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eratosmusings · 2 months

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Loyalty (I)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: the king decides it's time for his brother to produce more targaryen heirs. who better than another hightower daughter to carry them?

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, dubcon smut in later chapters, arranged marriage, abortion allusion (moon tea), coercion, terrible parenting

word count: 2.3k

dividers

“I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” Viserys asks with an air of frigid humor. “Who are you to deny your king what he has commanded?”

Otto seethes, decades of practiced court manners faltering under the demand. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but she is my daughter. I will not have her married off to a man whose love of violence and debauchery trails him like a shadow. She is a pious child. To marry her to Daemon is—“

“A blessing. She will marry a prince and a valiant knight.”

The other men at the table are silent. They'd expected talks of reinforcing the kingdom's claim on the Stepstones or of quelling rumors that had cropped up of Daemon corrupting his young niece in a brothel a year prior. The king commanding a marriage between Otto Hightower's youngest daughter—his only child from a tragically short second marriage—is an unpleasant surprise.

"He is already married."

Viserys gives a taut smile. "Daemon's marriage to Lady Royce has been annulled. By royal decree and with the blessing of the High Septon. It is in the best interest of Westeros that the Targaryen line remains vast and strong and it has been decided your daughter will do what Lady Royce did not."

Otto's face falls in disbelief. He's heard nothing of it. This had been set up to corner him. "She is a child."

"She is nearly four years older than Alicent was when we wed. The queen has proven your daughters are strong vessels for Targaryen children."

"It is different. She is different. She is not as strong as Alicent."

The king shakes his head. "I will hear no more discussion of this. She will wed Daemon and this feud between the two of you shall end once and for all.”

Alicent’s touch is feather-light as she takes hold of your hands. Her eyes wander across your form, taking in the exquisite ivory gown. Its crimson embroidered dragon along the skirt a special request from your soon-to-be husband. “You look beautiful, sister.”

You can say nothing to your half-sister, barely able to retain the tears brimming in silence. A fortnight was all you’d been given to prepare to wed the vilest creature in Westeros. Daemon Targaryen was all you could have ever hoped against in a husband.

Your father stands tall behind Alicent, head held high. "The image of the Maiden herself."

A choked sob escapes you at his words. This marriage was punishment by the Seven for every sin you'd ever committed. For the impure thoughts you'd had of knights. The white lies you'd spoken to save yourself the wrath of Septa Agerrea. The gambling you'd participated in when you’d bet your favorite embroidery needle in a game of cards with Lysa Tyrell. Had you only followed the Faith more faithfully, this torture would not be yours to endure.

“I believe it is time to take your place with the king, Your Grace,” your father says.

Alicent hesitates with glossy eyes. She draws you into a tight hug and whispers an apology and how much she loves you. You have the faintest memory of her wedding to the king a few years before. The happy sister who’d spent hours braiding your hair when the handmaidens failed to do it properly disappeared into a hardened queen round with child seemingly overnight. The smiles and giggles you’d shared daily turned to fond, distant memories. She withdraws a moment later, wiping at her face.

When the door shuts your father moves behind you. You watch in the ornate mirror as he drapes the green maidencloak of House Hightower across your shoulders. The new burden's weight feels uncomfortable.

He returns to stand before you, his expression sorrowful. "I am sorry, my sweet child, for this atrocity. You deserve far better.”

“I could have saved myself this fate had I been less worldly and become a Septa.” Your palm wipes at the tear that had fallen.

He cups your cheek. “Perhaps. But we cannot lament on what we could have done. Indeed we must focus instead on your duty to the realm.”

“To be a good wife,” you state. It was what he had raised you to be.

“No, sweet child,” he says softly, “I fear that I must ask something far more difficult of you. For your duty to the realm must supplant your duty in marriage.”

The wedding takes place in a haze. You tremble, stumble over words, and can not meet the eyes of your now husband nor the Septon. Soon you would betray them both.

For the good of the realm.

You do not eat or drink through the feast. You barely speak. You think you might have danced, though all you remember of it is a blurring background and an embroidered dragon that matches your own. It had stared at you accusingly.

“Shall I call for the bedding ceremony to begin, brother?” the king slurs loudly. If there had been anything in your stomach, it surely would have come out now. It was one vile thought to have him touch you. But to have other men undress you as well?

Your hand is pulled from your lap, enclosed in another twice its size, callous and rough against your skin. For the first time that day you look at your husband. You’d never seen him this close. The lavender gaze cannot have been of this world. It’s too vibrant, too knowing. “Too many of the men here have wandering hands. I’d hate to spill blood on such a blessed day.” His lips brush against your hand. “My sweet wife should not have to endure such tragedy.”

The king responds dismissively. Something of disappointing guests, but to do as he pleases. Daemon takes it as a dismissal and pulls you from your seat. The last thing you hear is the call from many about bloody sheets.

Perhaps the Mother has decided to take mercy on you. For you cannot breathe as the doors to the prince’s chambers close behind you. Death can take you before he can.

He stands in front of the fire, pouring some drink into a goblet. The flickering orange light suits him. Like he was born for flames. “You must relax. There is nothing for you to fear from me.” A lie. There was much to fear from him.

A booming knock echoes through the room.

“Enter.”

Two servants carrying trays of bread and fruit enter. Then they are gone just as swiftly. The door closes once more.

“You must eat,” he says, taking your hand once more and leading you to a small table. You sit and a piece of bread is offered. You take it and, after an expectant nod, take a bite. It’s still warm and soft. You take another bite. And another.

It’s gone quickly. Too quickly for a lady. A bowl of berries clatters softly in front of you. You pick at it slower, though not as slowly as you’d like. They are sweet. Perfectly ripe.

“Would you like some wine?”

Despite the juice of berries coating your tongue, your mouth is dry as you speak for the first time since you’d said your vows. “Yes, please.”

“So well mannered.” A smug smile spreads across his face as he raises his goblet and sips. He reaches over and sets it down beside the half-empty bowl. “I forgot to have them retrieve another cup.”

The crimson red liquid ripples. A challenge.

“You are very gracious, my Prince. Thank you.” You lift it by the stem and drink. It was stronger than you’ve ever had before. The taste takes you aback, coughing as it soaks your tongue. Hastily you set the cup back down.

"I take it you don't often indulge in Dornish Reds."

"No, never."

His head cocks to the side appraisingly. "I suppose such a thing has never been offered to you before. Not within the confines of your father's authority. He has given you a rather sheltered life."

A prickly heat seeps up your neck. "My father did not confine or shelter me. He has only ever guided me to live as virtuously as the Seven wished for all their children to live.”

“How very kind of him to not let you endure the same vices as himself.”

You blink, his words sinking in. The implication that your father is a drunkard stings. He isn't, but you don’t fight his accusation. Selfishly, you do not wish to defend your father. Instead, you pluck a berry from the bowl, hoping to end the conversation entirely.

"Are the berries quite good?"

You nod, not wanting to speak again.

"Might I have one?" When you go to pick up the bowl, he stops you. "Pick me out the best one."

The best one? The bowl is still half full. Which berry was the best? Would he be disappointed if you picked one he did not like? Or one that was not ripe enough? Not sweet enough? What would he do to you if he disliked the one you chose?

It was the largest blackberry that you finally settle on, prepared to hear how terrible the choice had been as you hold it out to him. He doesn't simply take it. He leans over the table, taking the berry and your fingers into his mouth.

The act is heinously intimate. It leaves you frozen and breathless as he pulls away, his eyes alight in devious amusement. "I'm not sure which taste I prefer. The berry's or your's."

Fire spreads across your cheeks. You flinch away, embarrassed. In the escape effort your arm knocks against the goblet. To your horror, it clatters against the table. The liquid sloshes across your front, staining the white gown.

The crimson seems to seep from your womb, condemning you for something you had yet to do. You paw at the stain as the chair clatters on the ground from the force with which you'd stood.

Tears brim in your eyes as it continues to spread.

“There's no need to fret. It is only wine.”

“I have desecrated it.” The tears have not stopped falling and your hands have not stopped scrubbing at it with your fingers. “The stain will never come out.”

“It is only a dress.” He cups your face, encouraging you to meet his gaze. It searches for some understanding.

He would never understand.

“I am so sorry, my Prince.”

He shushes you softly and places a kiss against your forehead. This was the monster? The vile, unholy beast whose every action was an affront to the Seven? This man who had shown you nothing but kindness?

You cry harder.

He is not the monster.

You are.

You aren’t sure how long you cry. But he holds you through it all. He speaks little more than a few consoling phrases, but it is more than you deserve. His presence, arms around you, kisses on your hair. All of it more than you deserve.

You’re finally calm, only left with sniffles, when he says, “We should get the dress to the washwomen before the stain sets.” What good would it do? The stain can never be removed from your soul. Still you agree and turn for him.

His fingers are swift as they loosen the strings of your bodice. Practiced. He is practiced. Behind closed doors you assume, but there were numerous tales of his public debauchery. It has been gossiped that he prefers the thrill of open affairs and touches of multiple women.

“Why did you refuse the bedding ceremony?”

He pauses. “Did you wish to have one?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But given your…tendencies I…I thought…” A quiet hum has your words trailing off.

His work continues, though slower. “You are not a whore in a brothel.”

“Neither is your niece and yet...”

Air blows across your neck as he chuckles. “Has my pious little wife been gossiping about the chastity of the Crowned Princess?”

Your lungs seize at the realization of what you’d just said. It’s treason. Questioning her virtue is treason.

“Relax, jaesa.” His hands slip between the shoulders of your shift and the loose gown, pushing the sleeves down your arms. “I took you under my protection today. You may speak freely to me.”

“I,” you hesitate, freeing your hands of the garment, “I had heard that a year ago you snuck the princess from the castle and—“

He bunches the fabric at your waist and tugs. “Had my way with her in some brothel?”

“Yes.”

The gown struggles for a moment, snagging on the curve of your behind. Another tug and it is a pile around your feet. “My niece wished to see King’s Landing. I showed her and returned her to the castle, still a fair maiden like yourself.”

“Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

“No, my Prince.”

"It would do a great disservice to our union to begin it with lies." He prompts you to turn and hesitantly you do. He is shorter than your father, yet his presence is as commanding. More so. It makes you aware of how thin the fabrics of your shifts were when his gaze drifts down. "My niece's heart belongs elsewhere. As do my desires."

His touch is gentle as he cups your cheek, but the feeling's it stirred are rough and uncertain. Bordering on traitorous.

“Shall I call a servant to fetch the dress?” The words waver. You wonder if they’re comprehensible at all.

They are, it seems as he rejects the offer and slips out the door himself with the dress. The reprieve from his watchful, astute eye is welcome. You fall to your knees at the edge of the bed and recite the prayer your father had taught you minutes before you’d been led down the aisle.

