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queers-gambit · 6 months

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And Let Me Love You Anyway

[ part two of two ]

prompt: you embark on a secret but passionate affair with the Rogue Prince, and when his wife, Rhea Royce, passes away, he chooses you to wed next - a decision that angers his niece and changes history.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader only description given: red hair and Daemon's able to lift you

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 6.3k+

note: what the fuck is this, Cherry? also two parts 'cause author gets carried away!

warnings: show spoilers, cursing, author has small bouts of feministic ideas, author also really likes the "little birds" storyline (let her live!), wonky brain is wonky, i think hurt and comfort, angst, very mild NSFW (female receiving oral), technically alternative timeline 'cause this goofy-ass author has an overactive imagination, #icanmakehimworse, another reader-episode-insert (this warning is for the fucking losers in my inbox).

part one: "Tell Me Every Terrible Thing you ever did, And let me love you anyway," - Edgar Allan Poe

"Alicent, we're late," you sighed with a frown, wiping your sweaty palms nervously as your necklace was latched in place and perfume spritzed on your pulse points. YES - that included your ankles.

"That's the point, sister, we're supposed to be late. It sends a message."

Your eyes rolled, snipping, "The King will not be pleased. I am not his wife, he can get angry at me, you know!"

"He'll manage," she snapped, glancing at Talya. She continued, "He dismissed Father for telling him a truth he would rather ignore. So much so, after years of service, he'd - "

"Yes, yes, the King removed Father as Hand, sent him back home," you nodded with understanding. "But we both know how he feels about his daughter, The Princess! The rumors circulating would cost him his life in the end, we are lucky he was only sent home!"

"Rumors! Rumors, sister, truly!? Tell me, do you think Father lied?"

"I know he didn't."

"Exactly why we're late to tonight's affair," she huffed, fixing her hair in the mirror again. "It's a statement, it's deliberate. We will stand out, prove we are not happy with the turn of events. Why offer Rhaenyra blind respect when she continues to do as she pleases - regardless of consequences."

You paused, sensing her anger brewing and trying to distract, "You know, Ser Lyonel Strong is not a bad replacement for Father."

"This is not about Ser Strong."

"Isn't it? Father's served long and faithfully, but perhaps it is time for a new guidance. Lyonel Strong is a smart man - qualified, even!"

"Yes," she agreed, turning to face you in a shimmering emerald gown. "But this is still an injustice to our family that I fear I cannot overlook any longer. It's been weeks..."

"Yes," you allotted, nodding with a sigh. "All right, yes, you are right, sweet sister. This is all just - it's a lot to take in, to try and digest. And we talk of playing a game with the Throne - I do not think we've the strength to endure alone."

"This is not about Lyonel Strong, sister! It's about Father and the disrespect the Crown continues to offer. Remember that," she advised softly.

You nodded, "I know, sister."

She frowned, "And remember... They aren't our kin. Despite previous displays of kindness, the Targaryens have made it clear that we are not family to them. They are not blood to us, sister; they will protect their own, not us. If we wish to survive, we will need to ally ourselves."

"I understand," you told your younger sister. "I am not arguing, I know what our reality is now - I merely implore to explore the routes that won't label us as traitors."

"I know, we have much to discuss going forward. But none of that for now," she took a long breath, smiling as she looked you up and down, complimenting, "you look stunning. Truly, you might outshine the bride tonight."

"Let's hope it doesn't come down to that, and that The Princess has a mature bone in her body - though I do not hold out hope." You smiled at her, "But enough about me, you look - you look like a Queen, sister-dearest. Gods, you're gorgeous, you look just like Mummy." The two of you shared an emotional, watery smile; embracing tightly as reality settled in your guts: it was you two Hightower Ladies against the whole of the Targaryen clan. "Come," you decided, taking a deep breath, "are we ready to go? Any later and I fear we might not get any cake."

"Oh, you and cake," she smirked, looking you over in a matching emerald, lighter-weight gown that had layers of thin fabrics clinging and dripping from your form. Golden jewelry was clasped around both your necks, wrists, tight around your fingers, and plugged into your ear piercings.

The Queen took your arm and left the dressing chambers you took refuge in, coming to a gasping halt when you were greeted by a well-groomed man in green velvet. "Father," Alicent exclaimed in shock.

"My daughters," he smiled, offering both arms, "I do believe we are now fashionably late. Hmm?"

"Exactly as we intended," you mused, taking his arm. "How is this possible? How are you here?"

"I was invited, if you believe that," Otto answered, the three of you walking slowly. "Though, I suspect your sister had something to do with that?"

"I only told Viserys I'd be deeply offended if you were ignored for this event," Alicent quipped.

"None the less, I am happy to escort my daughters to such a historic event," he spoke diplomatically, aware of the guards and servants milling around. Otto lead the way to the Throne Room - where you could hear King Viserys' echoing speech from the foyer.

None of you spoke, approaching the open doors and pausing to let everyone see the united Hightowers. Alicent wore her dark auburn locks pulled back from her face to cascade in thick ringlets down her back, your own Hightower-red hair left down around your face with the longer locks pinned off your neck. The entire room - the entire court - all wedding attendees and royal procession stared at you three in shock for entering during the King's speech. Your statement was clearly made.

Even from this distance, you could see how startled Rhaenyra was by your arrival, needing to fight off a smirk of amusement in order to keep your neutral façade.

You and Alicent walked arm-in-arm with your father, the once-Hand, down the stairs and up the aisle of banquet tables full of people, staring forward and giving no emotion away. The people buzzed in quiet gossip. The attending Hightowers of Oldtown, sitting closest to the royal banquet table because of their relation to the current Queen, stood first; everyone else following in a show of respect.

You and Alicent paused to let Otto sit with his relatives at the lower banquet table before joining arm-and-arm together. Over the muttering of the entire room, you whispered almost mutely, "Be kind, remain composed, we'll kill 'em with kindness."

Alicent gave a subtle flex to give indication she understood.

When you looked up at the table you approached under the King's heavy glare, you noticed there was an empty chair between Ser Strong and... Prince Daemon? Was that really him? When did he get here? Why was he back? It's only been a few weeks!

Your shock did not slow you, and as you approached the table reserved for the Royal Family, you saw Daemon smirking at your theatrics. Alicent did not let you part from her side as she greeted Princess Rhaenyra with a sickly-sweet voice, "Congratulations, stepdaughter. What a blessing this is for you."

She ignored any other reaction to let go of your arm, kiss her husband's cheek in greeting, stand beside him, in front of her chair, and stare forward with zero other emotion.

"Congratulations, Princess," you whispered, bowing your head. "Your Grace," you acknowledged, doing the same and taking the empty chair between Lord Hand and Rogue Prince only to stoically stare forward in silence. You did as Alicent did, not looking at any other, and just waiting for a pregnant moment that seemingly never ended.

"Please be seated," Viserys finally permitted, everyone sitting at his behest. He cleared his throat, whispering to Lyonel Strong, "Where was I?"

"The joining of the two Houses, Your Grace."

You swallowed when a warm hand laid on your right thigh, Viserys continuing his speech. You glanced at Daemon, seeing his smirk, and instead of throwing his hand off you, you laid your own over his to give a long squeeze. You had wrestled with the idea of his favorite whore, Mysaria, and the idea of whatever he did with Princess Rhaenyra for weeks. Then when you heard word that his wife, Lady Rhea Royce, had met her untimely end, you knew he was involved, yet said nothing. You could only think deeply about what it all meant - and how you fit into the equation that was Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Tell me every terrible thing you ever did...

All you could understand was the overwhelming affection you held for him. His shocked-wide-eyes found yours for a long moment, seeming communicating telepathically - you telling him you wanted him. His hand tightened to keep hold of yours, hidden from the public for the time being.

And let me love you anyway...

You tuned back into the King's speech in time to clap with the others, showing your support of the union you technically helped influence between Targaryen and Velaryon.

However, you caught the way Alicent glared at Rhaenyra, sighing to yourself; having heard through long private dinners what Alicent came to know and why this upset her so much. How strange to learn Ser Criston Cole admitted to Ali that he was coerced into soiling the Princess' purity - not her Uncle Daemon, like rumored. Yet none the less, the girl had sworn on her beloved, dearly departed mother to Alicent that she was still a maiden... A huge, glaring lie - that both you and Ali took personally.

You found all of this terribly interesting, yet did not let the distain show so boldly. After Daemon came to you in confession, you had yet to speak a word outside of public politeness to the Princess; feeling betrayed by what your lover had told you. He had been right: you were Rhaenyra's friend, she wasn't yours. So, you demoted yourself to create distance.

When the drums rumbled and the Princess took to the dance floor with her intended, you spared Daemon a look and muttered, "You do not have to look so annoyed."

"I'm not, sweet one."

"Nor so amused," you tacked on.

Daemon smirked at you, leaning in and pondering, "I am only wondering if you would care for a dance later, my Lady?"

You lied, speaking in a teasing tone, "I'm not one for dancing, my Prince."

"A single dance with me, then. Just one, pretty lady."

"You're pushy," you whispered, nudging him to keep quiet; but the grin on your lips assured him you were completely enraptured by his antics.

He sat back with a smirk, watching his niece and her fiancé dance. The entire courtroom clapped at the end, others flooding to the spaces around them. You glanced over as your sister stood from her seat, meeting your eyes and offering only a soft smile before descending from the table to approach your aunt and uncle from Oldtown - standing with your father on the side of the room. You sighed under your breath, your lover tightening his grip on your thigh.

Daemon made for a great distraction. "Did you hear the news?" He asked softly, reaching for his goblet of wine with his free hand.

"Which news would that be, my Prince?" You asked casually, pretending your heart wasn't hammering in your chest.

"Of my dear wife's passing."

"I did, actually," you fought off your smirk. "I am truly sorry to hear of it, I understand Lady Rhea was truly one of a kind. You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, love," you reminded in a whisper.

"Hmm. Don't be sorry, I'm not," he eased.

"You're not? Your wife died, Daemon..."

"I know," he met your gaze, "I'm not sorry because now it gives me vocation to follow my own desires."

You smirked, "Which desire will you follow first?"

His hand tightened to a bruising grip. He was not able to answer yet because your gaze was caught by movement, Rhea Royce's cousin approaching slowly, evidently a cup or two deep in the wine; making you remove Daemon's hand so you both could sit casually - without touching.

The man gruffly leered at Daemon, "In the Vale, men are made to answer for their crimes." Your lover spared you an exasperated look as he tacked on, "Even Targaryens."

"Who are you?" Daemon asked dully.

"This is Ser Gerold Royce, my Prince," you told him softly, "of Runestone."

Daemon perked his brow, asking sarcastically, "An excellent show of your knowledge, my sweet lady, but what does that matter to me?"

You didn't answer, Ser Lyoel Strong (who was listening in) didn't answer, because Ser Gerold was approaching the table by climbing the stairs. He growled at Daemon, "I am cousin to your late Lady wife."

"Ah, yes... Terrible thing," Daemon offered. "I'm positively bereft. Such a tragic accident."

"You know better than anyone, it was no accident."

Through a smirk, Daemon quipped, "Are you confessing some guilt, Ger Gerold?"

"I am making an accusation."

You shared a look with Lyonel to your left, catching sight of the King's turned head - showing he was listening, too. Daemon easily deflected, "Here, in King's Landing, men are made to answer for their slanders. Even old bronze cunts like you." This angered Ser Gerold visibly, the man stepping closer, but obviously restrained himself. Your lover continued, "The truth is I'm glad you've come. I wish to speak to you about my inheritance."

"What inheritance?" Ser Gerold demanded.

"Lady Rhea and I had no heirs. As her husband, whatever she was due now passes to me. She stood to inherit all of Runestone. Did she not?" Daemon had Ser Gerold pinned by legality, the man looking disturbed by his own realization. So, naturally, Daemon taunted, "After my niece's wedding, I plan to fly to the Eyrie and petition Lady Jeyne myself. Perhaps I'll see you there, Ser Gerold."

The man sheepishly walked away, his inebriated mind whirling with possibilities. You glared, pinching Daemon's arm so you could scold him when he turned to face you, "That wasn't very kind."

"And?"

"You don't truly care for Runestone," you snapped. "Now that man will fear for his home, fret over the laws, and that's not very nice."

He sighed, "What would you have me do, sweet one?"

"Leave House Royce to grieve and rearrange their succession without your pettiness."

Daemon smirked, "Whatever my Lady wants."

"You're dreadfully annoying tonight, do you know that?" You whined. "I'm going for a dance, and no, this is not an invitation to follow," you warned him - albeit playfully - before standing to excuse yourself.

"Sister," Alicent paused you before you could pass her by. "Are you well?"

"Yes, yes, just felt like dancing, too much energy to just sit. Come join - "

"No, no, I should sit. Eat," she smiled. "Perhaps tonight will be when you meet your match and we can plan another wedding."

"Perhaps," you mused, squeezing her hand. "You all right? What did Father and Uncle say?"

"Later," she whispered. "Go on, go."

You joined the stream of people dancing, instantly grinning when you were welcomed joyfully by different suitors. The band played a lively beat, the crowd cheering in rhythm; you being twirled around men and women with matching grins.

You heard your name being cheered through a small giggle.

"Hi, Princess," you greeted Rhaenyra as you both marched along to the beat. You reminded yourself this was all a game and if you wanted to survive, you'd have to play your part strategically. So, you quipped as you danced with Ser Arryn Blackwell, "Nice party you've got, huh?"

"Oh, you know how we Targaryens do," she teased. "Where've you been lately? I feel as if I've hardly seen you."

"Just busy with chores since Father was replaced as Hand," you answered, spinning under someone's arm.

Nyra didn't comment on that, instead, waiting a few moments before complimenting, "That's a beautiful dress, really goes with your hair!"

"That's what I hoped for," you gasped girlishly, deciding to play nice when she reached for your hands. You felt weak for a moment, but the truth was, you missed your friend... So, you might've giggled a bit when you joined hands, dancing together instead of with anyone else. With kindness, you offered, "You look gorgeous, as well, Princess, I love this dress - "

"Yes, yes, we all look fantastic," Daemon interrupted abruptly, crowding over you, asking quickly, "can I speak to you a moment, my Lady? The Princess won't mind, right, Rhaenyra?"

"Uh, no, I guess..." She eyed the two of you with suspicion as she stayed in-beat with the music.

"Daemon, not now - "

"We need to talk," he pulled you from where you danced, glancing back at the head banquet table as he took your hand, and lead you deeper into the crowd. He turned you to face him, pacing a small circle around you, demanding, "Do you still want to marry me?"

"What? Why are you asking now?"

"Because I just asked your father for permission," he seethed, pausing in front of you, "and he outright refused, saying he's negotiating with the fucking Lannisters. I need to know what you want."

"I was not aware what I wanted mattered to you, the man who views marriage as a political arrangement," you eyed him with a curled lip of annoyance.

"What arrangement could I want? Your sister is Queen, my family is bound to the Hightowers already. My political marriage is recently dissolved, I am free to do as I please, regardless of what others want or say - "

"Then tell me what you want. Tell me plainly what you want from me, Daemon, no more pretty words and veiled truths. Be plain."

"You said I had a year, and look - it's been weeks. Weeks, my love, how much more plain can I be? I'm here, now, free to marry, and I need to know if you still want to marry me. I'll marry you tomorrow - "

"Oh, please! Would you steal me away?" You mocked with a chuckle. "Take me to Dragonstone? Make me your little wife that you'll come to resent, too? Just as you did Rhea?"

He reached out to aggressively hold your cheek and jaw. "I had no choice in my first marriage, I could never come to resent you - you're all I've ever wanted. I'd do anything for you," Daemon snarled over your lips, "including risking your father's wrath. I'd do anything to make sure we end up together, you are my heart - do not forget that."

"Then pull out your sword, cut them all down," you purred, feeling his hand tighten, "and claim me as your own - do not let anyone stop us."

His lips hovered over yours, breathing the same air, and before he could respond or kiss you, a woman screamed shrilly from behind you. Daemon instantly latched onto your body as a crowd formed to your left and right, and when you both looked, you were shocked to see the commotion happening at your feet.

"Love - "

"Daemon," you paused him, shocked as Ser Criston Cole was engaged in a fist fight with some Velaryon knight before Ser Laenor Velaryon, the groom, was tackling him to the side. What an interesting display of protectiveness from Ser Laenor over his knight.

Daemon rushed in your ear, "Do not look - come away with me."

"Wait," you held his hands to your waist, letting him crowd into your back as Cole had punched Laenor to the side and straddled the blonde on the floor once more.

He landed one blow before the knight was brandishing a dagger; but the White Cloak caught his arm and easily snapped it broken, startling the crowd. Beyond your ring of spectators, other men were trading blows and engaged in their own fights; total chaos taking over the whole of the Throne Room. You flinched back into Daemon's embrace when Cole screamed like a wild man in the mountains, repeatedly pounding his fist into the knight's face; literally caving it in, creating a human minced meat pie.

Someone better contact Mrs. Lovett!

"No more," Daemon decided, Cole rearing himself back as Daemon stooped to heave you over his shoulder. He was able to find safe (enough) passage through the people, approaching the royal banquet table. "Hey, hey," he whispered, setting you down and taking your face in his hands, the wailing of Laenor Velaryon seeing his murdered knight echoing in the Throne Room. "You all right? You hurt? Look at me, love, are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm okay," you whispered, swallowing unsurely; reaching up to hold his wrists. "I'm okay."

"Sure? You shouldn't have seen that - "

"It's all right," you assured, stroking his wrists. "I'm okay, Daemon, truly. Just... A little startled, maybe?"

"What's this then?" Harwin Strong smirked, panting lightly from his rescue mission as the Princess was attending her father, the King. "You two hit it off then, yeah? Is it me or are sparks flying?"

"Something like that," you whispered, trying to regulate your breathing after the adrenaline-inducing scrimmage.

"Easy does it, love," Daemon whispered, keeping you close as you didn't let go of his hands; wanting to stay connected. He told Harwin, giving a half-shrug, "They aren't sparks. She's everything to me."

"Perhaps your second wedding will go better than this one," Harwin sighed, hands on his hips.

"In some cultures, deaths at a wedding are considered good luck," you muttered, Daemon snorting lightly in amusement before running his thumbs over your cheekbones in soothing gestures.

"Didn't your wife just pass, Prince Daemon?" Your father demanded publicly with a heavy glare. "You'd offer insult to her memory by remarrying so quickly?"

