force yourself to watch as he approaches the man bravely, your eyes flicking from them to the horizon repeatedly. A sob of his name makes him pause for a split second before he comes back to his body.

"Too close," Mingi scowls at the man, using his gun to smack his hand and make him drop his, kicking it away as he scrambles for it.

"Aye, man, I did what yo-"

"Too close."

"Just give me my mon-"

His gun smokes by his side in the next second as the man drops to the desert floor dead. He takes a moment to bask in the way the blood pools in the pure white snow before the steam whistle catches his attention.

"Mingi, please!" He drops everything and runs to the tracks, crawling over your body and looking at your binds frantically. "Mingi, oh my God, please- I'm so sorry! Please untie me, hurry," you babble on in a panic as the train appears just over the horizon, sobs wracking you body under his as he tugs at the ropes.

Your horror breaks his heart, but he knows it's necessary. He knows he has a knife strapped to his back, but he plays the panic card and 'forgets' as he forces a false worry onto his face. He won't let anything happen to his Doll, but you're too caught up in your fight or flight to remember that.

"I got you, I got you," he murmurs as he pulls the ropes on one of your sides undone, taking his sweet time with the other as he watches the train grow ever closer- the conductor blaring the horn.

Your free hand grasps at him, clawing at his leather jacket, eyes wide and soaked with tears as you stare down your death as it barrels towards you. Just a few feet away.

Mingi yanks you up and falls to the ground besides the tracks with you on top of him, hands roughly holding you to his chest as his hat blows away with the wind that the train creates. You willingly slump into him, sobbing into his warm chest as the tracks rattle loudly besides you, drowning out your cries.

He relishes in the way you cling to him well after the train passes, not daring move away from your savior as you cry your heart out and ramble on to him about how you're so sorry and how you never would have really turned him in and on and on until he silences you with a tender hug.

He knows all of this. His Doll would never betray him. But it's best that he get a subconscious message through your thick, naive, skull early on.

The message being: the attempt to leave him has failed miserably. Why even try to leave when he's so clearly your fate?

༄

Mingi locks the bar door behind him as he carries you into the building. He kicks off his boots. He knows you hate the mess.

It was silent the entire way back to town.

And it remains that was as he carries you up the stairs and to bed. He doesn't even acknowledge you as he gets you some clean, dry clothes.

"Mingi..."

He sighs, shoulders dropping.

"I'm s-"

"I thought you hated me?"

"Min... I was just- just in shock! Why didn't you tell me you were... an outlaw?"

He kneels at the bed and slips your socks off, replacing them with a warm, thick pair.

The moonlight seeps in through the sheer curtains and paints your skin in a haze of blue. The bruise on your temple like a water color bloom.

"Because I was afraid." He bites his lip as it trembles. That's the plain truth. He was afraid you'd leave if you found out all the things he'd done. But now that you know, he still doesn't plan on letting you leave. "Please forgive me, Doll."

He lowers his head into your lap and smirks as he feels your hand rest on his hair.

"Come back home, Mingi."

"Really?" He looks up with the most puppy like gaze you've ever seen.

You nod, wiping your tears away, "I don't care what the others have to say. We can leave this place if we have to, I just need to be with you, M-" His lips collide onto yours as he pounces on you, pushing you onto the bed and nipping at your lips like he's starved. And he is, because-

"I missed you so fucking much, Doll," he growls into your lips, melting into you as you wrap your arms around him. It feels like it's the first time in forever, and it is to him.

"I love you, Mingi," you whisper as you look up at him, chasing after him as he sits up on his knees.

He lifts your ruined nightgown, looking down at you as if you're a work of art as he tosses it away. "I love you," he whispers back, cupping your breast in his warm, big hands. "I love you so much it hurts."

You lay back with a moan, arching into his touch. Your mind is so fried from this weeks events, all you want to do is disappear into him.

And you let it be know. "Take your clothes off." You tug at his buckled belt with an utterance, licking your lips at the sight of his happy trail. "Show me how much you missed me. Show me how much you love me."

Your sultry words have him undressing in a hurry, slamming his pistol down on the nightstand he made and kissing you deeply as he removes his belt, heart beating rapidly as you cup his cheeks to bring him closer.

You're the closest to heaven he's ever been. Kissing down his neck and stroking his back. He doesn't know how or why this infatuation grew into something wild and untamable. And frankly, he doesn't care.

You are quickly working to undress his top half while he kicks his pants away, letting his larger gun clatter to the floor. You no longer care if he leaves them out. You just want him home.

"I was so worried about you, Baby," he pants, "I know I hurt you. I'm so sorry," he places kiss after kiss after kiss on your face, rubbing your thighs as he slides between them. "I love you. I adore you. I want you. I'm yours. You're mine." Every statement is accompanied by a kiss.

"I'm so sorry, Min," you look deep into his eyes as he rubs his member on your wetness, "you're my one and only. I don't care what you've done to get here. As long as I have you in my arms. As long as I'm in yours."

He hugs you tightly, forehead against yours as he slips inside of you. "I will never leave you," he moans out, settling deep inside of you as you pant and whine.

You've taken him quite a few times at this point, but never like this.

He always takes his time sinking into you, reveling in the slow stretch.

But not tonight. Not after what you've been through. He needs to feel you, and now.

He needs to feel your emotional connection on a physical plane. And so do you. That's why you don't stop him or push him away as he lowers into you quickly.

You ground yourself by wrapping your arms under his and gripping his shoulders, careful of his healing wound.

His chest against yours, heart beats drumming together as you try to disappear into each others being.

Affectionate touches are left all over the both of your bodies. Tender kisses and promises of love.

"You're all I ever wanted," you whisper into his chest as he starts a languid pace. "I want to be yours, tell me I'm yours."

"You're mine, Doll, all mine." He speaks ever so softly, cradling your head to his chest. He can't believe how lucky he's gotten.

"Make me believe you, show me I'm yours."

And he does.

God knows how or why Song Mingi has so much stamina, but no amount of time passed stops him from pounding into you, he stops when he thinks you've had enough.

He's made you cum seven times through the night, and with the sun beginning to rise out the window, he's still at it.

Its been hours, and his pace hasn't slowed one bit. If anything, your pants and whines stir him on and he almost hammers into you. The quick in and out rhythm makes him moan. Your heat encasing him as the cold winter air seeps in through the walls that makes him want to bury himself in your body and never leave.

He knows he's big. He's so big and you're small compared to him. But he doesn't care when he's balls deep in your sore and swollen pussy. He makes you take it to the base and chuckles deeply when you try and crawl away.

"Min- can't take it," you sob, but that doesn't stop him.

He grips your hips roughly and pulls your clit flush to his pelvis, holding you there as you squeal out, banging your fists onto your shared bed.

"Fuck you can't, your pussy was made for me to stretch out." His next thrust sends your hips into the mattress, finally able to rest your exhausted body as he plunges into you from behind.

Each rough thrust wipes away every thought from your mind until it's all Mingi.

Mingi is so deep.

Mingi is so thick.

Mingi fucks you so good.

Mingi treats you so good.

Mingi loves you.

Mingi.

"Mingi!" You moan out loudly into the pillows as you seize up, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you cum all over him. Vision dark and blurry, drooling all over the place, barely conscious after your eighth orgasm around his massive girth.

He's panting and growling into your ear, continuing to thrust. He's relentless. He's really out to break you.

"Please," you slur, wracking your slush of a brain for a way to get him to cum. You love him, and you love fucking him. But he just won't stop until he cums. And he won't cum until you essentially force him. He's so hell bent on making you get there, he forgets about himself, like he's outside of his own body. And he's extra determined after almost losing you. Your usual tricks haven't worked. So you pull out the big guns. "Please, Min... put a baby in me." Oh, you know him all too well. He's made multiple comments about how good you are with children. How pretty you'd look with that pregnancy glow, your belly round with his baby.

"F-fuck, Doll," it seems as if that is enough to satisfy his hunger, slamming his tip into your womb and filling you with his warm and sticky seed so much that it splashes back on him and makes a mess of his lower stomach.

Still buried deep inside of you, uncaring of the mess, he lays ontop of your back gently and wraps his arms around your shoulders, his head next to yours. You shaking breaths and trembling legs calmed by his warmth over your entire body.

"Holy fucking shit," you whimper, making him chuckle quietly.

He places a gently kiss to your shoulder, "I didn't go to hard, did I?"

"You did... but I liked it."

He smiles as he rests his head, hands rubbing up your arms and to your hands, intertwining yours fingers. "I love you." He states. Loud and proud. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to share everything with you and I don't want to keep anything from you. I want you all to myself. Will you marry me?"

The words almost get lost in translation on their way to your endorphin flooded mind, and your silence makes him nervous. That is until- he sees the giant smile spreading on your lips. "Yes."

"Oh, thank goodness," he sighs a breath of relief followed by a soft laugh.

"But you'd better get me a ring," you joke, groaning out as he slowly pulls out of your abused core. There's a smirk on his lips that you can't quite place as he gently turns you on your back and helps you get comfortable.

He reaches under the bed and grabs his bag. "You didn't-"

"I did," he has his signature shit-eating-grin on his face as he takes it out. A dainty, pretty, thing. Much like he sees you.

He cuddles into your side, fur blanket draped over your lower halves. Calloused and rough hands take yours. Gently and loving with you. Their past of violence is lost as he slides the ring onto your finger tenderly.

"Mrs. Song."

༄

#ateez #ateez smut #smut fic #yandere ateez #ateez mingi #song mingi #yandere mingi #mingi smau #mingi smut #ateez smau

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wonderlandwalker · 4 months

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He Knows Better | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: Finnick tells himself not to get close to you, because what is the point? But when you survive your games he finds that he can't stop thinking about you. When he finally comes to see you, you're in pieces, and he swears to himself he will put you back together, no matter the costs. Find part 2 here: Should've Known

Content Warnings/Tags: Mentions of prostitution/sex trafficking, angst, Finnick deserving better, crying, bad representation of a panic attack, not proofread

Word Count: 1.6k

Requested by Anon: I loveeeee love love love your Finnick fic. It was the perfect mix of sweet and so angstyyyyy !! I'm having constant Finnick brainrot 😭 I was wondering what you think about writing a finnick × reader fic sort of loosely based on Hozier's "It Will Come Back" where reader is maybe a tribute or another Victor and the first person to show Finnick softness and kindness without asking for anything in return in so long and he's like "dont let me in with no intention to keep me" and "dont be kind to me" and he just is totally feral and obsessed with the reader ? You're such a talented writer !! ❤️❤️❤️

A/N: There is this Dutch expression which goes ‘the monkey comes out of the sleeve’ loosely meaning the hidden meaning is revealed and I couldn't for the life of me think of the English equivalent that made sense to me, so, well, I hope the story is coherent. As usual, divider by @saradika

He remembers first seeing you, you were so young, but to be fair, so was he. In previous years he had always become quick friends with the tributes he was supposed to mentor, how could he not? But it didn't take him long to figure out that they never made it back, and while the company was nice for a while, the hurt in the end wasn't worth it anymore. There's something about you that he can't quite place, but it doesn't matter, because he's not going to get attached. When you first stepped into the training hall you didn't look scared, you didn't even look excited, no, you looked like you had made peace.

He didn't get to talk to you much, you spend most of your training with Mags, not learning how to fight, but learning how to survive. And every time he watched you, he watched how your eyes lit up when learned how to filter water, he watched how proud Mags was of you each time. And he felt something tugging at him, he felt a need to get to know you. But he knew better.

Because what were the odds, he had seen this before, he had done this before. No, he shouldn't get attached to you. And yet, for the first time after returning from his own, he found himself watching the games. Watching the tributes become fewer and fewer, hoping, praying, that you'd make it through. The fewer left the more desperate he became. You've gotten this far, don't let the luck run out just yet. He saw how your last opponent fell, and he saw your face in the centre of the screen, of virtually every screen. And once again, you didn't look excited, you looked like you had found peace again, and maybe, just maybe, he let himself believe he could too, that you could show him.

He didn’t go see you after, it wouldn't be of any use. What more did he have to offer you, you did not need a mentor anymore. He had made peace, he had made peace with never seeing you again. So what was the difference if you were alive or not? That's what he thought, if he gave in now, he didn't think he'd ever be able to let go, it would keep coming back.

It wasn't until a few months later when someone knocked on his door, and in a sleepy haze, he opened it without thinking. He had spent the night at the capitol, and he never managed to get much rest after. Usually, when he had been gone for the night, Mags would come to check in on him, and have Valerian tea with him. He doubted it actually worked, but the effort was enough to brighten his day. So he opened the door, but it wasn't Mags, it was you. Your face was fuller, it had more colour, but the bags under your eyes were still there. Would Mags bring you Valerian tea as well? No, no he needed to stop thinking about you. The last time he had actually seen you was when you won. He had forced himself to avoid you ever since, he hadn't been completely sure why anymore, but now he knew again. The way you looked at him gave him hope, hope he couldn't afford. “What do you want” he asked, he sounded upset, and in a way he was, but the way the sparkle in your eyes dimmed made him regret it.

And so he opened the door further, stepping aside, and you didn't need more of an invitation before you walked in. You took a seat at his small kitchen table, and he decided it would be impolite not to join you, so he sat down as well. He was about to talk, but you beat him to the punch.

“Snow came to see me.” There is was he thought, the reason, everyone always had a reason. Still, he found himself allowing you to continue, wanting to hear your voice again, even if it brought bad news.

“I talked to Mags about it, but she said I should come see you, so here I am.” You chuckled, but the situation was not something that asked for it, must be nerves, he thought, but why were you nervous, surely he didn't make you nervous.

“Look, I don’t want to bother you with my problems Finnick, I know you're dealing with enough yourself, but I don’t know what else to do.” Your eyes glossed over, and you looked like you were about to start crying, but you didn't. He wanted to say something, to comfort you, but what was there to say? And so you two sat in silence, he was looking at you, he was memorizing your face. This was the last time he would let himself see you. He didn't want to get close to you, and with how mesmerizing you were to him, he knew better.

And yet, as days passed, he found himself thinking of you. Whenever he needed comfort, he thought of you, the way you smiled at him when he told you a nervous joke. He could get lost in the memory of your eyes, and more often than not, he did. Every day he spent without seeing you made his heart hurt.

Without thinking, he found himself walking to your door. It was like he wasn't in control of his own feet. He was in constant agony with himself. He wanted to be with you, but your kindness was one he couldn't afford, because it had the power to break him. He knocked on your door, not even aware he was doing so until he heard the sound echo back to him. He heard rustling, but he didn't hear you approaching the door, so he knocked again, and for good measure, he decided to call out. “Y/n? It’s me, it’s Finnick”. He heard someone approach the door at that, and a little bit of hope sparked inside him that you wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see you, but he knew better.

The door opened, but it wasn't you that he came face to face with, it was Mags. She was standing in your hallway with a sad smile on her face, and she didn't say anything, but she looked to the stairs on the right end corner. He didn't need any more encouragement, and he sped up them, taking two steps at a time. He knocked on the door he was in front of, but there wasn't an answer. But when he listened more closely, he could hear crying coming from the other side. You were crying. His mind was reeling with possibilities, but whatever it was that had caused this, he swore to himself he would fix it, even if it broke him.

And so he entered the room, opening the door softly so as not to startle you, but it didn't matter. He saw you in the corner, you had pulled your knees to your chest and he couldn't see your face from where you had hidden it, but his heart broke over it nonetheless. He walked towards you, testing the waters, testing his luck. He was scared for you, but mostly, he was scared you wouldn't want to see him. When you heard him, your head shot up to look at him. The way in which your eyes were bloodshot and swollen made him want to punch a hole in the wall next to you. The way your voice cracked when you said his name made him want to curl up right next to you. he got closer to you, kneeling down in front of you. Allowing you to take the next steps on your own time.

After a few minutes, you had slightly calmed down while he was tracing patterns on your knee with his thumb. You spoke to him, but you didn't look him in his eyes.

“They’re bidding on me Finnick, they’re bidding on me like I’m something to possess”

The feeling of dread that came over him was something he had never felt before. He thought he had gone through all someone could. He thought there was nothing that could hurt him anymore in a way he didn't already, but he had been wrong.

He was willing to do anything for you to be spared from this, but he knew it wasn't any use.

He knew better. And so he did all he could, taking you in his arms and whispering reassuring words, until your crying and your shaking stopped, and you seemed at peace again.

He had tried himself to get away from what snow had wanted, what the capitol had wanted, he tried everything he could think of, but he couldn't get away from it. He had made peace with the fact that people always wanted something from him, and maybe that's why he couldn't get you out of his head, because you were the only person that was at peace with him, without anything more, just him. So he told you the only thing he could. He told you he’d be there for you, that you’d get through it together. He wasn't sure if he believed it, but he knew it was what you needed to hear, it was what he had needed to hear, except there had been no one to tell him. He would spend the rest of his life wondering if you needed him.

But he won't shut you out again, he knows better.