Warrior, give me strength for what I must do. It is for the good of the realm.

Mother, forgive me for what I must do. It is for the good of your faithful servants.

Stranger, lead my children to peace. It is for the good of their innocent souls.

a/n: all your thoughts and reblogs are appreciated 🌺

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ceilidho · 5 months

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prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 4. (read 1, 2, 3) tags: dubcon; nsfw

You only realize after the fact that you may have miscalculated in thinking that this could be a one-time thing between the two of you.

After listening to Johnny bitch and moan during the Christmas party about having to take time off work to spend the holidays with his very religious family, you delude yourself into thinking you’ll finally be able to have some peace and quiet around the store. Not literally, of course. Working during the holidays is always a recipe for exhaustion—parents coming in at the last minute to demand toys that have long since sold out, fights breaking out in every other aisle as customers fight for the last palatable set of Christmas ornaments and boxed fruit cake.

You’re not delusional enough to think that work will be a piece of cake, but you are selfishly a little happy that you’ll finally get some time to breathe without Johnny hovering over your shoulder at all hours of your shift. Seasonal shoppers are as exhausting as always, but you get to sit alone in the breakroom with a cup of coffee in the morning right before your shift without someone staring at you or breathing into your personal bubble.

Johnny spends his entire time off blowing up your phone, sending you pictures of his childhood home, calling you during your breaks, and sending you weird videos that seem to have been filmed entirely in the dark where you can’t see or hear anything apart from some weird squeaks and one loud grunt at the very end of the video that sounds kind of like—you close the video.

You spend the first few days of January dreading his return. The day of is like a shock to your nervous system, the whole morning spent pouring coffee with a trembling hand.

“Hiya gorgeous,” he purrs when you clock in for your shift. You’re somewhat used to Johnny sneaking up behind you, so you don’t flinch this time when you feel the length of his body press up against you at the time clock.

“Johnny, it’s seven in the morning,” you mutter out through pursed lips, shoulders stiff when he puts his hands on them and digs his thumbs into the tender points of your back. You bite back a moan.

“Missed ye, kitten. Cannae believe I went a whole week without hearing you purr.”

He could’ve phrased that a thousand other ways, but he just had to choose the one that would make you wince. He digs his thumbs in again, trying to push the moan out of you, but you tamp it down. You hold back a shudder when he plants his nose onto the crown of your head and inhales, drawing your scent into his lungs.

“Where’ye assigned ta today? Jeff owes me a favour—gonna ask him if I can spend the day with ye so we can catch up.”

You go still when he drops a firm kiss to the side of your head. “I’m…not sure. I haven’t checked the schedule yet.” It’s a half-lie. You may not have checked the schedule yet, but you know from having briefly chatted with your manager this morning in the parking lot where you’ll be spending most of your day.

Still, it means that you get to shake off Johnny for a bit. “Lemme go check for ye, okay, hen? Stay here, a’right?”

You watch him jog off down the hall to the breakroom before finally leaving. It’ll be better for you if you’re gone before he comes back.

The first hour of your day is spent on softlines until Priya in jewellery randomly comes down with a chill and gets sent home early, forcing you to cover her section. Usually that wouldn’t be such a bad deal—it means you get to spend your shift helping people try on bracelets and rings, restocking the earring display, and leaning against the counter for hours at a time. It’s not a particularly busy station.

While you're assigned to the jewellery section though, Johnny pops out of nowhere as you're helping a customer contemplating a birthday ring for his fiancé. With the kind of confidence that you’ve come to expect from Johnny, he uses your hand to model some of the rings, but this time it feels oddly weirdly intense. When he slides the first ring onto your finger, you can feel the way he holds his breath, even shudders a bit. He presses himself right up against you behind the display counter, hardness pressing against your hip.

It doesn’t take long for your customer to leave. Johnny’s demeanour is off-putting, concerning even. You can’t fault the guy for being rightfully repulsed by the way Johnny crowds up against you like you’re alone together.

“What are you doing?” you hiss through your teeth.

“Cannae help it, hen. I ken ye wanna wait, but it jus’ makes me a bit emotional seein’ my girl wearing a ring I put on.”

He blinks down at you with big, blue eyes, the picture of innocence. You should’ve anticipated there being a danger in letting Johnny stew over that on his own. Of course he’d come to his own conclusions, even one as deranged as thinking of your hook up as a step towards dating. You can’t help but side eye him.

“We—we’re not a couple, Johnny.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Ye just let anybody eat you out in the supply closet then? S’that right?” It’s said rhetorically, like he knows the answer already. You flinch at the slight though.

“That was—” you cut yourself off to take a breath, an ache growing behind your forehead, “—that was a…it was a one-time thing. You can’t just act like we’re dating.”

His lips turn down in a pout, displeasure rippling across his face. You brace yourself for the inevitable argument, for shit to hit the fan, because obviously that’s what’s brewing under the surface. You brace yourself for worse too because when you happen to glance around, you realize how few people are actually milling around in the area.

Then, instead of losing his temper, Johnny’s eyes grow smoky, heavy-lidded, and the pout lifts into a lazy, playful grin. “A’right, kitty, no’ dating then. That’s fine wi’ me.”

This time it’s you that frowns, staring up at him dubiously. “…Really?” It feels too sudden, quicksilver. Johnny’s fiery by nature, short tempered on his best days and more likely to grit his teeth and bear the displeasure of not getting his way than happily giving into it. His sudden smile is at odds with the version of him that exists in your mind, furious at you for denying him.

Maybe you’ve got him all wrong.

The gleam in his eye betrays nothing, however. “I swear.” He leans closer to you then, fingers fiddling with the name tag pinned over your chest on your work vest, straightening it. “Doesnae mean we have ta give the rest up though. Ye liked what we did in the closet, right, hen?”

It feels like he’s sucked the air out of the room, as big as it is. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”

“Och, c’mon, kitty,” Johnny breathes, hunching just a little over and into your space, making the moment feel private, just the two of you. “Had to talk about it eventually. Did ye just expect that everything would go back to normal after ye let me eat ye out? Hey—” he catches you when you try to make a move to step away from him, wrapping a big hand around your wrist and tugging you closer to him, “—listen, kitty—it doesnae have to be anything serious, right? That’s what’s making ye all jumpy and nervous? I’ll lick your pussy, free of charge. Dinnae need any labels. How’s that sound, kitty? Dick on demand?”

It should repulse you. The way he speaks to you is crass, crude. His voice is hushed, haggard, fur stretched taut over stone—and yet, your hands tremble, just a little. It tempts you. Purring Scottish burr, lapis lazuli eyes, bristle cheeks that you still remember scraping up your inner thighs. He’s a package you can’t imagine sending back.

“You won’t get…you promise not to get weird about it?” you ask.

His smile curls up, impish. “Cross my heart, kitten.”

Maybe you’re delusional enough to think that you can have your cake and eat it too. There’s a voice in your head telling you to face the facts, but you disregard it as if you haven’t been working with Johnny for months. As if you aren’t aware of his penchant for saying or doing anything to get his way. It’s maybe naive of you.

All you know is that he smothers a laugh when you tell him you’ll think about it. Knows he’s got you right where he wants.

You don’t fight when he drags you into the single-stall bathroom towards the end of your shift, letting him position you in front of the mirror before sinking to his knees behind you. Forces you to watch the way you come apart on his tongue, not giving you his fingers until you beg him to, the whispered plea a hairsbreadth away from becoming a scream.

“Oh, did she miss me?” Johnny breathes, a happy laugh in his voice when he runs the broad side of his tongue over your entrance from the back. “Fuck, look at that. Winked at me ‘n everythin’. Hi darling, missed ye too.”

You don’t think you’ll ever be the same after hearing that come out of his mouth. You go hot all over again when you clench involuntarily, equal parts turned on and horrified. He sniggers before trying to cram his whole tongue up into you.

There’s a moment of panic when Johnny draws up behind you after making you come and you hear him undo his pants. There’s nowhere for you to go with your pants still looped around your ankles, underwear pulled all the way down as well. You hear yourself hiss a startled Johnny when he slots a fat cock between your thighs, staring dumbly at the reflection of him behind you. At your back, he seems massive, lean and trim but towering over you, broad.

He shushes you. “Dinnae be selfish, hen—gotta get mine too. Jus’ gonna fuck your thighs, dinnae fret.”

You squeak when he pushes your thighs together forcefully, dragging his cock over your folds to wet himself. Watching Johnny fuck is nothing like staring down at him when he eats you out. He pants harsh and ragged into the side of your head, nips at your ear. The glint in his eyes goes animalistic, vacant. Human desire recedes, subsumed into the animal part of his brain with the single-minded need to fuck.

The only thing keeping him from driving up into you, accidentally or not, is the way you keep your thighs pressed together. A warm, tight channel for him to push his cock into. Thick fingers dig into your waist, sure to leave bruises. You wince when lean hips pound against your backside, growing frantic as need overtakes him. You flirt at the edge of panic, certain that at any second, he’ll pull your thighs apart and nudge the head of his cock up into you.

“Jus’ like that, fuck,” he grunts. “Be a good little fuckin’ girl and jus’ let me—”

His tongue lolls out on a particularly rough thrust, hands groping over your belly and up to your chest, slipping his hand under your shirt and bra to pinch your nipple. He twists it mean, nasty, until you have no choice but to grunt through grit teeth, eyes watering. You feel like a doll meant for his pleasure, no choice but to grip the sides of the sink and let Johnny use you until he comes.

“Fuck,” Johnny groans, eyes going half-lidded. “Love makin’ this pussy come. Love gettin’ her all messy and wet. Lettin’ me between your thighs even when I make ye nervous—fuck, ‘m gonna come, ‘m gonna—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

White come stripes the sink in front of you, thick and viscous. Paints the inside of your thighs as well when he drags his hips back until just the head of his cock sits nestled up against your sex. Hyperconscious of where it tags your inner lips, that there’s no barrier between the two of you, just come and skin.

The full body shake shocks you, a ripple from your heels to the top of your head.

His free hand grasps you by the hair when you try to slip away. “Ye gonna clean up your mess, baby?”

You glance back up at his reflection in the mirror, trying to suss him out. Shark-like eyes meet yours. Something you’ve seen in glances before finally staring back at you with full force. You reach for the paper towel dispenser with a shaking hand.

“Nah,” Johnny scolds, giving you a shake. “With your mouth.”

The command hangs in the air, no joke or laugh to undercut it. His eyes read serious to you, still dark. No leniency present in the blue.

You stare down at his come on the sink, slack-jawed. “You don’t seriously mean—”

“Jus’ kidding, silly,” he chuckles, giving a teasing bite to your earlobe and tugging. The tension in the air disperses. “Got ye, huh?”