"I've grieved Lady Rhea plenty, Ser Hightower, it's time to look to the future," Daemon declared, eyes daring your father to challenge him. "The Lady Hightower and I will wed. The sooner, the better, in truth."

And history would never be the same.

"What?" Rhaenyra demanded, whirling around at the news, making all others pause in confusion. "What did you say?"

"That I intend to marry the Lady Hightower."

"Her? Her? Fucking her - who is more prude than woman?!"

Well, that was mildly offensive...

"Rhaenyra - "

"What makes you think you're worthy?" She demanded of you, turning from her father to stalk across the platform. "Worthy of a man like Daemon, of a husband like Daemon? You've done nothing to - to deserve such a title! The title of Princess, of wife!"

You were honestly confused to your core.

"I deserve a man like he - not someone like you!" She continued, shocking the group as the Kingsguard cleared the Room of any lingering stragglers to keep this as private as possible. "You think I didn't see you on my tour? You were fawned over, all wanted to talk with you, but were forced to line up for me! You rejected them all on your own, and now I see why! You wanted to wait until the Lady Rhea passed, which makes me wonder - what part did you play in that?"

"Rhaenyra!" You gasped.

"What? Honestly, it would make sense - the day Daemon's banished, you weren't seen! I wouldn't be shocked if you were seen somewhere lurking in the Vale! You cannot have it all - you've always wanted my life, and now look! You have to have what I have, and now you've taken a liking to my uncle after our scandal! What? He wasn't interesting before? You heard rumors about us and decided you wanted him for yourself? Just because he was mine first? You just want to be me, you always have - you've always reeked of jealousy! This is all you wanted, to steal my family, and - "

"That's enough," Daemon tried. "You are out of turn here, Rhaenyra, do not make this worse."

"Why? Because little Lady Hightower's façade of being a respectable, pure woman is now tarnished?"

"We share one dance, albeit intimate, sit next to each other at a single dinner, shared some conversation, and you now think it's appropriate to call my virtue into question? What of your own, Princess? You just admitted to scandal with Daemon - but I wonder why the service of Moon Tea if your virtue was unimpeachable?" You demanded, feeling defensive on a new level. Even Alicent straightened up at your words.

However, Daemon rushed to add, "With all due respect, Princess, I don't want you, and you can't claim me as your own when you never had me. You might be angry, but it is no use to take it out on my intended, she is of rare stock and breed - she will not be questioned. Nor will my intentions with her."

Rhaenyra snarled, "Yeah? You don't want me? Well, you wanted me enough to try and fuck me at that whorehouse!"

There were gasps and murmurs all around, but Rhaenyra was glaring at you and Daemon, still standing together. His arms actually dropped to hold your waist, keeping you close as he snarled at his niece, "But I didn't. If memory serves right, I walked away!"

"You wanted me!" Rhaenyra raged. "You always were and always will be mine - regardless of the whores you bed in the meantime! And I want you, I am not yet married - "

"Yet I will not be who marries you, I am betrothed to another," Daemon reminded with a venomous tone. "There's nothing you offer that I want, Rhaenyra."

"I am not some inexperienced little girl anymore, I'm a woman grown, and I could do more for you than she ever could!"

"Rhaenyra!" Viserys roared.

Everyone knew she had gone too far and there was no coming back from any this. After a beat, Alicent stepped in as if questioning for the first time, "And yet, sister, you said the Princess was served Moon Tea? If Prince Daemon did not touch the Princess, does this mean she still," she scoffed as if the idea were absurd, "sullied her maidenhood? Before marriage?"

It should be noted that Ser Criston Cole was already gone from the hall at this time. In fact, he lingered just outside a side door, listening, in case his name came up. When Alicent spoke, he straightened up and started the slow trek to the Godswood.

"Ser Lyonel? Do I misunderstand?" Alicent pulled the Hand into the fray.

"Well, that's what that would sound like, Your Grace," he agreed begrudgingly. "Moon Tea is beneficial to prevent unwanted consequences outside of marriage."

"From what I understand, she was served by Grand Maester Mellos himself," you told Ali, minds strung together by a common thread. "The castle likes to gossip, you can learn a lot if you just listen."

"This is..." Viserys seethed, "Unacceptable."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," you instantly apologized.

"No, no," he deflected, hand held up, "you have a duty to the Realm to flesh out any deception. And this," he directed his glare at his daughter, "is a grand deception that cannot be undone, unknown, covered-up, anymore, Rhaenyra!"

There was a meltdown. Everyone began yelling.

Viserys was enraged. Rhaenyra was desperately trying to plead with her father. Lord Corlys was demanding to know what the hell was about to happen with the impending marriage to "the future Queen". Ser Strong was trying to keep the people from each other's throats.

His sons stood to the side and just let them all fight.

Daemon kept you out of the line of fire, away from the action; sighing as you deflated into his chest. Over it all, Viserys' voice was angriest, and you heard, "You are no daughter of mine! The position you have put me in tonight - I cannot undo this, Rhaenyra! I should have never disinherited Daemon for you, breaking centuries of tradition because I wanted to see your mother in you! You have spat in my face around every bend, but this? This is unforgivable, we will not recover from this and I will no longer endure your insolence!"

"Father, please, let me - "

"No," he snarled, "I have had it with your disresepct the past several years, this is beyond any scale." You blinked up at Daemon, his lips curving down as his hands tightened around your form. And then, Viserys said the words, "I made a mistake naming you my heir. You may marry Ser Laenor, if you so choose to, but after that, you will reside on Driftmark with your husband - you will no longer inherit the Iron Throne after me."

"Father!"

"No," he snapped, "you've exhausted my patience, Rhaenyra!" Viserys roared. "And while Daemon might be unpredictable, the woman he wants to marry is not - and from where I am standing, she will make a far better Queen than you!"

It was quiet as everyone forgot their own selfish woes as father disinherited daughter.

"Your Grace," your father tried to step in, "with respect, why not place your son, Aegon, in line after you?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods, Otto," Rhaenyra raged, rounding on your father, "give up this campaign, you get all you want and more! Your daughter is Queen now and your other daughter will be Queen after that, aren't you listening? Your grandchildren will still inherit the Throne!"

"That's it," Viserys breathed, needing to hold onto the banquet table for balance as all eyes turned to him again. "It's time to do what I should've done all along. Rhaenyra," he shook his head, "I can no longer have you as my heir, this type of behavior cannot stand. I will give you permission to marry Ser Laenor, and if he chooses not to, I will allow you to reside on Dragonstone until a match is made. Until then," his eyes shifted to where you and Daemon stood, "I name my brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, as my Heir to the Iron Throne."

"You would not name your son?" Alicent asked in mild disbelief.

"No," Viserys told her, "no, I would see my brother as my heir. Should Aegon prove to live up to his namesake, we can talk about succession again, but I know my brother is capable... And though he might be overly wanting, he will learn patience, because I know the love of a good woman can change a man for the better."

You smiled, feeling emotional for a moment, but Daemon asked for you both, "Brother, do you mean to give your blessing?"

"Of course," he nodded once, "why waste a good wedding tourney? We shall announce on the morrow our new intentions - to crown Daemon as heir and marry him to the Lady Hightower. This matter," he panted, glaring at everyone, "is resolved, I will not hear more. Make the preparations!"

It happened in slow motion. Rhaenyra's rage flared to a temperamental height previously unknown; lunging to seize her father's Valyrian Steel, prophesy-engraved dagger, turn, and charge straight for you as the remaining audience shouted in panic. You felt Daemon try to push you behind him, but instead, your own temper flared and you stepped up to meet Rhaenyra; catching both her arms to hold her at bay.

Daemon was at your flank if you needed him, otherwise, he kept the Kingsguard away from you two - knowing this needed to happen now. Or else something worse would happen later...

"For fuck's sake, Princess! What is this? Jealousy? Huh?" You asked through your tears, struggling to hold your old friend's weight away from you. "What is this jealousy, Nyrie, hmm?"

"Don't call me that," she grit. You just sighed, pushing her back a little but not enough to overpower her; the girl's anger making her stronger than you would've previously guessed. "You've gone too far," she seethed through tears.

“I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the Kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please! Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!"

"You think you finally get my life, huh?" She snarled. "You won't ever be accepted - not as Queen - not as part of this family! You've wanted this all along! Haven't you!?" She struggled against you, hands sweating. "You've always wanted my life, that's why you stuck around! Your mother died - so you tried to take a place in my family, make them yours - and now, look! You're nearly there! Pouncing on my uncle the moment he's widowed!" She snarled, bearing her teeth.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. But now they see you as you are, Nyrie," you whispered with a broad smirk.

"You aren't fit to play this part! To have my life! You'll never be accepted as their Princess!"

"I wager I'll do a better job than you ever could," you hissed. "There's not much to live up to, you don't leave a lot of room to fill."

She screamed when Ser Harwin's arms seized around her waist, but the momentum of him pulling her back and Rhaenyra's thrashing cause the Valyrian Steel dagger to slice your forearm. You yelped and reared back amongst the startled gasps and panicked murmurs from the crowd, Daemon catching you. The dagger clattered to the floor as Harwin backed up several paces to keep the belligerent girl at bay. You whimpered quietly at the sting, a pool of blood forming to the side you held your arm at.

"Fuck's sake," Daemon growled, "lemme see, lemme see, my love, c'mere," he winced, looking around before using his own belt to yank free and tourniquet around your lower elbow. "You're bleeding a good bit," he whispered, "you'll need stitches, sweet one."

You pouted at him, wincing again in pain when he tightened the belt.

Around you, the Kingsguard was ordered to escort Rhaenyra to her chambers, and the moment she was marched out of sight, Daemon was warning his brother that she knew about her secret passage door and parts of the tunnels.

Go stand watch," a personal guard was ordered by the King. "Someone go - go find Ser Cole - I want him posted in the Princess' passage, he's trusted to us."

Alicent slunk off to do exactly that, and she'd tell you later that Cole was found only moments from taking his own life. He was overjoyed to hear the King had requested him personally to stand guard for such a sensitive situation.

In the meantime, Lord Corlys Velaryon and his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, thought it best their son not marry Rhaenyra; now that she had been disowned, she was less appealing. Viserys was free to offer her again later if Laenor was not married in that time and if she showed true change, but after tonight, nobody thought that possible.

Daemon tried helping your wound, your father approaching as he laid a clean cloth over the cut. Your lover tisked, "It's deeper than I thought. We should get this looked at."

"A moment," Otto prevented.

"If it would please you, this is not an injury I'd like to wait to attend to," Daemon sighed, nodding at your bloodied forearm that he held.

"I only meant to say, you have my blessing to marry, my Prince," Otto nodded at him. "Seeing the kindness you show my daughter, I feel... Content knowing she will be loved and cared for."

"Thank you," Daemon nodded.

"Yes, thank you, Father, but we really must be going, this doesn't feel very nice," you rushed to explain, watching him nod and eye your injury with worry.

"This way," He even instructed, a few handmaids rushing forward to help herd you away.

"Doing all right, love?" Daemon muttered as you walked.

"Bit shocked," you admitted.

"I'd say," he mused.

"It burns," you pouted at him.

"We'll get everything tended to, you'll feel better soon," he soothed.

You peaked up at his worried brow, pouted lips, darting eyes; whispering, "You're heir, again, Daemon."

"So it would seem," he deadpanned. "Can we not talk about it now?" He requested quietly, "I only wish to see to this wound of yours."

You nodded, and once in Mellos' chamber, you were left alone with your father - since Daemon was not yet your husband. Otto was silent as your forearm was stitched carefully; the bleeding staunched, herbs stuffed in the wound to prevent pain and promote healing. As you let Mellos wrap you in gauze, you glanced at your father.

"So... Your blessing, is it?"

"He's different with you already," he nodded stiffly. "And after his nieces' display tonight, I can think of no better future Queen."

"I do not wish to talk about future station, Father, but instead, that... That Daemon makes me happy and I am relieved you have given us your blessing. It would've felt very wrong to marry without my father in attendance."

Otto wasn't affectionate in the least bit, but he showed his love by doing his best to understand situations before passing judgement. It created a sense of trust and security between father and daughter. So, he asked earnestly, "And you will overlook what he did with Princess Rhaenyra?"

"He told me of it all the morning after it happened, I've had time to think, and I've had time away from him. I know what I want, Father, and while Viserys has changed history - again - tonight by naming Daemon heir, I know he is the man I want for the rest of my life."

"I see," he nodded. "Then... By all means, I will see this union happen."

"Thank you," you whispered, the Maester tying the gauze. "Thank you, Grand Maester," you spoke calmly.

"Of course, uh, um, Princess."

"I don't think I'll get used to hearing that," you whined, standing off his table. "Will you talk to Daemon for me, Father? I think you need to clear the air... I will not say the King will instill you as Hand again, but if I am to marry the Prince, I will need there to be peace between our families."

He nodded, opening the door for you, "It will be arranged, my daughter..."

As Otto took his leave, Daemon, pacing the hall, approached you. He took hold of your waist, asking, "Are you all right?" You let him hold your injured wrist in a soft grip, viewing the wrappings.

"Yes, Your Grace," you teased, watching his pale face flush.

"Don't start with that."

"Mellos just called me Princess."

"You are," he grinned. "And we will be married in less than a week's time."

"I can hardly wait," you whispered, letting his lips find yours in a searing show of rare public affection.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

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should-be-sleeping · 7 months

Text

Tough day today... and friendly reminder that being human is easier when we help each other.

I saw one of our neighbors, an older woman we sometimes talk to in passing, sitting outside of her house. I don't know what exactly made me look twice, but on second glance as we drove by I realized her walker was in the grass. She was otherwise just sitting there, like she had a thousand times before, so it would have been easy to assume she was fine and go on with my life as normal but something told me to go check in on her anyway.

She was not fine. She was the polar opposite of fine. Just diagnosed with terminal cancer not fine. No next of kin not fine. A veteran facing eviction from her house for missing rent while in the hospital not fine. In constant debilitating pain not fine. Only semi-lucid not fine. She was extremely alone not fine.

I thought, at most, she might be bored while unable to pick up her walker not fine. A five minute detour from my day not fine. A help her back into her house and say "see you later!" not fine. Instead I spent the last three hours with her because she was so scared and alone and no one should be alone.

We talked a lot while I was there. She's actually two years younger than my mom (who also has cancer but slightly better luck, I guess). I helped her into her house and got her a drink and we talked about what all is going on with her. None of it was good. I was as reassuring as I could be, but there's only so much of this I can actually help her with.

"Why did you come?" she asked through tears.

"Because you looked like you might need some help."

She called me an angel. I told her I was just doing my best. I told her that kindness should never be rare. That we should all try to make the world just a little bit better than it was.

She offered to pay me but I told her I was just there as a friend. Before today we were basically strangers. No need to repay me with anything other than her company, I assured her. She cried, a lot. I managed not to somehow. Something tells me she had needed to cry long before this but in being Strong she never had the chance to.

She needed to get her mail, which is a long walk when you're disabled because it is not at all handicap accessible (across a parking lot, over a bridge, across a small field). So I helped her get her mail. We stopped every three feet because her pain was so bad, but she was determined to be able to go do this with me and not just send me on an errand. I patiently stayed with her and reminded her, through her apologies, it was fine to take our time: there was a nice breeze and birds were singing. She appreciated this. She loves nature.

Halfway back she said she wanted to go to the pool. To put her feet in the water. She loves water, and has not been able to even see the pool in a month. Neither of us were dressed for swimming, but I took her to the pool anyway. There is a stair leading down to it, meaning she couldn't bring her walker, so I offered her my arm.

We went to the pool. She put her feet in the water and then, with more energy and enthusiasm than I'd seen the whole time, she jumped in. In her fancy dress! She was instantly ten years younger at least, clear and happy, floating in the sun. Dress and all. She grew up with a pool and had been on a swim team.

I sat by the edge of the pool while she swam, keeping her company and also making sure she was okay. When she got tired I took her back home and then had to help her get undressed and redressed. I made sure she felt no shame. Getting out of wet clothes is hard for anyone, let alone someone with like twenty pounds of tumors racking them with constant pain.

She was so fucking happy to have gone swimming.

She is trying to "make everything right" before she goes. Trying to repay her debt to society and her debts in general. She couldn't understand why the corporation that owns our houses wouldn't take her money. She was genuinely distressed -- not to be homeless on her deathbed but to not leave this world with a clean slate. I told her intent matters. She can only do her best.

This company not letting her repay her debt was their fault, not hers.

When I finally needed to go, I told her to let me know any time she needed a hand or just wanted company. She told me she was going to die tonight. I told her I hoped not, so I could see her tomorrow. I offered her a hug, we hugged and she sobbed for a solid ten minutes into my shoulder. I told her she was okay. That it was okay.

When I got home I cried myself, because I could not believe she was going through all of that alone. I cannot even imagine how isolated she must have felt. Once I pulled myself back together I sent her a text reminding her to reach out any time and I'd do my best to come over. Like, any time at all.

I hope she is here tomorrow.

#choose kindness #existing helps #if we exist together #life #read more

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the-s1lly-corner · 6 months

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Sorry to bother ya again, but my brain is literally on overdrive with this show and this clown who hws beckme my first kin and lives in my head rent free as she quietly sits there with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket like she deserves, buuut

What if the gang found out the reader could abstract at will, including restricting it to certain parts of their body, ooor what if they found out you were a shapeshifter when you accidentally sneeze and turn into Wario or something

TADC cast x reader who can shapeshift!

i have returned from eating my silly dinner (sweet n sour chicken with rice!) it was very scrumptious i went ahead and did the shapeshifter idea since i feel that would be more fun to write (we can pretend they can still shift to mimic an abstracted body shhh) these ones are a little short i hope thats okay!

CAINE:

its not totally unheard of people getting unique abilities when they enter the digital world, its just not very common (this is a hc!), so when caine found out you could manipulate your appearance he wasn't all that surprised! i think he was more intrigued more than anything, because its not everyday you see something like that! he would be absolutely thrilled if you shifted into him; both from being amused of it and this man probably loves himself as much as someone can

will try to pop you if you mimic bubble, kind of feels bad for a second but your disguise was just so so convincing! say, were you by any chance an actor in your past life in the real world? you totally had him fooled!