Part 2: Should've Known

#finnick odair angst #finnick x reader #finnick angst #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x reader #finnick x y/n #finnick x you #hunger games #hunger games angst #angst #finnick odair fic #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair fanfiction #finnick odair sad #finnick odair imagine #finnick fic #finnick fanfic

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crimsonred-hi · 3 months

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Controversial Age Gap - Headcanons

Pairing: Andrew Hozier-Byrne

• He would be sooo secretive about it in fear of judgement.

• let’s be honest, most of his fans wouldn’t take kindly to him having a conservatively young lass, until they meet her.

• Someone would do an interview of her, and she just acts like she’s a pensioner when she’s actually a uni student.

• If Andrew was gonna date anyone that young she would have to be an old soul. Like already mentally in a nursing home. She would be like super smart and really mature, like he wants a girl he can talk to about literature and poetry, and the fact she’s really young doesn’t mean that much when she completes him.

• Even his friends and band would be find with her, because she acts about 50. She’s always in the corner talking politics with the oldest guy in the pub, because she likes making grown men cry, because she can.

• The Fans would be shocked, because someone would get a video of him getting a quick good luck kiss before he goes on stage, or someone would get a video of them at a festival while she’s fixing his hair for him.

—> Side Rant! Talking about hair! His hair is so healthy now he has her! Like she forces him to sit his arse down once a week so she can deep clean and condition his hair. He’s getting princess treatment.

• I can imagine her running her uni essays through him before they go to her professors, and every time he’s so shocked at how smart she is. Like, he wasn’t this smart, ‘are the younger generation?’ just better he would ask himself.

• We all know he listens to everything, he’s very eclectic. He would love teaching you the blues, he also doesn’t let you play your music, only his. And if you learn his favourite songs and sing them in the car with him, he might cry.

• He’s getting you in any show you want: ya wanna to see Noah Kahan, your going: ya wanna see Lana Del Ray, your going: ya wanna see Taylor Swift, your going. Etc, etc. He’ll get you there, even if he doesn’t like the music that artist makes, he’ll bring his ear plugs and happily watch you enjoy it.

• He would be so careful about talking about you, but it’s a struggle because he’s so proud of you.

• He just thinks you’re incredible. And he wants everyone to know about it, but he’s scared people will judge him for dating someone so much younger than him.

• That jacket in the photo, I bet you think it looks good on him. He thinks it looks better on you. He thinks everything looks better on you; that green jumper he wears all the time, he thinks it looks better when you wear it.

• He loves when your at his concerts, he adores watching you sing and dance along. While everyone thinks he’s winking at them, he’s actually winking at you.

• He loves it when you lay on his chest, you’re so much smaller than him, and watching you distress with the sound of his heart is everything to him.

• She will just spout TikTok and gen z nonsense at him, she once called him ‘submissive and breed-able’ and the look of fear on his face when he turned around to look at her.

—> “what did you just call me…?” He asks his voice cracking with genuine fear, and she just laughs in his face. She just kisses his cheek and runs of giggling.

• He’s probably the first man she’s been with that has a full beard, so she kinda has a little obsession with it. All the other lads she’s dated were her own age and couldn’t grow there pwn full beards, while Andrew is looking sexy as fuck with his beard.

—> He loves when she scratches his beard, because of her obsession with his beard, he practically purrs when she scratches his beard.

—> Also his chest hair, he very rarely goes shirtless but when he does her hands are always desperately trying to get into his chest hair.

• He also gives her beard burn on her thighs and-

• I really like that photo of Andrew, he looks like a god, just me or is he the perfect Poseidon or Hades or Orpheus. Or is he just drop dead gorgeous.

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #hozier x reader #the hoziest #hozier my beloved #hozier fluff #Hozier headcanons #headcanon

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prythianpages · 1 month

Text

You're Good To Me | Eris x Reader

summary: Eris realizes two things. One, he's in love with you, his brother's betrothed. Two, he's put you in danger.

warnings: angst, mentions of killing, but there is some fluff in the middle!

a/n: This one is inspired by Hozier's Would That I. Eris is so Hozier coded and when I heard this song, I couldn't help myself but write this. You can find the masterlist for this series here or just read this as a stand alone imagine. I rewrote the last scenes to this so many times within the past couple of hours but I think I'm finally content with this.

The late morning sun casts long shadows through the towering trees of the Autumn Court's sprawling estate, dappling over Eris with golden hues. Resting against a centuries-old oak, he reads a book–your book–while his hounds run about freely. Occasionally, they bring him a random stick that he happily throws.

She was soft as an angel but oh, she could love with the fury of a demon–

Clover, his youngest hound, barks, pulling his attention from the book. It’s one that has an adorable chirp to it. His fingers still on the page he was about to turn. Recently, there’s been only one other person–besides him, of course– who can elicit such a sound.

With a roar of a fire, Eris’s heart rises to its feet, mirroring Clover’s excitement. He can feel you too. You’re close. The book he was reading lays forgotten in his lap as he listens for the telltale sound of hoofbeats drawing near.

You had gone for a morning ride with his mother as you’ve done nearly every morning for the past week. How convenient for Eris to be reading near the stables around the time you’d return.

He was strategically positioned not to be in your direct line of sight but for you to come into his.

You’re laughing at something his mother said and the small smile that tugs at his lips is almost inevitable. He lifts his gaze, admiring the carefree expression on your face and the way the sunlight catches your hair. Clover lets out a small wine, tail wagging in anticipation as she watches you. She looks back at Eris, as if asking if she could run to you, and though Eris isn’t one to deny his hounds, he shakes his head at her. He wants to bask in your presence from afar awhile longer.

He can tell your lips are moving but from where he sits, he can’t discern your words. The soft pat you give your horse, Maximus, and the responding loud neigh is enough to clue him in. Maximus stands proud, his long white mane blowing in the gentle morning breeze as you dismount him with the help of one of the stablemen. You traded your pretty dresses for something more fitting for your morning ride. His gaze lingers on the way your pants cling to your curves longer than it should.

A low growl from Clover has him abruptly tearing his gaze away from your body. He watches as you run toward an older male. Your smile is so bright it competes with the sun as you throw your arms around your father. There’s something unsettling about the way your father looks at you. Something that makes your father undeserving of your smile.

While you look up at him in admiration, he looks at you as if you are his most prized possession. An object. He can tell his mother senses it too by the forced smile on her face as she politely greets him.

In the blink of an eye, Clover is darting toward you with an urgency that startles Eris. The rest of his hounds pause, their muscles tensing as they watch the scene unfold. Your eyes widen in pleasant surprise. Clover bounds towards you, her tongue eagerly reaching out to shower you with affection.

“Do they just let vile creatures roam around freely here?” He hears your father loudly ask with a scowl on his face.

“Her name is Clover,” you are quick to correct, turning toward your father again.

Clover turns with you and suddenly, she’s growling and snapping at him. With a yelp, your father falls to the ground on his butt while Clover lowers her head with another growl in warning. Eris rises to his feet and brings his finger to his lips, letting out a sharp whistle.

Just as quickly as Clover had escaped his side, she obediently makes her way back to him. Your gaze follows after her, and it's then that you spot Eris. There's a softness in your gaze as it lands on him. Despite the tension between Clover and your father, you seem unfazed. Your focus solely on Eris as the stablemen rush to help your father, who is groaning out profanities while his mother apologizes on Eris’s behalf.

Eris holds your gaze, patting Clover’s head in a reassuring manner. He’s not sorry about the whole ordeal. His hounds are trained to appear menacing and fearsome but they never attack without reason. Now, he’s inclined to investigate further, realizing he does not know enough about your father.

“Come along,” your father says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and forcing your attention back to him. He looks down at your outfit and a frown appears on his face. “You’re a Lady now, y/n. You need to dress like it.”

“I’m sorry,” he hears you apologize, unsettling him further. He watches as your body is enveloped by a golden glow and when he blinks, your riding outfit is replaced by a soft pink gown.

As your father rushes you back toward the forest house, you can’t help but glance back. There’s the slightest curve to Eris’s lips at that. He waves your book in a teasing manner, reveling in the immediate response he receives. You quickly turn back around and even from his distance, he can appreciate the blush that warms your cheeks. He feels a similar warmth swell in his chest, leaving him already anticipating seeing you again at dinner.

Eris hesitantly turns the final page of the book, as if reluctant to part ways. He had needed something to preoccupy himself with until dinner and with his father thankfully busy entertaining yours, he decided to immerse himself further into the book you held dear. He knew it was one you treasured by the worn-out cover and the pages threatening to detach from the spine. He’s almost distraught at the creases that line the top edges of random pages but is willing to forgive you for it.

His gaze settles on the last words, a bittersweet ache tugging at his heartstrings.

"You are the love that came without warning. You had my heart before I could say no,” he breathes, holding her close. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“It’s okay,” she croaks out as she looks up at him, blood seeping from her mouth. “I love you too.”

And as she drew her last breath, he felt his world end with it.

He stares at the words, reading them over and over again. Finally, he closes the book, but the words linger, echoing within him like a haunting melody. They stir emotions in him he’s never felt towards the ending of a book before. He feels lost. Angry. Disbelief. What kind of ending was this? If this book wasn’t yours, he would’ve flung it across his room.

He lets out a deep exhale, eyes fluttering shut momentarily. When he opens them, he looks at the clock hanging across the wall from him. Two hours until dinner still looms ahead. He wants to find you, to tell you his thoughts like you told him to but it’s too risky at this moment.

Rising from his seat, he gingerly sets your cherished book down on the small table beside him. He grabs his coat, deciding fresh air will do him well. Perhaps, even a walk through the village. There is a shop he’d like to visit. Anything to quiet his thoughts and the clamor of his racing heart. The characters from the book struck a chord too familiar with him.

“Hold my hand.”

“No.”

Eris pauses at the voices, eyes immediately finding the owners. There's a notable gap between you and Sawyer, tension crackling in the air as you exchange heated glances. For a moment, Eris wonders if there’s fire coursing through your veins too.

“Listen,” you start. “I don’t want to hold your hand but I want my father to believe I’m happy.”

Sawyer lets out a chuckle. “Your father doesn’t care.”

The look of hurt that flashes in your eyes is enough to have Eris’s blood boiling. “Can’t you at least do this one thing for me?” You plead, clasping your hands in front of him.

“Nope,” Sawyer repeats, accentuating the “p” sound, evidently relishing in the opportunity to further irk you.

“Gods, you’re such an–an…”

Sawyer raises a challenging eyebrow, his gaze locking onto you as your voice wavers, the resolve slipping away. "Say it," he whispers sharply, and Eris's muscles tense instinctively, not liking his brother's tone. Maybe, he should intervene…and teach Sawyer another lesson.

“You’re an asshole.”

Eris almost chokes on his own spit. He fights back the urge to laugh. Not at you, but at the sheer surprise written all over Sawyer's face. Sawyer clearly hadn't expected such boldness from you, and if Eris were to be honest, he is surprised too. Pleasantly surprised.

“Only for you,” Sawyer hisses back, surprise morphing into offense.

“I won’t even breathe in your direction for the next week.”

“And?”

You look at him incredulously. “And?”

Sawyer doesn’t respond. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, letting you know he expects more from you. Your response is a frustrated huff, a sound that would have typically elicited an amused smile from Eris. But not at this moment.

“Fine. I’ll cover for you for all the days leading up to our wedding. Do whom and what as you please. But–” you pause, holding a finger out to him. “–you have to say something nice to me in front of my father too.”

Sawyer’s lips curve into a pleased smirk. “That’s more like it, poo bear,” he purrs, bringing his hand up to pinch at your cheek a little too rough for Eris’s liking.

His fists clench at his sides, watching with envy as Sawyer slowly offers you his arm. Though it’s what you asked for, you eye it with caution. As soon as your hand is lifting to take Sawyer’s arm, Eris finally decides to make his presence known. He walks forward and toward the still notable gap between you and his younger brother. His shoulder purposely bumps into Sawyer’s, a mask of indifference on his face as he does so.

On the other side, his fingers graze against yours. A gesture so subtle it appears to be accidental. There’s no nuance in your expression but your fingers respond, gently lingering over his own. A tug on that golden thread in his chest has his steps wanting to falter. He does not give in, pushing forward instead.

Eris walks into the dining room and settles into his seat beside his mother, nodding a greeting to both his father and yours. They’re already immersed in what sounds like a pointless conversation over Prythian’s economy. Knowing that you and Sawyer will be following shortly, hand in hand, he yanks the bottle of wine from Oliver’s grasp. The heated glare he receives is instant but he couldn’t care any less as he fills his glass to the brim, wishing it was something stronger.

“There’s my blooming flower,” he hears your father happily greet as you grace them with your presence.

“The prettiest flower,” Sawyer remarks in a tone as smooth and soft as velvet. His younger brothers snicker, clearly amused with the drastic change in Sawyer’s attitude toward you.

Eris, however, does not find it amusing.

The grip on his glass tightens so harshly that his mother spares him a glance. She gives him a discreet kick under the table, silently urging him to relax. While his grip on his wine glass loosens, the tension in his jaw doesn’t. He remains quiet during dinner, chiming in only enough to not raise suspicion. He doesn’t dare to sneak a glance at you. Nor at Sawyer. Not even to glare daggers at him for every sweet word he speaks your way.

He knows it’s all an act but the thought does nothing to soothe him. Not when he heard you begging Sawyer to act like he likes you, to hold your hand, to say sweet nothings to you. To do all the things Eris is desperately yearning to do.

The Cauldron was cruel.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well here,” your father says as you walk arm in arm. “A flower like you needs the right soil to flourish.”

After dinner, the two of you had taken a stroll through the gardens, catching up with one another. He told you all about his recent business adventures, gloating over how the deals coming his way were endless as the word of your family name mixed with the Vanserras spread throughout Prythian. It was when the autumn winds began to pick up and grew too cold for your liking that you made your way back in the forest house and toward your room.

“Do you really have to leave so soon?” You ask, a frown settling over your brows. Please stay, you want to add.

“I’m afraid so. I have a meeting with a potential business partner in Hewn City so I’ll have to leave early tomorrow to prepare,” your father replies in an apologetic tone. “I’ll try to make it in time for your next dress fitting.”

“Okay,” you respond, forcing another smile to your face. You hope your father can’t see right through it. “I’ll wake up early tomorrow to bid you farewell.”

“Lovely,” Your father says, the two of you coming to a stop near your door, where an Autumn guard is stationed right in front. With a nod of his head, the guard steps aside, allowing you access to your room. “Sleep well, okay?”

You lean your back against the door in contemplation. There’s so much you want to say. You want to tell him the truth. To ask him to call off the wedding. To have him take you with him, even if its to Hewn City.

Perhaps, if it were your mother standing before you, you would’ve confessed it all. She was always willing to listen. Your father…not so much. Given the way he was already bragging about the benefits from your arranged marriage, you worried it’d only be a waste of your breath. You also feared burdening him further, knowing he already had a lot on his plate.

You worry your father senses your inner turmoil when he reaches out a hand, lifting your chin. He smiles at you, his eyes seemingly capturing every detail of your presence. Almost like he’s etching it into his memory forever. “You’re everything I could’ve asked for and more in a daughter. Your mother would be proud too.”

There’s a pang in your chest and your smile falters. Something tells you, you wouldn’t be marrying Sawyer if she were alive. Unlike your father, she would see right through you and find a way out for you. But you can’t blame your father, either. Your mother’s last wish was to see you married and happy. Your father only wishes to honor it.

So instead of voicing your worries, you nod. “Goodnight, father.”

When you enter your room, you swear your heart skips a beat. Eris stands tall by your window, his red hair glowing like strands of molten copper under the pale moonlight. His gaze is fixed on the rustle of the leaves from the cool breeze, the shadows dancing across his delicate features. He looks ethereal just standing there.

“Your view is better than mine.”

You’re quick to shut the door behind you. “Lord Eris.”

Eris lets out a snort at your formality. He turns to face you with a small smile. “Just Eris,” he reminds softly as you approach him.

“Sorry, it’s a habit now,” you reply in a sheepish manner. You walk further into your room, joining him at his side. “What are you doing here? You didn’t leave a note this time.”

“I finally finished it.” Eris says as he reveals what he’s holding in his hands. Your book.

“You did?” Your eyes widen as you take it back from him.

The spine is gently bowed from decades of being held dear but you notice that the pages that were teetering away from the spine have been carefully attached back. What catches your eyes most, however, is the golden thread dangling from the midst of the pages. Your fingers toy with the autumn leaf charms that hang from it. Opening the book, you realize the string is attached to a bookmark. It’s placed exactly where you had last creased the page you had been on.

“I can’t believe you dog ear your pages, angel.”

Eris’s nose crinkles in disgust yet there’s an amused gleam in his eyes that has a laugh bubbling in your chest. “You say it like it’s a crime.”

“Because it is,” he insists with an incredulous furrow of his brow.

“Did you like it?”

“Like?” He laughs and you feel a flutter of uncertainty course through you. “I loved it,” he admits, soothing the flutter but then adds: “But I hated the ending.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoes, his tone mirroring the playful glint dancing in his eyes.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment and you remind yourself to breathe properly. “Do you want to talk about it?” You offer tentatively, your heart racing with anticipation.