You force a laugh. “Yeah…got me.”

#i cant believe this shit is at 10k and i still have another part to write #ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mw2 #soap cod #soap x you #soap/reader #ikea soap

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roseykat · 6 months

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TITLE: Venom Biter

PAIRING: Minho x reader

SUMMARY: The end of a relationship between you and Minho turns as sour as it could ever get. A lovers to enemies trope.

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won't be able to regulate every single interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work or page whatsoever.

TAGS: breakups, hate sex, post-breakup sex, unprotected sex, swearing, angst, manhandling, push and shove, spitting, choking, oral sex (f!reader receiving), angst, strong hints of degradation, use of degrading names such as 'slut' and 'whore'.

A/N: this was originally meant to be for one of the days I had planned for Kinktober but I was up to my neck in work and I didn't want to post something sort of half-assed so I had to hone down on most of the work for this piece.

MASTERLIST

“Broke up?” Chan’s eyes refuse to blink. “You two broke up!?”

His confused filled stare shoots for the direction of his best friend, Minho, who quietly sits opposite him across the table. He looks slightly withdrawn or…off colour. It can’t have been the gruelling two hour lecture they finished before heading out to lunch. If it were that, Minho would be complaining his head off saying how boring it was or cursing himself for not changing his minor earlier.

He’s just not his usual self. In other social settings, he could talk until the cows came home. But the entire hour that they’ve spent together at lunch, Chan has been doing all the conversing and only receiving vague one-word answers. It wasn’t until he asked what was up with Minho that his friend dished out the news that he and his girlfriend - you, had split up.

“Why?” Chan proceeds, still swimming in shock.

A sigh leaves Minho’s mouth. He truly doesn’t feel like revisiting this subject. When he even thinks about the answer, all he can recall is the firey shouting match you both had the day things crumbled.

“It’s messy,” he replies with a cloudy and ambiguous answer.

“If you talk about it, then it might help you make sense of it all.”

He groans this time, “I really, really don’t want to do that. What’s done is done.”

“Done?” Chan questions, still not letting up on an interrogation. “You were in a relationship with Y/N, for years. You guys talked about a whole future together. That’s not something you just sweep under the rug and forget about.”

If there’s one thing he almost did forget about, it’s that you were friends with him - not just Chan, but the seven others as well. After all, it was Minho who introduced you to those select people whom he calls his brothers. They would’ve found out eventually if Minho refrained from telling them who you were dating all those years ago.

Though naturally, you became very close with them.

“We’ve both chosen to do that so there’s nothing really much left to dispute.”

Chan’s eyebrows furrow, realising he left out a crucial question to the situation, “why did you guys break up in the first place?”

Minho feels like he’s going to run out of sighs, “she doesn’t love me anymore and I don’t love her anymore. That’s literally all there is to it.”

“You’re telling me you both fell out of love - at the same time,” Chan responds, still having a difficult time trying to comprehend his friend's situation.

“Pretty much,” Minho confirms with a nod.

Chan finds that extremely hard to believe from his friend - the very person who would enter a different realm whenever he was in a five centimetre radius of you. His eyes would glaze over as if he were possessed; always fixated on you, he’d smile more than he usually would, and was comfortable in the space around you.

There had to be another reason, surely.

But it had almost been three weeks since Chan dissected the news out of Minho, and it was almost like pulling teeth trying to dive for the details. Each attempt was as fruitless as the next and in the end, Chan just plucked the same answers.

Regardless, it seemed to play out better than expected. Minho saved himself from having to dish out explanations as to why you wouldn’t be around anymore. As a result, telling Chan was the best option and since the others didn’t know, Minho was okay with him telling them so that he didn’t have to.

In saying that, Minho left out very central details of what happened leading up to the breakup. He never mentioned the constant fighting, the lying, the false accusations, the shouting matches, up until the point where you were both swimming in the toxicity the pair of you created.

He also absconded from the fact to Chan that not only did you both separate, but you’ve also both come to view the other differently and not through a good lens. Minho shouted it in your face the other day to which you did the same; “I hate you.” And that was that.

But his friends probably didn’t need to know all of that.

Since that day, you’ve been in the process of trying to find an apartment for yourself which isn’t easy. You want to remain in town and not too far out so that you don’t have a long commute to work, and at the same time, you don't want to break the bank trying to find a nice place to rent in the city. All in all, it was tough, but you were ready to just leave.

Having packed up the majority of your stuff in boxes, all you had to do was wait for landlords to contact you back about possible vacant apartments. Thankfully Minho was lenient in allowing you to stay until you found a place.

You slept in the spare room, mainly keeping to yourself and the boxes of things surrounding the space. Occasionally you would have to lock yourself in there and throw on some noise-cancelling headphones whenever Minho brought around another woman to sleep with.

It was his house, you knew that and now that you have no ties to him and he’s letting you stay, it was never your place to question his actions.

Still, that could never lessen the hurt. It was painful which is why you hated him so much. You don’t know how a person could move on so quickly after so many years of being told how much you’re loved. It was like he never meant it. With that being said, when you eventually managed to find a decent place, you were free from Minho.

All of your items were ready to be moved out, taking a couple of days to actually get them to your new place. In the tiring process, you also had to factor in your work schedule which meant it would take longer to continue moving your stuff. Nonetheless, you had the majority of your boxes out of Minho's house with only a few remaining that you needed to swing by and pick up.

"Something wrong?" he wears a blank look on his face when you arrive on the doorstep to his house.

"Some of my stuff is still here, can I come in to grab it please?" You ask politely. He gives a silent answer in return by opening his door wider for you to walk in before he goes back to whatever it was he was doing.

You make your way into the spare room where the last of your things remain, but there is one odd detail you notice as you approach the items. What was supposed to be taped down lids to the boxes had in fact been opened; not in the state you had originally left it in.

"Minho," you call out, hoping he heard you.

Sure enough, he did. Minho walks into the spare room with a puzzled expression, wondering why he's been summoned, "what?"

“Why are these open?” You ask, lifting one box off of the other to check if the rest were open as well. “Half of my stuff isn’t in here.”

“You were coming back for those?” he replies with a question.

“What the hell else would I be coming back here for?”

“That's what I thought when you got here,” he says. “I thought it was for other things that you left behind, not ones in these boxes."

Your eyes never leave his face, tracking any sudden shifts in his muscles to try to figure out if he’s actually telling the truth or not. Even though you and Minho aren’t together, you're sure he wouldn't do anything malicious out of spite.

“So why is half my stuff missing?”

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose, “I thought you didn’t need any of it and that you left it here on purpose for me to deal with or throw out.”

“So what…” you trail off, expecting his answer. Minho hesitates for a few moments, sitting on the fence about whether he should actually tell you or not. But the least he can do right now is be honest.

“I told the…girl I bought around the other day that if she wanted anything-“

“No you fucking didn’t.”

“-she could have whatever was left in the boxes,” Minho finishes the rest of his sentence which would’ve been better for you not to hear.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you for leaving them behind in the first place!” Minho argues back, trying to defend himself here even though he knows he’s in the wrong. “You were gone for a few days Y/N, I thought you just left!”

“I never left them behind! I told you how long it was going to take my things to move!” You shout at him, tears brimming your eyes. “Now my stuff…”

The hurt genuinely sets in. Minho feels a sharp stab of pain in his chest when he sees how visibly upset you are. He knows that he’s been nothing short of a dickhead within the past month and now he’s gone and made things worse. It’s no point in him now to say that it was an honest mistake.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know, truly.”

You shove him backwards into the dresser, knocking down some of the empty photo frames that were once homes for pictures of you and Minho, “you’re not sorry. You’re the fucking worst.”

Taken aback by your actions, Minho turns behind him to see the frames flat on the surface then looks back at you, “seriously Y/N, I would not have done that out of spite.”

“But it’s the fact that you still did it!” You raise your voice at him and shove him back again. “You didn’t bother calling or texting me about it when you should’ve!”

Minho predicts your next move and catches your arms to stop you from pushing him back impossibly further into the dresser. He shoves you back, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed which causes you to land on it behind you.

Before the surprise kicks in, Minho is kneeling on top of you, nearly straddling your lower half as he starts pinning your arms to the side of your head. Yet with a split second of momentum to break free, you struggle but manage to flip the tables and pin Minho on his back.

You mount his hips before your mouth comes down to kiss Minho so aggressively that it takes him a moment to react. With any other woman that he’s slept with so far, he would allow them to be on top. But because it’s you, and supposedly hates your guts, not to mention his untapped pride, it’s not going to happen. So Minho fights back, kissing and biting nearly every part of your upper body in the process until you’re under him.

He sucks large, deep, red hickies into the skin of your neck, in places where everyone would be able to see them. Minho would want people to know that you’re just a whore he uses. Especially for the next guy you sleep with who would go down on you and see the myriad of hickies that Minho would eventually put between your thighs when he rips your pants down.

“Wanna play this fucking game with me,” he rasps before yanking down your off.

Despite being a dickhead Minho will still eat you out for prep. But it’s not soft and teasing when he does go down on you. It’s tongue and finger fucking you until you’re dizzy from how hard you’re about to cum. It gives you the opportunity to pull and tug on his hair until his scalp starts burning, forcing you to be as vocal as you’ve ever been.

His fingers curl up into that sensitive spot while his tongue and mouth work simultaneously. He’s always been good at giving head, but unusually better now that he’s relatively angry. In the back of your mind, you supposed it helped having not slept with anyone for a month, making it easier to reach that peak of delicious, eye-rolling ecstasy.

“Fuck!” you scream out, voice projecting throughout the room as Minho sucks on your clit. “Fuck you…you’re gonna make me cum.”

Those words are something Minho could never get tired of hearing you say. Even in the headspace that he’s in now, he wants nothing more than to hear how good he’s making your body feel. However, he doesn’t need verbal confirmation from you to know that you’re about to cum. When your walls seize and clamp around his fingers, when you’re trembling around his head, Minho knows what that means.

The quick drag of his fingers is only light work for him, pumping at a pace that has you panting to try and keep up with it. As a result, it’s not long before Minho brings you to your sweet release; a toe-curling burst of euphoria that has you silently creaming around his fingers.

He has no patience for you to descend from your orgasm, sucking his fingers clean as he pulls away from your pussy. He gets to unbuckling his belt faster than he can even comprehend that this is still happening.

“H-Hurry,” you whine, trying to quell the hunger for Minho’s cock while you wait.

His eyes squeeze shut, hissing as he coats his length with your slick, “shut the fuck up.”

Despite being in a haze post-orgasm, you manage to sit up quickly to turn and push Minho down by his shoulders. You find yourself straddling his hips once more, reaching down and behind for his cock, aligning it with your hole. Minho allows you to work for it yourself, watching his cock vanish by the second as you sink down.