POMNI:

pomni would be a little freaked out, especially if you just. suddenly sneezed and OH! now it looks like you're abstracting in front of everyone! first response is to run away before the transformation is complete, but when she notices no one else is freaking out (ragatha even blesses you!) shes more than a little confused

you offer to demonstrate your abilities to her, but she probably politely turns you down; she understands... for the most part... really its mostly just her trying to become used to the digital world as a whole

RAGATHA:

ragatha makes sure that you know that she thinks its cool; and as long as you're not morphing into a giant bug shes encouraging you to hone in on that cool power of yours! compliments whatever form you choose for the day

oh? you changed your hair color! she likes it, the new look is amazing on you! oh? you made yourself a little taller and gave yourself some new characteristics! points out nearly every detail shes noticed, no matter how small. ragatha pays attention, ragatha cares

JAX:

tries to drag you off to the dark side (ie being a menace to the others), whether or not you agree to be his partner in crime and 'use your power for evil' is fully up to you!

makes random requests to see just how far you can take your shapeshifting, usually listing off things at lightning speed to see if you can catch up.. if your shapeshifting takes a toll on you (like lets say it takes energy out of you) he might let up when he realizes how tired and pale you look all of a sudden.. at least for now

KINGER:

speedrunning to kinger for a moment before i forget this idea but imagine shapeshifting into him and hes just totally confused. leads to him making weird movements and you copying him (he thinks caine added a new mirror in the middle of the room for a solid minute before you break the illusion)

unless you have a set 'base form' hes going to keep thinking youre a new person if you drastically alter your appearance.. which, fair, since i think if you made yourself look unrecognizable, people would think youre a new person entirely. has probably introduced himself to you multiple times before realizing it was you

kinger gets a technical third bullet point but its not fluff. i just remembered the scene from steven universe where amethyst shapeshifts into rose in front of greg. but instead its kinger and instead of rose is queener/queenie. i hurt my own feelings. im gonna stew over this now

ZOOBLE:

honestly if you look just a mixmatched as them they would be into it and say you look cool. i had an idea that zooble has spare pieces and sometimes switches out their pieces for a new look, so imagine the two of you make matching looks or something, i think that would be cool

otherwise i dont think zooble would treat you any differently than if you were friends and couldnt shapeshift... though... i will admit, they think its funny when jax annoys you and change yourself in order to get him to back off. serves him right!

GANGLE

imagine she asks you to be a model for her art.. asking you to do different poses as well as different figures so she can better her craft. i absolutely love the idea of gangle being really into art, and this idea is just so cute to me

you have probably shapeshifted into her and pretended to be her when she needed someone to stand up for her... imagine how jarring it would be to see 'gangle' snap back at jax after he does something particularly mean

#tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader #digital circus x reader #caine x reader #pomni x reader #ragatha x reader #jax x reader #kinger x reader #zooble x reader #gangle x reader

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moongreenlight · 3 months

Text

Nanny!Reader x John Price hnnnnngh

Tw/Cw: Cheating, mentions of drug use and abuse.

@ceilidho put the words ‘marriage kink’ and ‘ambiguous gray blob wife’ into my head and it has been eating away at my psyche for DAYS.

The Maddie from Euphoria of it all, honestly.

Getting the job through a Craigslist ad because it pays better than some of the office jobs you’d been perusing and it comes with free housing and a car to use? It’s a no brainer.

The kids are alright. Spoiled, but not entirely obnoxious. They’re school-age, so you really only deal with them for breakfast and a few hours after school. Their mother is absent. Some sort of philanthropist who travels for work and prefers to jet-set instead of sitting home. Their father is lovely. Truly picture perfect.

He only brought you on because he couldn’t step away from work, and he wouldn’t hear of sending his children to some daycare. Too impersonal. He prefers to get to know the person raising his cubs. He’s sweet like that.

John doesn’t expect much of you. Decently tidy house. Well-tended kin. A pot of coffee in the morning before he’s off to work, and a hot supper if he’s home late.

Leaves you to your own devices while the kids are at school. What’s his is yours. At first, you mainly stuck to your quarters and the living room, but after so long, you got a little lax.

Started wandering the house. Awfully fucking big for a philanthropist and a military man with three kids, but you’re not one to speculate. You try out the hot tub. The jacuzzi bath in the primary en-suite bathroom. The home gym in the basement.

Even that gets boring after some time. Too routine. So you get adventurous. Get your paws on the mother's medicine cabinet. Take a cocktail of her nearly expired prescriptions and take a few hours to yourself in the bath.

You must have fallen asleep, because the snap of a door closing makes you jerk your head up off the cold rim of the tub.

"Hello?" You're trying to figure out who exactly would be home. Scrambling to yank the plug out of the drain with one hand and track down your phone with the other. Suddenly very worried you slept through school pickup.

But when your pruny fingers finally swatted at the screen hard enough, you were grateful to see you'd only really dozed off for twenty minutes or so. Still no response even though you were fairly certain you heard the door come from somewhere upstairs with you.

"Someone home?"

The drain was loud. A dead giveaway of your neglecting your job. Gargling as it sucked away the evidence of your lavender-scented bath. What's worse? You'd forgotten a towel. Mind fogged by some desperate housewives-adjacent combination of stimulants and muscle relaxers.

You nudged the bathroom door open with a dripping wet toe, poked your head out to see what was going on. Seeing nobody, you decided that maybe you were just hearing things. Just the house settling.

So you inched forward, cringing at the trail of wet footprints you were leaving on the carpet of John's bedroom floor. You made a mental note to tidy those somehow before you went to get the kids. It wasn't until you were out on the walk over the living room that you heard someone clearing their throat in the kitchen.

It made you whirl your head around, scrambling to cover your modesty as best you could. Maybe it was a contractor? John had a bad habit of not reminding you that his buddies were coming over to do some project or another.

"That how you dress when you've got the place to yourself?"

You wouldn't be so lucky.

"J-John?"

A chuff from just beyond the wall downstairs. Strategically positioning himself where he could see, but wouldn't be seen.

"I-I didn't know you'd be home. God- I'm so sorry."

You weren't sure if it was better to run to your room or stay where you were. This was uncharted waters, after all.

A tsk, like he was sucking his teeth to keep the smile from creeping into his voice.

"In my room?"

Your mouth is painfully dry. You can't even manage to swallow.

"I'm so sorry, John. So sorry."

"Why don't you dry off and then we'll chat?"

#and then they FUCK. okay are you guys happy? jesus christ #sephspeaks #moongreenlight #moongreenlightwrites #cod mw2 #call of duty #cod x reader #141 headcanons #drabble #john price #captain john price #captain price #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #price x reader

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lyomeii · 1 year

Text

never forgetting about you

->warnings: yandere themes, manipulation, angst, maybe this can be read without being yandere at all? Spoiler from the main story ending

-> request by anon! Hi 👋 I know I requested the same thing, but I forgot to add some details. Can you do a yandere sung jin woo where the reader is from the real world but falls in love with sung jin woo even though the reader knew that he was going to fall in love with who I forgot her name is so the reader gives him a yellow tulip flower ( which I think means love from one side ) and then the reader goes back to the real world and after some years sung jin woo brings the reader back and keeps them with him (sorry English isn't my first language :) anyway have a good day ♥︎~

->a/n: have a good day too anon! I loved writing this one since i never got a request like that before :) it was kinda of a challenge, but trust me that only made me more happier when I finished this. and I changed the flower, since i do know that yellow roses means friendship.

-> maybe this was all a dream, a really realistic one, yet you don’t seem to find a way to awake from it no matter what. you are living in a apartment in south korea, that’s fine and you can handle it, you are a grown up adult inside a teenager body who knows to take care of yourself… but the huge portal in front of your ‘home’ was what caught you off the guard.

-> the design was similar and didn’t took much time to realize you are inside the world of solo leveling, as much that sound exciting and a little weird, you felt something bad coming up. Could that be since you know how the story is going to end? Probably so, but it’s a dream so why not spend your short time here to met this new place?

-> you didn’t care if it a school day or not, you dressed in comfortable clothes, got your backpack and began walking around the streets while admiring every corner. Even with you being incapable to enter the portals for oblivious reasons, seeing such new environment is enough to make you wonder if this truly a dream, not to mention the delicious desserts that you brought during you little journey til sun dawn.

-> the next day, you got scared when you realize you still inside of this new world, where your new parents discovered you ditch class to walk around. That’s don’t sound well neither the grounding you received it from them, you felt bad with how worried they look and the many tears in their eyes, making you feeling so guilty about it. Such a great way to find out you are stuck in solo leveling forever.

-> getting used to this new life and world is actually fast? studying is now easier since you were a graduate in past life, your slowly gained your parents’ again and continue to have what you consider a normal life if you don’t count the many portals and hunter you saw in daily bases, since one of your parents is an A-rank healer and the other one works for the Korean Hunters Association, in which area? You never bothered to ask.

-> they are pretty busy with their job, yet they always made time to spend with you growing up and letting you choose what path in life you wish to have. Many people were somehow disappointed when you told that you have no desire to become a hunter like your parent, much to their happiness, knowing that you are save from dangerous situations and seeing you following your dreams to reach whatever is inside your mind.

-> what they don’t know is that your dreams ( as much it sound stupid ) is to meet the many characters you adore from the story. It don’t need to be a full interaction or get to met them and friend them, just to be near them already make you feel happier. However it didn’t took much time to met some of them as you expected.

->first you met no other than the chairman of the hunter’s association, Go Gumhee, who turned out to be a closer friend of one your parents, how much you wished to learned more about your family prior of this meeting. The old man was what you expected, someone kind and somehow fun to be around, not to mention he treats you as a family member and his wife enjoy your presence.

-> and when you grown up to leave school and to get a properly job, the old man offered one at his work, but you denied and decided to enroll in the university in order to get a degree for one of the courses there. Life going normal, yet one day you manage to met another character you love, the protagonist himself, Sung Jinwoo.

-> he is already taller and more mature by appearance, meaning the incident already happen and now he is in his way to become the strongest hunter of all times, that only make you even more excited to let him and that what you do in the first opportunity.

-> with the excuse to visit one your parents at work, you manage to met with the chairman and he introduced you to the most recent S-hunter of south korea. Honestly, you don’t know how you didn’t pass out nor asked for an autograph, could that be you were to shocked to believe in your eyes?

-> that moment happen so fast and of course, you expect to never met the protagonist again nor have a great importance in his life, regardless of being thrown inside of this world, you don’t have any special skill that make you different than most people, yet something manage to bring you two together as closer friends.

-> it was weird, to befriend the main protagonist who everyone wants to be closer, but you just got enough luck to be considered someone important in his life. Jinwoo even introduced you to his sister and mother, both who adore you in their life, not to mention the many dinners you had with them.

-> stupidly you were in love with Jinwoo, well who wouldn’t fall in love with a man like him? Gorgeous, cares about his family, good personality and an amazing cook? You did and so did —-. You can’t really blame her neither the many girls who fall over his charms, however you always knew you didn’t stood a chance with the person he is going to end with, the story is already finished when you got inside this world and you fear that you might be here one day.

-> in what seemed to be another day in your life, you gave Jinwoo a yellow rose to him before he left to another dungeon. His cheek went little red, mostly due the fact that none has ever gave him a flower, his sweet smile almost melt you immediately.

-> he thanked for such gift and left after hugging you while speaking how much your existence to him meant a lot and how he wishes to never loses you. Oh. that was weird, did something bad to Jinwoo to say something like this? Maybe, but your head is spinning so much that you can’t even think about that now.

-> the moment you stepped inside your apartment, you vision where fully black and you couldn’t hear anything nor feel when your body hit the cold ground. There is something holding you back from waking up and opening your eyes, but the sound and smell did help you recognize where you are. A hospital.

-> for what you thought to be ages, you finally open your eyes to confirm your suspicions. Laying down in a hospital bed and to make things even more crazier, you are back to the real world, not inside solo leveling. Was all of that a dream? It felt so real and you live there for years, but, according to the doctors, it was probably a dream since you were only in a coma for a few days.

-> you really don’t know what to do. was that all a dream? Those moment you had with yours parents from that world were fake? Like the people you interact there such the chairman, Jinah and even Jinwoo himself are nothing but part of your mind, still you keep those memories inside your heart, regardless of being real or not, you enjoyed every second at their side.

—

-> Jinwoo panicked when hearing the news from your parents. You just vanished from your apartment, your classmates nor coworkers saw for a few days and now you are considered missing.

-> how could that happen? you gave him that flower to him and disappear from earth, he told many of his shadow to search for you in all place of the world and yet, no sign of you anywhere. Just like you never existent at all, like you were part of their imagination, but the memories he and many others have means that you are real, just missing.

-> he desperate wants to look after you to find answer to why you vanish and where you are now, but with so many things happening right now. The monarchs are going to attack soon and he have to be there to stop them, Jinwoo has no other option than searching for you after the whole situation get solved.

-> and that he does, when he uses the cup of reincarnation, jinwoo spend years fighting the many the monarchs and monster send to defeat him, only to him being the victorious one. when he did return and began a normal life, he start looking for a way to look after you with the help of his shadow and that ‘person’ that has connections with the rulers.

-> his shadows didn’t find a trace of you and your parents even married in this new timeline, they didn’t have children, leaving bothering the rulers to know why your existence ceased and being scared, they told Jinwoo the true.

-> honestly, he never saw that coming, hearing that you are from another world and that you are back to your world almost broken him down in instant. He loves you and you left him so easily, is there any way to bring you back? Any way to use his power to make you stay at his side?

-> the rulers saw no other option than answering him and of course told him a way to bring you back with a relic of them, of course Jinwoo didn’t hesitate to bring you back to this world using the said object. And in minutes, you are back to this world, almost.

-> you exist now in this world, but you are laying down in a hospital bed in a coma that doctors fears that you won’t wake up soon. for what he knows, someone find you in a terrible state in their way to work and brought you to the closest hospital, where you are now staying. without any information about your identity or family, a doctor from the hospital and their significant other, a businessperson. those two were your parents originally in this world.

-> everything is going back together, except for you and him, Jinwoo feels that even you are back in this world, he feels empty and lonely. He can spend his time at your side, but can’t hear your sweet voice nor you laughs when he tells a stupid joke.. was this a mistake? Bringing you back in such state? Were you happier in your original world? He hopes to learn more about your true self when you finally wake up.

-> but for now, the doctors and your legal guardians wonder who is responsible for leaving so many gorgeous flowers in your room daily.

@lyomeii stuff || don’t repost

#yandere headcanon #yandere imagine #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere manhwa #manhwa x reader #yandere solo leveling #solo leveling imagine #solo leveling x reader #sung jinwoo imagine #yandere sung jin woo #sung jin woo x reader

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netherfeildren · 2 months

Text

Austerlitz

Pairing: Simon (Ghost) Riley x F!Reader

Summary: The day he left for his hideous war, the dream changed. The house was still there, but now neither of us lived in it anymore. And when he finally came back, if that’s what you could even call it, he was nothing but a Ghost.

-OR-

Ghost goes away, comes back in a maybe dream.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: I know very little about COD so AU I guess; Heavy Angst; Unreliable Narrator; Is Ghost a ghost or a Man? Who tf knows; More feelings than fucking sorry about that; PWP; Rough Sex; Creampie; Grief Study; Mean Ghost; Size Difference; Complicated Relationships; Dom/sub Undertones

A/N: Wanted to post and then got pissed off and didn't want to post and then got pissed off that I was pissed off.

So anyways, here's my Ghost.

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

[AUSTERLITZ]

The first time my mother had the dream, it was our engagement.

They were always the same—the dreams—the house, our home. Sometimes I was there, sometimes it was only him, but the house remained. Always the image of him inside that place that belonged to us. Even if I wasn’t all the time there.

They went on for years, this idea living inside my mothers mind; different variations of our togetherness or not, parties, children, him, him, always him there. Once, he was even there with another woman, and amidst her sleep she knew it was wrong, that I should have been there but was not. It didn’t birth mistrust, that already lived between us in different ways regardless. It didn’t send me running home to him demanding answers, but it birthed fear. Fear of what could be lost—of what there was to lose.

A lot, it turned out.

It was like this fear that lived so painfully sentient within me, the fear of losing him, the fear of how much I loved him was so strong and so powerful and so pulsating that I'd given the infection of it to my own mother. She worried for me and for us the way I worried for him.

And there was guilt then—for me, from me. I felt guilty, I felt like I was doing this to her, making my own mother afraid. Sending her these dreams with my own worrying mind of a perfect life that could have been so easily lost, of all my happiness and wants and desires of him and how easily it could have all been destroyed.

The last time she dreamt of the house, months after he’d gone in my real waking life, the house was alone. Abandoned. Falling down on its own bones. A bad omen. And there was something so– I couldn’t say… but that was my confirmation, really, more than the years or the silence or the reports of missing, unknown, no answers or responses or clues to what could have happened, it was that dream of hers that told me it was all over in a real way.

She said she’d walked through the dream house, and all the ghost memories had been there: him and I, an engagement, a marriage, a happiness, losses and family and life. But everything was falling down around the past, and it was all alone, and she knew in her heart that he was gone and that I was alone now.

My real fear had gone to her dream fear had come back to my real life, and there was no true abandoned house, but there was an abandoned I.

You’d begged—before he’d gone the last time, on your knees, hands clasped, tears—wrought. You’d begged, please, Simon—don’t go, please. Please, don’t leave me. You said last time was the last time. Please, don’t go again—I have the worst feeling about this one. He’d not listened. Chasing a mission, a tour, the salvation of the world or the loss of himself, not me, which was the only distinction that mattered. But he’d gone, and the bad feeling had swelled and swelled swollen until it’d burst. Until there was some uniform on your doorstep speaking words of missing in action, comms gone dead, Simon—maybe dead, maybe not, just gone. Unfindable, but come along with a sick sort of satisfaction that you’d been listed as his next of kin when he’d never even been able to tell you that he loved you. But these were the words now, said with tongue and teeth not belonging to him, not my wife but the woman I love, the woman that’s important to me, my kin.

Simon Riley, code name Ghost: missing in action.

It’s been such a long time now, and you don’t know if that man you loved, love, is still alive or dead or missing or gone or just nothing.