Eris grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Sitting on the window seat, he adjusts his body so that his back leans against the window. He carefully angles his legs, giving you space to sit too. You settle across from, hugging your knees to your chest.

“Start from the beginning.”

And so Eris does, pouring out his every thought.

He tells you how he enjoyed the author’s world building of the human world, though he knows in reality, it’s actually very boring. You attempt to defend the mortals but Eris dismisses it, claiming he knows their world is dull based on a human he knows. He then tells you how the slow burn romance between the two protagonists nearly drove him insane. That he’d never been more happy to read about two characters holding hands.

“And don’t even get me started on the intimate scenes between those two. It went on in extravagant details for pages and pages,” he says with an amused exhalation. “How something so vulgar can be written so beautifully is beyond me!”

You can’t help but laugh at that, despite the heat rising to your cheeks. Eris continues with his passionate rant and you drink every single word. At some points, he pauses, asking for your interpretations of certain scenes, bringing forth small arguments and laughter.

"I just can't get over that ending," Eris remarks with a sigh, his brow furrowing in frustration. "It's just so... sad. Disappointing, almost. After all that trouble the hero went to save her only for her to still die at the end...”

"But isn't there a certain beauty in tragedy?" you counter softly. "The way it makes you feel, the emotions it evokes. The angst. Because as you read, you slowly begin to realize that it was not her who needed saving but him.”

Eris tilts his head, contemplating your words for a moment. Of course, you would see the beauty in the ending. His lips curve into a pout. He needs to protect you at all costs. He doesn’t want you to end up like him, spirit crushed by the cruel confinements of this court and forced to wear a mask at all times.

"I suppose I just prefer stories with happy endings. Life's already filled with enough sadness, isn't it?"

“It is,” you murmur, gaze softening with empathy. Then, your eyes are lighting up as a thought crosses your mind and you’re smiling at him. “Who would’ve thought Eris Vanserra, the heir to the Autumn Court, is a hopeless romantic with a soft spot for happy endings.”

The smile that breaks out brightens his entire expression and he lets out a chuckle, sending a warm flutter through your chest. He leans in closer, his amber eyes alight with an intensity that mirrors the flickering flames of the hearth in your room.

“And who would’ve thought a saint like you has the mind of a sinner.”

“Hey!” You gasp and give a playful kick to his thigh.

Eris laughs, body relaxing as he slumps against the window for support. He’s lost count of the amount of times you two have laughed tonight but he knows it’s more than he ever has before. When you shift to give another kick, his hand grasps at your ankles. He raises a brow at you in challenge, almost daring you to try again.

“You said and I quote ‘something so vulgar can be written so beautifully,’ meaning that you enjoyed them too.”

“I did,” Eris agrees, lips curling into a smirk as he lifts his gaze. His fingers mindlessly dance across your exposed leg, sending a delightful shiver through you. “But I am no saint.”

It’s when he feels your leg twitch that he realizes what he’d been doing. He stands abruptly and lowers his head. He fears he’s getting too comfortable around you. “I sh–”

Standing from the window seat, your hand grasps for his, stopping him. “Since you read one of my favorites, it’s only fair that I read one of yours.”

Eris's eyes widen in surprise and he turns back to look at you. No one has ever asked him about his favorite book. He read yours because he wanted to, curious to learn more about you through it. He didn’t expect you to return the gesture.

"Deal.”

The word escapes him with such ease it scares him but it’s short lived as he’s overcome with excitement. His passion for reading had always been a solitary pursuit. It was something he never really shared with others, but he wants to with you.

“I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you respond happily.

“But,” he begins, not allowing you to let go of his hand, his thumb brushes against the back of it. “You’re not allowed to dog ear my pages.”

“I’ll also need a book in return. It’s only fair,” he adds, mimicking your tone from earlier. His mind then drifts to thoughts of the both of you, curled up against one another with a book in your laps. Or maybe, you’d read to him while he holds you close, his head resting atop your shoulder and–

“Of course,” you reply, pulling him from his fantasies and toward the other side of your room, where many books were neatly lined atop a shelf. “I couldn’t bring all my books but I brought all my absolute favorites!"

Eris watches as you hum in contemplation. His attention is drawn to the way you tap a finger against your lips. He remembers the way they felt against his cheek. Lovely and sweet. Like your heart. He’s dying to know what they’d feel like against his lips…

He knows you’ve finally decided on a book when your other hand frees itself from his hold to reach out for it. You carefully slide it off the shelf and then turn around, presenting it to him. “You’ll love this one,” you tell him and you’re so confident it has his lips twitching upwards for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “It has a happy ending."

"I think I...," his voice wavers with a delicate tremor. He looks away, his cheeks tinged with a delicate blush over the words he couldn't bring himself to articulate. "You're good to me," he murmurs instead, taking the book from you.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Your words coax his gaze back to yours and the sincerity he finds in your eyes is one that’s never been directed at him before. It stirs a desire in him that he never even knew he was searching for.

The fire in his veins burns brighter. The bond in his chest sings louder. He allows it to pull him closer to you. You're also leaning in until the book in his hand is the only barrier between your bodies.

There's nothing else to interrupt this moment between you both. No bells chiming like that day in the fountains. No cloak to trip over or lanterns like that night he snuck you out. It's just you two, in the stillness of the night, where the only sounds are your breaths and the crackle of the hearth nearby.

His movements are slow, giving you the chance to pull away at any moment. You don't. He watches your every shift in expression as his free hand tilts your chin up towards him. Your eyes flutter shut in anticipation.

And then he's kissing you.

Softly and delicately like a butterfly's wings. Your lips are warm and perfect against his, your taste sweet and intoxicating. Even better than he could ever imagine.

Your hands travel up his neck and thread themselves through his hair, pressing his lips harsher against yours. Heat courses through him as you kiss him back. You're like a wildfire, burning away all memories of past lovers and leaving only the embers of your essence to light his way.

When he pulls away, a shared breathlessness lingers between you. As he looks into your eyes, it's like the world has somehow shifted. All at once, everything is different. He longs for the night he'll be able to hold you tight and let the blinding light you bring consume him fully.

For now, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in and taking in the soft smile on your face that mirrors his own.

But the very next morning, he's harshly reminded that though he's had a taste, your radiance remains beyond his grasp. He fears it will forever, like a forbidden flame that flickers just out of reach.

"Who does he think he is, making demands of me?" Beron seethes, his voice laced with frustration, as he paces back and forth in his study. “I’ve graciously taken in his daughter. I’ve even granted him half of his money upfront. And yet where is my promise?”

Eris, standing nearby, observes with cautious eyes, gauging the storm brewing within his father. He knew it was going to be a bad day the moment he woke up from a nightmare. A nightmare whose cruel grip he still cannot shake off…because for the first time, you were in it.

He prays his father can’t hear the rapid beating of his heart as he says, “Cancel the deal. Call off the wedding with Sawyer...”

And wed her to me, he wishes to add but the words stick in his throat. The painful truth lingers deep in his chest, nestled next to the strings of fate that bind him to you. It’s best if you leave this court and go somewhere far.

Far away where happiness might embrace you. Far away from the cruel clutches of his father’s power and even your own. Far away where you may free him of this torment…but the more time he spends with you, the more precarious the thread his honor hangs on becomes.

He fears that nowhere would be far enough now.

“Call off the wedding?” Beron laughs in an incredulous manner. The gold and crimson tapestries adorning the walls seem to shiver in response to his father’s simmering frustration. When Beron abruptly turns to face Eris, the younger male can’t help but flinch. “When you were the one who suggested this arrangement to begin with.”

Eris’s throat tightens. He had been the one to suggest this arranged marriage.

Your father, a respected merchant, extended an offer to Beron – an offer that, even now, Eris grapples to comprehend fully. It was a proposal that was lured with promises of enhanced power for the High Lord of Autumn in exchange for wealth and elevated status through matrimonial ties.

With no available Vanserra daughters to marry your father to and Sawyer's nightly endeavors tarnishing the family name, it led Eris to suggest an arranged marriage between you and Sawyer. A futile attempt to protect his younger brother from a fate similar to Lucien’s…but at what cost?

The Cauldron must be bubbling with amusement at the irony of it all. For, unknowingly, Eris orchestrated the union between you, his mate, and his brother. This is all his doing. All his fault.

Eris wills himself to maintain an outward appearance of calm. “What’s so important about this exchange anyway?” He asks with a measured voice.

“Jareth has access to something precious,” Beron responds, his words chosen with deliberate care. "Something that may hold the key to immortality."

Eris's eyebrows furrow in contemplation, his mind racing to grasp at what special thing your father could be harboring. "What if he is bluffing?"

Beron's eyes darken, sending a shiver down Eris's spine. His heart sinks to his stomach as he can already anticipate what his father is going to say.

“I’ll kill his precious daughter. Then, I’ll kill him.”

If your father keeps his end of the bargain, you’ll marry Sawyer. Doomed to a life of misery, where danger lurks at every corner. If your father doesn’t keep his end of the bargain, you’ll be the one to face the consequences of his father's wrath.

And you're in this situation because of him. The bond in his chest tightens, the golden strings pulling taut with a piercing resonance. No, no, no. Panic seeps in with an agonizing intensity. The mere thought of any harm coming to you, especially because of his actions, sickens him to his stomach.

He can’t allow that to happen. He won't allow it to happen.

“That won’t be necessary,” Eris says, carrying the weight of centuries of practiced composure. “I’ll ensure Jareth keeps his end of the bargain.”

“As expected,” Beron replies in a pleased tone. “I’m counting on you.”

Eris manages a nod, silently excusing himself. He’s never been more desperate to leave his father’s study. He feels his hands begin to shake and he shoves them into his pockets, not wanting to allow anyone a glimpse of the turmoil raging inside.

It's only when he's in the comfort of his room that he allows his facade to crumble. Leaning heavily against the door, he slowly sinks to the floor. His hounds are immediately rushing to his side, noses brushing softly against his arms.

"I made a terrible mistake," he tells them quietly and a low whine comes from one of them in protest. Then, with a strong determination, he says, "but I'm going to fix it."

"I swear it," he promises, rising to his feet, his hounds following after him as he makes his way further into his room.

You're not going to marry Sawyer and you're not going to be the one to pay the consequences of your father's actions, should he betray them. No. Eris will make sure of that. He's running out of time but he's going to find a way to get you out of this mess. He knows he can.

Eris realizes then he'd do anything to keep you safe, even if it means losing everything. Because if there's one thing he can't lose, it's you.

a/n: and here comes the angst train. I hope you enjoyed Eris and reader talking about her favorite book as much as I enjoyed writing it ♡

tagging: @fabulouslyflamboyant5 @fxckmiup @stormhearty @skyesayshi @sfhsgrad-blog @crazylokonugget @evergreenlark @secretlyhers @mybestfriendmademe @ib525, @96jnie, @kennedy-brooke, @scooobies, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria, @glitterypirateduck @thatsassyhufflepuff @acourtofbatboydreams, @mal-adaptive-dreams

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra x y/n #eris angst #eris vanserra angst #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar angst #acotar x you #acotar x y/n #eris angel au #eris vanserra imagine #eris vanserra fanfic #eris acotar #Eris vanserra

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starkwlkr · 1 month

Text

like real people do (sv5)

honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips. we should just kiss like real people do — hozier

i wait for you masterlist

ABU DHABI 2010

“Sebastian Vettel, you are the world champion!”

“The youngest world champion in F1 history!”

Sofia had heard it all. She wasn’t sad that she couldn’t finish the race, she was happy. At least she could see Sebastian cross the finish line. She had changed into a simple t shirt and jeans with some converse. After the race, all she wanted to do was see Sebastian, but she knew he would be busy with post race interviews so Sofia made her way to the Porsche motorhome in search of a snack.

“Sofia! Hey!” She heard Jenson’s voice as she was about to enter the motorhome. “Your lover boy is looking for you!”

Several people in the paddock stared at both Jenson and Sofia wondering who the lover boy was. The woman chuckled as Jenson winked at her. “You do know everyone just heard you?”

“You do know I don’t care.” Jenson said making her roll her eyes. He catches up to her and gave her a hug. “He’s been asking for you.”

“He can wait. I deserve some ice cream after that shit race.” Sofia replied.

“Yeah, we’ll don’t keep lover boy waiting. It’s annoying when he keeps asking for you. I love you, but please I can’t handle another ‘where’s sofia?’.” Jenson joked.

“I’ll go see him in a bit. He’s probably being held back by reporters.” Sofia said. “Would you like some ice cream?”

Jenson didn’t think twice about that. “Yeah, I could go for some.”

—

After finishing the vanilla ice cream, Sofia said goodbye to Jenson and made her way to the Red Bull garage. The celebrations were still going on. Soon, she saw Sebastian being congratulated by other people, one of them whispering something in his ear making him turn around and spot her.

“Schatz!” Sebastian ignored everyone around him and hurriedly pulled Sofia into a hug. “I’m so sorry about-”

“It’s doesn’t matter. You’re a world champion, Seb.” Sofia pulled away from the hug and kissed his cheek that taste too much like champagne. She could feel the stares of people on them. The cameras clicking so fast, she was sure one of them was going to pop up in a gossip magazine the next day.

Sebastian then took her hand and led her to his driver’s room where it was much more private. Now it definitely looked like something a couple would do, but Sebastian could care less. He was world champion and he wanted to celebrate with Sofia.

“My mom called, she told me to tell you that she’s proud of you and congratulations.” Sofia mentioned as she entered Sebastian’s drivers room, him following closely behind.

“When is she coming to a race? I haven’t seen her in a while.” Sebastian asked.

“She’s a teacher, she has teacher duties almost everyday. That woman doesn’t know when to stop working.” Sofia chuckled.

“We have to bring her out to a race. Which one do you think she’ll like? I’ll fly her out.”

“You’re going to make me look like a bad daughter.”

She sat on the tiny bed and watched as he got out a shirt and pants. He changed in front of her many times and it was never awkward, they were that comfortable with each other. He unzipped his suit and let it fall to his waist.

“What are your celebration plans? I’m assuming you won’t be in your hotel room until . . . 4am?” Sofia wondered.

“You mean we. You and I are going out.” Sebastian clarified. “It’s not a proper celebration without my best girl.”

“Oh so now I’m your girl?”

“You’ve always been my girl, my best girl.” He repeated.

Sofia stood up and approached him then whispered into his ear.“Funny, I don’t remember you asking me to be your girl.” She smiled then placed a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be outside waiting, champ.”

Sebastian knew she was just teasing, but hearing her voice so close made him weak in the knees. Her voice had always brought a great comfort to him.

When Sofia left and shut the door, Sebastian let out a deep sigh. “Shit.” He said as he realized that Sofia Barrett had him acting like a lovesick fool.

—

“Can I speak to you?”

Mark definitely wasn’t expecting Sebastian to be knocking at his hotel room door at 3 am, but here he was. The Australian was exhausted and all he wanted to do was sleep, but Sebastian had other plans.

“Is it important?” Mark asked, half asleep.

“To me it is.” Sebastian replied. Without Mark’s permission, he let himself in. “I need to talk about something that’s been bothering me.”

“Yeah, alright.” Mark said defeated. “What?” He closed the door and walked to his bed.

“Sofia.”

“Sofia . . has been bothering you?” He wasn’t sure if Sebastian was drunk. “Look, I get that I’m older than both of you, but this isn’t like school when someone bothers you and you tattle to the teacher, mate.”

“No, it’s not like that. It’s . . Just don’t make fun of me, okay? I think I’m in love with her, wait no, I am in love with her.” He admitted.

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m completely sober actually. But, yeah, I am in love with Sofia Barrett.” He nodded.

“And this involves me how?”

Sebastian sighed. “I just needed to tell someone and I trust you. Obviously I couldn’t tell Sofia, she’s way out of my league.”

Mark laughed. “Yeah, she is.” He watched as his teammate rolled his eyes. “Did she go out with you to celebrate?”

“She did.” He nodded. “She payed for all the drinks even though I told her not to. She even kissed my cheek many times, not that I’m complaining. She made everyone laugh at the table and then for some reason we started talking about bugs because we saw a bee near by. She started telling me all these facts about bees and I just sat there listening to every word.”

“Oh man, you’re in deep.”

#formula 1 #f1 x oc #sebastian vettel fluff #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #sv5 #sv5 fanfic #sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel fanfic

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bucknastysbabe · 3 months

Note

now, catholic school priest criston and aemonds twin. Criston is from a catholic family, wanted to be a priest since he was a little boy, going to the sunday mass with his mothet was like the highlight of his week, went into the seminary very young, never had a girlfriend, he is a good man alright. then aemonds twin, whos not catholic, not even christian, her dad doesnt even go to church but alicent is very catholic and she wanted her kids to go to catholic school. but shes a menace, a straight up gremlin, like aegon but a girl and not a loser (srry aegon ily). And criston is sure the devil sent her to tempt him and shes like but what if it was god the one who sent me for you??? And specially for you??? Like, as a treat?! 🤗

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6k of filth and catholic guilt

Tags: 90’s catholic school setting, Criston had the Crisis, mutual masturbation, confession booth shenanigans, age difference, manipulation, teacher/student relationship, sexual tension, Targtower reader, Criston’s woe is me internal monologue, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, pnv!sex, Jesus saw that Crispy, DESPERATION, priest kink, #imahorridcatholic

A/N: I made that priest edit and I’m proud also listened to talk by hozier for the entire last part. I’m a gremlin and made her her daeron’s twin.