“Mmm…f-fuck,,” you whine, unable to come to grips with how much you miss him filling you out.

Taking a couple of slow strokes up and down allows you to realise that never in your wildest dreams could you ever imagine hate sex with Minho would be this…rough. Both of you pushing, shoving, and manhandling each other around, speaking to each other with such disregard for the other person's feelings – beyond the point of degradation.

“Come on,” Minho grunts, fingernails embedding themselves into your hips so that the indents remaining become as equally as vibrant as the hickies blooming on your neck.

You look down at him with disgust before your hand lowers to his throat, choking him out by the sides of his neck. That familiar feeling of restriction to Minho forces him to repress his sick enjoyment of it, even more so when you start really riding him.

“Fuck you,” you strain out, trying to assert some degree of control even though you’re battling with oversensitivity from your previous orgasm.

You slam your hips down repeatedly, building up a good pace and rhythm that’s enough for small moans to force their way out of your mouth. With a cock like Minho’s, it’s impossible to keep quiet no matter how much you try. However, as you work for your own orgasm, you don’t want to give him any satisfaction by making him think that he’s the one doing it; yet in reality, he is.

Nonetheless, you continue to use him just as much as he’s using you until the luxury of pleasure accelerates in the pit of your stomach. In saying that, it doesn’t take long for Minho to find that information out as you continue to ride him. The observation is clear-cut;

“Nobody’s fucked you since me haven’t they?” He asks you breathlessly, watching you roll your hips deliciously over his cock. “Know how I can tell? Because you keep fucking clenching around my dick.”

Your eyebrows furrow, struggling to find an answer for him because he is right and that’s not your fault, “s-so what? Want me to stop?”

“Didn’t say that, did I?” He argues back, too proud to say ‘no’. “Just…just keep moving.”

A firm hand of yours catches his taut jaw, and while his mouth is open, you lean down and spit right in it.

You curse right at him, “fuck you.”

His eyes lock with yours and for a moment, Minho is shocked, but not in a bad way. In that moment you despised him so much that he made you do something a normal person would find disgusting. Although it’s not long before a sick smirk spreads across his face, failing to pretend as if he didn’t just enjoy that, swallowing it back.

“Course you’d be into that you fucking whore,” he rasps, his body jolting every time your hips slam down.

“I’m not the whore who’s taking it,” you snipe back at him.

Your comment riles Minho, resulting in him nearly bucking you off his body before flipping you onto your stomach. He yanks both of your hands behind your back as something for him to latch onto when he pushes his cock back into you, and starts fucking hard and fast.

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck…” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut.

The new angle makes his dick slip in just that extra bit deeper, achieving a sensation which you miss all too much. With the amount of relentlessness that Minho puts behind his thrusts is nothing but a fast, brutal, and unforgiving type of fucking. He’s not holding back with you, no matter how much you hate him and he hates you, he will fuck you to tears.

“Such a fucking slut,” he drives forward nastily. “Needy, loud, slut.”

Your choked moans and whimpers are typical responses to hearing him call you that name again. In bed, if you weren’t his lover, you were his slut. Minho wouldn’t care less if the bed broke beneath him trying to fuck you like the whore you always wanted him to treat you as. But it was phenomenal.

Now, that’s only a distant memory clawing to come back.

“Make me cum…make me fucking cum,” you demand, acknowledging how close you are to the cliff of ecstasy.

Minho's breathing picks up from hearing the pure desperation in your voice, and so does his pace. His only release is not but a minute away, respecting that and also his motive to continue rearranging your guts.

Yet the possibility of keeping up any longer draws to a short term. Minho’s hold on your wrists behind your back becomes a solid death grip with no chance of escape until the wet heat from your pussy has his hips jumping out of rhythm.

His head tilts to the sky, the pleasure screaming at him from the base of his cock, “y-yes, fuck I'm cumming.”

At that very instant, Minho’s release rocks him over. His hands let go of yours in lieu of grabbing onto your ass instead. The pain and sting of his fingernails scraping deep into your flash forces strained whimpers and mewls from your throat, helping to push you over the verge of your second orgasm.

“Y-Yes, cumming, oh fuck-” you cry out with a shaky voice, stiffening while your hole seizes rhythmically around Minho’s length.

The pleasure is throat-gripping, making you forget the words to express how good you feel. Except, in the vapour of your orgasmic haze, you still don't want to accept the fact that it's Minho who makes you feel that way.

He pauses for a moment then thrusts hard back into you, making you keep the warm load that you were so undeservingly given, regardless if your walls are spasming and contracting it out. Then just as he was fast to try to get inside you, he's just as fast when he pulls out and flops beside you.

The air in the room becomes breathable again now that your heart rate isn't racing to the heavens, but picks back up quickly when you decide to hop off the bed and get dressed. You couldn't care less if you were sore and unbalanced. The thought of staying in the room with Minho any longer was suffocating.

“About your stuff,” he starts, filling the silent void with an exasperated voice. “I’ll try to get it back.”

You zip your jeans up, “don’t bother. I know you did give it away for whatever reason, but for what reason is something I’m betting you’ll take to the grave with you.”

Minho is up and now following suit by putting his clothes on. If now is the time to get one thing off of his chest, it’s now. Since the day you both separated, there has been no proper conversation. Both of you are too stubborn to admit wrongs and fix rights, but in your eyes, it's too far gone. There’s no going back to a good thing that was once more.

"I won't if we can just talk it out," he offers the opportunity to you.

“Minho, the nights that I had to listen to you fuck someone else in the next room right after we just broke up was a clear sign that we did not need to talk it out. All it made me do is realise that you didn't actually love me."

“That’s not true,” he shakes his head as you hear a twinge of desperation in his voice like he's pleading his case. "That's not true at all."

"It is though," you correct him. "You were free to sleep with whoever you wanted to because we had broken up at that point, but not a day after that did you wait."

Minho follows through with his explanation, “I was trying to get you out of my head. Spending too long just thinking about you makes me want to lose it. It didn't mean that I never loved you before."

“So you’re just going to continue being delusional? To fuck your way through trying to forget me?” You question, nearly laughing. "I honestly think you're just being pathetic."

He shrugs, “if it means that I don’t have to feel heartbreak, then yes.”

Part of you gets it. Minho’s found a vice and is using it as a tool to deal with his pain. But you’re in pain too, and you haven’t done anything to upset him ever since you split. Maybe it is as bad for him as he says it is. Maybe he doesn’t truly know how to navigate himself out of this like you’re attempting to.

It’s almost a rebuttal to your statement about whether he truly loved you or not; if he’s using other people to drive the thought of you out of his brain because it’s too painful to deal with, then maybe you were more than just a lover to him.

"I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I cannot stand being around you anymore because of how much it hurts to know that you're not actually with me. I'd rather try to forget your existence in order to not feel that type of heartbreak," Minho explains, his words coming from a place inside him that must've just opened up.

But he continues, "the second we split, I needed every last memory of you out of this house. But I know that this hurts you too and that this past month I’ve hurt you and that’s no justification to say that my reason is because you mean more than my entire life.”

There’s an ache in your chest that you’ve never felt before, a blend of all the emotional pain that could’ve been prevented had the two of you just talked. But that ache is fuelled by the fact that you can hear the waiver in Minho’s voice, and even though his back is still turned to you while he sits on the edge of the bed, you’re sure he’s crying.

A/N: Dare I say that I want to make a part 2 to this where Minho and reader try to rekindle, things are pretty tender but they sort of want to make it work...

#rosiewritesskz #stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #lee know x reader

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apuckishwit · 1 year

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Making Room

Steve never gets into DnD.

Not even after Eddie convinces him to join a one-shot over one Christmas when the kids are all back from college and jobs and far-flung adventures. He's not a jerk about it or anything. He sits and makes a character with his boyfriend and he does his best with the role-playing and he only asks Dustin for help with the dice seven or eight times (and everyone had promised to give him an even dozen before they gave him shit about it, so it was fine). It's fine. He's not mad that he spent the time doing it with Eddie and the kids (some of them taller than him now, in spitting distance of college degrees and first apartments and jobs and spouses and lives, but they'll always be kids to him).

But afterwards he kisses Eddie and says it really and truly isn't for him, sorry babe.

And that's okay.

When he and Robin are scavenging through yet another thrift store for furniture and dishes and lamps for the apartment she and Nancy are getting in Indianapolis (he's so sad that her room in the little house he shares with Eddie is going back to being a guest room, but he's so damn happy that she and Nance have stopped dancing around each other...and they're only moving about half an hour away, he'll still see her all the time), and he spots an impractically long desk/table, onviously custom-built, with an absurd number of drawers and compartments built into it, he buys it immediately. He wrestles it into Eddie's van that they borrowed for the day, and smiles apologetically when Robin has to hold like three boxes on her lap. He gets it into their dining room while Eddie's at work, graciously gifting their own table to Robin and Nancy, and it's worth all the hassle (and the fact that one end of the table pokes about a foot into the living room space) when Eddie comes home to something big enough for even his most complicated campaign maps and with plenty of storage for all his dice and miniatures and source books.

And sturdy enough for Eddie's most...enthusiastic...thanks, they find out that night.

Steve never gets into DnD.

But every time Hellfire (whatever incarnation of Hellfire it is, be it the Hawkins crew or some of the guys from the little record shop Eddie works at in town, or some combination) meets up for a game, they get used to Eddie yelling, "Stevie! Evens or odds?" everytime a situation calls for a luck die. They learn that complimenting the snacks Steve sets out will sometimes get them advantage on a roll. They watch Eddie snag Steve's wrist as he passes in or out of the dining room and get him to roll a D20 for various and random reasons. Steve always obliges, before drifting back to the couch with a beer or a slice of pizza and whatever basketball or baseball game is on.

Steve never gets into DnD.

But sometimes Eddie spreads newspapers over the Campaign Table (TM) and sets pots of paint and rows of miniatures out, and he and Steve sit together for a few hours, Steve slapping on the basecoats with a single pot of white, gray, or black and Eddie going to town on the details while they chat about their day, playing footsie under the table or stealing kisses while they wait for something to dry.

"Babe! I need a name for the friendly barkeep who knows more than he seems!"

"Carl."

"He's a half-orc!"

"Those are the big green guys, right?"

"Yeah!"

"Hmmm. Big Carl."

"Perfect!"

Steve never gets into DnD. But he loves Eddie, and he loves how into DnD Eddie is. So he makes room in his life for this thing that Eddie loves.

***

Eddie never gets into sports.

Like, objectively he understands that some people enjoy running around getting all sweaty, trying to keep some kind of ball away from other people and make it go into some kind of receptacle. And he certainly appreciates the view of some of those people in tight little shorts.