All he is—is not—

—Here. And the before—it’d been complicated. Real and not real, hard, good, never easy. The complicated nature of a thing born from a complicated man such as he was. Occlusive, reclusive, reticent. But so good. So much, that it never really mattered if it was all growing pains, or just pain. How could you know? But when you were in the thick of it, it didn’t actually matter, that answer. It felt good, that was the only focus. Even when it didn’t. You loved him, that’s what mattered. He loved– war, being a ghost, fucking you, having you, maybe you.

You’d had certainty in some ways, that he wanted you, that he was closed off and silent and serious, and that he’d come back because he always said he would, and he always did the things he said. That he was a creature of habit. But everything else—uncertain.

Your mother hadn’t had the dream in years. Memory had become hard to reach, murky, but the sound of his voice, that remained. The only one that did, only because you held onto it with vapor fingers. And it was so clear, the baritone of it, the way it sounded when he was calling you his sweet girl, the way it sounded when he was telling you he was going or telling a lie. That had stayed no matter how far out to sea you’d tried to toss it.

Your last conversation: don’t be a stranger, you’d said. And it was in jest, or desperation, you can’t remember anymore. Something like please, please, don’t go away forever, please, don’t turn into someone I don’t know anymore.

There are things you remember very clearly. Others you’d been granted the mercy of forgetting—the way it felt when he slid inside you, no mercy there.

How do I know if these are growing pains or just pain?

The memory of him is distorted now, preserved under glass, entirely untouchable; just there, and the stopping point is invisible, but it’s still just there.

And you still love him because it’s impossible to let go of a ghost. A thing like that haunts you.

You’d left the home you’d become a woman in, left your country and your mother, after he’d gone missing; found somewhere far and cold and nothingful, and it all reminded you of him in a way that let you know you’d never outrace this feeling. But you’d needed to run and disappear the way you told yourself he’d had to. That excuse, blame, you placed on him, Ghost, leaving that last time, despite the way you’d begged him to stay, please, Simon, don’t go. As if the idea of him just not wanting to be with you at all was more comforting than the reality of, well, he did, but just not more than he needed to chase his duty to violence.

[When they’d come to tell me he was gone—but not really gone for sure—no one has died, they’d said, and I’d thought, just me, and violently. It was the last slap in the face, punch to the gut, fist down my throat and all the oxygen gone through a vacuum—stolen.]

Years: you’d lived with the vertigo of heartbreak, your whole life muffled. And you’d wanted to be alone with the enormity of your devastation and the Ghost shaped hole that’d been left in your body, so you’d come here, to this place you were in now, and you’d learned to be cunning like a fox, a cold that burned. You were not yourself anymore, something else, but something that didn’t hurt as much. A new version that fit that final dream image of an abandoned, forgotten home.

You walk all the time now, through the Ždánice and along the wet meadows and towards nothing. In lieu of doing something else, now you walk.

You find it on one such—it’s just like the dream—walk. Circles and circles around the Slavkovský rybník, back into the trees you go, and then it’s just there falling in on itself, eaten dead by the green overgrowth; the dream house. Your mother’s voice within your ear, I had a dream about the two of you, he’s yours, he was your husband, he was your fiancé, he was the love of your life, I had a dream about it all. There is a house.

He’d liked to smoke, when he was stressed or angry or happy or sad or just. Cloves because he could be a jackass sometimes, like when he was buying cigarettes. You smoke them now too—a griefful jackass, even still. Obviously you’re trying to hold on without saying it out loud, like being kin. Tongue slick, sucking on the stick until it’s all gone, just a stub, and standing there in the waning gray light—the sun doesn't come out much now, it’s wonderful—you watch the house.

You wonder if your mother sent it to you with her own missing. You wonder if he’ll be in there if you go inside. You feel like if you do, you’ll die in there, find something real bad, real real.

When you’re done with the lie of the cloves, you exchange the butt for a leaf, feel the smooth, dry edges of it. Folding it slow and careful between your fingers, thinking, trying to follow the path of veins, trying to decide if this is the dream house or not, trying to decide if you’ll really die in there or not. There are no more sounds, there haven’t been in a long time, and so you can't tell if it’ll really matter or not.

Recently, or years ago, you’d watched a video of a trio of swans doing battle, a rarity, the fact of three. They’d mauled each other, first two overtaking the third, and then the co-conspirators, turning their violence on each other. This is how you feel, at battle within yourself; your past, present, future, all fighting to leave you dead and bloodied, floating bloated in the water.

Horrible thoughts.

[We’re fighting a war on three fronts: me, him, fact.]

But there’s only dream here now. No Ghost.

You decide on the house—walk inside.

It’s only bones within, guts on display, covering ripped away. And very sad, very familiar.

You pass through it slow and floating, not looking where one foot goes in front of the other. You’re inside your mother’s dream just like she’d seen it so many times, returned to the womb, and like she’d said: there’s your engagement, a rarity of happiness, glorious intimacy, possibility, there’s your Ghost.

You’re not paying attention when your foot goes through the floorboards, to the knee first, jarringly painful, then the rest of your body gone through the rot. The only thing fizzing through your stupidly shocked mind is that you knew this would happen before you’re hip smashing, skull bashing ten feet down onto the basement floor. Cement ground, laying on your side and gasping like an eviscerated fish. The fist down your throat pulling all the oxygen out is back.

And all you can think, as you lay there, only a wink before pain that knocks you into sleep, is—and really, get a fucking grip, get your priorities straight—I tried to fuck so many other men to wedge the memory of you out, bring the sounds back. I’ve tried other people and other tastes and other lives, and I can't. I can't. I want you so much, I miss you so bad. I dream of you, of the way you felt inside of me, of how wet I get for you even still, wet for a maybe dead man, and how much my cunt hurts because it is so wanting. How much it hurts to love a thing that’s gone and how the physical pain is almost as bad as the one in the heart.

And then an ice blue, cold that burns. “Wake up, darling.” He’s always had the bluest eyes that’ve ever been.

“Ghost?”

“Simon.”

The jut of his chin, it’s the same. The one you missed. You come awake or alive. “Simon, you’re not really here. How did you find me?” Your body doesn’t hurt the way it should.

“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, runs his big thumb up the curve of your cheekbone, and you turn your face into his hand almost involuntarily. He even smells like a ghost, and you can’t remember if you actually ever even fell or not.

“Ghost?” You ask again—confused, full of sleep and someone else's dream.

But he shakes his head slow, and you can’t see his mouth behind the mask, but you see the smile in his eyes, joy above the skull. “No, baby. Simon,” he says again.

“You were looking for me?” His hand moves into your hair, cupping the small bowl of your skull in the big pool of his palm, the other coming to your neck, thumb at your pulse, just to feel, just to hum along to it.

“I was.” His accent is different, and you can’t hear sounds anymore, but this sound is different—you can tell.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Told ya—lookin’ for you.” Jut of your chin propped against the jut of his palm, pads of his fingers against the ledge of your orbital bone. He presses soft, probes gentle, lets himself be tickled by the fan of your lashes.

You close your eyes and tell the truth, “I wish you wouldn’t. I might hate you now. I wish you’d let me go. It’s been such a long time.”

“I know, baby.” But he doesn’t know, not really, not how bad.

You’re laying on something soft, no more hard basement you can’t really remember, and you let yourself slump into it while he touches your face. “I can’t believe I’m still here,” basement or with him or someone else's dream, you can’t tell which you mean. “I can’t believe I'm still here all these years later. You’re like a ghost.”

He agrees, “I am a ghost,” and contradicts himself.

You open your eyes again, swallow the blue. “I thought you said you weren’t.” No answer—but he hunches over you, large and brutish and falsely undiscerning, without any answers ever. “You’re not a ghost. You’re a real man, and you have to stop haunting me.”

“Not haunting, only looking.” He bends, reveals his mouth, kisses you for the first time since he’d gone, and it’s the same as before, but not. Always a beautiful, hidden mouth that he’d had.

There is nothing that Simon Riley does that is gentle, even when he is being gentle.

It’s always with a punch behind it, always with a scream behind it. Always with the certainty that he does not know how to be gentle, but that he’ll try to be so anyway. If only for you.

He tastes like cloves and ghosts. Lips warm, dry and smooth, tongue slick and demanding. He presses his big thumb bone between your molars, pries your jaw open so you’re mimicking the dying fish again and licks inside of you.

Ah—so this is how it’ll be, you think, mean.

The inside of your cheeks pinch hard enough between his grip and your teeth that you’re sure the mouthful of come he’ll be giving you soon’ll be seasoned with blood. You moan into him, take his breath on your tongue, the dream flips and switches in your mind. Rolodex of memories and unrealities. Where have you been? You ask again because the demand feels necessary, the answer, life-hinging.

He shoves you belly back, tells you, “Sometimes you talk too fuckin’ much,” and swings one tree trunk thigh over your middle so he’s straddling you, caging you, crushing you. A fist twisted in your hair so he can pull and handle you as he pleases. “Open your mouth,” so that he can lick inside again, taste you again. “It’s all just the same,” he whispers, and you can’t tell what he means. Doesn’t he see you’re the fox in the marsh now, cold enough to burn? Nothing’s the same since he went away.

You try and scratch at him, shove the behemoth away, mountain versus the moth, yank him closer—too. You bite his tongue, and then it isn’t only your own blood in your mouth, but his too. It only feeds him more. When he lets his weight fall heavier on your belly, ribs compressed, you feel the ridge of his hard cock.

You couldn’t ever keep him, but you could always make him hard.

“Ghost.”

“Not a ghost.” He tells lies now.

“It’s not all the same,” you gasp when he comes up from the well, hand at your tit, hard and punishing. “Can’t you tell?” And you say it angry or affronted. “How can you look at me and not tell? How can you look at me and not care?” About what you’ve done to me, is what you don’t say.

This makes him pause, even as he mauls you, and the blue is not ice but not warmth either. Jagged, perhaps, even though it always is a little bit so, but punctuated in a different way. Only discerning now, nothing un– about it.

“How can you look at me and think I don’t?” His words have teeth, and you want him to chew you up and spit you out. Maybe then he’ll recognize you better.

“You’re always going to choose something else over me,”—an accusation. “Because I wanted you to come back so badly,”—an explanation. You don’t remind him how he didn’t, and he doesn’t say that he wanted to. But he’s here, and maybe that’s all that matters, maybe it’s enough for you to let him slip his fingers up beneath your shirt, nipple punished between his thumb and index, mean and nasty. Other hand down the front of your jeans, sliping against your wet, fingering your cunt.

He doesn’t work hard at making space for himself in your too tight hole, merely tugs your pants down to your knees, tangled and trapped in him the way you’d always been, and with a hand on his cheek you find purchase to turn yourself over, shoving at his jaw roughly as you go. “No—like this. Like this,” you demand, belly down, ass up. “I don’t want to look at you when we do it. I don’t want to do it looking at your face,” you tell him even though you do love him.

He’s quiet for one victorious second, big hands wrapped around your hips, fingers flexing, swallowing it. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

“Yes.” He shifts, hooks you over his arm across your belly, hips up, cunt presented, swollen, needy sex like a wound. “Is it working?”

You listen to the drag of his zipper, the shift of his clothes. You close your eyes, enjoy the return of sound.

“Always.” And then it’s the warm, blunt press of a cock that’s going to hurt, and you feel very calm, entirely hungry. The pain in your cunt will be the kind you’d ask for in a few seconds; he notches, swipes, presses mean again at your clit.

“Let’s not pretend we’re something we’re not—you’re not—real.” And when he wedges himself into your too-long-untried cunt, it hurts. It hurts in a real way. Like he’d rip you in half and not care if he could. Hurts in a mean way.

He starts off hard, unforgiving, like he’s taking the pound of flesh he feels he’s owed for being made into a Ghost right here, fucking you on the dirty, cold floor.

Hunched over you, bulging arms braced around your head, wrist clasped in a death grip, breath in your ear, and he fucks you like an animal. A groan and a spit, and he’s telling you, “You’re so fucking good, best cunt in the whole goddamn world.” The wet squelch, the splash, splash, the moan like a whore agrees with him.

“It always hurts,” you tell him, whispered between a sob for more or harder.

“You like it,” and it’s a pant ending of a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth where a tear rests. Something gentle to remind you that even as a monster, he’d never hurt you in a way that couldn’t be turned back. Maybe.

“What if I don’t anymore?”

He swings his hips back, cunt dragging, when he pushes in again it’s to batter against your womb. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t stop,” is all you can say. You press your hips back, spread your knees as far as your tangled jeans will let you, back arched like you need it more than you can even say. Bent and pummeled to defy nature or some such other thing, and his balls slap heavy and stinging against your clit, cockhead at your womb again, again.

“Come on my cock, be a good girl.” Like he knows you’re just there already, pulsing and throbbing and ready to soak him, wet cheek fucked raw against the ground with every one of his pounding thrusts. His fist is so tight in your hair, around your wrist, it burns almost worse than your knees against the old wood, hand gone to numbness.

But it’s so hard to give someone so much when they never give anything in return, and it pains you to do it now. Your stomach pulls tight, heat all swirling in your pelvis. “You’re never good for me,” you moan, cunt twisting into a knot. And then you come, fluttering around his pouding length, the slap of his thighs against your ass. He shoves your shirt up so that your breasts are naked to the cold air, fingers digging too hard to be for anything other than his own vindication. It makes you come harder, cry harder.

And then like a switch, soldier on display, he flips, goes slow and soft and languid. Long deep thrusts, pressing your belly down into the ground and stretching out on top of you—longer than a river, broader too, similarly overpowering. His whole too heavy weight pressing all the air out of you, prone and caged and power stolen. He slams into you, but it’s slow and punctuated and precise now. Tip at the front of your cunt so that you know exactly what it is he wants from you, another one.

“Do you ever wish I was a better man?” He asks between thrusts.

You can’t lie. Look at you—fucked and frozen. “No.” The hurt hurts good, you like it like this. You like that he’s a Ghost.

He kisses your mouth now, gives you his tongue to taste. Cloves and you love him so much and it seems so unfair that it be so short, the love, when the forgetting is so long.

“Can you tell me that you don’t love me?” It’s a begging, it is. “That you never did—so that I can forget.” He pulses and throbs inside of you, thrusts get harder. He’s about to fill you full of come. “So that I can move on. Force me, please.”

He presses his mouth to yours again and with teeth, the bunch of his mask suffocating you. “Can’t lie to you, darling. I never could,” —not the lie you want.

And you should’ve expected it, he’s never been the merciful sort. When you beg please, please, you’re not sure if you’re asking for more of his come, for harder, for mercy, for the lie. Like so many other things now, it doesn’t really matter. He sends you into another orgasm, and he’s lazy about letting you milk him. Mouth slick against your own, breath panting hot against your cheeks, white blond lashes, too long and too pretty for such a beast, tangling with your own.

He lets it be slow. He lets it last.

And one more time is better than a last time—the once more negates the lastness of it. Now, it only exists in perpetuity. This is the lie you’ll tell yourself as he throbs and spurts once more, whispers your name into the shell of your ear, asks for his back. I got one more time. I got one more time. Now it all lives on forever, Simon. Now the house is no longer abandoned. Now we’ll exist here in this memory like so, forever.

He’s gone when you open your eyes again, sleep or unconsciousness, maybe he never was. And as you right yourself, your clothes and the thick leak from the overwrought place between your legs—no, he was, or was he?—your body doesn’t hurt as it should, only cunt-sore, looking at the dark you shaped hole in the floorboards next to you. You can't tell if the hurt now comes from the want or the truth, sound is gone again.

Outside, there’s snow on the ground. When you look up, it’s falling from the sky, against the surface of the pond, lost to the dark. A celebration happens somewhere, across the distance, in the town, you don’t know for what—or can’t remember. There are fireworks in the sky mixing with the ice.

You realize, or you think, or you hear someone say—does it really matter, it comes off the wind or the trees—a reminder that you’d come here to mourn something. To this place you lived in now. To the dream house.

[I’m mourning all the things that happened to me. I’m mourning the way I’ve been, the way I was. It was terrible, I hated how I’d been, but I still have to grieve her. I have to not hate that poor girl I used to be.]

The barium, copper lights go off and off and off, and it’s bombs dropping, pyrokinetic shelling, your life imploding, the end of everything. Him—a ghost.

Once there was only dark. If you ask me, the light’s winning—now.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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mostfuckableffvillain · 9 months

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Final Fantasy's Most Fuckable Villain - The Finals

Ysayle Dangoulain:

A) redemption arc, B) she's so terribly wrong yet so terribly well intentioned it's quite tragic in an endearing way

need me a bad bitch who kins a dragon's dead god wife so hard she transforms into her

She's so pretty.. Also she's the only motherfucker in this game that gets my feelings towards some of these dragons except that means she'll probably choose the dragons over me :(

Emet-Selch:

I'm sure other people have submitted him by now, but I'll go ahead and do it anyway. Unhinged manipulative rat bastard of a man who's done some shit and has a deep but tragic connection to the WoL. The sex would be mindblowing, the breakup disastrous.

I love this bitchy wizard grandpa. He has skunk hair and an even stinkier personality. He created an evil empire because he missed his friends from 12k years ago.

divorced old man who resents his own portrayal as a "megalomaniacal madman" (his own words) despite the fact that he entirely chooses to be Like That. He may be the source of pretty much everything wrong with the modern world, but hey, he's got a good voice.

#final fantasy #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv #ff14 #ysayle dangoulain #lady iceheart #emet selch #emet-selch #hades ffxiv #solus zos galvus #polls #round 7 #finals

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egcdeath · 1 year

Text

kith and kin

pairing: joel miller x f!reader (pairing from the soccer parents AU)

summary: your parents finally meet joel in the midst of celebrating your daughter’s birthday.

word count: 8.3k

warnings: brief mention of past abuse, a little tough love from reader’s mom, no use of y/n, cursing, alternate universe: no apocalypse, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, joel is a little anxious, your daughters are sassy, very lightly edited

author’s note: i’ve had the worst writers block recently, but i love this pairing too much to let them go. feel free to send me any requests!

previous part / series masterlist

Joel paced back and forth in your bedroom, the padded sound of his socks hitting the floor pleasant at first but was becoming a bit of an annoyance by the tenth consecutive minute of the sound of pacing.

Chloe’s birthday was in just a few days and your parents had rented out a cabin on Canyon Lake, inviting you and one of her friends to come along. Seeing as you’d been together for around a year now and that there was no better time than the present, you figured it was probably about time for Joel to meet your parents.