Taglist: @fairysluna @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @arcielee @bambitas

Criston knew his purpose since the day he could recall. Nothing pleased him more than sitting in mass with his mother, going through Sunday school, getting ready to become an official Catholic. Confirmation was the one of the happiest days of his life.

Vocation became the forefront of Criston’s mind in school. He probably annoyed the hell out of Father Dondarrion, pestering the priest with questions upon questions about seminary. In the mean time, he was the best altar boy a Cole could be. A-team altar boy! Strong fumbled the bells every time, it repulsed Criston.

He did other school things such as tennis, won a state championship in that, got some offers for a spot on a college team. Then in the other season he played second base for the baseball team, won a state championship in that and received multiple offers to college teams. No, Criston had his mind made up. He could lead others to victory— through Christ’s love of course. He had to admit his father was quite pissed about the baseball team but he’d be okay. Criston had a little brother, he was athletic.

The young man had even tried dating, just to see if God called for Criston to instead populate the world and lead a family. Not tend to the flock of sheep. There was a plethora of girls but he fell for a devil.

Her name was Rhaenyra Targaryen and she left him in a puddle of tears. The rich girl couldn’t respect staying chaste until marriage. He was ready to give her a ring. The priest sniffed recalling her harsh words, “You, like, won’t even dry hump me? What’s the point?” At the time the young man was miffed, broken, distraught. Criston held a hand over his heart as he whispered tearily, “You want me to be your whore?”

Mind you, he was a foolish 17 year old. The man was tested with her, but he learned from the experience. Criston was obviously meant to be a priest. He prayed and prayed for God to reveal his path. The answer came in Father Dondarrion giving Criston a letter from the Archbishop himself, inviting the young man to join seminary.

Criston took his first vows at the tender age of 18. He spent the next seven years learning and perfecting his bond with God, ready to guide his brothers and sisters in Christ. He’d smile and wave off comments at his home parish, often elder women asking why such a handsome young man would devote his life to chastity.

He rarely thought much of it. Jerking off was a boring thing, simply a biological process Cole needed to take care of. He took no shame nor pleasure in it, not truly thinking of anything at all. It would lessen as he aged but currently Criston was twenty-five and a ‘hot blooded’ young man.

He got his first job as a teacher in a Catholic school. At the beginning, Father Criston Cole found a passion for teaching while on a mission trip. He was ecstatic for the job. A year later he was significantly less overzealous. Add some years later Criston found himself, well, bored. Agitated. Discontent if you will.

Lord knows he had to calm himself for these wayward children. After a long day the man would pour some scotch and wonder why the rich ones were the worst behaved. Especially the damn Targaryens— he thought he could escape from that name.

Rhaenyra’s father had remarried and they had five children. Rhaenyra had five herself, different fathers came the whispers. The two youngest apparently looked like her. Criston smirked into his glass, God was watching and protecting him even as a foolish kid. She left the church anyways, but the children were polite and well-behaved in class.

Alicent Hightower-Targaryen’s children were a handful. Aegon made Criston sick to his stomach, the idiot either drunk or high in class, flipping up skirts of poor girls. If the priest thought about the eldest too long he’d grow a headache. He chose not to dwell on the fact that the family generously paid for Aegon to graduate— like a twisted version of simony.

Then along came sweet Helaena, she made good marks but often had to be drawn back to attention, and he tried to stifle the bullying drawn to her strange nature. Aemond was another headache, in a good way. He seemed to fit the vocational lifestyle and bonded with Criston over it. Criston truly enjoyed discussing hot topics in the church with the smart lad.

Aemond just needed to let his anger go and let God in, Criston had to do the same, his temper could be stormy. Then Aemond graduated and went off to study the sciences. Criston frankly thought he was done. He forgot. The twins were seniors and signed into his year-long Papal History elective.

He was now 32, and God really had sent him a test this time. In the form of good-natured Daeron’s wily sister. He had to send her to the Headmaster’s office the first day! The pale-haired girl was wearing an…indecent…skirt. One to catch long shapely legs.

He huffed and downed the rest of his scotch. He knelt before his icon of Christ and prayed. ‘Please my loving lord, I am afraid you shall test me, but give me the strength to pass through this.’ He felt strange. This girl was trouble. Criston wiped his face and grabbed his scotch again, one more would do for the night. He hissed, “FuckingfuckfucksticksFUCK!” Eyes widening he apologized to the empty room, “Forgive me my lord, that was uncouth.”

It was November 1997. Father Cole thought about making a request to a parish to be their full-time priest. He suited up for the lovely worship of Mass, mood sour. Deacon Erryk was next to him, almost out of his seminary studies. Erryk hummed, “How’s the class this year?”

“A pain in my side. I have another Aegon Targaryen in the form of his youngest sister. She seeks to make me miserable.”

The man stifled a laugh and prodded, “Damn. Aegon was bad, he was in my class with you. My condolences Criston, pray that Mary will bless the girl with some sense.”

Criston grumbled, “Indeed.” He felt old. Erryk was about to be a priest now.

Mass went off good as gold, the younger altar boys falling into place easily. He could always see the believers and non-believers based on their actions. Some wouldn’t even stand when he entered the room, the cross bearer ignored too. If Criston could start throwing Holy Water he would, ingrates.

In the front row, Daeron and his sister sat. Criston tried not to grimace as he sat down in his chair. They’d have mass every Friday at the school. Confession on Tuesdays. Criston would teach a RCIA class next semester for those outside of the school at night.

She was staring at him, wearing another little dress with her button-up underneath the skinny straps. He could see her smokey eyeshadow and glossed lips, moving around a piece of gum. Daeron held himself in reverence, hands clasped. Criston turned away, he would not give the evil little blonde any satisfaction!

He shivered when she knelt and took the body of Christ, tongue lapping against his fingers with a licentious look. The priest almost yelped, moving onto the next. He was shaken for the rest of the ceremony. Maybe he should call for advice— no, no, they would think Cole some sort of deviant pedophile. That was a problem enough and she was merely being a temptress. ‘Son of a fucking BIIIIIIITCH’, he thought angrily. Then did the sign of the cross.

The beleaguered priest sat at his desk during his planning period, grading papers. The headphones on his head played some songs— his only vice. He loved ‘radical’ music. So Criston kept that little secret to himself. He liked to belt rock ballads. Only by himself in the rectory.

How embarrassing. A grown man of the cloth.

The door opening had Criston jerking his head up, hand flicking off his walkman. He raised a brow when it was the little Targaryen and her mother, livid by her expression and wild red hair. She shoved the girl in a seat and crossed her arms.

Criston stood up and greeted the frankly scary woman, “Miss Hightowergaryen, oh, Hightower-Targaryen yes!” He peeked at teary red eyes, deadpanning, “And you.” The senior scoffed, “Good to see you too Father.” He ignored her quip and cautiously asked, “What seems to be the problem?” Alicent raved, “She’s going off the wrong path, just like Aegon. Guess where Aegon is, tell Father Cole please!” She gave her daughter a sharp look.

The girl mumbled something before getting a pinch to her arm. She croaked, “He’s in rehab! Rehab! Alright there mom!” The younger curled in and hid under her blonde hair, streaked with some sort of red dye.

He frowned but couldn’t say he was quite surprised. Criston offered, “My apologies, may he find the light of His way soon. Occasionally some rejoin the church or convert after getting clean and sober. Is there an issue with my student Miss?”

Alicent sighed, calming a bit and taking a deep breath. She looked up, doe eyes wide and pleading. The mother asked, “Can we go into your private office for a second Father?” She stopped and hissed, “Don’t you move an inch!”

A roll of violet eyes was the answer, pouting lips turning further downward.

Criston perched on his desk and tried to soothe the woman, “Alicent, relax my old friend, what can I do for you?” He offered a look of sympathy, watching her pace and run a hand wildly through her hair. The woman stopped in place and whimpered, “She’s so lost, I can’t screw up another one of my babies. I need you to keep an eye on her, pray and guide, something…Something so I know I tried.”

She looked very tired, taking a sharp breath in to chew at her nails. Alicent rambled, “She was so good, her and Daeron were so good. Then she turned sixteen and something happened, I don’t know what, and it’s gotten worse. She hates Sunday mass, like Aegon and Rhaenyra. I don’t want to lose her forever to whatever this is, straying off the path.”

He nodded contemplatively, hand on his chin, thinking. Alicent was in a state of chronic stress, even back when they were all in school. She married Rhaenyra’s father so young, nineteen to be exact. He felt a need to protect the woman of God, just trying her best to lead her children to heaven since Viserys did not seem to be in the picture.

He swore, “I’ll do my best, you have my word Alicent. God bless you, let me bless you.” He prayed over her and the tenseness seemed to leave her shoulders. Alicent smiled softly and thanked Criston, the pair of them exiting the office.

Her daughter remained seated, looking more miserable by the second. She gazed up with curious eyes, mouth still set in a pout. Alicent beamed, “Father Criston will be keeping an eye on you and reporting to me, okay? You will behave and try to learn that the path of the righteous is never easy.”

She raised a brow, “So I’m going to have my priest follow me around? That’s uncool.”

Alicent stiffened and remarked, “No. You’ll come to him when in trouble. You’ll be spending lunch with him too so you don’t go off and smoke like a vagrant. We will go sign it in with the headmaster now. Get up.”

Criston had to hold his jaw closed. He definitely did not know what he was signing up for. Hail Mary, full of grace rambled off in his head. This would be a tumultuous year for sure— inked and sealed onto paper. God bless him.

“I guess we’ll be the best of friends now,” she snarled tearily.

Criston placed a hand on her shoulder and hummed, “God works in mysterious ways Targaryen.” Internally he was climbing a mountain and shouting at the heavens like some Bible prophet. He was feeling very Job-like at the moment.

First of all, he truly didn’t expect the girl to sit in his classroom during lunch. Criston raised a brow when she entered, slammed down her lunch and plopped down. She cocked her head and smiled, “Afternoon father.”

“Afternoon,” he replied, turning his gaze back upon the scripture he was annotating. Cole wanted to comment on her sudden chopping of that beautiful white-blonde hair, or the fact she smelled of minty cigarettes. She wasn’t supposed to be smoking.

It remained quiet until she blurted, “Do you smoke?”

Yes, in fact he did. But she didn’t need to know that. Criston murmured, “No I do not.” To which she lobbed back, “Is it not a sin to lie? I saw you in the parking lot! Also you smell like marlboros sometimes.” Her face turned bright red— like she had no control over her yapping.

Criston peeled off his glasses and sat back in his chair to level the girl with a stern look. He flatly stated, “Yes, good point, it was a sin for me to lie. Although as your teacher and priest I would not have you pick up bad habits,” he took a moment before asking, “How do I smell of cigarettes in class? Are you sniffing me?”

She stammered, “N-no! No! It’s just when you pass by, I don’t know, stop!”

Criston shook his head in concern, “Please do not sniff me in class, that’s, that’s strange.”

“I don’t sniff you! Quit saying that! Okay, enough of smoke talk! Hi how are you doing Father Cole?,” she animatedly gestured, eyes wild and cheeks pink.

He couldn’t help but snicker at her mad gestures. Snickers turned into genuine laughter, Criston slapping his desk a bit. A different hand slapping down on his desk made the man look up, donning a grin at her grumpy face. The littlest dragon hissed, “Ha-ha very funny. I asked you a question. Small talk, since I’m stuck here with you for lunch.”

Criston shrugged and replied, “Ask a better question, I don’t know how I’m doing half of the time. Especially having to babysit a legal adult.”

Her pout was endearing, the girl biting into her sandwich in an aggressive manner. She chewed and swallowed before blurting, “Is it true my half-sister dumped you in highschool?” Criston squawked in surprise, heaven on earth, how would she even get the knowledge? Rubbing the bridge of his nose he sighed.

“Yes, she dumped me. Didn’t want to stay chaste until marriage. That was a little personal don’t you think Miss Targaryen?”

She seemed to contemplate his words, sounding out her thoughts, “Now you’re a priest and she has like 2 baby daddies and a gay hubby. Cool. Love my family.” Her laugh was a sharp giggle, almost sarcastic in nature. Nothing like the torture of Aegon’s nonsensical shrieks.

Criston smiled a bit at the information, leaning back in his chair. He sucked on his teeth and asked her, “Why’d you cut off all your hair?” She narrowed her eyes and smiled, “I was wondering if you would make a comment, quote some scripture that shorter hair is for lesbians and therefore I’m going to hell.” The older man gaped and stared, almost choking at her blunt words.

“No- what? You’ve got some sort of an imagination!,” he sipped on a water bottle, offended she would assume he was that mean, “I think it fits you nicely, glad whatever dye you put in was lost in the chop.” He shook his head, muttering about lesbian scripture. She giggled again, content with flustering the priest.

Criston tried to hold off a headache as she yapped about school. He snorted a bit when she marked some of the students on the dot. Soon the bell rang and she packed up her lunch, swinging her backpack on. Stopping at the door she asked, “So what’s your poison of choice? I like the fancy camel ones.”

He stared blankly before deadpanning, “Marlboro reds, now begone Targaryen.”

Her endearing giggle echoed as she left, the door swinging shut. Criston sat back in his chair and sighed— she had spunk. He quite appreciated it. Maybe she was a gift to spice up his growing distaste of where his life was at.

His dark eyes widened. He’s got to be too young for a midlife crisis? Now he really wanted a cigarette.

Father Criston Cole was indeed having a mid-life crisis. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, fitting his clerical collar on. Peering closer he inspected his face. He was still relatively young looking, hair not showing any grays. Practicing a smile he immediately dropped the grin. Crows feet. Great.

The priest shivered at the slight wrinkles. Why did he care? He didn’t have anyone to impress. A cheeky smile and icy eyeshadow, choppy blonde hair flitted through his mind. Goodness gracious he was her teacher, her priest, went to school with the girl’s parent. A spiritual guide!

This was bad. The damn girl had him wrapped around her ringed pinky. Bringing her little gifts, letting the blonde stay after school to chit chat. One time he let her cry on his shoulder, upset about rumors swirling. Criston heard a lot in the classroom.

Slut, whore, burnout, bitch.

He didn’t want to know what the little dragon got up to in her spare time but his knuckles did whiten at the thought of her not treating her body as a temple. Letting stupid boys have their way. Not like he could help. He was a priest and the farthest he’d ever gotten was smooching Rhaenyra and grabbing her tit before freaking out.

He needed to pray. Pray away these sinful thoughts. Guilt wracked his chest. He couldn’t turn the girl away either— he made a promise to Alicent. On a better note, her grades and attendance had improved. Ali called him once to thank the priest for helping her daughter. Although the girl still was apprehensive about faith. He didn’t push the subject; she didn’t bring it up. Maybe sometime soon.

Brushing back his curls, Criston sprayed cologne on his dark garb. He bought it on a self-indulgent whim. Maybe to cover the cigarette smoke, truly to entice a certain favorite student. Instead he was pestered by other girls bringing treats and batting their eyes at him. The man of the cloth could care less about the others. He was hopelessly haunted by his agnostic, rebellious student.

The man prayed some, did a Hail Mary before smoking a cigarette or five with his coffee. He was jittery at school now, worried that somehow a teacher or the elder nun would run and declare him a sinful wretch. Locking himself in the office until class time seemed like a good option.

He tried to grade some papers, mind drifting off to the increasingly heavy burden on his shoulders. Something needed to give— he was afraid what that might be. Deacon Arryk gave the homily that morning mass since Criston was out of sorts. Trying to not stare when she knelt and took the body of Christ. Playfully flicking his fingers with that tongue and saying ‘amen’.

Thank the Trinity and the saints he was covered head to toe in thick vestments. Hiding his cock just brought to mind Criston’s change in habit. Jerking off wasn’t a mindless activity anymore. He imagined plump lips and her raspy voice, teasing him, so delightfully mean. Then he’d flip her around and- he usually came with a pathetic noise by that point in the fantasy.

He pressed his fingers into his temples, groaning aloud. Doomed. Eternal hell. Purgatory sentence maximum if he got lucky. The second bell of the day woke the man from his racing mind. Criston straightened up and popped some gum in. Mary take pity on his soul. Satan himself was testing Criston. Although he couldn’t help but think she was anything but demonic.

The next day the tired priest had to attend confession for two hours. Usually it wasn’t a laborious affair; most of the kids who attended were the devout sort and only had some venial sins. Daeron Targaryen was a regular attendee, his twin was not.

He thought he was done for the day, sighing in relief. The two hours were up. Until the curtain swished and someone entered. The brunette thought to groan and hit his head on the wood. Fuck him— sorry, forgiveness please Lord for the profanity.