Particularly Steve.

Like honestly? If it wouldn't get him labeled a total creep (and they weren't so careful about giving anyone a reason to question the assumption that they're just two young friends living together to save money until they find respectable women to marry)...he'd park his van out by the little middle school where Steve teaches gym and coaches basketball and baseball every day during his lunch break, just to watch his boyfriend run the mile with his students in those shorts that hug the muscles of his thighs just right.

But he doesn't like sports apart from the strictly prurient interest he has in watching Steve wear sports-appropriate clothes.

He tries. He wants to know just what it is that keeps Steve glued to the TV when his favorite teams are playing, wants to understand why Steve yells and groans and jumps up with wild cheers, spilling popcorn all over the living room floor. He just...doesn't get it. Steve tries to explain March Madness to him one year and it makes no more sense than when Wayne tried to when Eddie was a kid. Eventually he just shrugs, kisses Steve's nose, and goes back to petting through his boyfriend's hair with a, sorry, baby, it's not for me.

And that's okay.

He gets up early the week Steve is overseeing baseball tryouts, to make sure his boyfriend has a travel mug of coffee fixed just the way he likes it, and a good breakfast waiting for him when he gets out of the shower. Steve is unquestionably the cook in their relationship, but Young Eddie ate a lot of breakfast for dinner over the years and Adult Eddie makes damn good pancakes, omelettes, and French toast.

Eddie never gets into sports.

But he gets Lucas to break down exactly what kind of notes and stats Steve will be keeping track of and draws up a template "character sheet" for baseball players, spending an hour at the local library laboriously making copies with their cantankerous mimeograph machine.

He sure as shit never gets up at the crack of dawn to go running around the neighborhood the way Steve does...but on days when it starts raining or snowing halfway through Steve's run, he'll drag himself out of bed and throw some towels in the dryer, so they're nice and warm when Steve comes back inside.

Eddie never gets into sports.

But he takes every overtime shift he can for a month, so he can take Steve to Chicago for his twenty-fifth birthday to see the Bulls play. The seats aren't great or anything, and it's noisy as fuck, crowded as fuck, and he has no idea why his boyfriend is losing his mind every time that Jordan guy so much as touches the ball...but Steve's eyes are sparkling, the color is high in his cheeks, and when they get back to their hotel that night, they've barely closed the door before Steve is shoving him against it, devouring his mouth.

"Hey Eds, Ohio State or Georgia Tech?"

"For what?"

"I'm doing my brackets for the pool I've got with Hopper and Lucas!"

"Um, whoever's in red!"

"Ohio State it is, thanks babe!"

Eddie never gets into sports. But that's okay. He loves Steve, and he loves how happy Steve is when he's playing, or coaching, or running (God help him, he fell in love with someone who gets up at six am to run. Without anything chasing him.) So he makes room in his life for this thing that Steve loves.

Because certainly, love grows in shared passions and matching interests. But it also flourishes in the carefully tended space you make just for the things that make your person happy...even if it's just not for you.

#steddie #stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my wriitng #I dunno i was just feeling soft

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steddieas-shegoes · 2 months

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Steve and Eddie go through the whole adoption process in 1996, despite how difficult it was to find somewhere willing to help them at all and despite their conflicted feelings on adoption.

The way they saw it though, providing a loving home for a child who needed one was better than the alternative. Eddie had enough experience with temporary foster homes to know stability was better than constant moving and questionable foster parents.

They get a foster placement almost immediately, a six year old girl named Amelia. She’s quiet, but not in a way that worries them. She’s very focused, and enjoys going to school more than any regular children’s hobbies. Neither of them know what to do with that other than keep encouraging it.

She stays for months, months turn into a year, and the agency finally gives them the go ahead to complete the adoption process.

But they don’t do anything without talking to Amelia.

She’s happy there, her therapist signs off on it immediately and explains that Amelia has shown more personality development and less signs of trauma with them than she had even living at home. Not to mention they actually brought her to appointments, unlike her previous guardians.

To celebrate, they throw a party with all their friends and family and tell Amelia she can invite anyone from school she wants. She invites everyone.

Turns out their daughter is a social butterfly and is friends with everyone.

At the party, Eddie pulls out his guitar, plays a bunch of popular kid-friendly songs after a very scathing look from Steve as a reminder to behave.

Amelia walks over to him after a few songs, on a sugar high like he’d never seen on her before, and asks to play the guitar.

He’s hesitant, but not because he’s still protective of his guitars, more because he doesn’t want her to embarrass herself in front of her friends. Kids are cruel, even and especially at seven, and the last thing he wants is this to be the thing that kids talk about for the next ten years.

She sits on the couch and holds it, arranging her fingers…correctly. Eddie watches.

Steve is watching from across the room.

She starts strumming, very quietly at first, not as confident as she’d been a moment ago. And then she starts really playing.

It’s one of the songs Eddie wrote. He played it for the last four months nonstop as he perfected it, and she’d apparently been watching.

Eddie’s jaw is on the floor and he quickly looks over to Steve, who has a similar look of surprise on his face.

He doesn’t interrupt her. She makes it through the entire song.

She looks up.

“When did you learn to play guitar?” Eddie asks.

“When I was watching you.”

“But have you played before tonight?”

Amelia shook her head, looking down. “Didn’t wanna touch it without asking.”

Eddie pulls the guitar from her hands and sets it aside, then pulls her into his lap and hugs her. Steve sits down on the couch next to them, hand on her back.

“You can always ask, sweetie. And if you’re this interested and this natural, we can buy you your own guitar if you want. I didn’t think you were interested in playing.”

“I wanna be like you,” Amelia admitted against his shoulder.

Eddie was done for. He looked at Steve, half-panicked, trying not to cry in front of these people, but Steve wasn’t faring any better.

“Then we can go get you a guitar tomorrow. You can get your own picks, too. They might even have purple ones.”

“Can I have red? Like yours?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

It only took them two days after that to realize she could play by ear, just like Eddie.

And then it only took another day after that to realize she had taught herself to read music too.

They spent hours and hours every week playing together while Steve cooked dinner or checked her homework or just watched them.

When Eddie’s band decided to record another album and go on tour when Amelia was 12, Eddie insisted that she get to be on it.

She ended up helping write one of their songs, played on the track on the album, and with a lot of work, convinced Steve to let them homeschool her for the entire 8 months they’d be on tour so she could perform on stage with her dad.

“Can’t believe she’s not even genetically yours. Are you sure you didn’t have an affair?” Steve asked the night before they were leaving for Europe.

“When would I have had an affair? I came back to the tour bus or hotel with you every single night,” Eddie kissed him softly. “She’s amazing, huh?”

“She is. What happens when she wants to be a full blown rockstar like her dad too?”

“Then we make sure she’s protected and has good people around her like I have. She could be a rockstar easily. She’s got the talent and the presence,” Eddie smiled. “And she’s got me to make sure no one takes advantage of her. But she’s only 12. We’ve got time to worry about that later.”

“You’re bringing her onstage every single night all over the world for the next eight months, baby. I think later is now.”

Eddie sighed. “She’s gonna blow them all away. I’m proud of her. Let’s focus on that for now.”

And she did blow everyone away. The fans and the media had nothing but good things to say, and Steve didn’t have to go into overprotective mom mode at all until she was 15 and signing a record deal of her own.

But between Eddie and him, the entire industry knew better than to fuck with her or them.

They made rules, of course. School still came first, she still had required family events to be at, she still had regular friends at home. She wasn’t allowed at any parties, not even the events for award ceremonies.

But she didn’t really need those rules. She had no interest in parties or abandoning her friends or family, and she was a straight A student who still had hopes of getting into Brown for Journalism like her Aunt Nancy. She had a passion for music and wanted to share it, but not at the cost of the rest of her life.

And Eddie and Steve did everything they could to make sure she got to have everything. That’s what they’d promised her from day one.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #headcanon #so adoption is complicated #and I won’t pretend that there are plenty of aspects of the system that are so fucked beyond repair #and this is not the time or place to talk about them #so don’t do that in the comments #you’ll get blocked tbh because we’re here in this specific space to have fun #that is all #steddie dads #also this isn’t how the industry works #this isn’t how the media works #the world is cruel to young performers #but we’re pretending #this is fiction

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brummiereader · 3 months

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MASTERLIST

Unchained Melody (Part One)

Summary: It had been almost two years since you had become overwhelmed by motherhood, fleeing from both your husband and son in attempts to escape the suffocating blanket of worries and self-doubt that had enveloped you. With a life now filled with poverty, you scrimp and save every shilling, every penny to make the costly weekly journey to catch a glimpse of your son from afar at the market. But your usual Sunday trip back to Birmingham suddenly turns your life upside down for a second time when you are unexpectedly faced with the presence of your husband and his refusal to let you do anything but return to Arrow house, back to him and your son.

Warnings: Language, angst, smut, mutual pining, postpartum depression

Word count: 4993

Authors Note: This series is inspired by another oldie but goldie, "Unchained Melody" by The Righteous Brothers. Tommy's feelings will be heavily influenced by the lyrics of this melodic and timeless song throughout the story. The song Y/N sings to William is an old British classic called "I do like to be beside the seaside" .

"Calling at Birmingham New Street ladies and gentlemen, Birmingham New Street " the ticket conductor shouted walking briskly along the carriageway, going from coach to coach announcing the last and final call. One year, seven months and fifteen days. You thought to yourself picking at the frayed upholstered chair you was sitting on as a single solemn tear slipped over the curve of your cheek down into your lap, escaping the pools of your eyes too quickly for you to brush away. Not now Y/N. Don't start. You scolded yourself, not wanting to bring your fellow passengers' attention to your escaping emotions as you let yourself sink into the guilt you had been keeping tightly against your chest for almost two years, keeping it hidden from the vicious judgment and critical eyes it was undoubtedly worthy of as you did every Sunday you made the journey back to Birmingham, every Sunday you desperately tried to get a glimpse of your son from afar. Brushing the steady flow of tears from your face, you turned your head to the window, wiping the condensation that had built up on the tempered glass to see your reflection staring back at you, cruelly forcing you to see what you had become. Ragged clothing, unkempt hair and chapped hands, reddened from the countless hours you had worked night and day laundering linen for people that resembled your former self. You were unrecognisable, a far cry from the woman you once were, the wife and mother you once were. Broken and beaten, you were barely getting by with the hand life had dealt you. How had it come to this?

Nineteen and half months ago...