“Joel,” you finally said sternly, zipping up your suitcase and looking up at your partner. “Relax, honey. They’re gonna love you. I mean, they’re gonna have to love you since I love you. That’s how it works, right?” you walked over to him and gently grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulling him into what you hoped would be a reassuring kiss.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “What if they don’t think I’m good for you?”

“Well, this may be breaking news to you, but we’re not living in the 1700’s. We don’t exactly need my parents’ approval to have a relationship.”

Joel walked away from you, grabbing his own bag from where it laid on the floor. “I know, it’s just… I want them to like me. I don’t want you to have to feel like you needed to choose between me and your family and secretly resent me for years over that.”

“Maybe let’s unpack that last part some other time. But you’re so likable and charming, they’d have to be crazy to not like you.”

“I admire your belief in me, but it’s been well over a decade since I’ve had to meet and woo someone’s parents. What if I’m rusty?”

“Don’t be rusty, just be yourself!” you tried, smiling at your own terrible dad joke.

“Ha, ha,” his laughter was forced and monotone.

“Not the time?” You knew it was bad when Joel didn’t even respond to one of his beloved dad jokes.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. But everything is gonna go great, okay? And if not, you have a few days to make them love you, yeah?”

“You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly, seemingly just wanting to move on from the conversation. “You ready to go?”

“I am. Are you?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

When you arrived at the cabin, your parents were sat on the front porch, seemingly deep in their own conversation before noticing your car pulling up.

Chloe was quick to hop out of the car, excited to see her grandparents. Given that they were practically attached at the hip, Sarah followed close behind Chloe, with the pair receiving hugs from your parents as they greeted the girls.

Still firmly seated in the car, Joel took a deep, yet shaky breath, giving you an idea of just how nervous he was to be meeting your parents. Wanting to give the man a bit of reassurance, you grabbed ahold of his slightly trembling hand and squeezed it hard.

“I promise you have nothing to worry about. You’re gonna have a great time, and my parents are probably gonna love you more than they love me. Got it?” you asked firmly, trying to sound sure of yourself despite the minor nerves you were facing yourself.

“Got it,” Joel parroted, although he didn’t exactly sound sure of himself.

“C’mon,” you beckoned, unstrapping yourself before getting out of the car. After a very subtle moment of reluctance, Joel’s door opened and your partner stepped out of your car as well.

The moment he got out of the car, you grabbed his hand, squeezing it once again as a small demonstration of your support before leading him up to the porch.

The girls were already making their way inside when you finally reached your parents, your mom giving you a tight hug and setting her head on your shoulder.

“It’s been too long,” she declared as she squeezed you for a few more beats, finally pulling away to analyze the man you had brought with you. “And who is this?”

“Mom, Dad, this is Joel. He’s Sarah’s dad,” you stepped back to wrap your arm around Joel, a slightly territorial move to show your parents that whatever you had going on was serious. “He’s also my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you, Joel” your mother greeted, shaking Joel’s hand and maintaining a somewhat loaded eye contact with him. She smiled at him, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Your dad didn’t even bother with the pleasantries, giving Joel’s hand a firm squeeze and one solid shake. Both of your parents looked rather skeptical of the man, but you hoped that the stern look you were offering them was warning enough for your parents to behave around your boyfriend.

As everyone left to put away their luggage, you stayed downstairs with your mother, who indicated she wanted to have a separate conversation with you.

“What’s up?” you asked her, crossing your arms over your chest defensively in anticipation of what she might say. Based on that loaded interaction on the porch, you already had a good idea of where this conversation is going.

“Is this the Joel from Chloe’s soccer games?”

Shit. The one time your parents remember the name of someone you disliked just happens to be the one time you bring them home.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you remembered that,” you attempted to casually brush off. “It is.”

“The one you couldn’t stand?” your mother pressed, her brows furrowing as she looked at you with what seemed like disbelief.

“That was a while ago! Before our kids got closer and I got to know him better. And really it wasn’t even like I couldn’t stand him, it was more like he mildly annoyed me and we would argue sometimes. Even then, I kinda just had a crush on him. That’s why I told you guys about him in the first place. Notice how you don’t know the names of anyone else on the team who I don’t like?” you spoke quickly as you attempted to justify what you’d told your parents in the past.

“Stop. Just stop,” your mother rubbed the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. Growing up, you were all too familiar with that move of exasperation. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“Doing… what?” you said meekly, almost scared of what was going to come next.

“Finding men that don’t treat you right. Men who aren’t good for you?”

Oh. So that was what this was about. It was less about Joel, and more about your parents not trusting you to take care of yourself.

One of your biggest fears after exiting your relationship with Nathan laid in the ways that people would treat you after finding out you had stayed in a relationship that was abusive. Sure, there was the sympathy that always came with finding out about someone’s past trauma, but then there was the judgment that came with finding out you stayed. You knew people would question your ability to take care of yourself and your daughter, and you knew people would question your ability to find a significant other who didn’t end up toxic. It shouldn’t have surprised you that your mother was grilling you like this—after all, it was her that you turned to on nights where you had nowhere else to go, bringing your daughter to her home on days where things with Nathan got particularly tough.

“No! No, no, no,” you protested, emotions that had spent far too long simmering on the back burner beginning to come forward. “Joel is the best thing to happen for me in a long time.”

“Honey,” your mom sighed and looked at you with what could only be described as pity. Frankly, it made you want to crawl out of your skin. “You sound just like a teenager again, defending Nathan.”

You nearly had a visceral reaction at the comparison of Joel to Nathan. You just wished your mother could understand that even though she may have heard some of the things you’d been through, that you had lived through those things, and you would never make that kind of mistake again.

“Mom, Joel is nothing like Nathan,” you expressed passionately. “He’s an amazing partner and he may have only been in Chloe’s life for a short bit of time, but he’s a far better father to her than Nathan’s ever been.”

“I want to believe you, and I am going to give him a chance. But just know that things even seem like they might go South, your father and I will be fighting tooth and nail to keep Chloe safe. You’re an adult; you can make your own decisions, but we won’t let her go through something like that again.”

You understood the implication of her statement and frowned. You knew that your parents just wanted the best for you and your daughter, but this whole thing just made you feel like a child. Why were you being punished for being a victim? Did your parents really trust you so little? Little enough to think that you would intentionally put your daughter in harm’s way?

“Okay,” you uttered, defeat evident in your tone. “But there’s nothing to worry about with Joel.”

“I certainly hope so,” your mother said with a sense of finality.

You found yourself sitting by the lake as Joel played with the kids, deep in thought as you pondered the situation. Maybe inviting Joel was a bad idea. Your parents clearly weren’t happy and your partner certainly wasn’t comfortable. At the very least, the girls seemed to be excited to spend some time on a little vacation with the man.

Chloe ran over to you, pulling your attention away from the cyclical motion of the water as it approached and receded over and over again.

“Come look at our sandcastles! They’re really detailed,” she said excitedly, grabbing your hand and attempting to pull you up. Her excitement was contagious, causing you to completely disregard all the negative feelings you’d been stewing in after your conversation with your mother in favor of adopting some of your daughter’s enthusiasm.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you laughed, following your daughter out to the shore as she practically ran all the way over to her creation.

You squat down next to Sarah and set your hand on your brow so you could protect your eyes from the sun as you looked upon the three sandcastles in front of you.

“Well, what do you think?” Sarah asked, her tone just as excited as Chloe’s.

“I am very impressed. Great work, guys,” you expressed, beaming at the people around you.

“But which one is your favorite?” your daughter asked, shooting you a cheeky look that you were becoming all too familiar with.

“They’re all my favorite,” you replied, evaluating the castles.

“Boo,” Sarah jeered, clearly hoping for a better answer. “Which one is your actual favorite?”

“Hmm,” you fake-pondered aloud, bringing your free hand to your chin to make you seem like you were far deeper in thought than you actually were.

“We don’t have all day, mom,” Chloe commented, setting a hand on her hip.

“Hey! Good deliberation takes time,” you replied. Given that everyone was sitting by their own castle, it wasn’t very hard to pick out which one belonged to your boyfriend. Seeing as you were in the mood to mess around, you proudly declared Joel’s castle as your favorite, despite his castle not looking so hot.

“That one,” you said, trying to hide entertainment on your face as you pointed to the least technically impressive castle. Joel’s expression matched yours as he clearly bit back an entertained smirk.

“Whaaat? C’mon, I have a moat!” Chloe gasped, throwing a hand over her heart to show just how offended she was.

“And I have a mermaid! What does his have that ours doesn’t?” Sarah protested as she gestured over at her sand mermaid.

“She’s just biased because they’re in love or whatever,” Chloe scoffed. “Don’t worry, Sare. You’re a winner in my eyes.”

“Aw, stop, I love yours too!” Sarah grinned, going in to hug her friend as the two began to compliment aspects of each other’s sandcastles.

You couldn’t wipe the smile off of your face if you tried. Somehow, being around your little found family always made you feel a bit better. Even if your parents didn’t approve and never came around to Joel, that didn’t change the fact that you genuinely were happy with the man, and even happier with the blended family you’d created.

“Girls!” your mom yelled from inside, drawing all of your attention away from the beach and towards her booming voice. “Lunch is ready!”

“I’ll race you back inside?” Sarah offered. Chloe was off on her feet before she could even respond.

You and Joel took your time getting back to the house, walking slowly as you filled him in on your mother’s one-on-one confrontation with you. Despite the joy in the moment just prior, the reality check of having to deal with your parents had brought both of your moods back down rather quickly.

“I don’t think your parents like me very much,” Joel admitted to you, a hint of shame in his voice.

“I-“ you wanted to lie to him, to at least bring a little comfort to your boyfriend who had been worried sick about your parents not liking him. “It’s not your fault, it’s Nathan’s. They think I… they basically think I have a type. It doesn’t help that they think I used to hate you.”

“Fuck,” Joel exclaimed quietly, looking away from you. “I’m sorry, I just… I want them to like me. I’m already so nervous, I feel like I’m gonna shit a fucking brick. How can I make them like me?”

“Just be yourself, okay? And relax. I’m gonna love you regardless of whether or not my parents like you. Nothing's gonna change because of what my parents think of you. At the end of the day, I’m the one crawling in bed with you, not them. Who cares what they think?”

“I care. Deep down, you care too.”

“Joel, please,” you stopped and grabbed his hands, gently tugging him over to you. “I genuinely do not care. I love you. I love our family. Nothing is going to change that, okay? Nothing.”

Joel looked at you anxiously, his eyes a bit more defeated than usual. The two of you made wordless eye contact, communicating something heartfelt without using one word.

“We’re gonna be okay, regardless of how this weekend turns out. Okay? Just be yourself and my parents will eventually come around. If they don’t, it’s their loss.”

The round table at the patio of the lake house had a shape that in any other setting you wouldn’t even really notice, but only seemed to create more tension in this particular context.

You sat next to Sarah and across from Chloe, who sat next to your mother. It just so happened that Joel and your father were sitting across from each other at the table, and you could already feel the stare down just waiting to happen.

“So Chlo, what are you wishing for for your birthday?” your mom gently asked as your daughter took a bite of her food.

“Hmm,” she hummed as she thought. “I don’t really know. And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you! Remember, wishes don’t come true if you tell people. But I am very happy to be here with everyone. So maybe my unofficial wish is to have more family time.”

“That is a great wish, Bug,” your dad agreed. Sarah smiled mischievously at the nickname and Chloe threw her a playful glare.

“So how is school going, ladies?” your mom asked them, looking between Sarah and Chloe.

You glanced over at Joel, mostly to make sure that he was doing okay under the pointed gaze of your father. Sweat beaded at his forehead and you weren’t quite sure if it was from the dry heat or from the daggers your dad was currently shooting at him.

Thankfully, your kids seemed to be blissfully unaware of the one-sided war going on at the table. You attempted to reach under the table and grab Joel’s hand, but the odd shape of the table didn’t allow for that. He was on his own for the duration of lunch.

The conversation mostly flowed between your mom, Chloe, and Sarah, with your father occasionally butting in to comment on something. All you could do was sit and watch while your dad grilled your boyfriend with only his eyes, with not one thing you could do about it.

Finally, it seemed like everyone had finished their meals, and that Joel could finally get up and be put out of his misery. But fate didn’t seem to be on his side, as he somehow wasn’t off the hook yet.

“Why don’t you all go try out one of the trails? Joel and I are gonna stay behind and do some dishes,” your dad proposed, making pointed eye contact with your boyfriend.

The girls happily agreed with the plan, excited and oblivious of the fear that had just coursed through yours and Joel’s veins with the idea of him being alone with your father.

“Hold on, ladies. You’re still wearing flip flops. How about you go change into better shoes, then we’ll go explore a trail. Sounds good?” you asked, hoping to buy yourself a moment of time to give Joel a pep talk.

Chloe nodded affirmatively and the two of them headed inside to change. At least you could have one private moment with Joel before he had to face off your father.

You stood up and pushed in your chair before grabbing Joel’s hand and squeezing his slightly shaking palm as hard as you could.

“You’ll be okay. Just relax,” you said under your breath so that your parents wouldn’t notice. “Remember, you can’t say the wrong thing. Even if they despise you, I’ll still love you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Joel agreed, although he didn’t seem completely convinced.

“You got this,” you reiterated, letting go of Joel’s hand as the girls came back outside, talking about some show they’d been watching.

When you glanced away, your father had begun picking up plates, looking at Joel like he expected him to be doing the same. That was your cue to leave.

You mouthed good luck at Joel before your mother ushered you all away. You had no idea how your dad was going to act around your boyfriend, but you certainly hoped for his sake that he wouldn’t be too terrible.

After you and the girls left, Joel and your father picked up the dishes outside in silence, with Joel focusing on finding his composure and maintaining it, and your father being completely unreadable.

Joel politely opened the door for the man, even with his hands filled with plates, cups, and silverware. Your father simply gave Joel a curt nod rather than a verbal thank you.

He followed your father into the kitchen, trailing a few steps behind him before setting down the content of his full arms into the sink. Joel did his best not to overthink this interaction, but it was going to be his first one-on-one with one of your parents, and your father had already spent the past hour giving him a nasty glare.

The following silence was awkward and thick. Almost like those tension filled silences you and Joel had the first few times you were together with stakes that somehow felt even higher.

Joel stood at the sink, silently scrubbing away at a dish, hoping that an awkward silence would be the most of his woes that day, rather than any sort of verbal confrontation.

“You do the dishes often?” your dad asked out of the blue, breaking the awkward silence with an even more awkward question.

“Uh,” he tried not to show how thrown off he was by the question. Maybe if Joel could treat the interaction as less of an interrogation and more of a way for your dad to get to know him a little better, things would be slightly less awkward. “I do. I mean, I’ve been a single dad for almost 13 years. Someone had to wash the dishes, and it wasn’t gonna be Sarah.” Joel chuckled awkwardly, but your father didn’t even crack a smile.

“So if you had a wife, she’d be doing the dishes?”

Joel was once again thrown off, this time by the accusatory tone your father had asked the question with. Joel tried to give the man a bit of grace—your dad was probably trying to get a good read on him, so he would try not to let it get under his skin too much.

“What? No! I-I never said that. We’d probably split our house chores. I mean, that’s what your daughter and I do.”

There. That was a good enough answer. Tell the truth while explaining why him and his daughter were a good pair.

“Oh?” your father began with the raise of a brow, setting down the dish he was working on. “Well, why don’t you have a wife?”

Joel was completely taken aback by the blunt question, but assumed it was fair enough game to ask about. He would probably wonder the same if he were in your father’s shoes.

“Uh, my last long-term partner left shortly after Sarah was born,” he answered quietly, afraid of the judgment that your father may pass upon him, and slightly ashamed to admit what happened in the past.

“Oh,” if Joel wasn’t mistaken, it almost seemed like your father’s tone shifted, as if he wasn’t expecting that answer. “That sounds hard. Do you know why?”

It almost felt like that answer had humanized Joel the slightest bit in your fathers eyes.

“It’s a long story,” Joel dismissed, not particularly wanting to get into all the details at that very moment. “Leaving was better for her mental health.”

“Okay,” your father simply accepted, although Joel had a feeling that answer didn’t quite suffice.

“But things are better now, with your daughter around,” Joel added. “Sarah’s probably happier now than I’ve seen her in a long time. I can’t really speak for Chloe, but based on what I’ve been told, she’s been doing better too. It’s been really nice to finally have another parent around to be able to split duties with. I just wish I’d found your daughter earlier,” Joel gushed, hoping that your father would find his answer pleasing enough.

Your father was unresponsive to Joel’s statement, finishing up the last of the dishes before finally speaking again.

“You talk a lot,” your father said simply, turning off the water flow of the sink and turning to face Joel head on. “I’m not gonna beat around the bush here. I’m glad to hear that things are working well for you two right now. I don’t know how much you know about Nathan. I don’t particularly care how much you know either. What I do care about you knowing is that I will never see my daughter suffer like that again. Understand?”

Joel was taken aback by the abrupt change in tone, and just when he thought tensions between them were easing up. “Y-Yes, yeah I-“

“So if you ever put your hands on my daughter, or raise your voice even an octave higher than it needs to be at her, there will be hell to pay. Get it?”

“I do, uh, I get it,” Joel wasn’t even completely sure how he was supposed to be reacting to this sudden rant.

“I want you to say it. You’re not going to mistreat my daughter, and you’re not ever going to lay a finger on her. And god help you if you do anything to Chloe.”

“I swear. I swear I’ll never hurt your daughter or your granddaughter ever,” Joel’s words were rushed, and he swore he could hear his rushed heartbeat in his own ears. The sudden confrontation being jarring was an understatement, but he supposed that’s how your father intended it to be.

“Good. I’m going to hold you to that,” was all that your father said as turned to dry his hands off on a towel. “Thanks for helping with dishes.”

“No problem, sir,” Joel choked out, like his heart wasn’t still in his throat. He took that as an indication that he was dismissed, and he set down the things in his hand before walking back outside and heading straight to the lake—far away from your father.

As you were heading back from your hike, you were surprised to run into Joel. He looked slightly disheveled, but particularly relieved to see you. The girls seemed just as pleased to see him, talking his ear off all the way back to the lake house. You occasionally glanced over at your mother, trying to get some sort of read on her opinion of Joel, but it didn’t seem to be working.

“So what happened?” you asked as you stepped out of the bathroom, exchanging your towel for the soft pajamas you’d brought with you. “You seemed pretty shaken up after lunch.”