Criston’s eyes widened when he heard a familiar voice. That lilting, teasing, raspy voice that was the specter of the nightmares and fantasies. He could faintly see the outline of her, that damn silvery blonde hair.

“Uhhh, bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been, uh, one year since my last confession?” She made the sign of the cross, bracelets jingling. Criston could snort— blondie was obviously reading off a note card. She remained quiet afterward.

He prodded, “Go on child.”

She huffed, “I’ve lied, slandered, gossiped about others. I’m inattentive in mass. I don’t respect my parents. I’ve been ungrateful, taking the lords body out of a state of grace. Obviously I’m egotistical, depraved of thoughts, I’m selfish.”

Father Cole swallowed.

She laughed blithely, “I could probably keep going except for mortal sins? I steal, sneak, deceive, suffer from jealousy and envy. Bad bad envy. Always want what I can’t have, y’know?”

He wanted to ask her to clarify…but had a feeling.

The twin’s voice lowered to a purr, “I think you’re waiting for the grand finale. I’m lustful, wanton, perform unnatural acts of sex. Inordinate affection, especially for men who are sworn to another. I defile myself to the thought of him.”

Criston gripped his black slacks roughly, cock swelling so fast he was pretty sure his vision had spots in it. He discreetly tried to readjust himself, swallowing back a whine. The man was no better than a horny boy— denying the pleasures of the flesh for so long.

“I’m a fornicator. Not lately. I can’t stop touching myself to the thought of him.”

The priest hadn’t stopped rubbing himself, biting on his bottom lip to shut up as she rambled on. Oh, it felt so goddamn good he was panting. Meanwhile from the other side he could hear her shifting, voice growing breathier as she talked.

“I think about him touching me, kissing me, those pretty lips and dark eyes only for me. I fucking hate when other girls talk to him— I slashed one’s t-tires.”

“No swearing,” Criston grunted.

“Sorry, where was I? I came so hard the other day wondering what his cock would feel like inside of me. I don’t know if y- he would last long but I’d keep riding, oh mmh!,” her breath hitched and he could hear slick noises from beyond the screen. She was touching herself in the booth. Touching herself. In the booth.

He leaned back, head thumping against the wood, practically humping his hand. Criston whined through his nose, mouth hanging open. The man was a goddamn mess, pleading, “You’d ride him huh? Until he got ready again?”

“Mhmmm, yeah, I’d put his pretty cock in my mouth until I felt him get hard. Hah, what do you think he would do to me?”

Oh holy spirits, he had no clue? Everything? He’d do anything? He drew on his fantasies and the dirty mag a boy brought to class once. Criston went home and asked forgiveness for seeing the woman…doing that.

His voice was much more desperate than he expected, tan cheeks turning a shade of darker red. Criston rambled, “I, oh heavens, he would do whatever she asked, maybe, maybe, put his mouth on her.”

He must have said the right thing, her breath quickened and he could see the outline of her arm moving faster. Emboldened, Cole practically whined, “He’d lick and suck at her until she was crying and grabbing his hair, ohfuckinghellfires!” Criston’s cock throbbed and twitched as he cursed and shoved a hand down his slacks.

“Yeah? Yeah? He’d eat me out? Suck on my clit, slip some f-fingers inside? I’d want it so bad,” she whimpered shakily. The priest panted and popped the button so he could fist himself easier, moaning shamelessly, scrunching his eyes closed.

The blonde’s voice was muffled, “Mmm- I’d take such good care of him, he could e-eat me out but I’d ride his cock until he couldn’t cum anymore, F-father please!” Criston could hear her squeal and his dark hair fell into his face as he curled inward. He babbled uselessly, rubbing himself as spurt after spurt of seed wetted his briefs.

There was a heavy feeling in the confession booth. The pair panted, sitting in silence. Shame poured over Criston like a bucket of ice. He quickly rearranged himself to not look like someone who just had the most intense orgasm of his life. The priest wanted to talk, truly, but he had no words.

So he bolted, ignoring her calls of his name. Criston kept moving, heading toward the rectory, he’d have to call out. Everything was spinning and he needed to just, just, he didn’t know. The stickiness in his pants was worsening the horrid feeling of being a pervert, he should’ve just sent her away. He will end this immediately tomorrow, for both of their souls if he hasn’t doomed them.

She didn’t appear for lunch. Did appear for class, eyes blazing into Criston’s head. Daeron even coughed and shoved her. She was glaring, not writing a damn thing as he lectured about the battle of Lepanto. The priest’s palms began to sweat. He wished the clock would go quicker.

“I’ll get a ride home, don’t worry about me Dare,” she said after the bell rung, students packing up their bags. Daeron raised an eyebrow but shrugged, moving on. One girl attempted to approach Criston with some papers in hand.

The dragon hissed something and shoulder checked the girl— Criston reluctantly scolding the blonde. Like it mattered, the other girl hightailed it out of his classroom. Pale eyes landed upon his own dark orbs, a strange look on her face.

“Office,” she said. Cole wasn’t in the position to deny. He tossed and turned all night, fighting whether to say fuck it and hang up the cassock or dismiss her and never speak of it again. When she was in his presence it leaned toward the former.

Criston walked in first, closing the blinds while she followed him. The man’s head jerked up when he heard the sound of the door locking. Little Miss Targaryen was wearing a particularly form fitting version of the school uniform, tits pushed up under the white button-down. Suddenly Criston was swallowing drool.

She snapped, “Sit down.”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook the senior a bit, leaning down to growl, “Do you even know what the hell you’re getting into? This could ruin us both! You aren’t going to order me around, I’m the damn adult here, I swore to your mother!” He sounded desperate, weary.

She sneered up at him, unphased, “Sit down or I’ll leave and pretend this never occurred. I know you want it, you want me,” she yanked at his white collar, “Mommy doesn’t have to know, Father.”

Why Criston was like a dog at a damn eighteen year old’s commands? He wasn’t quite sure. His tongue was glued down anyways, only huffing as he perched on the chair. She padded closer, smelling of vanilla and some other perfume. He bit off a whine when she sat on his desk, thighs spreading, giving the priest a view of her lacy skimp of underwear.

“Fucking hell baby,” he pled, hands aching to touch.

“What? You sure were enjoying yourself yesterday.”

He moaned, “We shouldn’t— this could cost us our souls. The deceiver is manipulating us, a test. I lost my wits yesterday.” Criston’s fingertips dug into his leaner thighs, eyes flicking between her pretty smirk and the peak of baby pink panties. The girl hummed sadly, faux pout setting his heart to aching something fierce.

“What if it isn’t the devil? What if I’m just a gift, for you, just for you Father,” she leaned in to his face, “Think outside your little imposed box. Don’t you feel this?” She snatched one of his hands, pressing it upon her beating heart, her soft breast.

He looked guiltily to the side. Criston whispered, “If you were a gift then why is are my feelings so wanton and lustful?”

Purple eyes rolled. She hiked the skirt up, exposing pale thighs and her cute underwear. Criston whimpered under his breath, hand still on her breast, squeezing. The girl moaned, “Chaste love, no, I think he sent me just for you, maybe you had the wrong calling?” Criston threw caution to the wind— the festering in his head grew, rotting away his senses.

He’d already fucked up. Her points were making more sense by the second. Why not enjoy life before he spent the afterlife in torment? He peered at his favorite and rasped, “Show me what to do, putting my mouth on you. Can I touch you?” The brunette internally cringed at his whiny tone. She smiled victoriously, breath delightfully hitching, manicured hands unbuttoning her top.

Criston grabbed ahold of those pretty thighs, marveling at how smooth they were as he pulled them forward until her ass was the only thing perched on his desk. She squeaked and grabbed onto his dark hair, cheeks going blotchy with pink spots. The priest figured he’d have a little instinct, something long denied festering along with his sinful thoughts.

Right now he was face to face with her cunt and Criston had lost his bravado, brown eyes peering up at her. She smirked knowing she had the upper hand again. The Targaryen laughed, “Alright, panties off first Father. Do you even know female anatomy?”

He blushed darkly, ignoring the comment and yanking down those pretty panties. They matched her bra, her breasts spilling out of the push-up with heavy breath. He stuffed the lace underwear selfishly in his pocket. Criston gritted his jaw, cock pressing painfully hard against the fly of his pants. She was glistening, swollen, something he could only conjure up and still get it wrong.

“The clit is the nub at the top,” she breathed.

Criston searched her eyes with his own, abashed at the lack of knowledge before delving his face between silky thighs. He moaned pitifully, embracing the natural scent, her hand in his curls. The man lapped at her sopping hole, excitedly delving his tongue inside, already obsessed with the sweet nectar.

“Fffuck,” she whined, thighs tensing around his neck. Criston’s nose bumped against her clitoris, reminding him of the ‘magic spot’ he’d heard girls giggle about between class changes. He licked his way upward, moaning, ignoring his own need. Pink lips sealed around her button, tentatively suckling.

The blonde jerked and mewled, “Criston, Criston, yes Father!”

He flicked his tongue against the button, big hands keeping those strong thighs from closing. She was trying to scoot away from his onslaught on her, whining and shivering. Criston pulled back to rumble, “All that talk and you’re running from my tongue now little girl?”

“M’gonna fucking cum,” she half-sobbed.

The priest wasn’t going to give up. He kept his attentions on that bundle, even slipping two fingers inside her pussy, exploring until she keened again. More and more slick covered his chin and fingers, utterly lost in this divine feeling. The blonde’s legs were shaking now, breath coming in short sobs. She babbled something, one hand white knuckling the desk, the other knotted into Criston’s hair.

He wished he could have saved her shrill cry of his name as Criston pushed the younger woman over that edge. She gushed and spasmed, finally pushing him away to settle down. Her makeup was smudged, hair a fucking mess. Cole thought she never looked prettier.

He was goddamn insane over her and he knew it. The devil long had his claws gripped into the priest. The man just lied and ignored until he couldn’t. Criston grabbed her and placed her on his thighs, cock pulsing, him reaching down to relieve pressure.

The blonde wrapped her arms round his neck, pretty pink nipples exposed now, the push-up doing nothing to help. She plastered herself to his body, lips mouthing across his neck, murmuring, “You learn quick, s’good.” Criston rubbed at her back, slipping a hand down to her a handful of her cute ass.

She pulled back, pale eyes roving Criston’s face. He stared in a daze as she spoke in a sultry, raspy tone, “You’re so hard, wanna fuck you, lemme fuck you Father.” He couldn’t help but moan long and low at her desperate plea. His cock was fit to burst, straining his briefs now.

“I want it, I want it,” he gasped.

In a flurry of movement he yanked off the collar, it would sicken him to have it on. She pulled at the buttons, pausing to unhook her bra, Criston shoving down his pants and underwear. She moaned, placing hands on his chest and sliding down trim stomach until a little hand grabbed his ruddy cock.

He made a strangled noise, eyes rolling up in his head. No wonder people did this— sin was utterly sweet. Criston panted her name, about to guide her hips onto him. He paused, brows furrowing. The deceiver himself spoke through her voice, “I’m on birth control, doesn’t matter.”

That’s all he needed to hear, roughly lifting her to guide his cock into that slick pussy. Criston made a gutted noise as she slipped onto him. Warm, wet, so goddamn snug and gently ridged. He whined, straight up whined, “Don’t move, don’t move, baby baby oh— haaah!”

She purred and pressed soft tits against Criston, their shallow breathing intermingling. The female whispered softly, petting his shoulders and arms, “S’okay, breathe, relax.”

Criston shook from head to toe, exhaling sharply, pitiful noises escaping a raw throat. He pressed his swollen lips to her forehead, forcing rapid breathing to a calmer state. Still, still, the brunettes balls throbbed and twitched.

He was gonna fuck her dammit. He’d gotten this damn far, his darkest desire to fuck and fill her up after more than two pumps would kill Cole. She teased, hands back on his chest, playing with his medals, “You can do it Father, you’re not so twitchy.”

He shook his head silently, focusing on the task at hand. Father Criston Cole could never deny his sweet little dragon. She’d started squirming and whining on his lap, slick soaking his loins. He took a tentative thrust upwards, lashes fluttering.

The dam broke loose.

Criston fucked and groped, lips messily smacking against her pretty plump pout. She rode him in earnest, meeting him thrust for thrust. The chair squeaked, they moaned, grunted, cried out, a feral quality to the sacred act. He was soaking in the slaps of skin, her hitches of breath, chanting his name like a damn litany.

Criston grabbed onto her hips, planting his feet on the floor, biting his lip and scrunching eyes tight. He was moaning and moaning, drool slipping out between searing kisses. His balls were drawing tight— pounding with the need of his release.

He shoved her upwards onto the desk, thrusting brutally as she cried in ecstasy. Criston pled, “M’gonna cum, c-can’t stop, oh fuck.” She cried, “Yesyesyes don’t you dare stop, m’close!” The older man felt his balls slapping against her ass, eyes rolling up again.

His orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks, Cole mouthing at perky tits, moaning as his release soaked her pussy. It was like he was floating. She bit down on her hand to muffle a wail, arching into him, cunt convulsing and wetting him further.

But Criston couldn’t stop. He kept fucking through the oversensitive pain, sounding like he was in agony as he pounded into her. Their mixed releases made everything slide easier, his turgid cock not softening. He babbled, “Not done, another baby, take it for me, take me please.”

The blonde’s only response was clinging to his tan body, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped tight around his waist. She sobbed harder, “Do it do it— oh my God!” Criston whined her name through his nose, drunk off the feeling, not even aware of the blasphemy.

The office grew hot, noises of flesh and high sounds filling the small space. He couldn’t shut the fuck up either, rambling, “Wet baby, can’t help myself, gotta do it, fuck it all! M’still full up, gotta stuff you baby, how can I hngh not?” He reached down between them to circle haphazardly at her abused clit, the pretty thing writhing on his dick.

Another peak was approaching, he was already leaking, ready to empty another load deep inside her eager pussy. She tightened around him as he pinched her clit, crying real tears now, his name on her tongue like a broken record. Criston wetly cried into her fragrant neck, shoving himself deep inside to give her that last load.

He made a noise, she made a noise, everything growing foggy and distant.

Next thing he recalled was his demon, angel, twisted boon cuddled in his lap, tits still out. They were a sticky mess and he hoarsely asked, “How, ugh, long?”

“A couple of minutes. You went a little dumb there and I had to get your limp ass back into this chair,” she pressed her head into his chest, Criston naturally setting his chin on her head. His hands were slowly moving up and down her flanks. He still felt a bit dumb, dazed from the intense situation.

“You,” he swallowed, “Are a gift…I believe.”

She smiled softly, pecking his lips. The Targaryen mumbled, “We need to get ourselves together, I need a ride home.” Criston nodded, clinging tighter to her frame. He stammered, “O-okay, discuss this another time?”

“Sure, but after I show you what a blow job feels like.”

He didn’t object. The collar sat out of his sight, anything he once cherished gone from his mind. She took that place. He was irrevocably, obsessively infatuated. “I’ll have to leave my position after this year,” he murmured. She looked at him, a concerned look on dainty features.

“I think I’ll be around, will you?”

He remained silent, answer obvious in the air. He’d get down on his knees again and beg to never lose this gem. Fucked up from the get-go. For once, Criston Cole didn’t care. He kissed her instead.

#hotd fanfic #hotd smut #priest!criston #ser criston cole imagine #ser criston cole smut #ser criston cole x reader #criston x reader #criston cole imagine #criston cole x reader

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guacamoleroll · 5 months

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𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝖘𝖎𝖓 「𝔣𝔶𝔬𝔡𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔢𝔳𝔰𝔨𝔶」 ༉‧₊˚

content. f!reader. discussions of asexuality (implied), fyodor dostoevsky character study, not-safe for work content (heavily implied), brief mentions of prostitution, discussions of religion and sexual immorality, fyodor is secretly whipped

author's note. wanted to post some quick little headcanons to interrupt my short hiatus. wrote these on a complete whim, but i will never pass up the chance to talk about my husband ♡ can you tell i currently have the worst hozier obsession imaginable?

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

No masters or kings when the ritual begins. There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin. In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene. Only then I am human. Only then I am clean. — Take Me to Church, Hozier

Fyodor has never had romantic or sexual attraction to anyone before you. Despite being raised in the worst parts of Moscow, where prostitution was rampant amongst the working folk, he had never been attracted to the half-naked women that paraded outside on the streets.

But you made everything different. Your entire being — body, mind, and soul — devours his every waking thought. There is something so divinely imperfect about you — so human and flawed but genuine and true. He never thought it possible to be enraptured in someone, too forlorn by the visages of his youth to consider the possibility of romance or desire. Without anything to break his fall, he slipped deep into his yearning.

And he may be a charming man, undoubtedly able to flirt and captivate if required, but not to the point of total seduction. Any faux dalliance would cease before it met physical intimacy, not even a mere kiss left on the unsuspecting fool's cheek. But to him, you are not a fool. You mean so much more than that, proven through his rare but deliberate touches.

There is no doubt that Fyodor is a pious man dedicated to living a life in dedication to the workings of a perfect world — for better or worse. And while he does not follow every doctrine to the letter, he would stray away from sexual immorality. For him to indulge in sexual pleasure, he would have to be married. But that doesn't mean he won't bend the rules.