"He's crying darling. Y/N?" Tommy said, walking into the nursery after a relentless day in the city to find you in the rocking chair, aimlessly looking out the window as your son wailed loudly in your arms. You were starting to worry him. He'd been so occupied trying to make things legitimate for his new family that the long days he had spent with his head buried in paperwork were slowly turning into long sleepless nights stuck within the four walls of his office. The birth of his son had ignited an unstoppable force within him to keep the two people he loved the most safe and away from the wickedness of the world he himself played a role in, all at the behest and advice of those around him. He just had one more thing to do, one more thing to finalise, then he would stop. He'd promised himself.

"Tommy..." You muttered, blankly looking up at him as he took William from within your hold, the sudden quietness from his father's comforting warm arms snapping you out of your trance-like state. "He's hungry" you said as you picked up the small brown bear among all the various necessities needed to care for a child of only four months. "He just...he won't feed properly. Won't settle" you huffed, internally blaming yourself as you wiped the front of your blouse, reaching for your son, then suddenly recalling, afraid if you took him he'd start crying again. Was it you that unsettled him?

"He dropped his bear love, that's all. Maybe getting some teeth as well, ey little man?" Tommy said, looking at William as he tried to diffuse the criticism you were undoubtedly burdening yourself with. "Hey, c'mere" Tommy sighed, pulling you into his arms, pressing his lips to the crown of your head as tears welled in your eyes. You were slowly drifting away from him, he could feel it. But with Tommy being a man true to his time, he felt powerless as to what to do, what to say. Stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on. The British way...maybe the wrong way. You'd pull through, wouldn't you? "We'll fetch him some warm cow's milk or a wet nurse, so you can get some sleep"

"No. No Tommy!" You angered quickly at the mere suggestion of anyone but you feeding your son, determined to battle through whatever it was that had a grasp on you without aid. "You think I'm a bad mum, don't you? You think I can't look after him?" you sobbed, your temper and fatigue spilling over into an angry display of pointing fingers and high emotions. You knew you were being unfair, you just...you couldn't help it. You needed an outlet for your mounting frustration, and unfortunately for Tommy he had the unlucky pleasure of being at the receiving end of it.

"Darling, I never said..." Tommy huffed, before you took your son back into your arms and your position in the rocking chair, your eyes fixing on a small light in the distance beyond the grounds of Arrow House as Williams bottom lip wobbled and his whimpers resumed. What would he do without you? Tommy reflected, a sudden feeling of guilt washing over him for all the nights he had spent away as he watched you in admiration, humming a soothing tune to his son, your fingers stroking gently over the curve of his ear and massaging the soft cushioned lobe until his cries quietened and he fell asleep. You were just tired, the small surprise weekend away in Blackpool he had planned in a few days time for the three of you would see an end to your worries. Sea air and sandy beaches, just what any doctor would order. Then he'd stop, he'd try harder. He'd promised himself.

" Fuck baby...you feel so good" Tommy moaned against your ear, his labored breath hot against your skin. "Let me make you feel good eh?" He said breathlessly, sliding his finger down between you both as he pressed on the small bundle of nerves swollen from his thrusts. Just relax. You told yourself. And for the love of god, stop fucking thinking too much. You berated yourself once again as you closed your eyes, a feeling of guilt pooling in your stomach from the little attention and affection you had given your husband since the birth of your son. One month since you were last intimate, one full month since you had let him get close to you. Had he been with someone else? Your brain quickly panicked at the thought of him with another woman when a hard thrust from Tommy had you moaning into his shoulder, your hands threading through his soft hair as he kissed down your neck sending a ripple of goosebumps over your body.

"Wait...Tommy not there" you pulled his head up as his tongue swiped over your nipple. "Shit" you huffed as a trickle of milk flowed down your cleavage whilst you frantically scrambled for the freshly laundered sheets to wipe away your embarrassment.

"Y/N, darling, it's ok" Tommy chuckled, kissing tenderly around your swollen breast as he rocked his hips into you, his thrusts suddenly intensifying when his eyes darted down to between you both. "Stop. Let me see you" he said, pushing your self-conscious hands away from shielding your stomach from the small scars you bared from nine months of carrying his child. " Fuck sweetheart...look at you" He moaned watching himself drive in and out of you, his wet length glistening, the sight sending a surge of pleasure through his throbbing cock. He's so into it. Why? Was he just saying these things, was he thinking of another woman? Your mind plagued you as you reluctantly kept your hands by your side. You felt like shit, looked worse than shit. That and your mind was elsewhere, to a never ending timetable of feeds and nappy changes you seemed incapable of getting right. As the room filled with the moans of your husband and the sound of his body basking in the awaited comfort of you he'd been patiently longing for, your eyes drifted over his lean shoulders to your suitcase covered by the netted curtains of your grand bedroom window. With the sudden fear that you had already made your decision, you turned your head to your husband, crashing your lips onto his as you held tightly onto his broad frame. Would this be the last time? The last time you felt the weight of his body on top of yours?

"Tommy..." you whimpered, a tear falling down the side of your cheek, desperate to tell him how much you were struggling as he gasped at your sudden eagerness, unaware of your inner turmoil in the throes of his own pleasure as a surge of electricity fueled by adoration pumped through his body, his imminent high quickly approaching. With every part of you clutching onto him, tightly clenching you both to a daze of heightened arousal, you let go, loudly crying your husband's name.

" Fuck...i'm gonna, Y/N I'm..." Tommy moaned incoherently into the curve of your neck as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh and his hips came to a sudden stop, releasing the built up tension he had been desperate to be rid of inside the tight warmth of your body with a shaky groan leaving his lips. "We've still got it eh?" Tommy chuckled breathlessly moments later as he settled down beside you, pulling you into his strong hold.

"Still" you replied quietly as you turned your head to look at him." I love you" you said longingly, your voice catching in your throat as you buried your face into his chest, hiding the shame in your eyes of the choice you knew you had made.

" I love you too. Y/N what's..." He said, tilting your chin up to look at him, cutting his words off and what he really wanted to ask, as the glazed over look in your eyes sent an uncomfortable heavy feeling of worry to the pit of his stomach. The far-away look in your eyes frightening him more than any enemy he had ever come up against. You were just tired, he'd call Polly tomorrow morning to come and help you with the baby. Tommy reassured himself as he held you tightly in his arms, his hand cupping the side of your head as he pressed a yearning kiss to your temple. This weekend would fix everything.

" Y/N...baby's crying..." Tommy mumbled half asleep as he rolled over, so used to you being the first to bolt up and hurry to your sons' whimpers. A dairy cow in human form, a living comforter to aid your son to sleep. You couldn't help but feel as you rubbed the fatigue from your dry eyes, another surge of guilt hurtling your way for thinking such things.

"Shhh darling, mummy's here" you said flatly as you approached his bassinet, picking him up and cradling him in your arms. "Please William, please stop crying. I'm so tired, I'm..." you sobbed, caressing his soft skin as you placed the tip of your finger to his mouth for him to suckle on. "What do I do? Help me William" you cried quietly in desperation, rocking him back and forth in your arms as you looked up at the ceiling, tears streaming down your face, your mind absent from the fact you were doing it, you were doing everything any mother would do in an attempt to soothe their child. Why couldn't you see it? "I don't know what's wrong with me" you sobbed to yourself, sniffing away the tears as you looked down at your son, his finger holding tightly onto yours as Frances the housekeeper listened outside the nursery door, her hand firmly enclosed around the handle, every part of her wanting to enter and magic your distress away. The thousand yard stare, they called it. She had seen it with her sister after the birth of her niece and then she saw it with you, the moment Tommy returned to work, popping your little bubble of the three of you lying in bed blissfully happy within the comfort of one another. She'd talk to Tommy in the morning. She promised herself as she backed away from the door, and back to her duties. She promised.

"Oh I do like to be beside...the seaside. Oh I do like to be beside the sea" you sang quietly, your bottom lip wobbling with each passing word. "I love you, I love you so much" you cried as you placed your son back into his cot, pulling out your handkerchief with your name embroidered delicately in the center for him to hold, hoping the scent of you engraved into the light fabric would comfort him in your absence." I'm sorry William, I...I can't be the mother you need " you sobbed as his little fingers clutched around the small piece of cotton. "Daddy will look after you, better than I can" you said as you bent down, placing a tender kiss to his head. "I just need a little break, a small one. I'll be back, I promise" Your voice broke, tears streaming down your cheeks as you gently glided your finger over his ear, caressing his soft skin and gently lulling him into sweet dreams and slumber. "Goodbye my love, my sweet, sweet boy" you cried, turning to the door and shutting it as a searing pain shot through your chest, through your shattered heart and the unbreakable bond a mother shares with her child, tearing and fraying from what you was about to do. Would you ever be able to come back from this?

"Come back to bed darling..." Tommy mumbled as you stood beside him, running your hands through the top of his hair, a quiet moan escaping his lips in response to your gentle touch as he lazily reached for your hand before his weighted eyes and tired body drifted him back into a heavy sleep.

"Soon Tommy..." You replied, muffling your sobs as you picked up your suitcase and turned to the door, glancing back one last time to your husband, to the love of your life. Meters away, it may as well have been miles. You thought to yourself as you came to the end of the long driveway of your home when the light of your son's bedroom suddenly turned on in the far distance and the loud call of your name from the depths of your husband's lungs resonated throughout the grounds. There was no going back now, it was done. They were better off without you.

Present day...

"Fuck sake" you mumbled quietly, hiding your face in your shoulder as you frantically wiped your tears away from the memory of the night when you abandoned your family and your former self. As you cursed yourself for being being so weak, so feeble, the small girl seated opposite you scrunched her brow in confusion, her little thoughts plagued with worry as to what had you so upset, as her mother, who looked as tired and weighed down with her own misgivings, sent you a sympathetic knowing smile.

"Hardly the time and place to let one's emotions get the better of them, this is public transport not a woman's bloody wash house" a man seated next to you clothed in the finest of suits grumbled rolling his eyes, begrudging the fact the train was not divided by class when the engine suddenly came to a stop and the mother ushered her daughter out of the carriage giving the gentleman a stern look, all while her daughter conveniently stepped onto, rather than other the pompous man's foot dirtying his perfectly polished loathers. "The little..." He spat as he folded his newspaper in half, turning to face you as if you had a role in the small girls worthy retribution. "Thiefs, whores and murderers. What would one except from this dump they call the second-biggest city in England" he seethed looking at you from head to toe as you stood to leave when he crassly stuck his foot out, causing you to fall face first onto the grimy train floor as a satisfied scoff left his lips. You were nothing to him, a beggar, the scum of the slums of the city he reluctantly found himself in. With no will or want to confront him about what you believe you undoubtedly deserved, you stood up, wiping the front of your dress down and adjusting your hat with only one thing on your mind...your son.