“Your dad just really grilled me,” Joel explained, turning off the lamp on his side of the bed as you flopped onto the mattress next to him.

“My dad can be an ass sometimes. I apologize,” you muttered, curling up beside Joel. “And I apologize for bringing you here. I didn’t know they were gonna be like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Joel assured, hoping to bring you a little consolation.

“It is, though. I’m the one who suggested that you come. I wasn’t thinking,” you whispered as you set an arm and your head on top of Joel’s torso.

“They were gonna have to meet me eventually. Better now than at the wedding, right?” Joel quipped.

“Right,” you agreed, looking up from where you’d set your head on your partner’s chest. “Hold on, are you proposing to me right now?”

“No, not yet,” Joel began to backtrack.

“Good. You’ll need my parents’ blessing first,” you teased. “Too soon?”

“Maybe a little,” Joel stifled his laugh.

“Ugh, I’m exhausted,” you groaned. “I can’t even imagine how you feel.”

“Also exhausted, mixed with a little bit of defeated,” Joel sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “You meant it when you said you’ll love me even if your family doesn’t, right?”

“Of course!” you exclaimed, sitting up a little so you could make better eye contact with your boyfriend. “Of course I will love you even if they don’t,” you promised.

Joel still didn’t exactly look like he was buying it.

“Joel,” you began, tone stern and serious. “Every day, you make my life so much better. You bring me so many laughs and smiles, you’re always there when I need to rant, and you’re the most reliable person ever when it comes to parenting shit. You’re probably the best thing that’s happened to me since Chloe was born. So yes, it would be great if my parents loved you as much as I do. But until they figure that out, I could care less about their opinions.”

That answer finally seemed to resolve some of the insecurity Joel was feeling around wanting to impress your parents, as he didn’t bring it back up for the rest of the night.

It was far too early to be awake, but Joel was having a hard time sleeping. Sure, you peacefully snoozed next to him, and of course Joel was comforted by your sleeping presence, but despite the pep talk you gave him, the knowledge that your parents disliked him and that all of his fears had come to light weren’t allowing him to rest very well.

With not much else to do and an arm that was quickly falling asleep (thanks to your cuddling), Joel snuck out of bed and down the stairs. Maybe he could catch the sunrise on the lakefront.

As he made his way to the patio, he heard a few sounds coming from the kitchen, and went to investigate. He was surprised to find your mother already walking around the kitchen, seemingly making a coffee for herself.

“Morning,” Joel greeted, voice raspy as he announced his presence.

Your mom turned around and offered him a pressed smile. She clearly was not expecting visitors this early in the morning.

“Morning,” she repeated. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be great,” Joel smiled, sitting down at the kitchen table while your mother worked on putting together another mug.

“You an early riser?” your mom asked Joel, bringing a mug and some creamer over to him.

“Thank you. And no, not really. Your daughter and I usually trade off on who’s gonna wake up early and get the kids ready for school while the other gets to sleep in. I just couldn’t sleep all that well today,” Joel shrugged as he prepared his coffee just the way he liked it.

“That’s sweet,” she hummed, taking a sip from her drink.

Joel sipped his coffee as well, and found himself surprised at the quality of the drink. “This is really good,” he acknowledged. “Is this a pour-over?”

“It is! How did you know?” your mother sounded quite excited that you were able to identify any way of brewing coffee, let alone identifying how his drink was made from just one sip.

“I can taste the difference,” Joel explained.

“See! That’s what I’ve been telling my husband.”

“I also may or may not have seen your dripper. But from one coffee connoisseur to another, this is amazing coffee. I’ve always said a pour-over gets you the best flavor.”

“I completely agree! These new, fancy drip machines just don’t do coffee justice. Keurigs, Nespressos, they’re all hunks of junk to me.”

“Well someone gifted me a Nespresso for Valentine’s Day after seeing my dripper and calling it prehistoric. I use it, of course, but it doesn’t compare.”

“Since it was a gift, I can forgive that,” your mother laughed, taking a hearty sip. “Do you ever grind your own beans?”

“When I can,” Joel replied, thinking about the fresh bag of beans he had sitting on the counter back home.

“Ah! Good boy,” your mother exclaimed, clearly pleased with Joel’s answers. “You do any other special things in the kitchen?”

“Eh, not particularly. I do enjoy being in the kitchen, though. I mean, being a single parent, I didn’t really have many options but to learn how to cook since I didn’t have anyone else to carry me in that area. I will say, we’ve been baking more often. Turns out, I can make a pretty mean focaccia.”

“Baking? With my daughter? You sure you’re talking about the one upstairs? I swear I’ve been trying to get her to bake for years and she just… hates it! What’s your secret?”

“I don’t know. The honeymoon phase, maybe?”

Your mom laughed aloud at Joel’s joke. He had to hold himself back from beaming with pride. He could barely speak to this woman the day before, and now he was making her laugh?

“Whatever it is, bring some over next time. I need to be the judge of this ‘mean focaccia’.”

Next time? Thank god for not being able to sleep.

“Of course!” Joel said with what may have been a little too much enthusiasm. He sipped some coffee from his mug while he thought about something else to say to fill up the silence, but your mother began to speak once again.

“So Joel, I want to know more about you. Other than the fact that you raised an adorable kid, like coffee a lot, and used to argue with my daughter during the soccer season.”

“She told you about that?” Joel asked, unsure of how to react. He wanted to laugh at the fact that you’d shared that with your parents, either before your relationship began or recently as some sort of fun fact, but he was still walking on eggshells around your parents.

“Yeah,” your mom acknowledged. It almost seemed as if she wanted to be casual about it, but also was curious for a bit more context.

“It was a long time ago,” Joel explained as if he could make it better. “It was never anything serious.”

“Well, how did you go from arguing every week to… this?”

“After the girls became friends, they kept setting us up to do things together. After that, things progressed pretty naturally. I think we just clicked. Realized we’re a good team and like each other’s company. I mean, I really love her and Chloe. I’m really happy with our little family.”

“Family?” your mom questioned with raised brows and a tilt of her head.

Joel wondered if he’d said the wrong thing or overstepped some sort of boundary. “I mean, I guess. I would say we… function as a family?”

“So there’s no secret engagement or secret wedding I need to know about,” your mother probed.

“No! Not at all,” Joel confirmed, hoping to quell some of the concern that had seemed to find itself on her face.

“And you didn’t come here to get a blessing for an engagement?” she implored.

“No! This is only my first time meeting you guys. I mean, I’m more worried about making a good impression than getting your approval on our potential marriage. Besides, I’m not really sure she’s interested in marriage after…”

Your mother nodded as Joel trailed off, not needing him to finish his sentence to understand where he was going.

“How much has she told you about Nathan?” she queried, seeming to be even more curious about this question than she was about some of the previous questions.

“Bits and pieces. Some things I’ve inferred,” Joel answered.

“Yeah. It was pretty bad for her and Chlo,” your mother simply stated. “Maybe we’ll talk about it some other time. It might help you understand why my husband and I have been the way that we’ve been towards you.”

“No, I get it. If anyone I loved had to go through those things—let alone my daughter, I would react the same way. I’d probably be worse,” Joel stiffly chuckled into his drink. For a moment, Joel thought about punching Nathan. The perfect cathartic moment for hurting and harassing the woman he loves. He’d do it again. And he’d do it to any person who even attempted to hurt you, Sarah, or Chloe.

“I just want to wrap her up in bubble wrap,” your mother admitted. “I never want her to be hurt again, and I know it isn’t possible, but I just want to be so sure that she’ll never be hurt in that way again. I apologize for being hostile, but you understand, right?”

“Of course I do,” Joel said earnestly. “And if it’s any consolation, I would never, ever do anything to intentionally hurt her. I know what it’s like to have a wall built around your heart and to swear that you’ll never let anyone in again. Your daughter let me in, and I’d never want her to regret that.”

Your mom seemed to think for a moment, getting up and setting her mug in the sink before sitting back down across from Joel.

“Either you’re really manipulative, or you really love her. I’m gonna hope for all of our sakes it’s the latter.”

“I can guarantee that it is.”

“I’m gonna believe you. But only because I want to try that focaccia.” Though your mom stated that with the cadence of a joke, Joel couldn’t help but feel that there was some hint of truth behind her words. Sure, this conversation hadn’t fixed everything, but it seemed like she trusted him just a bit more.

You crept down the stairs, clearly trying to be quiet, but failing at doing so. You approached the kitchen and yawned aloud, attempting to alert Joel and your mother of your presence.

“Good morning,” you greeted the pair. “You better not be interrogating my boyfriend,” you told your mom as you sat down next to the man of the hour.

“Nothing of the sort. We were just talking about baking. Why didn’t you tell me you bake now? And why haven’t you baked with me?”

“I guess I just didn’t have the right pastry chef,” you chimed, stealing Joel’s mug and taking a sip of his coffee. “Did Joel tell you that we’ve been working our way up to sourdough? I just ordered some starter the other day.”

“Oh wow. You’re like a completely different person. I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Sorry,” you apologized insincerely.

“Does this mean you’ll start baking with me when you come home?”

“Sorry mom. I’m loyal to my pastry chef. Has he told you about his focaccia? It’s really good. We’ll bring it next time you invite us over.”

You pulled your chair a little closer to Joel’s and held his hand under the table, a simple reassurance that you were there, and you weren’t going to let your parents treat him any way he didn’t deserve to be treated.

“You are breaking my heart,” your mom said, clutching her chest jokingly. “Although you mended it when you mentioned bringing bread.”

Luckily, it seemed like this day had started off far better for everyone—but particularly your boyfriend and mother. The two of them were getting along swimmingly, working together to whip up breakfast, carrying the conversation throughout the meal, and even going on to converse while the girls played at the beach.

If nothing else, you were glad that Joel was growing on your mother. You still couldn’t really get a read on your father’s opinion of your boyfriend, but hopefully with your mom now on his side, she would be able to talk some sense into your father.

It just so happened that your parents had planned to set up a few things around the house in preparation for the birthday festivities for the following day, and your mother had somehow managed to talk Joel into helping them out with their preparation. Since your boyfriend would be setting up, you were tasked with distracting the girls with a day out on the town, leaving your boyfriend alone in the lake house with your parents.

As things seemed to be going well between your mother and Joel at the very least, you at least weren’t too worried about your parents shredding your partner to bits while you pampered the girls and took them shopping.

Despite this fact, you still checked in with your partner multiple times throughout the day, getting updates about things he was doing with your parents, or any particularly interesting conversations they’d had during the day. For the most part, things seemed to be going well, but as the evening began to come in, you began to hear less and less from Joel, making you the slightest bit worried.

Once you got back to the lake house, you were pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of laughter coming from the back patio, paired with the familiar scent of a bonfire. The girls seemed more than pleased to go straight to the backyard, walking off far ahead of you.

By the time you reached the patio, Sarah and Chloe had already found spots to sit around the fire, and Joel was tossing some more firewood into the pit while seemingly laughing at a conversation going on between himself and your father. Although you couldn’t have seen the evening going this way when you initially came the previous morning, you couldn’t have been happier that everyone seemed to be getting along.

You found your own seat by the fire and Joel came back to sit next to you as your mother began to ask the girls a few questions about their day.

After getting as comfortable as you could on what was essentially a rock turned into a bench and leaning onto your partner, you and Joel quietly roasted marshmallows as your daughters excitedly chatted away, just happy to be able to sit and relax after a busy day. You were curious to hear all that occurred between Joel and your parents while you were away that had made them open up to each other more, but you could certainly wait.

“So girls, what was the highlight of your day?” your mom asked, turning to face your daughters.

“We had really nice manicures. The woman who did my nails was so much better than mom is. No offense, mom.”

“None taken,” you laughed at your daughter’s blunt statement.

“If it makes you feel better, you can’t be any worse than my dad,” Sarah offered, only contributing to your laughter.

“You’re probably right,” you agreed, playfully nudging Joel.

“I thought we understood that anything regarding my artistic ability is a soft spot?” he attempted to defend himself, but it was already too late.

“Sorry, Joel,” your daughter giggled, encouraging Sarah to giggle along with her.

“I also really liked our manicures, but we went to this really cute café with really good pastries and drinks!” Sarah exclaimed, gratefully accepting the slightly burnt—and just the way she likes it—s’more that you passed her.

“We only got decaf drinks, don’t worry,” you explained as you watched Joel hand Chloe a s’more of her own. “But everything was really good.”

“You would know, since you tried everything,” Chloe teased.

“Thirteen-year-old Chloe is even more sassy than before,” you teased right back. “It’s called the mom tax. Since I was your chauffeur all day, I got to steal a little nibble of your pastries. I think that’s fair.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sarah added in, grinning mischievously at you.

“I would probably do the same,” Joel interjected, coming to your defense.

“See? This is why I keep you around,” you squeezed his arm and grinned up at your partner.

“Ugh, you guys are always being so gross,” Chloe laughed. “Do you see what we have to put up with?” Chloe directed at her grandparents.

“You know, one day you’ll find someone that you want to be gross with too,” your mother explained.

“No way,” your daughter giggled, standing up and stretching. “Do you wanna go get ready for bed, Sare?”

“Sure!” she said cheerily, popping up and heading inside with her friend.

“Seems like they had a good day,” your father commented once the pair were gone.

“I think so. I hope so. Chlo was pretty bummed when she found out her dad was going to be out of town during her birthday, but I’m pretty sure this has made up for it. Thank you for putting this all together,” you acknowledged.

“Of course! Anything for our girls,” your mom said, smiling softly at you as she reached out to put a hand on your knee.

“Well what did you guys get up to while we were gone?” you asked, hoping to get a little insight into what you missed while you were gone.

“Joel and I did some baking, then he helped your father put together some decorations. Speaking of which, you’re gonna have to help me put up some final touches before the big day.”

“Of course,” you agreed, happy to do anything that would make your daughter’s special day more special.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I can finish up and help you with whatever needs to be done,” Joel offered.

“You’ve already worked so much today, Joel. We couldn’t possibly ask you to do anything else,” your mother practically gushed. Joel seemed like he was going to protest, opening his mouth before your mother cut him off. “I insist.”

You couldn’t believe that just the previous morning your mother was lecturing you over this man.

“Well, I’m not gonna argue with that. But if you need any help at all, I am more than willing to be there,” Joel reiterated.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” your mom stretched her arms behind her head and yawned. “I’m getting a little tired. Would you like to go set up now?”

You were getting the feeling that the question was less of a question and more of a direction, but you agreed regardless, pressing a kiss to Joel’s cheek before you went back inside with your mom to help set up the last few things for Chloe’s birthday.

Setting things up was about as eventful as you thought it might be, other than the absolute raving your mom was doing over your partner, and the occasional sound of muffled laughter coming from the patio.

“I’m starting to think you like my boyfriend more than you like me,” you commented offhandedly as you tied off a balloon.

“Oh I do,” your mother agreed. “You think I’m bad? You should see your father. Yesterday he was so wary of Joel, but today those two have just been giggling and bonding all day. I should’ve known it was a wrap after your boyfriend made a stupid dad joke,” she glanced over at the glass door leading to the backyard.

“So what changed his mind?” you asked, setting down the balloon. “What changed yours?”

“After talking to him for a while, it was just very obvious how much he loves you and the girls. He also just happens to be a very likable guy. I don’t know how you ever managed to hate him before.”

“I already told you, it was like we were flirt-arguing!” you insisted.

“I know, I’m just teasing. I’ll still be a little cautious, but he seems like a good guy. Now, after he and your dad got over their little awkward thing, they absolutely hit it off. Just started bonding over everything under the sun. Their love of guitar, their love of DIY projects, their love of you…”

You smiled to yourself as you listened to your mom. It was great news that Joel had been able to bond with your parents, despite whatever feelings they’d had towards him previously.

“That’s good to hear. I’m happy you both finally came to your senses. He was worried sick about you guys not liking him.”

“Well, he’s got nothing to worry about now,” your mom flashed you a smile that matched yours as she finished off the balloons. “I think that’s all we needed to do. I’ll wake you up in the morning if I need any extra hands then.”

“Please don’t,” you groaned, pulling yourself out of your chair and glancing back over at the back door, where Joel and your father still seemed to be having a great time. When you looked back over, your mother was approaching you with open arms.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know you’ve already been through so much, and you wouldn’t purposely put yourself through that again,” she began as she embraced you. The apology was like music to your ears. You just hoped that Joel had also received some form of apology from your parents, as he was the one receiving the majority of the pushback. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for leaving Nathan, and I’m proud of you for focusing on yourself, and I’m proud of you for finding someone good for you when you were finally ready.”

“I love you. I’m pretty fond of your boyfriend, too. Goodnight,” your mother bid you farewell, and you couldn’t even think of a proper response before she was already going up the stairs. You had much to process tonight.

Long after you’d fallen asleep, you woke up to the feeling of the mattress shifting its weight. When you turned over onto your side to see what the disturbance was, you just barely made out your partner in the dark.

“It’s just me,” Joel whispered as he settled in bed next to you. Like you were a magnet, you found yourself clinging onto him almost automatically.

“Hi,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” he repeated, settling his arm on your hip.

“How was today?” you asked, nudging Joel over enough for him to be on his side so that you could spoon him.

“Really good, I think. I think your parents kinda like me now,” he yawned, relaxing into your touch as you held him.

“Kinda?” you muttered sleepily. “What did I tell you? They’d come around eventually.”

“You were right. I should’ve listened earlier,” he confessed as he fell into a more and more relaxed state.

“Maybe. I could care less about their opinion of you. That’s what I wish you listened to earlier,” you explained. “But I am happy that they like you so much.”

You were up bright and early to put the last little finishing touches on Chloe’s birthday decorations. You and your father taped up a few ‘happy birthday’ signs, while your mother and Joel worked on decorating Chloe’s birthday cake. Not much longer after you came downstairs, Sarah found herself downstairs helping to put her own creative spin on the cake as well.

After some discussion of when it would be acceptable to wake up Chloe, you all headed upstairs to her room to wish her a happy birthday.

As her door opened and everyone began to sing slightly off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ Chloe slowly began to sit up as she grew more and more awake before she broke into a fit of slightly embarrassed laughter.

It was quite the scene, and probably not the most ideal wake-up call, but your daughter grinned and expressed her gratitude regardless, getting out of bed so she could attempt to pull everyone into a big group hug.