If you ever did have premarital sex, Fyodor thinks of it like this: you are already his; you were destined for one another, so you are already married in the eyes of God.

He wouldn't indulge in sex for his own pure pleasure, despite any he may receive. Instead, he seeks the gratification of bringing you to your knees, literally and metaphorically. The expression of delicate bliss on your face as he, and he alone, brings you to the edge. The sweet, almost sacrilegious pleas that spill from your lips as you beg him to break you more. And, of course, he is more than proud to oblige.

taglist: @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @thesilvernight0wl @s1eepybunny @kotysluny

#muse's anthology ‧₊˚ ⋅#starring: fyodor .ೃ࿐#MDNI .ᐟ #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #fyodor bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #muse's posts #bsd smut #fyodor smut #f!reader

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arcielee · 8 months

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Ours never knew peace.

Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 7600 Warnings: Third POV and first POV, AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and there is a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings too. Author’s Note: I definitely played with the timeline of the Dance of the Dragons a lot to fit with the narrative. Also, the idea is the bloodline stems from Cregan Stark's sister, which is why Lyanna's granddam is still kicking. Also, this was not beta read, please feel free to DM me any mistakes you may find 💜 A huge thank you to my Tumblr kindred spirits: to @aegonx for this inspiring gifset, and to my darling @itbmojojoejo for these perfect dividers 🦝💜 Also, to Hozier. I started writing this in June and had not touched it until I started listening to Unreal Unearth. The title for this and the smutty one-shot are from the song Francesca.

“I have a gift for you, my dear.”

Lyanna was leaning against the ornate balustrade and watching how the sun rose above Gods Eye. She drank in the sight of how the rays danced against the blue-green gemstone surface, shimmering with the rippling waves that met with the shoreline and towards the center where the Isle of Faces jutted upwards; she saw the weirwoods shift lazily with the breeze, its red foliage breaking away and littering the laketop, like drops of blood.

She pulled her eyes away to see her granddam standing in her room, poised with her walking cane; a handmaiden was in tow, carrying a wooden box that had once been intricately carved into, though its detailing was now worn with age.

Her granddamn was the matriarch of House Stark and the only mother figure she had ever known as hers passed away when she was very young, leaving Lyanna with her father and three brothers: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. Though she originally had come from a noble house in Oldcastle, she had been proud to don the grays and whites of House Stark, dignified in such a way it seemed that she was born into and not just married.

Her reputation was notorious and though some would consider her shrewd, Lyanna knew her granddam had a sharp mind and wit, an undeniable ability to see beyond the façades of court with her storm colored eyes; she was gallant, devoted to her husband until his last breath and remained in Winterfell after, her devotion extending to the North.

“This is my home,” she had explained as if it was the simplest thing. “Always.”

Time now showed itself in silver streaks, a bold contrast with her dark hair that had been meticulously combed and knotted at the base of her neck, showing the severity that lined her features. This look alone had the other handmaidens–who before had been aimlessly flitting around her room, coaxing Lyanna to ready for the day’s events–quickly excuse themselves, allowing her a moment alone with her granddaughter.

“Set it there,” and the remaining handmaiden jumped to command, placing the wooden box on the vanity before following after the others.

There was the click of her cane with her sure steps, one hand resting on the gilded handles and the other coming to place on the edge of the wooden box, its brass hinges groaning in response to her opening it. Placed against the velvet inlay was a necklace of a peculiar silver that did not shine, but seemed to permeate a strength despite its delicate, celtic chains interwoven with one another; its pendant, a sapphire stone no larger than a silver pence, was nestled in the same style, curled around to hold it in place.

Only the stone gleamed, just like the water’s surface–alluring, calling, but she kept her hand at her side. “It is beautiful,” Lyanna acknowledged.

“It is reforged Valyrian steel,” her granddam continued, and she was pleased to see how her eyes widened with a reverence for the rare medium. “This is a heirloom that has been passed down, once belonging to your thrice over granddam. It is something for you to wear today.”

Lyanna remained rooted, only a wistful sigh in response. “This is my duty in life now, to be adorned in gems and silks and rare silvers, just to be shown off at this event.”

“It is our lot in life, yes,” her tone cut through the self-wallow. “Lord Whent wants nothing more than to parade the money he poured into this cursed castle, to show off his simple-minded daughter to the highest bid. The queen of love and beauty,” and her laugh was sharp, “only her brothers would defend that nepotist title!”

Lyanna felt her lips curl; she loved her granddam, dearly, especially when she was unabashed with her bold opinions. Her eyes fell back to the necklace. “Love and beauty,” Lyanna murmured. “No man has want for a clever wife.”

It was her turn to sigh. “This can be true, but some are fortunate with their matches.”

“Robert has no want for a clever wife,” Lyanna continued as if she had not spoken. “He wants something docile and pretty at his side while he wags his cock at every set of tits in Westeros.” She could see how the inside sagged with the weight of the necklace and a bundle of parchment that was tucked beneath, hidden in the folds of the fabric.

Her granddam plucked the paper bundled together with string and then moved back towards one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “My dear girl, love is always unexpected. Perhaps in time, despite the faults you each share,” she gave a knowing look as Lyanna moved back towards the bed, “you, hopefully, may have a gradual love and respect grow between.”

“He is already convinced it is love,” she sat back on the mattress, sinking against the goose feather pillows piled at the head. “But it is with this idea of me. He does not know me, who I am truly or what it is that drives me…” her eyes were drawn again to the box, opened still, and to the glint of the sapphire. “How did this come to our possession anyway?”

“It was a gift,” her granddam scoffed, untying the string and smoothing the letters on her lap.

Lyanna closed her eyes a moment, her own smile playing at her lips. “Yes,” her tone forced, “but who would have gifted this to her to begin with?”

Her granddam hummed, now her turn to smile. “How clever of you to ask, sweet girl,” but she did not answer Lyanna. “I saw how you are blossoming into a lovely young woman, especially after last night’s banquet,” and she saw that her granddaughter grinned, cheeky. “Ancestry has its weight with House Stark, and I thought now is the time to gift this necklace, just as your grandsire gifted it to me, and how it was given to your mother, who listened to me read this, years ago,” and she gestured to the letters.

Lyanna reached for the pillows, fluffing them and sinking back into them, her arms folding behind to hold her head upright. “I would never deny my granddam of my company,” she teased.

“Yes, how kind of you,” her tongue wet her lips, her eyes flitting over the first page. “Now shut up and let my old eyes read.”

And so she began.

It was the unmartyred act of my mother to bring me into the world. My father was a proud man, an honorable man who would never blame me, but I could see how he would wilt in my presence; perhaps it was that I reminded him of her as I grew, reminded him of the cost of her life so I may live instead. My brother, Cregan, kept his grief quiet, though it clouded his storm-gray eyes with this pain, this hurt that shadowed behind his irises.

With the unsaid, I know my existence haunted my father, Lord Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North, to his grave. It was only then that Cregan truly recognized me with our sorrow now shared, as well as the burden as our uncle Bennard was quick to come to Winterfell, bringing his shrewd wife and his sons, our wretched cousins.

I could only watch from the shadows with how Cregan fought to stay afloat with the smothering regency brought with them; our uncle was cunning, wishing to isolate my brother, which was why it was decided for me to be sent away to King’s Landing. It was under the promised lady-in-waiting for Princess Helaena Targaryen, though its true intention was for me to marry a Targaryen prince, for the opportunity to have a Stark within the royal inner circle and a direct line to the Iron Throne.

Cregan hugged me farewell, the whispered promise that he would write, and I was ushered into the carriage, cramped with my trunks, and my aunt Margaret, with her wardrobe and endless idylls of how I would lure King Aegon II.

I reminded her that King Viserys was not dead, and of the crowned Princess Rhaenyra. She bristled with her response: “No woman will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.” She embellished this, and her inane plans to make me a princess; I had just turned ten and three with the soured taste of her words the further south we traveled.

We arrived at the capital almost two months later, coming as the last of the daylight disappeared in the horizon, with the full moon and stars already glowing in response. I wished to sleep, but was forced to bathe, to be soaked in a gilded tub with rose petals that floated on the surface while hands flitted over combing and scrubbing and cleaning every bit of me, all while my aunt hovered with her critiques.

The next day was our debut luncheon, allowing my formal introduction to the House of the Dragon. My aunt was peevish that the king did not join, we still met with the queen and Lord Hand, who introduced Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.

It was said that Prince Daeron was away in Oldtown and Prince Aemond would not attend either, but did not speak more of it.

The prince and the princess held their old blood features, the shades of purple in their gazes and the gold-silver of their hair, a contrast to their mother’s auburn and her dark eyes that were watchful and worrisome.

Prince Aegon already had an exhaustion lining his face, with shadows that stretched beneath his lilac eyes, something heavy for someone only two years older than myself. In time I would learn that his shoulders sagged with the forced Hightower expectation placed, and its accompanying slow suffocation. The prince responded to it as well as any adolescent with unwanted responsibility: to rebel.

The princess–who we learned, to the woe of my aunt–was his betrothed, but that day she also became my savior, in a sense. Though she carried her own burdens, something deeply rooted within the ichor of Old Valyria that surged her veins, her company was enjoyable, nonetheless.

I enjoyed my time spent with the princess, learning of her fascination with entomology, with a favoritism that stemmed towards arachnids; though I found it unsettling, I still knew it was better company than my aunt. I was devoted to the task to fill mason jars with dirt, leaves, sticks to create little habitats for her ever growing collection, and it became our daily ritual to walk the gardens of the Red Keep, always in search of more to add or to release others who dutifully served their time in their glass confines.

One thing I noted was her utterances, her singsong riddles on repeat. “Be mindful,” she said with a hum one afternoon.

“Of what, princess?”

“A song of ice and fire,” her eyes were glassy, sorrowful. “It is a tragedy, again and again…”

My evenings were held captive by my aunt and her ever growing determination to force her way into the royal social circles; her daily mantra to remind me of the two remaining Targaryen princes, how I need my focus to be on snaring one of them.

I knew that Prince Daeron was a child and away in Oldtown, which left the second son of King Viserys, Prince Aemond, who I thought peculiar and quiet. He was isolated the first six months after we arrived, and I heard the whispered incident at Diftmark that had involved the crowned princess and her bastard sons; I also learned how it ended with the loss of his eye, but that was not learned until Princess Helaena brought me to visit with her brother.

“It would be good for him,” and her lilac eyes sparkled.

He was sullen, but rightfully so; he was still bandaged and refused the milk of the poppy, though I knew he was hurting, his anguish was vicariously heard with the roars of his dragon, Vhagar, whose bellows rattled the entire capital, leaving the inhabitants uneasy.

Eventually, Prince Aemond healed enough to leave his room, though the queen was still adamant he not venture outside of the Keep. I watched him, a dragon caged, stalking the corridors, a dark passing in search of confrontation, his unbridled want for vengeance and his inability to see it through; a tormented unrest, an unruly anger from the injustice of what happened that fateful night at Driftmark.

I had been present for over a year and would inevitably have the misfortune to cross his warpath, alone, without my shield of his sister. It was a foreboding presence that drained the air, a palpable anger that hung heavy, and I flinched, perched by the window, curled up with Ten Thousand Ships.

“What are you doing here?” He spat.

I remember how his anger darkened his features shown, but the rest was still hidden beneath bandages wrapped around his silver head. “Reading,” was all I dared reply, refusing to look away from the pages as if the very tale of Nymeria held me captive.

“They educate the women in the North?”

His words were mocking and this is when I pulled my eyes away to meet with his one uncovered. “The North does not only teach their women how to read, but how to fight as well, my prince,” my tongue had a life of its own I could not control, sneering his title in return.

Her granddam paused a moment, peering over the edge to see how Lyanna had shifted; she was now closer towards the foot of the bed, curled up with one of the pillows, her eyes glowing with admiration.

“My great-great-great granddam was fearless,” Lyanna concluded.

She chuckled in response. “It is a trait in Stark women, that is for certain,” she clucked her tongue. “Stark men also search for strong women to survive the winters. Maybe another day I will tell you about your great-great-great aunt Alysanne Blackwood.”

Her eyes shone. “I would like that very much.”

And then, her granddam continued.

I would learn that Prince Aemond was just lonely; allowed out of his quarters, his mar was forever isolating with how the castled treated him with kid gloves, like an open wound that never healed despite the jagged red of new flesh mended, cutting from his brow to his cheek and peeking beneath the eyepatch he took to wearing. Though he would never apologize for that day in the library, the next time I found him within the walls I saw he was lost in the pages of Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell.

I could only assume it was all the apology that could be expected of a dragon prince.

Our friendship was something predetermined by the gods, or this was what Princess Helaena wholeheartedly believed; for a time, we were a trio of lonely souls akin and knitted together until the princess inevitably became pregnant with the twins. And then, there was the subtle change of our dynamic with the seasons passed, an initial wariness that settled in the edges of his features that only softened whenever I took his hand and pulled him forward.

Perhaps he believed that I would abandon him for his sister’s company, which would be expected of her lady-in-waiting. But I did not.

Instead I indulged the prince and his company, and we became inseparable; whether we visited with his sister, playing with the little prince and princess, while Helaena budding with a third, or going to the courtyards to train under Ser Criston’s watchful eye and my aunt’s apparent disdain. It was then that the evenings became our own and spent in the library of the Keep; it was here that Aemond dared remove his eyepatch, the sapphire stone that showed brilliant from his scarred socket.

The first time, I stepped closer so his nervous exhale fanned my cheeks; I could see the plumes of pinks to his features, my fingers ghosting his jawline as I attempted his ancient tongue. “Gevie.”

Beautiful.

Prince Aemond was respectful, always, but he was also fearless with me, allowing the same sense of freedom in return, to speak my mind as I always had. But I faltered with what I truly wished to say: that the years crafted him beautiful as any Targaryen prince, with sharp edges chiseled from marble stone, his lips that curled with a perpetual smirk as he voiced his peculiar insight which always led to a good natured battlement between us, leaving me flushed.

And then the day came that he took my hand, that his palm now enveloped my own.

It was the familiar touch now paired with a feeling, a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that I could not place, though writing these words allows a clearer perspective with the retrospect: that I was falling in love with him.

My aunt grew more insufferable with the passing days, though I expected as much with the letters I exchanged with Cregan. I knew his every action in Winterfell, what he was learning, of his sweetheart Lady Arra Norrey, my new nephew, but mostly of how our uncle continued to tighten his hold. My brother was a wolf, restless, and spoke that his hour was coming; and meanwhile, I continued to play my role, a simpleminded girl from the North.

My aunt tsked. “He will never see you as more than a plaything,” as if this was a cruel fate. In truth I was still so unaware of what was growing within the confines of my heart, but I knew that I only wished to remind at his side, devoted, present, always.

So when Aemond asked that I finally become acquainted with Vhagar, I went. I remembered how my hand fit within his as he pulled me to follow his steps, moving through the ingresses that weaved with the castle walls. We broke out to follow the coastline, a crisp salt air and the clouds covering the sun, heavy with the threat of rain, but Aemond promised we would rise above them.

I followed his long steps until we came to where Vhagar waited for her rider, diligent, alert.

Dragons are magnificent creatures, and I swear them sentient with the bond I saw between Aemond and the she-dragon. Fear trickled my spine, but Aemond held onto my hand and I tightened in response to the massive eyes that focused on us, her pupils constricting in query. Aemond held up his other hand, the honey spill of his soothing voice of his old tongue to coax her and allow me to climb aback.

I then felt the gaze of Aemond and refused to allow my fear to root me, moving to take the bottom rung of the rope ladder; he was pleased, a hum, the slight curl of his lips, and followed behind me with his promise that he would not let me fall. At the top, he pushed past to settle into the saddle, then reached to pull me behind and I settled against his backside.

“Just hold onto me,” he murmured, bringing my arms around his slender waist.

This moment I was adamantly aware that he was no longer that sullen child that sneered within his gilded cage, but against my hold that Aemond was solid, lithe, and so warm with a woodsy musk mixed with smoke against his skin.

Pressed against, I was able to feel his low baritone command Vhagar, followed by her jolted steps forward, the beating of her wings to take flight. To feel this power beneath you is indescribable; I could not help my scream, my laughter from the exhilaration that that spate my veins; I dared not close my eyes, tears streaming, and I peered to marvel at how small the capital seemed beneath, how large the shadow we cast overhead.

It was a newfound euphoria, and I felt my cheeks burn from the crisp air above the gray clouds, but I also knew it was from my close proximity to Aemond. I held onto him as we soared out over Blackwater Bay, and sighed from the touch of his gloved hand, from the heat that permeated through the leather when he placed it over my own.

And I knew then that I never wished to let him go.

He eventually brought Vhagar back to land onto the grassy knolls outside the city; the afternoon was growing late but there was still enough light to return. Aemond warned that my legs would be shaky and again he moved first, again with the promise he would not let me fall.