" Excuse me...please, excuse me" you said, pushing your way through the bustling market. You were already late, and with only the briefest of opportunities to get a glimpse of your child until another full seven days passed, and he made his Sunday outing with Frances again, you were desperate to see him. Standing by a stall filled with seasonal fresh fruits and juices you adjusted your woven hat, pushing the knotted strands of hair behind your ears in attempt to make yourself look proper, more presentable. Who were you kidding, you were but a ghost in a crowd full of people. Your disheveled appearance your only shield and cover from any potential sightings of yourself that could be relayed back to your husband. If he cared to know. You thought to yourself as you raised your head, your breath suddenly catching in your throat. There he was, your William. Watching from a distance, you followed his small wobbly steps, his hand holding tightly onto France's as the sun beamed down on them, heading with determination to the market stall he made a beeline for every Sunday. Perching yourself on a large wooden barrel next to a shelf of neatly stacked bottles of cider, you smiled as your shaky fingers came up to cover the joy on your lips as your former housekeeper picked up your son and showed him all the various jars of sweets and lollipops his wondrous eyes were beaming at. "Barley Sugars" you whispered, a small laugh leaving your lips as he pointed to his favorite and only choice of sweets whilst Frances tried to coax him into trying something different, when a smartly dressed man stood beside them turned around. Tommy.

"Barley Sugars again, eh?" Tommy chuckled, nodding to the stallholder as he reached into his pocket for a penny, smiling lovingly at the boy that resembled you more with each passing day. Wha...what was he doing here? You panicked at the unexpected sight of your husband, the last time being the night you had left him sleeping soundly in your shared bed. With shaky legs and your panicked eyes darting frantically around the market for any of his men, you slid off the barrel stumbling backwards into the shelf of cider, causing a small commotion of crashing glass and spilled beverages.

"You'll 'av to pay for that, miss" The seller frowned, waving his finger at you as he came marching around his stall to your trembling body frantically picking up the shattered glass, apologising profusely for the days' takings and mess you had made. With unsteady feet you stood up, your eyes cast down at the muddied ground, unable to meet the piercing stare you could already feel boring into you with every stifled breath that left your lips.

"Y/N..." Tommy whispered as he steadied himself against the wooden frame of the market stand, his knees buckling, his eyes widening in disbelief as time and everything around him suddenly slowed to an abrupt stillness, his ears deafening him with a piercing high-pitched whistle. "Y/N" he voiced louder, as the sound of the teeming market entered his muffled eardrums and your sheepish eyes finally met his." Y/N" Tommy called your name again as he pushed through the crowds of people, his eyes fixed on you as you started walking backwards, tears welling in your eyes from the panic firmly setting in."Y/N Shelby!" His voiced boomed into the crisp spring air, gaining everyone's attention, his brisk pace turning into a quickened run as he stumbled past people in a frantic attempt to get to you. "No! Don't you dare!" He bellowed, fear tightening in his chest as he watched you turn and run out of the market when he misplaced his foot and fell forward, tripping over the curb of the path as the end of your dress glided behind the corner of the bricked wall and out of sight.

" Shit...shit!" You sobbed running through the cobbled streets as you scanned the neighborhood in a frenzy of labored breaths and hysterical cries for somewhere to hide. What was he doing here?

" Hey, hey!" Tommy said, turning the corner onto the street you had been on mere seconds ago as he grabbed the arm of a young boy running past him with a hoop and stick in his hand. "Have you...have you seen a girl, in a...a dark red dress" Tommy asked breathlessly, whilst his mind frantically tried to make sense if what he saw was real, if you were real.

"That way, Mister" the rosy-cheeked child replied, pointing to a back alley leading to a row of terraced houses before running off to his friends that were patiently waiting for him at the bottom of the street. With shaky steps Tommy ran across the road, raising his hand in apology to a car and it's horn blaring at him from the near collision his dazed state caused. With his hands trembling, and his breath held within the tight confines of his burning lungs, Tommy turned the corner. And, there you were.

"Tommy..." You sobbed, backing up against the roughness of the slabbed wall as he stood in front of you, his own eyes welling with the unspent tears he'd been holding in for the past two years in an attempt to push away the reality of your absence.

"You're dead...I..." he said, his voice catching in his throat as he stepped closer, his brow furrowing in confusion at the acceptance he had surrendered to, now thrown into a disarray. " I.. I thought you were dead" he muttered in front of you as you shook your head, the back of his hand coming up to gingerly stroke across your cheek as the soothing coolness of his wedding band he couldn't bare to part with brushed along your delicate skin. But as the initial shock slowly started to fade, Tommy's jaw suddenly tightened and his gentle touch dug into your skin, his fingers twisting in anger as the creases of his brow deepened and the fury of feeling fooled took over. "I thought you were fucking dead!" He snapped through gritted teeth grabbing your chin, his grip painfully pushing into your flesh as he pressed his forehead to yours and his own tears spilled over between the curves of your cheeks. "Fuck!" He bellowed pushing your face away in disgust as he stumbled back to the wall opposite you, pulling his peaked cap from his head to cover his face as his body forced the contents of his stomach up onto the bricked floor. For months he had believed you had killed yourself, thrown yourself in the cut. And for months he blamed himself, burdening his body and mind with the responsibility of your death. The realisation and shock of you being alive was too much for his body to comprehend, even for someone as hardened to life as himself. " I thought you were dead..." Tommy wept quietly as he turned his head away from you, his reserved demeanour crumbling apart, leaving a man broken and tired from two years of heartbreak in its wake.

" Tommy I'm sorry, I..." You sobbed, approaching him as he put his hand out to stop you.

" No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to fucking say sorry" he sniffed back his tears cutting off your meek attempt to apologise as he stood up wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his disheveled hair hanging over the perspiration sticking to his forehead." Why?" His voice wobbled barely above a whispered as he searched your eyes for an answer, his back pressed firmly against the brick wall to stop his legs from finally giving in as the adrenaline that had been pumping furiously through his veins slowly dispersed and fatigue took over.

" I couldn't do it anymore Tommy, I..."

" Mummy!" a little voice caught your attention as you turned your head and your eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of your son in Frances' arms mere feet from you, his little hands reaching desperately for you as Tommy watched your panicked reaction, a scoff catching in his throat when your eyes sheepishly darted away from your son and back to him.

"Mrs Shelby..." France's voice broke as her hand flew to her mouth and tears pooled in her eyes at the sight of you standing before her. For she believed as everyone else did, that the poor Mrs Shelby had succumbed to her troubles and parted from this world, now free of her tormented mind.

" Take William to the car, Frances" Tommy ordered turning away, adjusting his coat and demeanour as he breathed heavily through his mouth, every part of him desperately trying to regain some form of composure.

" Mummy! Mummy!" Your son wailed as your eyes brimmed with tears, and you apprehensively stepped towards him with your hands out when Tommy hurried between you both, and you came face to face with the remnants of his anger firmly etched on his face once again. He didn't trust you. Your initial reaction to seeing William not good enough of one for your husband who was now evaluating your every move, your every word.

" Mummy's coming, isn't she?" Tommy said, grabbing you by your arm as he waited for a response, his jaw tightening at every passing second as his patience grew thin, unwilling to let you go, unwilling to give you an option. "Isn't she?"

" Yes" you whispered, nodding your head as Frances hurried to the car with William wailing loudly in her arms.

" Look at you" Tommy said, glaring at you from head to toe, his words laced in disdain as he took off your hat, throwing it to the muddied ground with despise. Disheveled clothes, matted hair and muddied fingers. He had given you the world, given you a warm home, anything you could have wished for and yet you chose this, a life of labor and poverty over him and your son. With a mind clouded with fury, Tommy was doing what he promised he'd never do to all the gods he had prayed to, all his ancestors he had pleaded to if they would just grant him one thing, and bring you back into his arms. He was judging you.

" Wh...why is he calling me mummy?" you said, sobbing as you hurried alongside Tommy's quickened pace, his hand still painfully grasped onto your arm, dragging you with him to the car. William was only four months old when you left, he didn't know who you were, did he? " Tommy?"

"Just fucking move Y/N" Tommy said, opening the car door and pushing you in, slamming it behind him with enough force to frighten William into tears again. " Frances, please" Tommy sighed pinching his brow, his elbows resting on the steering wheel as William cried loudly in the back of the car. As Frances tended to your child, searching for his brown bear she feared he may have dropped in all the commotion, you kept your eyes fixed firmly ahead of you, your hands clasped in your lap not daring to look at anyone as shame engulfed you and reality hit home that you would now have to face not only what you did but everyone in your life you had left. Tommy had now plunged you head first back into a world you had abandoned without an ounce of sympathy or understanding, the anxiety of what awaited you was becoming unbearable.

Pulling up to Arrow house, the confines of the car were silent, and had been for the majority of the journey with William now soundly asleep in France's arms, the only audible noise being that of the muddied driveway of your forgotten home and the sound of Tommy's flesh gripping tightly onto the stirring wheel. He was furious, the moment he could have only dreamed of as he sought solitude in the pits of grief now engulfed with hatred. As Tommy and Frances exited the car, you stood seated, panic suddenly enveloping you, your body unable to move as you watched the familiar faces of the grounds men coming to a halt as they squinted into the car and at your face they thought they'd never see again. You wanted to run, not from the heavy weight bearing down on your heart but run from their critical eyes and the things you were sure you could hear them saying.

" Get out" Tommy said opening your door, pulling you out and marching you to the front of your once, shared home.

" Tommy" a lady beamed upon seeing him as she waited in the foyer, her dark brown locks cut into a bob bouncing on her shoulders with every step she took as your husband stormed through the grand entrance with your arm grasped tightly between his fingers. "And who's this?" she frowned looking at you from head to toe, her assumptions of you firmly setting in stone from your appearance alone. A thief no doubt, or a whore. She thought turning her nose up at you as her crimson nails curled into her palms as she crossed her arms, ready to have you thrown off the grounds or better, dumped in a ditch. You had no place in this grand house, in the house she was now not only the governess of, but a woman that the maids and workers believed had wormed her way into ruling the manor Tommy had abandoned his interest and care for to the grief of losing you. " Well, who are you?"

" She's my wife"

PART TWO

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seresinhangmanjake · 9 months

Text

Rather Be With You

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake has been away for six months and he just hopes you waited for him.

Warnings: cursing. I think that's it.

Notes: this was inspired by an ask (💐) from a bit ago. Sorry it took so long. So much happened in the last week and a half, some good some bad, and it just got on top of me. Writing had to come second. I have probably written better in my life haha, but I tried.

Words: 1972

---

“You know he's only messing with you, right?”

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees as he wrung his hands together. Surely it had been a while. For the entirety of the morning, perhaps? Rooster had made his teasing comments at seven a.m. sharp and they were due to dock at noon. Had it been that long? Or had he really managed to shove many hours worth of painful thoughts into just a few short minutes? Somehow, he figured, it was one or the other. No in-between.