“Ugh, I love you guys so much,” she sighed fondly. “How did I get the best family ever?”

You were starting to wonder the same yourself.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller imagine #soccer parents au

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nexusnyx · 1 year

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Lost The Game

SUMMARY: The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.

The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.

The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.

⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. Explicit depictions of sex. | 🏷️ 8.3K , fluff, established relationship, part three of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.

• PART TWO •

In his world, there was no Avengers.

The bad thing about his inter-dimensional trip he had was this—Peter got an idea of what other worlds looked like and parts of him wished for a supernatural helping hand, sometimes, or maybe just someone who understood him. He had allies, but very few friends on this side of his life. This is why when Peter is almost killed by Kingpin, a decision that he's been dreading for months becomes easy in the snap of a finger.

Do I drop the last vail or do I not?

All of his excuses as to why not fly out of the window when Peter's bleeding to death and realizes that none of it matters. All of life is dangerous, on this or any other planet, and if he's always putting his own damn life — personal or not — at risk for the sake of saving a city, he might as well do that and let the woman he loves kiss him with the lights on while he's at it.

He swallows the metallic and thick taste of red in his mouth, reaches his trembling hand up, and knocks.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap.

"Peter?"

The fright in your voice is what startles his eyes open.

"Peter!"

God, he loves your voice so much.

A lot less when it drips in worry like this, but the love is there nonetheless.

"Peter, open your eyes. What—oh my god," you choke on your words, and he feels you pulling his body inside your room.

Guiding himself by memory, Peter helps the way he can, letting his body slide down your bed.

"Gonna get your sheets dirty," he mumbles.

"Oh, for the love of god." There's the feeling of his suit being unzipped at the back, and even through the fogginess, Peter notices how your hands are cold. Shaking. "Peter, what happened?" It's a breathless whisper, and it makes his chest ache more than the bruises did because it sounds so small, and nothing about you is diminutive.

"Kin—ow—Kingpin." The ruthless man's minions might still be stuck in webs hung meters above the ground, but Wilson, Kingpin, that man needs no henchmen to do any damage. It was the point he had to prove today—more to Matt than to Peter, but because Peter had decided to help, he got mingled in the mess.

After a heartbeat, he hears. "Who's Matt?" you ask.

Wait—was Peter talking out loud?

"Oh, god," this time, it's a choked-up sob. "Peter, I think you have a concussion."

Y/n is going to be a doctor, so the probabilities of her being right are very high. He probably does have something on his head—Kingpin grabbed Peter's head in his hand, that enormous, gigantic hand that engulfed all of Peter's skull and smashed it against the nearest thing, which happened to be iron polls.

He's still unsure of what the tension and underlying secret were between that man and Matt, but there was so much anger in there tonight.

"Peter..."

He feels weak, but he still has some strength left and Peter had made up his mind before he arrived at the staircases of your apartment.

If he went to the hospital, Aunt May would have a heart attack.

If he came to you, Peter would have to let you see him.

With the taste of blood polluting every inch of his mouth, it was a surprisingly easy decision to make.

He ignores the strain and the pull on the sides of his body as he reaches up for the mask, and he hears you gasp when he pulls it off in a clean sweep.

"Peter."

"Hey. That's me." He can't laugh right now — or open his right eye that much — but he can smile at you. A weak, bloody thing. At least it's an honest one. "Hi. I think I might blackout."

"Peter," are you crying? Good gods, Peter would clock himself on the face if someone else hadn't beaten him to the punch. "I don't—I don't know if I can take care of all of this."

"It's just—the one on the back. I think I'm losin' lots of blood 'cause of it..."

"What's on your back?"

"Open gunshot wound closed with webs?"

"Peter!"

"I didn't sh... shoot it, baby." He knew she'd be mad the second he threw the webs at himself. "The rest will... it'll fade. Soon."

There's a moment of silence where Peter hears rapid, short breaths. He opens his left eye as much as he can as sees you breathing in through your nose and out of your mouth quickly, then feels the bed dipping when you leave it with purpose. He knows you're going for the first-aid kit, so he already does the job of turning around.

When he hears your footsteps coming back, the last thing he hears is what makes him smile against your duvet.

"I'll take care of you. It's okay. It's gonna be fine, Peter."

While he's aware you're hyping yourself up to believe it more than talking to him, the words are like anesthetic all over his body.

Peter inhales the scent that is acutely yours, and blacks out.

If he were anyone else, Peter would remember close to nothing of his hours alternating between consciousness and not.

Lucky for him, he's part spider.

At first, all he feels, sees, and hears, are small tidbits of you moving things in and around him.

There's the distinct — and nasty — feeling of a needle threading with nylon through his lower upper back.

During that moment, nothing else passes through.

He's distantly aware of your mumbling and whispering, the soft and comforting words not reaching his ears, but the sense they bring drape over his skin almost like a blanket.

Then, when he has a silver of consciousness again, he recognizes through the stinging pain and the dull, throbbing aches all over his body, that the heat he registers is not of his own blood anymore, but of your warm hands along with a warm towel washing him.

That's when he allows sleep to come for the first time.

He wakes up somewhere in the middle of the day judging by the light streaming through your window, and he's happy to access that his body's doing most of the healing by now.

The feeling of a gaping hole is gone, and so is the smell of blood.

Peter wants to look around a bit, but while the throbbing has passed, it's left a dull, sore ache in its place.

You're not there, either.

He knows that because Peter's spidey senses have almost a direct link to you, and you're not in the room.

It takes him a couple of minutes with the taste of sand at the back of his throat and that pounding on the back of his head for him to realize he can open his eyes.

There's a glass of water right next to him, and he smiles.

Of course you'd do that.

Even after he's ruined your nice duvets — after promising he'd never spill blood on your blankets again, shit — Peter still gets the kindest side of you.

And then he remembers—you saw his face.

The lights were on, he was a mess, and fuck—you saw him.

You saw him and saved his life, one more time.

How many times would you have to do it?

Why was his life so dangerous?

Peter's stomach starts to resemble something alive, something with tentacles and it's reaching up, so he swallows it back down.

After gulping the glass of water, he hears it.

Distant sounds of conversation.

Felicity's voice is what registers first. It's not as familiar to him as yours is right now, but it is the reason it brought him to you in the first place, even if Peter hates thinking about that. He ignores your roommate and the things he keeps hidden from you like most people would ignore a spider in the upper corner of their bathroom.

It hurts to try to hear the conversation.

The gun blasted too close to his ear, and Peter's not the biggest at eavesdropping, so he just lets his upper body lay down again and allows the darkness on the corners of his mind to take over the rest.

Next, there are the hours in-between.

As the sun goes down, Peter drifts between the land of dreams and this one, enjoying both of them very much.

In here, there's you with a warm, wet cloth cleaning his wounds that need tending, and in his dreams, there's you sitting next to a blond girl, smiling at him.

At some point, Peter opens his eyes and sees you sitting on your chair in front of your computer desk.

Your eyes widen and you slide the chair closer, looking at every inch of his face with furrowed eyebrows.

"Peter," it's the softest you've ever said his name. "Is there anyone you'd like me to text? About your whereabouts?"

Aunt May.

"You can go back to sleep right after, but you came without your backpack, and it's been almost a day—do you want some pain medicine? I can get it for you."

He nods.

You nod back, then get up and exit the room. Peter takes the opportunity to grab the notepad you have on your nightstand, write down Aunt May's phone number and name and a message underneath it.

I'm at Y/n's. Be back soon, aunt May. Love you <3

It's an ugly scribble, but your handwriting is far worse than anything he could dream of producing, so he sits back against your headboard and waits for you and the pills.

When you come back with them, Peter almost swallows it down without the water, but he's still so damn thirsty that another glass goes in a gulp.

He feels your eyes on him the whole time, and while he wants to talk, he prefers to wait for his body to finish using all his strength in stitching his insides up before he tries any conversation.

You grab the glass from his hand, place it on the nightstand and sit on the bed right next to him.

"Are you cold?" You ask, pressing your palm and the back of your hand to his forehead, neck, cheeks.

He's shirtless. Well—it's not anything you haven't seen before.

He shakes his head and clears his throat. The desert has left the back of his mouth, but the aftertaste of rust is still there.

"I'm sorry." He can say that, at least. "I am really sorry, Y/n. For coming to you like th—"

A hand tapes his mouth shut—your hand, and looking at your face in the bedroom light knowing you're looking back at his is not as terrifying as he made it out to be in the countless scenarios where he thought about this before.

"What's the alternative?" You ask him with a shrug. "You bleed out on the street because some drug lord had some beef with a Matt dude and you tried to help your friend?" He misses the heat of your hand as soon as it's gone. "I prefer you bleed on my death start duvets than on the streets, buddy. These ones I can wash."

Buddy.

'Don't call me buddy—I'm not your buddy. Fuck, I swear you say these things just to get a rise out of me. Do your buddies do this, huh? Touch you like this? Make you this wet? You get so wet for me, baby—'

'Peter.'

'Yeah, exactly. I taught you my name for a reason. Don't forget that.'

After a heartbeat, Peter licks his dry lips and looks away from yours. Those memories make his blood rate rise, and he's sure that's not good in the state he's still in. "I'm still not your buddy," he says. His voice comes out raspy, and he watches your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips.

Peter's in love.

The way you look at him.

The way you look at his tall and graceless body already drove him insane, but the way you look at his face?

Parted lips and that distance gaze of someone who's getting lost in memories and the present?

Peter loves it. He's been in love with you, but seeing the softness and adoration mixing with desire on your face has put the cherry on the cake.

"Good to know that," you whisper back.

I'm happy to know this doesn't change things, he hears.

He scoffs. "I would suck at being your buddy."

"Yeah? Why's that?" You're smiling now, and as a reflex, so is he.

Peter frowns. Isn't it obvious? "I've bled on your bed more times than I can count, you've put your fingers inside me in more ways than you can count, and I'm pretty sure that if I tried to stay away from you, your lips, or that pretty brain of yours for longer than two weeks, I'd have withdrawal symptoms." He's sure of it, actually. He tried staying away from you, and it sucked. "I can't be your buddy, baby." He chuckles. "We're not meant to be buddies. I already explained that to you."

Your lips quiver, moving upwards in a smile, slowly.

"Right." The way you bite on the bottom lower one tells Peter all you need to know about where your mind went.

His body leans forward as if there's a magnetic poll right on the center of you pulling you towards him.

Unfortunately for him, he's still healing from a very big pound.

He makes it only a few centimeters away from the headboard before the muscles inside him sting like a sharp hook and he stops—"Ah."

"Don't move." You're on in an instant. A comforting — and silently demanding — hand on his bicep, scooching closer to him in the bed. "You still need... I don't know how much longer you need, actually." A chuckle. "I still haven't got a clue how your healing works, Spidey. Just... lay down. Stand still until you're not moving won't rip apart the stitches I so beautifully made, 'kay?"

That brings Peter's hand and eyes to the work at hand.

He inspects the stitch-up work and—you're right. It's beautiful, neat, and professional work.

He can almost hear the praises of your teachers during class, as well as the envious looks of your colleagues who have three times less practice than you in the matter.

(Truth be told, Peter's aware you'd have gotten to this point with or without him as a guinea pig because while you may feel or say like everything around you is collapsing, studying is a ball you've yet to let it drop. You do it and do it well. 'If I'm gonna do this, I might as well do it well, huh? you had told him. Peter believed a lot of it was innate talent, but he might be biased to speak of you.)

"Grade A work, Y/l/n."

"Thanks, Spidey."

When he looks up, Peter takes a punch to the chest.

There you are, looking at him again.

Damn.

He's frozen.

Have you lied to him all this time? He's pretty sure this is the effect of actual superpowers and not just the way your eyes glint under the light of the day.

It must have something to do with the frizz in your hair that gives you almost an angelic aura—there's gold, orange, a touch of pink and lilac touching your cheeks and the soft, dopey smile you have on your face, and Peter stands there with his hand hanging halfway to his lap, as frozen in the air as he is looking at you looking at him.

You can see him, and Peter has never felt more comfortable feeling this exposed.

This vulnerable.

"Hi," he whispers.

Instead of answering, your blinks seem to slow down in time.

One of your hands reaches up to his cheek, and Peter finds himself leaning towards the hand.

Magnets.

When the soft, velvety touch of your palm meets his dry skin, Peter takes in a deep breath.

Closes his eyes.

Your hand cups his cheek, and caresses his face, as slowly as you are breathing.

Then, Peter's spidey senses feel the vibrations and electricity on your skin inching closer, and he thinks the slow-motion of your delicate, almost afraid, and calculated moves are making the energy and waves that travel between your body and his twice as real.

He might get shocked.

Peter feels when your lips are mere inches away from his. He wants to dive in, but he lets you dip your fingers in the water and go as you want.

He can feel how much you're feeling right now.

Seeing him is not only affecting him, and that's perhaps why his body is rendered at your mercy.

When your lips press against his, they're as plump and tender as always.

He exhales, at last, enjoying the sensation of warmth that spreads through his body when yours connects to his in any intimate way. Usually, it takes a little bit more for the tingle to travel from head to toe like this, but something about the kiss and the way you're keeping still and yet he knows you feel it, just as he does, it makes it even better that he's all buzzing.

Peter's underwater, and it's almost a reflex when he exhales and presses harder.

Closer.

With abandon, Peter lets his body relax on yours, not wanting to push it any further than it can go, but wanting to melt against the welcoming and familiar heat of your body.

His right hand goes up to your hair, and he gets a few more soft, tender presses of your lips on his, as well as the sensual and slow drags of your mouth against his in between them before you move your head back a few inches, still keeping your hand on his face.

Peter swallows the knot in his throat.

"I... should get you food," you whisper.

He's too busy staring at how pink your lips are for a few seconds.

Eventually, he hums. "That'd be nice."

"I got soup." You lick your lips. There's a color on your cheeks, and Peter is definitely in trouble. He hasn't gotten the instinct to draw in a long time, yet here he is, trying to figure out what's the correct shade of your cheeks. "From the deli shop you like."

"Oh." He loves that place. "I love that place!" He whispers excitedly.

Your smile widens. "I know." With a quick, delicious peck of goodbye, you get up from the bed in one quick motion. "I'll be back. I'm gonna text," you pick up the paper from the nightstand and read it. "Aunt May. Wait—you want me to text her this? Will she know who I am? Aunt May knows me?"

Peter laughs. "Of course Aunt May knows you."

In your few blinks Peter sees the surprise. "Right." You turn around sharply, cheeks pulled up from the smiling. "Text. Soup. Then sleep. I gotta go run a few errands, so I'll shut the windows for you." More seriously, you add. "You should really get some rest. You look a bit... pale."

"It's the caucasian in me."

You snort. "God, it's horrible when you try to be funny."

"Yet, you're smiling."

"At you." You get up and regardless of what you say, the nose scrunch proves that Peter amused you, to say the least. "I'm gonna get your food. Stay put, Spidey boy."

"Man, Spider-Man."

He's arguing now more for the sake of your smile than because your 'boy' has gotten a rise out of him.

It used to.

The first time you said it, Peter recalled the tingling on his body and that desire to correct—not a boy, I'm a man, you'll see, I'll show you.

Did he feel silly two seconds afterward correcting you when he saw in your face that you'd be pulling his metaphorical pigtails? Maybe. Luckily for him, the mask hid it back then.

Now, it's just a skit between you two.

The teasing back and forth is almost like the sea tide.

You come back with the soup and sit back down on your desktop chair, returning to your books and papers while he eats. Peter recalls the day when he asked why you never eat when he's there and, on the occasion when you gave him food, why didn't you stay close to him while he ate.

'You're distracting when you're eating.' You had said.

'What? I'm distracting? How?'

'You make all these little noises when you're enjoying it. And your lips get super pink 'cause you keep licking them. It's distracting.'

'From what? You're not even doing anything.'

'I don't need to be doing something. It just... is.'

Later, he realized it was distracting because it made you want to kiss him. To take away the plate in his hands and replace it with your body instead.

He's content to share looks with you over the bowl of warm food and watch your profile as you read and type. The concentrated crease in your brows and your lips set in a firm line are distracting too, he thinks, but he enjoys it.

Peter finishes the food and the result of some protein, carbs and nutrients making their way inside him is instant—his eyes get heavier, and blinking is a bit harder, and all he wanted was to cuddle you. Slide under the blanket, say goodbye to the world.

It's when he lowers the bottom half of his body that Peter feels he's still wearing his suit.

"How come you haven't kicked me out of your bed yet? I'm gross," he says.

Even though his voice is softer and lower than before, you turn to him.

Smiling, you shrug. "I've been gross before. You're forgiven because of circumstances." Then, something happens—you blush. You were looking at his body before but when you look up, Peter recognizes the flash of 'oh, it's him' that passes fast as lightning in your eyes. "Also, you're pretty," you add in a whisper. Your peachy cheeks darken, looking good enough to eat. "Pretty privileges."

Peter feels it—the heat on his face. He laughs, ducking his head down. He's not used to people complimenting him like that, but coming from you it makes it three times worse. "So it is a real thing."

"Oh, it definitely is."

"Good to know." He hates to know he's making your small piece of safe haven dirty, but he'll make up for it. "As much as I'd love to stay awake and watch you study and be gorgeous for the next couple of hours, I think my brain's about to shut down in the next few minutes."

"Sleep, Spidey." If there's such thing as magic through the voice or words, Peter believes you have it. The gentle softness with which you say those two words are better than any of your blankets. "I'll be there soon."

That's even better. God, I love sleeping with you.

He hears a giggle.

"It's mutual, Peter."

He loves the sound of that, too.

If Peter believed in something, he'd have beautiful religious metaphors to use about the way you look in the mornings.

He'd maybe talk about how waking up with you next to him is the only sanctuary he needs, and for a Jewish boy who's missed so much of what one looks or sounds like, he's sure it felt something like this.

If Peter believed, he'd have more words to say about the way your tenderness makes him feel like he's holy.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good. I'm glad... d'you wanna take a shower? I can separate some clothes for you."

"Are you coming with me?"

Peter would have words for what it feels like to sit in your loft's bathroom in his bloodied, mended superhero suit, his feet touching the freezing cold floor and his body still running as hot as ever because he can hear you walking around the place in your fuzzy socks while you wait for the water to warm.

How can he be so at peace like this?

He's beaten himself up for much less, but the seriousness in your tone when you told him to stay put while you changed the sheets only made him warm.