I still trembled when he set me on the ground, his large palms kept their hold on my waist and my hands rested on his broad shoulders. My eyes were wide admiring the beauty of his mussed, silver braid, his cheeks lined with his dimples with his pursed grin. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself?” I was incredulous, I was a mess; windswept and blooming red, a grinning fool with tear-streaked cheeks, “Aemond, you showed me the heavens.” And a boldness pressed me onto my toes, my lips against his.

It was my first kiss; it was a heartbeat’s length, it was everything, and when I pulled back, I fell solid to the earth, my soles grounded back on that gassy knoll. I looked up into his bicolored gaze, the lavender of one eye and the gleam of sapphire for the other that stared back.

Aemond was unreadable in that moment, and I felt my blood surge from my heart and pour into my face; the quiet that settled between us the same length of the years I had spent in King’s Landing, a choking regret that burned in my throat with the thought that I had ruined everything built between us.

Then he kissed me back.

And I felt alive once more with the touch of his arm that curled around my waist, how his other hand followed the curve of my spine, tangling into my hair and holding me to capture my mouth. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue clever in a way that drew the very breath from my lungs. I melted against him, my fingertips soft to follow the sharp contours of his jaw, trailing his neck and grasping his collar to bring him even closer.

We only parted for air; the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his riding leathers, the crimson on his cheeks with his quiet confession, something he held close to his heart.

“For how long?” I breathed

And he thought for a moment. “Always.”

To take his hand now was finding a piece that I did not know was missing from me; our fingers interlaced in a way that felt akin as if I held my own hand, though I knew it was him from the warmth of his skin, from the fire in his blood. By now the tendrils of dusk began to curl over the city, its amber hues bold against the blues and purples of the coming nightfall, but we continued our leisure pace back, Aemond and I.

We were greeted by the gold cloaks at the gates and they escorted us back, and though he did not let go, I saw that it was no longer Aemond who held my hand but the second son of King Viserys, a Targaryen prince. He was stoic, but this time I could tell the other emotions that flittered beneath, his uncertainty of what awaited, but above that was his determination.

We finally came to the barbican of the Keep where we were greeted by his queen mother, my aunt, and several White Cloaks.

Relief washed over the queen while my aunt raged, lifting her skirts to meet us in the courtyard, her nails biting with her grip on my arm and pulling me back; the rushed spill of her words, “I cannot believe this unseemly behavior of a lady, unchaperoned with a prince! We are leaving this moment–”

I tried to twist away but she held on still, a madwoman. Aemond moved after, quick, and his anger burning from him and his long legs moved to block her path. “She will not be leaving.”

The finality of his words, the barrier his form created halted her at once and I felt my heart between my teeth. “My prince,” she stammered in response. “We must leave this very moment! We have imposed on your hospitality far too long as it is, and when my lord husband hears of her behaviors–”

But she was unaware that Cregan and I wrote, dutifully; he shared his life within the walls of Winterfell, as well as his growing concern with the regency our uncle imposed still. She also did not know the newest letter I had received, how my brother was now the proper Warden of the North and our uncle imprisoned; my aunt paled with my words and it was commanded for her to be taken away. She did not leave quietly, her wails echoed and I watched impassively, knowing her every action was a self-serving and a selfish ploy for power for herself, her husband, for those wretched cousin kin in the North.

And I knew I would not miss any of them.

Ever the diplomat, the queen stepped forward with her congratulations for my brother, her condolences for the betrayal within our family, her practiced concern for my well being and its shift to confusion that knitted between her brows when she saw how I smiled at her son. She offered my escort back to Winterfell, but I was quick to decline as I knew I could not leave Aemond.

I saw the understanding began to roll over, and she then asked her son if he loved me. Aemond responded, “I believe I always have, mother,” and I knew I loved him in return.

It was decided that the ceremony would be held in the Royal Sept, and chaperoned until, though Aemond stole a moment to gift me this very necklace. I could feel the power of Old Valyria thrum from the metal, adoring how it was woven around the sapphire stone; he told me it was a piece kept from the same stone fitted for his eye.

I lifted my hair and turned my back towards him, my skin prickling from his touch to clasp the necklace around my throat.

He hummed. “Gevie.”

Only a week later, and the service seemed surreal. I felt his warmth that held to the robe he brought around my shoulders, the touch of my palm on top of his large hand kept me grounded while the Septon wrapped the ribbon around; shy glances shared, me to Aemond and seeing his gaze on the sapphire stone beneath my collarbone. The muted words called for a kiss and I burned when Aemond captured my mouth with his own.

The celebration after was an intimate meal with the king, who was a man withering away beneath a gilded mark, the queen, his siblings, and the Lord Hand, who seemed pleased with the idea of solidifying a truce with the North.

But I could not think of politics this night, not with the subtle touches from Aemond, a warmth that curled in my lower abdomen when he inevitably took my hand, his low voice that tickled against my ear. “Come with me, my sweet wife,” as we walked towards his quarters.

Her granddam stopped abruptly, flushed. “Well, you understand what is implied.”

“Understand what?” Lyanna quirked her brow.

It was a pregnant pause that allowed her eyes steel onto her granddaughter, and Lyanna returned her gaze with a cheeky, taunting grin.

“It would serve you well to not agitate your elders.”

“What a bore I would be if I was just another docile woman of nobility?” Lyanna countered, gleefully. “Granddam, Robert has bastards and I am no fool, I do not believe his immaculate conception claims…”

“Yes, you are very bright,” she huffed. “Now hush up and let me read.”

Our marital bliss that followed left me in a haze; Aemond was not one for public displays of affection and how I craved his subtle touches, his lingering hand that would have me blushing furiously in response. He would only hum, his perpetual smirk that played on his lips with my every visceral response to him.

I wrote to Cregan and informed him of our union; he was quick to respond with his congratulations, as well as his newfound concerns, asking if it was true that the crowned princess had sired bastards with the intention to make them her heirs without ownership of her actions.

“Our father was honorable until his last breath,” he wrote, “I would not besmirch his memory or our house, our legacy, for an oath made for bastard-born heirs to the Iron Throne.”

This was a topic I had already discussed in length with Aemond, even before we had even kissed. I was aware of his scar and its cause, and I knew of the old blood and the features lacking when it came to his nephews, something made apparent for the claimant hearings of Dirftmark, as well as the cruel response of Prince Daemon when a lord spoke out loud what the court was thinking.

I answered my brother truthfully, knowing full well that this would sway the North behind Prince Aegon II.

And then King Viserys met his inevitable demise; the small council moved quick to announce that his final words were that he wished his firstborn son to take the crown. Aegon panicked, but my husband and Ser Criston fetched him, washed him, fed him, but also comforted him.

It would be Ser Criston who coaxed him to the coronation, to be the one to place the crown of steel and rubies on top of his silver head, announcing: “King Viserys is dead, long live King Aegon!”

My husband would be sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a betrothal for his brother, Daeron, to one of the Four Storms. It resulted in tragedy, or vengeance on who spoke the narrative. The room stilled with Aemond’s words, the unspoken terror in the queen’s large, brown eyes, the shock that lined the severe features of the Lord Hand, but it was his brother, King Aegon wearing the Conqueror’s Crown who spoke that Aemond had shown the true blood of a dragon.

But in the quiet quarters we shared, Aemond lamented the loss of life, the war it started, a guilt that weighed heavily, and once more I saw the sorrowful prince when I first came to King’s Landing.

“There will be repercussions for my actions,” he rasped, unable to meet with my eyes. “I have ruined my namesake, and I have cursed our family…”

“War seemed inevitable,” I began slowly, my hands careful to hold his jaw, to bring his gaze to my own. “And with it comes rash decisions, with impossible choices to be made…I trust it was not intentional, but even if it was, cursed or not, I am still yours, husband.” A soft kiss to seal my words. “Always.”

War and its bloodshed was rampant in Westeros, and my brother wrote they would travel South when winter ended to help King Aegon with his rightful claim. I feared for the delay, for what would follow Storm’s End, and how it seemingly unleashed the Rogue Prince.

Hired men with the monikers Blood and Cheese came in the night, and I knew them to be sent for me, as one repeated, “An eye for an eye, a son for son,” but followed with his slow realization, “she is not a son,” before his sword was drawn and struck Prince Jaehaerys.

The screams of Helaena resounded against the cobblestone; Aemond found us covered in blood, his rage and his grief conflicting on his angular features. The king cried for vengeance for his firstborn son, to search for these men and place their heads on spikes; the kingdom was repulsed by the murder of the princeling, a martyr made with his blood spilled.

Aegon’s bloodlust made for rash decisions and the battle of Rook’s Rest; though one dragon and its rider slain, its cost was the king crippled in a way that he was not fit to rule. So Aemond stepped forward to take the title Prince Regent and the Protector of the Realm, a natural role that was suited for the second son.

The Rogue Prince struck against the Riverlands, torching until ash remained. In response, the now Prince Regent and Ser Criston left to claim Harrenhal.

I was told to wait, to remain at the side of our grieving queen, my sister by all accounts; I watched over sweet Helaena, coaxing her to eat, washing her, sitting alongside her in the haunting silence of the quarters that somehow still echoed her screams from that fateful night. We were often left alone, as the maesters and the dowager queen never left King Aegon’s side, and I remained with her until I received the latest letter from Aemond.

Harrenhal had been dispelled of every Strong traitor to the crown, and he spoke of a witch he wished me to meet, that I was to leave King’s Landing and be by his side, as the gods ordained.

A quick kiss to the silver head of Helaena and I left the castle, careful to retrace our steps that led to the coast and I continued until I was back on the grassy knolls from what felt like a lifetime ago. I waited the skies until I felt the rumbled call of Vhagar in the distance, gleeful when she finally landed and watched my prince descend to envelope me in his arms, his whispered adoration, “My love, my sweet wife.”

We returned to Harrenhal to meet with the witch he spared, a hushed reverence when he told me of her abilities. “She sees much and more.”

I could see she was hardened by life, but her expression was kind when she greeted us; her eyes roamed around, watchful, looking through to my bones and only then did I understand what my husband meant.

At supper, we sat around the table, along with Ser Criston, and her eyes watched the flicker of candlelight, the flames licking her irises, before she spoke: “Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Aemond finished chewing before he asked her. “And I am which?”

Alys’ eyes were black, her painted lips curled and framed around her pearl teeth. “To be the greatness, you must end the madness,” was all that she offered, and then, “the Rogue Prince is coming.”

Ser Criston looked uneasy, but it was a silent understanding in regards to her statement, something that pressed heavily on us both. King Aegon could only have a true chance to rule the realm if his sister lost the power she had with her husband, the Rogue Prince; it was known that he was unruly, untamed, but loyal to a fault, and willing to see it through to its brutal end.

That night, we fell back into an intimate embrace, cherishing the feeling of skin to skin–

Her granddam was crimson. “Oh, my, I believe I should skip this as well–”

She watched her granddam a moment, the intrusive thought to take the letters for her own readthrough, but it was muted by a growing sadness that began to settle in the edges of her sharp features. Lyanna knew well the history of the Dance of the Dragons, something scrawled on scrolls and tomes, its tragedy saved in ink and tucked away.

And still, she had to know this truth.

“Please,” and her voice was soft. “Please, continue.”

And granddam did.

It was the 22nd day of the 5th moon and we waited on the shores of Gods Eye, myself, Aemond, and the witch. Ser Criston rode North to meet with my brother, and we remained, waiting.

It had been a vision for Alys, something sinister; it was no surprise when the wyrm screeched its arrival, circling above, wary of Vhagar, before finally landing. Prince Daemon had an arrogance with his dismount, with his walk towards us.

There was a symmetry as they squared towards one another; the Rogue Prince was cloaked with the past and my Aemond embodied the future, the true hope for House Targaryen. My husband faced him, unflinching, his brow furrowed with his ever present determination, while Daemon rolled his eyes over the each of us, sucking his teeth.

Aemond broke the silence. “You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” Daemon was amused.

But it did not deter my dragon. “Yet you are, and here I am,” he sighed. “You have lived too long, nuncle.”

“On that much we agree.”

The prince retreated to his wyrm and Aemond looked to me, his eye pleading, the glassy lavender that bore through my skin, and the gleam of sapphire for the other. He then dipped forward to kiss me and the tears pearling in the corners of my eyes spilled onto my cheeks at the taste of him, the touch of him; I knew I could never imagine anyone else. Those words stilled on my tongue, how I wanted him to beg to stay with me, but I also knew that he must.

“Do not say it,” my voice broke, hushed against our kiss swollen lips. “Just come back to me.”

His two fingers pressed against the sapphire pendant I wore, before leaning forward to press his lips to my hairline, and then he climbed aback Vhagar, his lithe body quick to mount. I remained on the sand with the witch at my side, and we watched these winged beasts rise above us.

Dragons are truly magnificent, but they are also equally deadly. I trusted Vhagar was loyal to Aemond, but also knew it matched by the bond shared between Prince Daemon and his wyrm. It was said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, and I believed this as I watched them on dragonback, circling above the massive lake. Their roars vibrated through to our bones, the snapping of the jaws like cracks of lighting and their flames that singed the threads of my gown from my place on the shore.

My eyes did not leave, and I asked Alys. “Will he live?”

She was quiet for a moment. “The memory of him will live on,” and I felt her hand reach and touch my stomach.

And all I could do was hold onto my pendant with prayers to the old golds, to the new gods for mercy for my husband, whose child I carried.

They did not listen.

It was a clash of scale and bone, something that reverberated to Harrenhal and rattled the castle walls that still stood. The wyrm’s screams were cut short as the massive maw of Vhagar clamped onto its neck, and its talons flailed and cut deep into the old dragon’s underside. Blood rained onto the lake and I watched, struck with mortification at the dull glint of Valyrian armor, the flash raise of Dark Sister, and I knew it was over.

I remained on the shore as the waves created from the fall of dead dragons crashed against the sand, a blood foam that flooded and wet my skirts. I remained still as the sun tucked beneath the horizon, until I heard the call of the witch.

“My lady, the wolves have arrived.”

This would be the shift of power needed for King Aegon II; the Rogue Prince was dead and his men fell to the sword under the command of my brother and Ser Criston. Cregan was shocked to see me and I was stoic still, dumbstruck with my grief that did not feel real; we returned to King’s Landing with the Northern army, quick to dethrone Rhaenyra and place her in the cells with the company of all the lords who supported her.

King Aegon was scarred cruelly with a gimp to his steps, but he made his way to the Iron Throne, his crown of rubies and steel, and greeted his mother and the queen. This joyous moment died as I was tasked to share the news of the death of Aemond, of my husband and father of my unborn child; we cried our heartbreak, but I had no tears left.

This pivotal moment would be known as the Hour of the Wolf by our history. It will speak of the heroism of Prince Aemond and what he sacrificed to kill the Rogue Prince, of how my brother descended onto the capital with a vengeance and helped return the throne to its rightful heir. The casualties of war included the bastard princes, as well as both sons of the king.

When King Aegon learned that Prince Daeron the Daring met his fatal end, he decided mercy on the remaining Targaryen princelings, Aegon III and Viserys II, with his solemn vow to raise them as his own, as his heirs to the Iron Throne.

Cregan served as Lord Hand through my pregnancy, for the birth of my darling Lysara with a patch of silver that showed against her dark curls and her eyes the same as her father’s, lavender. My brother had also been widowed but met the Lady Alysanna Blackwood, a woman I admired fiercely, and Lysara was smitten with, and was thrilled when I learned I could call her sister.

It was then Cregan asked to be relieved so he could return to the North, to his son, and I asked to go with him. My time in King’s Landing was over, with every stone haunted with presence of Aemond; I already swore I would never marry again, would not dare have another set of hands touch and taint the memory of his hands against my body, his touch forever etched onto my skin and seeded into the marrow of my bones.

Aemond would return to me at night, a silver dream, my body thrumming with the warmth of his touch, his gentle kiss, the low murmur of his voice, but it always ended the same: my realization when my hands pressed to his chest and felt no heartbeat.

That I would never feel it again.

The pain of losing him has not dimmed nor diminished with time, but I do not mind it as it serves as my reminder that he was real, and that the love we shared was real.

As the witch predicted, Aemond also still lived within Lysara who was solemn, brilliant, and as determined and stubborn as he had been. I made sure to do an annual trip to King’s Landing, allowing her to meet her granddam, her royal family, and so that my daughter could learn that her blood not only held that of the Andals, the first men, but also of the fire that licks within her veins.

Which is also why I write this, along with the gift of the necklace. It holds legacy, but also the reminder of the words Queen Helaena spoke to me when we were girls, something said a lifetime ago and before I could comprehend the weight of them.

There is something in the blood of House Stark that calls out to these dragons, perhaps an ancient power of the old gods or a kindred spirit, the disparate bond of ice and fire, a clash that is brilliant, violent, and tragic, always.

As she once said: a song of ice and fire, it is a tragedy, again and again…

It ended with a finality that rested against her chest. This was a tragic history of the crown, something already written with facts and dates, but this was a personal storying stemming from the blood of Stark woman, and only now did Lyanna begin to understand how the stories remained so vivid, so detailed despite its years of retelling.