It made him feel cared for and nothing more.

Peter removes the rest of his suit. It comes off with difficulty—the sweat's stuck the material to his skin, and it still hurts to move, but he manages.

He feels the fresh tissues inside of him.

His heightened senses tell him the main wound is still healing, but everything else is almost okay. Peter needs maybe a good meal and a couple more days to be brand new, which is more than he'd expected when he left the bay area with webs sticking his skin together.

When you come back and see him already naked, Peter's happy that his eyes' swelling has done down.

He'd hate to miss the lust in your gaze.

To miss the obvious way your eyes travel up and down his body.

"You could've gone inside already," you whisper.

It's barely nine in the morning, there are only you two in the place and Peter has no idea why you'd think he wants to go anywhere without you.

"Was waiting for you." He's more at ease sitting naked on your toilet than he's been in three, maybe four years. That means something, right?

You start taking off your pajamas, and Peter gets up to help.

Not that you need it. He just loves removing clothes from your body.

The steam takes over the bathroom and by the time you two are immersed underneath the water, wet as rain, Peter already feels new.

Not even the best prayers could do that.

He loves the showerhead here because the water pressure is great and it's big enough to almost give space to the two of you. Almost.

That's why he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to his body.

He wants your warmth much more than the water's.

That's when he feels it—the shaky, interrupted way you breathe. Your arms come up around his middle so fast that he almost has to take a step back to keep himself in place, but he's rooted there.

And you're crying.

"Y/n?" Peter looks down.

You shake your head in three quick motions. Not yet.

Peter's not an idiot, and while he may be a little slow to the mysteries of his own heart, the loud and physical thumping of your heart against his ribcage is right there and doesn't lie.

He can feel every beat of it, and maybe there was something in that container that Kingpin had dropped on his head and all that mysterious blue sand inside of it, but Peter's sure he can see the black clouds exiting your head.

He sees the darkness of worry and fear leaving you.

Peter clings on tighter, letting you cry silent tears into his chest. He hopes the kisses he presses on your temple and your face make any worries left to be gone easier. Quicker.

He kisses the parts he can reach of you, and refuses to let go.

Eventually, you pull back against the hold of his arms and when you look up with those swollen, red eyes, Peter realizes what it all means.

What being so comfortable around you, laughing so easily, coming to you many more times even though he knew he shouldn't, watching you sleep, and all those minors or big things that made him stop and go—it means something, right?

It means Aunt May was right.

She was right when she said the world goes on regardless of how much we want it to stop sometimes, and right now, Peter's world is you.

When your lips, trembling just like your chin is, open and say, "I was terrified," in a whispered confession, Peter knows.

He'd give up anything for you. He'd conquer anything for you, as well, which he imagines lives on the other side of that coin.

"I am so sorry, baby," he tells you, blinking through the sting in his own eyes.

You shake your head and his heart almost falls to the ground before you pick it up. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Pete. I know—" you swallow a visible knot, sniffle, and then try again. "You have a responsibility. With your power, and... with what you believe."

With great power, comes great responsibility.

He nods.

"And please don't take this wrongly—don't shut down, or stop coming. God—if you stop coming I swear I'll die of worry—"

"Y/n." He interrupts because he knows when you're about to spiral as much as you know when he's about to go on a ramble. "I'd never. I—you're allowed to be scared. I'm not gonna go into martyr mode and make that decision for you. If you want me gone, I'll be gone. I know I'm a lot. I know my life, and how scary it is to be around it, but I think I also know you and if I take away your choice of being around me and all my mess—" he shakes his head. "I don't fancy that ass-whooping."

You laugh.

It untangles all the messy knots and webs inside his chest that formed when he saw your eyes puffy, and Peter breathes in what feels like clean, fresh air.

"I'm happy you're smart," you say.

He shrugs his shoulders. "It's what my teachers say."

"Is it?"

With your head tilt, he notices—he's nearing territory he used to avoid before.

Peter breathes in again, reaches behind him in the shower, and grabs your shampoo.

"Can I do your hair?" he asks.

Your face remains the same as you nod, but he sees you breathing out. Accepting his silence. The change in subjects, as it usually is.

When he's got enough bubbles forming, he massages your scalp and starts. "I got a scholarship for Biophysics, so I guess I am pretty smart, but it wasn't 'till one of my teachers at ESU told me my paper was 'informative even through the minors detours it took, which funnily enough, were informative as well' that I knew I had a good head for more than just web-developing and stuff like that."

Should he tell you about the time when he traveled between Universes and met the other versions of him?

He'd love for you to know how clever Peter 1 is.

Peter knows if it weren't for that experience, exactly four years after what happened at the clock, he'd be in a much worse place now.

I wouldn't have met you, he thinks.

"What d'you wanna do with the degree?" you ask him.

"Mmm. I don't know yet. Working with genetic mutation is not too on the nose, is it?" he chuckles.

You turn around, smiling wider than ever before.

"Are you for real?" you laugh.

"I am!" He laughs too.

"Gimme that," you take the shampoo from his hand, pour some on your hand, and look up expectantly at him. Peter ducks his head in silent permission, and you start doing the same to him. "I think that while it's a bit on the nose, it also makes a lot of sense, and given your personal experience, you could make breakthroughs no one else would. Your circumstances give you a lot of room."

"My dad was a Biochemist." The information slips out, and Peter opens his eyes. When had I closed them? He gives you a sheepish smile, and closes his eyes again. "I lot of what I know came from his research."

"Did it have anything to do with spiders?" you ask with a giggle, thinking you're being funny.

Here's to hoping. "It did," he answers.

Your movements halt for a second, then start again. "Oh." You stay silent for a moment. "Big brain runs in the family, so I imagine you'll make breakthroughs he's only dreamt of. Just... make sure you pick an area 'cause it's what you want to make yourself happy, you know?"

Peter wonders how many people have the luxury of having someone care for them this way.

"I will." He smiles when you pull him under the water stream. When the shampoo is rinsed, he opens his eyes. "And you? D'you have an area you wanna work at?"

Hearing you talk about your hopes for the future while showering makes Peter notice it's the first he's been thinking about the future and what paths he could take for it.

You two laugh a lot in there, and the only moment when somberness takes over the steamy bathroom is when your fingertips graze over the black nylon that still peaks out of his lower stomach.

Peter ignores the tingle your touch brings, and kisses you instead.

He distracts you by asking you more about residency, school, tests, and anything that comes to mind.

Your voice is one of his favorite things.

In your bedroom, Peter gets dressed in the sweats that now are basically his—one of his designated clothes from when he's around.

Now though, he can wear the sweater and shake his wet hair all over you.

He can pull you to his lap on the bed and kiss you filthy with the sun shining on both of you.

Lights on, face out in the open, nothing to hide because there never was.

When he starts grinding his hips upwards, seeking the friction of your heat—and god, you're already burning on his lap, and he doesn't need to touch your panties to know that you barely put them on and he's already ruined them—but you stop him with a hand around his neck.

"You're gonna bust your stitches," you say, mouth still close to his.

He groans. "Baby, c'mon..."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. "As much as I want to, you'll have to wait a day more, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You're hurting me right now," he whines, grinding on you. He hisses, not because of how hard he is from just a few minutes of making out with you and having his mind spin with how good you smell, how dizzying it makes him have you like this, no barriers whatsoever, but because he feels his insides protesting with the sharper thrust.

You give him a look that says I know what you're hiding. "Peter." While you ask him to stop, Peter's yet to feel you stop enjoying the ministrations of his hips. "Hey," you lean in closer and whisper in his ear. "You can enjoy fucking me like you've never fucked me before now... and you're gonna waste that first time of ours by not being able to do all that you wanna do?"

You are evil.

Peter moans. Hides his face in the space between your boobs, and kisses them since he's there already.

"So what you're telling me is that I should take you for a coffee and some breakfast and a few days and then we can come back here?" he asks.

"Yeah," you smile.

"And then I can take my time with you?" he confirms, his kisses going up. He loves the column of your throat. Loves the way you bear your neck for him, breathless and surrendered every time.

"Yeah..." this one comes out breathier, and Peter smiles before sucking on the skin of the space that's really sensitive.

"I can make you cum in all the ways I like?" Peter knows it's just torture at this point, but he keeps doing it. Keeps moving his hips in small little circles, and groans when he feels you meeting his movements. "On my tongue first... then on my fingers..."

"Only if you let me suck you off 'till you cum in my mouth."

Sneaky. "No." Peter hears your brain gears halting at it.

"Peter!"

"No!" He laughs. "Listen, I don't know what my—"

"—if you call your cum something weird again I'm leaving your lap right now."

"...my semen."

"Ugh. That's somehow worse," you laugh.

"I don't know what's in it! It's mutated, okay? What if you get pregnant from it? I am very fast. My sperm can be too."

Holding yourself with your arms around his neck, you stare at him with the blankest look.

The smile obviously hidden in the corners of your lips is where the truth lies, though.

"You know I'm right," he shrugs his shoulders.

You sigh. Heavily. "Ugh. I hate that I'm paranoid enough to buy your bullshit," you push him backward hard, and he falls into the bed in surprise, laughing. Leaning forward, you cage your arms around his head. "I wanna do so much to you," you whisper.

Just like that, the temperature's closer to the Sun again.

You have powers.

The power to make him religious. To make a conversation shift between the Sun and the Moon, just by laughing or speaking in a different tone.

Peter feels the tip of his cock dripping in his boxer, and he closes his eyes, exhaling from his nose. He grabs you by the neck and pulls you to a kiss, which turns messy and needy the second you moan in that pretty way he loves. Like a kitty, or like someone's squeezing you hard, just the way you like it.

He's grabbing you by the neck, squeezing and letting go, trying to gather his damn thoughts into coherent sentences and not the mess of I want you so bad I love you so much, so all that he can do is rub his forehead on yours.

Bring your body as close to his as possible.

That's what happened.

All these months culminated in this—Peter being unable to stay away, to him smiling in the corridors of his college, to the unfathomable infatuation with your legs, or the way you snort when you laugh really hard.

Into him loving you.

He's suddenly overwhelmed by the truth of it:

Peter is in love with you. He loves you.

Loves you for your brain, your skilled hands, the way you hate the Giants and love music he's never heard of. Loves you for all the ways you're you and the ways you remind him of his very first love too, but more than anything, because he knows he'd love you even if nothing was similar.

He swallows the knot in his throat and pulls you to a kiss.

You feel the difference in it—he knows you do because you hold his face with gentle hands, but answer the kiss with the same devotion.

You let him take over the kiss, let him taste his tongue on yours until he's got no oxygen left in his lungs and has to pull back.

He sees it in your face that something's taken over you, too.

"You can do anything you want. Anytime," he says. He feels your legs clenching around his waist as a response, and thinks to the hell with it. "What if you did all the work, hm? I promise I'll stay still. I'll web my own wrists to the bed if you want, just—please?" he begs.

"Peter..."

"I wanna feel you, baby." It's not even about the sex, or about cumming. It's about being as close to you as possible. He needs to be as close to you as possible. "I just wanna feel you. Wanna be inside you." Peter grabs your face again, smashing his lips on yours. "D'you have any idea how fucked I'd be without you? It just—" he's barely breathing, and he knows you feel why. "I realized just how much I adore every goddamn inch of you and I wanna feel you." He kisses you again, and again. "I owe you my life, baby."

You shake your head at his words and Peter moves his hand down to your chin, holding it still.

"Yes, I do. And I love that," he smiles. "I fell in the best hands of this city... and your hands are just one of the reasons why I'm in love with you."

"Peter." This time, it's you who smashes your mouth on his.

The first time he heard his name coming out from your lips, he thought he'd cum on the spot. He remembers feeling his dick twitching inside of you just at the mention of it—his name, and you.

He loved it.

He lets you kiss him to your desire and when you pull back with those puffy lips, he smiles.

You're looking at him like one looks at something they barely believe it's true. He's seen looks like this a few weeks ago when he went to the museum with May and he saw people staring at what he assumes is their favorite art pieces—nothing but attention to detail and a shine in their eyes.

He feels naked, even though he's not.

"I've been in love with you since the day you told me you had glass shrapnel all over your body because Mrs. Levinson was gonna take the fall for Castle's collateral damage, Y/n, I couldn't have that." You shrug like it's easy, like you haven't just given him the present of a lifetime and stolen every last bit of anxiety and sadness he had hidden in the corners of his mind, then kisses him.

Softly press your lips on his, once, then twice.

When he feels your hands sliding down his body, Peter warms up.

Powerful. From Moon to Sun, there he goes again.

There his body goes.

Peter knows standing still will be a bit of torture, and everything will be heightened from how little he can move, but he's okay with that.

Whining under the ministrations of your hands might be one of his top three activities ever. Peter watches you get off from on top of him so you can take off your sweatpants, and he groans under his breath when you slide your leg over his waist again with the panties still on.

"Just slide it to the side—fuck. Yeah, like that, baby. I love it like this."

Your attention to detail is unmatched.

When you learn something he likes, you never let it go. As soon as Peter feels your hand slipping inside his boxer and getting his cock out there, he's already moaning.

"Stand still," you tell him.

He nods, eagerly. Peter watches you pull your panties to the side, guide the head of his dick to your entrance and when the tip slides in, he feels you coming back, caging him between your arms.

You slide down painfully slow, taking your time with it.

To have something to hold on to, he grabs your ass with one hand and your face with the other. Having his hands on you is a must if he's gonna be good for you.

He might've said he could web his hands to the bed, but if he did that, he'd have to web his hips as well.

"Ahhh." Peter feels the walls of your pussy clenching around him, and he closes his eyes at the feeling.

You move back up, then down again until you're fully seated on his lap and he's fully buried inside of you.

"Use me, baby," he tells you. He might be out of his mind already—has it always been this hot to be inside you? "Fuck—you're always so wet for me. How are you this wet—oh."

You slam your hips down, pulling a grunt from him.

"You make me this way and you know it," you whine to him.

Peter admires you for keeping up with a gym routine, but he admires more the benefits it reaps: the way your legs can hold the weight of bouncing up and down as slow or as fast as you like.

He pulls your head closer until he can kiss you.

"You're gonna use me, hm?" Peter asks between kisses, grunting at how tight you are. "Use those thunder thighs to drive me insane?"

"Peter you feel so fucking good," you breathe out.

The praise warms him up even further. Peter's eyes close in response, and he whines at how hard it is to keep his hips on the bed and not pistoning up to meet your delicious thrusts. "You feel better," he mutters, a bit drunk on the wetness pouring out of you. It's so damn hot in and all around him. "So tight for me, baby."

"Oh, god."

"Hhnh—fuck. Fuck, do that again," he whines.

You do it—you move all the way up until he almost slips out, then slams those hips down again. And again, and again, and again, until the room is nothing but the sound of your skins slapping on one another and your mouths breathing on each other, grunting and moaning.

Peter loves swallowing your moans almost as much as he loves swallowing the slick from your pussy.

"Fuck, if I had a little bit more strength in me I'd ask you to sit on my face after this," he says.

You moan even louder now.

Peter smiles.

He loves it when you two are alone. Loves when you let go, especially if it's to use him to your pleasure.

Peter holds your hip instead of your ass now and tries to help you. While you don't need it, the strength of even just one of his arms is appreciated, and he watches as you let go of all pretenses and just fuck yourself on his cock.

It's when you grab him by the chin and look him in the eye that Peter feels you're fucking him too.

You clench around him. Purposely.

Peter moans as loud as you, and plants his feet on the bed.

The change in angle makes you scream, and as a response, you smash your lips on his again.

He knows you're close by the way you start whining into the kiss.

Peter lets go, too. He kisses you back, all tongue, teeth, bites and moans of your name. Uncoherent sentences and babbles about your pussy and how fucking good you make him feel, and he feels the tension building up in his groins before he'd imagine.

He hates coming before you. Peter makes it a habit to make you cum before he does, but he's in heaven, he's in you, and you're staring at him.

It's that which does it.

"Baby I can't hold it—oh fuck, Y/n, don't do that," if you keep clenching around him just to get a rise of him you'll get more than just that, and he whines because of it. "I'm close. I'm so so close, you feel too good."

He moves his hand from your head in direction of your clit, but you grab him by the wrist and pin his arm above his head, holding tight onto his wrist. While he could break free easier than breathing, feeling how tightly you're gripping him makes his head spin.

He's at your mercy, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Y/n, please." Please stop bouncing so fast, please slow down, baby, please don't clench again.

Your hips slow down just a fraction, and you move until your lips are almost touching his.

Then you ask. "Who has your heart, baby?"

Peter blinks, opening his eyes. His mouth hangs open, jaw wide for a second before he answers. "You."

You move your hips in the way a dancer would, circling like you're trying to spell his damn name or something, and then slam all the way down. "You're mine, baby?"

Peter's head is somewhere too far for him to reach, but he still manages to nod. "All yours."

"I love you so fucking much," you cry on his lips, and then you start again—the merciless speed of your hips against his while your hand holds his arm up and your other is on his neck.

"I love you more," Peter cries back, reaching for a kiss that you give with all the desire in the world. He kind of wants his hand free to hold your face, and kind of wants to see how much you'd fight him to stand still, but neither one happens because you start to speed up and Peter's moans grow louder and louder.

Being as attracted as you are by his sounds, your legs start shaking and squeezing around him.

"Cum for me, Y/n, please, please, please," before I lose it and cum inside you, please.

"Cum inside me first."

"What?"

"Cum in me." You sound as out of it as he is, and Peter's only human at the end of the day. "Please. Do it. Do it, Peter. I wanna feel you. Please, Spidey, c'mon."

Peter cums with a yell, and his hips can't take it, bucking up to meet your thrusts in the last seconds, and it must be the strength with which he fucks into you, the angle, the way he's crying out your name or just everything together, but you cum right with him.

Both of your bodies shake and tremble together, in a peculiar and hard-to-achieve glorious moment.

He'll need many minutes to recover, and you'll need even more to gather the strength and will to let him come out from inside of you, but none of that matters for the time being.

Peter's content to stay inside you for now, just as you are to lay on his chest.

He lets the sound of your hearts beating like hummingbirds bring him back to Earth.

There's a smile on his face, and with minimum inspection, he feels there's a smile resting on his shoulder, too. Your lips press kisses on the exposed skin there, and he feels your grin when the kisses stop.

Peter's not a very religious man, but he might have just found his heaven on Earth.

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