But also…

“What does this mean for me?” Her voice was soft, an almost childlike naivety to her tone. “I am already engaged to Robert Baratheon.”

Her granddam watched her, a tight lipped smile in response as her mind returned to the feast of last night, to the looks shyly exchanged between her granddaughter and the crowned prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, as he played his harp for her. It left her unsettled with a hunch, an inkling about this interaction.

Instead she agreed. “You are right,” and she sighed. “Let me help you get dressed for the tourney.”

The new Harranhal swelled with the life for the festivities, with the kingdoms’ best sent in response of Lord Whent’s invites; the new cobblestone seemed bright against the darkened foundation that still held, its ghosts trapped still and trampled underfoot by the crowds as the seats filled, the echoing chattered excitement that vibrated.

It dimmed with a hushed reverence to see Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entering the field on his steed; his lavender eyes scanned the masses, an intent to spot one soul in particular, and she unknowingly called to him with her sweet smile, by the glint of the sapphire that rested against her chest.

There's not one thing that I would change.

Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @snowprincesa1 @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9 @namelesslosers

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#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x stark!reader #tragic romance #inspired by hozier #ours never knew peace #rhaegar targaryen #lyanna stark #rhaegar x lyanna

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daydreaming-in-letters · 10 months

Text

Apricity

07/12/2023

Pairing: Andrew (Hozier) x fem!reader

Word Count: 3,733

Warnings: rpf, language, alcohol, heartbreak, pining, fluff

Summary: After a painful breakup, Andrew needs the comfort of his best friend.

A/N: I'm going to church tonight, and I brought an offering for the god(s). Hope you like it.

Picture by Daniel Goodman via Business Insider

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

“Last orders.”

The booming voice rolled through the thick, hot air like thunder. It was a wonder they could hear it at all above the music and buzz of voices, she thought, but the bearded man behind the counter looked like the type who knew exactly how to make himself heard. Andrew on the other hand was not a man who raised his voice in conversation regularly, still she shivered when instead she suddenly felt his hot breath waft through her hair.

“Shall we take another?”

But he was gone before she could even turn to face him, let alone process his words and form a coherent answer.

“Oh, so no to that,” he misconstrued the confusion on her face as their eyes finally met. “You could have just said so, you know. No need to pull a face like that.”

“What face?”

“You know, the one where your eyebrows knit together just a tiny bit and the corners of your mouth fall a little.”

He tried to mimic her expression and whether he had intended to or not, he made her laugh. And as if that wasn’t enough already, he smiled along, that crooked half-smile of his, almost as if he was surprised anything he did could genuinely amuse her.

“Andrew, that’s just my usual face. It doesn’t mean anything. Although…”

“Ah, see. Not just your usual face after all then. You can’t fool me, you should have realised that by now. I don’t know why you still keep trying though.”

The slight curl of his lips reappeared for a moment, making him look so very proud of himself. And, for the first time this evening, almost a little happy. Now who was she to take that away from him by telling the truth: that she had been fooling him about her true feelings for months, maybe even years, and very successfully so, it seemed.

“You’re a grown-up, Andrew. Have a drink if you want another. But—”

The last word had earned her a very dramatic roll of his eyes.

“I knew there was a ‘but’.”

“Yes, Freud, we know, you can look through me like glass, anticipating my every move.”

He chuckled. “Finally you see reason, woman.”

“But seriously,” she could see another remark form behind his mischievous eyes, so she was quick to make her point, “is that wise? Another drink will only make you sadder than you already are.”

“Sad? I’m not sad. I’m angry. Fucking furious to be precise.”

Mostly with himself, she assumed. In all this time she had known him, he had never held a grudge against anyone for long, if at all. But it wasn’t as easy for him to forgive himself at times. Still, anger was progress.

“Good.” Softly she squeezed his hand and waited until the tension of his sudden outburst slowly subsided. “That’s good. You’re moving into the next phase then.”

He mumbled something under his breath, the sentence impossible to understand against the bustle of the pub. The only word she could identify was “Freud”, enough to help her understand that it had just been another of his sassy retorts. His next words came clearer though.

“If that really is a good thing, why can I hear concern in your voice?”

“I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think you would recover from her so soon.”

Andrew had not told her what exactly had passed between them and she didn’t want to pry. She only knew that they had argued, and that his girlfr—ex-girlfriend—had given him an ultimatum of some sort. Whatever it had been about, he obviously hadn’t decided in the woman’s favour.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Before she was able to stop herself, she could feel her brow rise, reminding him that they both knew he wasn’t the type that skipped through relationships. The final decision had been made a mere five days ago, a rather short time in her opinion to move into the phase of anger. But Andrew wasn’t her and for all she knew whatever it was that had led to the sudden end of this relationship might have given him reason in abundance to be infuriated.

“Come on, I only knew her for what? About half a year? It’s not as if she was…” For a brief moment he paused, his eyes resting on her while he tried to swallow the words that had already been forming on his tongue. But it was too late and when he finally continued, his voice was softer than it had been all evening, almost fragile. “…the love of my life.”

Eagerly he gulped down the remains of his drink as if to clean his mouth from its last statement before the glass hit the counter with an audible clink.

“You’re right though. I probably shouldn’t have another one of these. Better call it a night.”

He didn’t even wait for her response, long fingers already busy stuffing his lush bun underneath a grey beanie. She had just slipped into her jacket when he already turned to lead the way. It would be easy to get to the entrance with him in the lead, his tall form parting the crowd effortlessly for them. But he didn’t seem quite as confident in the impact of his height as he hesitated for a moment. She had no idea why, not until she could suddenly feel the warmth of his hand closing around her own. His action startled her, only for a brief second, while her brain was trying to recall a thousand memories at once just to make sure she wasn’t mistaken in thinking that he had never done this before. He hadn’t. Still it felt normal. Easy. Everything was always easy with him. Conversations, silence, laughing, crying — it was all easy. Effortless and comfortable. Natural.

It wasn’t long though before they were met with the cold night air. It hit her hard, almost making her take a step back as, with the first inhale of fresh air, it invaded her lungs. Still it was nothing, an irrelevant fact, drowned out against the much harsher sensation of his hand gliding out of hers.

He didn’t even need to fully raise the hand that had been hers for a blink of time to make the taxi hold in front of them. But it was enough for the icy air to crawl underneath her clothes and wrap around her in a tight grip. Not even his sweet gesture of holding the door for her combined with the warmth that streamed towards her from inside the cabin could keep her from shaking violently.

And it didn’t stop. Not when the door closed, not when his body pressed against hers in the limited space of the back seat. She was almost convinced that nothing would ever stop this chill, when suddenly his voice filled the silence to state the obvious.

“You’re shivering. Come here.”

And then his arm was there, invading the unclaimed territory of her neck and shoulders to pull her close. It may have been the spirits inside her system, making her needy and weak to his touch. Whatever it was, she didn’t care as she sank deeper and deeper into the unmatched heat that seeped freely from him, directly underneath her skin. She could feel his chest rising and falling so evenly, as if her closeness meant nothing, as if this was the normal way to be. It was infectious, hypnotising her into a state of untainted drowsiness, one last thought remaining on her mind. This was it, not just the normal way to be, the only way to be. Even more so as his lips pressed to her hair, a gesture so tender it made her heart flutter, and she knew that she would never recover from this moment, however insignificant it was to him.

“I don’t think I told you, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

His words were mumbled against the crown of her head, almost inaudible above the noise of the car and the blaring music from the radio, but she had heard them and would cherish them forever, sealed inside her heart until her last breath.

For most, they would be the bare minimum after crossing an ocean in a hurry simply because she had known something was off. She always knew, from the fatigued tone of his voice to the slight change of colour in his eyes, from the way he had to force his smile, never quite reaching the full infectious gleam it usually held, his mind anywhere but with her while his fingers kneaded the palm of his hand in discomfort.

She also knew that it had probably been an overreaction, but she would do a lot more for him than spend her last savings on a transatlantic flight and an overpriced Airbnb, for him, she would walk all the way through the eternal fires of hell and back if that was what it took to make him whole again. He probably wouldn’t do the same for her, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t expect him to, that was not the way love worked.

“Well, first and foremost I came here to whup that woman’s ass for treating you like...well, the way she did. Comforting you was just second on my list.”

Stirred by a deep chuckle, his hot breath wafted through her hair for the second time this night. It was addictive, and dangerous, because it made her want to cuddle in deeper until it was too late to let go. And right now, just for a second, she allowed herself to hope that he might actually let her. Later this night, she promised herself, she would forget all about it. Forget about the soothing warmth he gave her and the light his presence brought to her life, always. It would be hard to erase the memory of a love that had never been and never would, even more so in the cold of an unfamiliar bed, reminding her mercilessly that she was just another foreigner in a city of millions of strangers. In a world where no one truly knew her but one. And even he didn’t know the one thing she so desperately wanted him to know, yet feared to tell him the most.

“We both know that’s not true.” For a second she held her breath, stupidly fearing he had been listening in on her thoughts. “You couldn’t even hurt a fly.”

Technically, he was right, she silently agreed with him while she relaxed in his arms again. But this was about him. And seeing him like this, this gentle, loving, warm soul, defeated by the betrayal of someone he had given his whole heart to—even if he denied that now… To her, that was reason enough for far more than just a firm ass-whupping.

Maybe she should finally listen to the nagging voice inside her head and tell him just that. It seemed simple enough, a few words spoken from the heart and it would at last be out of her system. After month and month of silence it would be out in the open, released from her heart and yet vague enough for him to take it one way or the other. Like a spectator from the outside she felt herself move to leave his embrace, but before she even had the chance to open her mouth, he beat her to it. A strained groan fell from his lips, eyes rolling heavily in their sockets and she thought she might have missed the moment in which she had already made her confession without even noticing, when she realised his agitation had nothing to do with her at all.

“Oh, come on. Of all the songs…”

Instant relief washed over her, causing a rush to the head that made her feel a little lightheaded. Enough for a cheeky grin to curl her lips.

“No, don’t you dare. Don’t even think about—” he warned, but too late.

“Go on now, go, walk out the door, just turn around now ‘cause you’re not welcome anymore…”

Her voice sounded all croaky and flat and she gave it her all to make it sound even worse. Knowing her absolute lack of talent, she usually avoided singing in public, and it had only ever happened on a handful of occasions, when the alcohol had made her indifferent to the physical pain she caused her poor audience. Andrew had always teased her relentlessly afterwards, but she knew all too well that he found it endearing and very amusing. He couldn’t deny that now, although his furrowed brows might give a different impression, but it didn’t take long until he accepted his defeat and the sweetest of smiles spread on his lips. And after leaving her hanging for another few lines, he joined in.

“I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high and you see me, somebody new, I'm not that chained-up little person still in love with you. And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free. Well, now I'm saving all my lovin' for someone who's loving me…”

They were both belting at the top of their lungs, all the way through the song, and when it finally ended, they fell back into their seats, giggling and panting violently as if they had just finished running a marathon. She was still holding her belly, completely wrapped up in their little cocoon of pure joy when she realised that something was off. She hadn’t noticed at first, but the taxi had come to a stop. It was hard to tell how long it had been standing in front of the red brick row house already, but if the driver’s face was anything to go by, it might have been quite a moment since their arrival.

He cleared his throat while he held her gaze in the mirror and Andrew’s laughter died away as well. She hated the cabby a little for taking this moment away from her friend and threw him a dirty look. Andy deserved being happy, so much, if only for the length of one single song. Careful to soften her gaze, she turned to look at him.

“Well, I guess this is me then.”

His answer was nothing but a tight lipped smile that left her with a thousand different options of interpretation. She was still trying to work out its meaning when for the second time this night, he took her completely by surprise.

It wasn’t the fact that he reached out for her to pull her in for a hug that startled her, he always did that before they said goodbye, but the way his embrace felt just a little tighter, his familiar scent more intoxicating than usual and the wool of his coat that suited him so exceptionally well unbelievably soft underneath her fingertips. In a mere moment he invaded her whole being, flowing through her freely until she could hear her soul hum in the silence that surrounded them.

It felt unholy to pull away, the sacrilege petrifying her in her seat, leaving her with no option but to stare at him. She had almost forgotten how beautiful his eyes were. That lush, mossy green, flecked with warm, earthy shades, she wanted to dive into them, and never return.

And there it was again, that one feeling she only ever had when she was with him. It was hard to pin down, it was not as if she was not complete without him. She was. But she had spent her whole life trying to fit in and with him, she didn’t have to. It just came naturally.

For a tiny moment, it seemed as if he was moving closer again. She noticed his eyes fall to her lips, or maybe she had imagined it. Either way, she couldn’t help herself from doing the same, watching the pink pillows open the slightest bit, a sigh waiting to fall, or a word, but it never came. Instead, a dog barked somewhere nearby and the moment was gone.

When she looked up, it was unmistakeable that the sadness had returned to his eyes as well. She hated it, hated every second they didn’t shine as brightly as they usually did. She missed the excitement they used to hold, the warmth and kindness they radiated from beneath his long lashes. And her heart broke for him all over again.

A soothing smile on her lips, the palm of her hand cupped his bearded cheek. She wanted to tell him that even if everyone were to abandon him, she would always be there. The words were forming in her mind so clearly, all she had to do was open her mouth and deliver them, but instead she heard herself say, “There is someone out there for you, Andrew. I’m sure of it.”

He returned her smile, faintly, but it was definitely there and it didn’t leave even as he turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand.

“Good night.”

“Night, love. I’ll call you in the morning.”

She nodded, and then she was gone. Andrew moved over to the spot where she had been sitting to watch her walking up the stairs. One hand pressed against the leather of the seat, he felt her warmth that still remained, felt his skin soaking it up to let it warm him from the inside.

She had always possessed this power, to warm him up and thaw his heart, even though he had thought that this time it had frozen for good. But the second he had taken her hand in that pub—whatever had driven him to do so—he had known that all would be well eventually. It had been so right, so natural, to feel her like that, if only he would be brave enough to tell her. But he could never, not as long as there was even the slightest possibility she didn’t feel the same. Because more than loving her in secret, it would hurt to lose her forever. He would rather have her as a friend than not at all because for him, there was no life without her.

There was no way he would ever tell her, but it was this exact truth that had ended his last relationship. Faced with the choice between her and anyone else in this world, it would always be her. No matter what. There had never been the tiniest chance he could have decided otherwise.

And now he was surer than ever that he had made the right choice. Maybe this night had made him delirious, he still couldn’t tell. She had been so close, filling first his senses and then his mind with nothing but her until he had let himself believe that this could really be it. His life as it was supposed to be. For a second he had even imagined that she was leaning in, that she wanted to kiss him just as badly as he wanted to seal her lips with his.

But even if she had, it was probably only pity speaking. Or worse, she might have thought that he needed a cheap substitute to drown his pain. And nothing could be further from the truth. He had almost been thankful for the bark that had interrupted them, without it he would never have found the strength to pull away and return her abrupt goodbye. Still, it was better this way. By morning he would have forced himself to forget about everything that could have been tonight, he would call her as he had promised and pretend that she didn’t hold his heart. It had always been like that. And it always would be.

She had almost made it to the door by now. Her steps already slowing while she was fumbling for the keys in her bag. He didn’t know how hard it was for her to hurdle the remaining distance between herself and the door. Especially with all the tears clouding her gaze. She had felt them coming even before the taxi door had closed behind her. And so she hadn’t looked back, afraid he might see. And now that she had almost made it, she couldn’t even find those bloody keys in her stupid bag.

It seemed like a miracle when she finally closed her hand around the cold metal to bring it to the dim light of the streetlamps. But her triumph had been too hasty, the keys gliding out of her slippery fingers and shattering onto the ground with an ugly clattering noise.

The frustration set loose more tears, forcing her to fish around blindly for them and when she had finally managed to find them, she fumbled around equally clumsily to find the keyhole. Her only solace was that she had heard the taxi pull away while she had been hunching on the ground, so at least nobody had seen. He hadn’t seen.

“You know, I was wondering,” she jolted upon the unexpected voice, her keys hitting the ground once more as she turned around in a hurry to find him right in front of herself. “When you said someone— Are you crying?”

“No,” she promptly replied, but it was useless to deny the obvious, she realised, as her croaky voice sounded through the silence, fresh tears still burning hot on her cheeks. And Andrew being Andrew, he didn’t hesitate. In the blink of an eye he was there, gentle hands cupping her face and wiping away the salty streams.

“Why are you crying, love?”

She didn’t answer, her throat sealed by a lump of fear. If she answered truthfully now, she would lose him. And she couldn’t, she mustn’t.

But he knew anyway. It was obvious from the way his forehead wrinkled and his eyes softened upon the realisation. She hadn’t expected the crooked smile though that slowly began to grace his lips.

“I see.”

His lips were even softer than she could have ever imagined, moving so tenderly with hers. And even though this was happening so fast that she didn’t know if she was awake or dreaming, she felt herself relax in his arms. Letting go of all her worries was suddenly so easy. Everything was easy with him.

#hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier #hozier imagine #hozier rpf #hozier fanfic #hozier fanfiction #apricity

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