When his eyes flicked up, Nat’s face seemed to hint at the former.

It made sense, he supposed. Spending hours thinking about you wasn’t exactly uncommon. Usually, though, those thoughts were a bit nicer, with you naked and smiling, laughing, or whispering sweet words to him. He liked those better than the ones that had plagued him for…well, however long he’d been sitting there.

“He knows what he said isn’t true,” she continued. “He wouldn’t have had the balls to make jokes like that if he thought they would hold any weight. Trust me, no one particularly enjoys pissing you off.”

He wasn’t pissed off, though. He was devastated at the seeds of doubt planted in his head; at the pain and insecurity that came with the twisted knife to his gut. He hated the images forced into his mind at his friend’s words; the ones of you with other men; the ones that made it terribly clear how little you considered or missed him in his absence.

“Jake, she waited for you. I know she did.”

“Yea? How?” he asked.

Phoenix opened her mouth quickly, just as he would have had someone asked him a few hours ago if you loved him like he loved you—ready to confirm with a smile on his face. But if made to think of the answer for more than a half-second, without the hope and giddiness fueling his enthusiasm, he realized he couldn’t actually say for sure if you loved him, just as Nat now could not say with certainty that you had waited for him.

Her mouth closed.

"Exactly. You don't know," he said. "It’s not like I was smart enough to ask her to be my girlfriend before we left. She has no obligation to me, so why would she have bothered to wait six months to have me when she could have anyone?"

The brunette shook her head. “I don’t believe she's like that."

Leaning back against the bench and crossing his arms, Jake just barely held himself back from a scoff. "Like what, Nat? That wouldn't make her anything other than a woman who found someone new to sleep with after the guy she was sleeping with disappeared for half a year.”

“But you didn’t—”

“I know I didn't disappear. But I’ve been gone longer than we’d been together," he said, his voice drifting as he imagined what he hadn't stopped to consider before; a nightmare that, if proven true, would cleanly snap his heart in half. "Joke or not, Rooster could very well be right.”

—

"You're overthinking,” Penny’s voice snuck in from your left.

She reached out to take the beer glass from your hand, polished almost too clean after the twenty minutes you spent absentmindedly running a rag over it. Your mind had been too occupied with troubled thoughts to notice your unceasing drag of the dishtowel around the cylindrical shape of the glass.

It came free from your hand with ease, and as Penny placed it back on its shelf, you spewed, "What if he hooked up with someone? What if he decided six months was too long to wait for a woman that isn't his girlfriend?” You finally faced her just to find her rolling her eyes. “He likes sex, Penny. A lot. There are plenty of willing women and he's practically insatiable."

"When it comes to you, maybe."

The tenseness in your shoulders from well-formed stress was heavy with your exhale, forcing your shoulders to fall forward and your posture to take a hit. "Penny…" you groaned.

"I'm telling you, there's no way he messed around with anyone,” she swore, leaning back against the bar. "Besides, it's frowned upon to get involved with your coworkers."

"You think that's ever stopped Jake?"

She pursed her lips and tilted her head from side to side as she considered. "Ok, fair enough,” she agreed. “Once upon a time, that definitely wouldn't have stopped him. But after meeting you, he hasn't looked at another woman."

You couldn’t say that provided you with any relief. Jake had always presented as an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ type of man. He wasn’t a worrier. Once something exited his periphery, it promptly left his brain, discarded with all past challenges or predicaments. And wasn’t that what you were? An obstacle? He hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend for a reason. Holding on to you for more than just the night didn’t necessarily make you more special than any of the other women. Perhaps it simply made you convenient.

"You don’t know, Penny. You’re not with him 24/7."

Penny muttered something under her breath. Her fingers rose to rub at her temple and when they dropped back to her side, the stare she shot you was imbued with determination. "Look, my bar is where Seresin used to do his "best work," as he liked to say,” she said, and you made a face. "But the only work he's been putting in since he met you has involved getting you to like him and making you happy after you two started your little…thing."

"You may not pay attention, but I do," she practically scolded. "Now, a month ago you were excited to meet him when he got back, and then you let your thoughts get away from you and it’s fucking everything up."

To your own shame, you couldn't deny that. So you didn't bother, rather opting to nibble on your thumbnail.

"They'll be back soon, so are you coming with me or not?"

—

He didn’t know what he was doing, standing there with his bag over his shoulder. But he felt like a heavy weight, an anchor in a sea of levity. Looking around, the men and women he’d been packed in with for the last six months were thrilled, the room sprinkled with smiles and laughs of giddiness in anticipation of having their families in their arms again.

He didn’t have that.

He wanted to have it, but that was fully reliant on you. Your feelings. Your wants and desires. Your plan for your future. Jake could imagine a world where he had the strength to beg to be a part of your life—to plead as desperately as if fighting for enough air to fill his lungs—but reality made that entirely out of his will and control. So he didn't shove his way forward when they made it home. He couldn't bring himself to jump in front of the others who had people waiting for them upon their return. Instead, he let them file out, his team included, until he was one of the final few to step back on dry, solid land.

As he walked by couple after couple, family after family, his already weak composure began to crumble at its edges. The people milling around him felt like a mocking montage of the life he didn’t have. Men and women kissing their partners or spouses, hugging their children with no intent of letting go, their tears coating the ground with joy.

Jake's chest constricted. He needed to get himself on the other side of it, but weaving through the mass of bodies proved harder than he expected.

His shoulders bumped into theirs, his chest skimming across backs and limbs when he turned to his side to sneak through narrow openings. Little kids ran into his legs like spinning tops on the loose from their wound-up energy finally releasing, though each one quickly recovered and returned to their parents, maintaining the same level of enthusiasm they had prior to smacking face-first into a muscled calf.

With each unintentional nudge, he apologized, but no one so much as noticed, too engrossed in their relief at making it home unscathed or in seeing their loved ones still intact. Somewhere, his teammates were doing the same. They’d found their partners, and he thought he’d found his, but his overconfidence in your feelings kept him from ensuring you were actually together. And maybe it was too late. Maybe he would have no choice but to watch you move on from him.

Finally breaking through the edge of the crowd, Jake took his first deep breath. He didn’t look back as he made his way to his truck. He didn’t turn when rushed footsteps grew closer until they sounded as if right on his tail.

“Jake.”

He paused and sighed. He should’ve known he would imagine your voice. Six months without that lovely sound, his only chance at hearing it being within his dreams, took its toll. It haunted him like a ghost on that ship. Of course it wouldn’t cease just because he was home.

“I was calling you, but you didn’t hear me.” There was a soft chuckle, then, “Well, at least I hope you didn’t hear me.”

He spun on his heel and was greeted with your smile. It lacked its carefree nature, instead just barely failing to conceal a twinge of nerves, but beautiful nonetheless. He couldn’t help but smile back.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a few steps closer.

“I came with Penny.” The roundness of your cheeks turned pink from your blush. You lightly shrugged. “I missed you.”

With those words, Jake knew Rooster was deserving of a swift smack upside the head, one he very well may deliver. You cared. You missed him, even.

Fucking Rooster.

“Oh, I, um,” you continued, your eyes falling down to your hand. “I got you these. It feels silly now, but at the time I thought they would be nice, I guess.”

He followed your line of sight to the small bundle in your hand. Five long stems were tight in your grip, the bulbs on their ends made up of layers of silky red petals.

"I was thinking," you swallowed hard and met his gaze, "I don't actually know if you like flowers. And if you do, I didn't know your favorite. I just picked mine." The sweet grin that returned to your face practically demanded he kiss you. Your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. All of you. Every little bit.

And you weren't wrong. He hadn't had a favorite.

He did now.

Jake swallowed through the tightness in his throat, fighting back the stinging in the corners of his eyes.

He didn't get gifts, and certainly not from the women he was with. But then again, with the exception of you, he hadn't chosen to be with a woman for more than a night or two in the last decade.

"I like the yellow ones but they symbolize friendship and that wasn't really what I was going for, so I—"

"I love you.”

Your smile, your jaw, your hand, fell. "You…what?"

He let out a chuckle and reached for you. "Come here."

You didn't hesitate sliding your hand into his and he quickly pulled you to him, your chests hitting, lips meeting with an intensity that he hoped expressed even just a lick of how much he missed you. You draped your arms around his shoulders and the petals of the flowers tickled the nape of his neck.

"Six months was too long," you whispered when you separated.

He nudged his nose against yours. "Way too long."

---

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @cinderellasmissingshoe @leila22rogers

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #jake hangman seresin x y/n #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin fluff #jake hangman seresin x you #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin x you #jake hangman x reader #tgm fic #tgm

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ohtobeleah · 1 year

Text

An Angel’s Discretion //

Summary: When Bradley gets a call to say you’ve been involved in a major car accident, his whole world is turned upside down.

Warnings: Bradley Bradshaw x wifeF!reader. Car Accident. Pregnancy, Bradley in a state of existential crisis. Pre-mature birth. Hurt/comfort. Goose cameo.

Word Count: 3.5k

It felt like time stood still yet had sped up all at the same time. Your entire world had been flipped on its head in the blink of an eye—you felt like your entire life was flashing before your eyes. A Rolodex of memories played out before you as you spun out and rolled down into the embankment. You didn’t know exactly how it happened or why it happened - but regardless of that, it still very much happened and you were still very much in trouble.

It had been god awful weather recently, so much so the Dagger’s had been grounded for the better half of a week. Bradley had been home for a change, pottering around the house baby proofing sharp edges and making sure the crib was set up just like the instruction book had said.

It seemed that people truly believed that the car you were trapped in for nearly half an hour had flipped and rolled hours ago. An empty mangled car on the side of the road—nobody stopped to see if there were any occupants. Nobody stopped to snoop. Nobody heard your cries— the cries of a woman in unimaginable pain. Hoping, praying, as you remained helplessly tangled in your seat belt. You had blood gushing from wounds you didn’t know what exactly had been caused by and had bones that shattered from impact.

You stayed there, trapped in a mess of broken glass and twisted aluminum, whimpering as you rubbed your swollen belly. Seven months. Seven beautiful months carrying your child. Bradley’s daughter. You’d spent seven months promising to keep her safe - keep her sound. You didn’t know the gender but the feeling was there and it was strong, you were having a little baby girl.

Bradley wanted to keep the gender a surprise, but you knew deep down with every fibre of your being that you were having a girl, that he’d be a girl dad till his dying day. But as you slowly brought your hand up to cup over your bellybutton? You knew something was utterly wrong.

“We’re okay, aren’t we spud.” You mumbled as your vision blurred and your head became far too heavy for you to keep it lifted. “Mama’s gonna take ca-care of you.” You struggled out before succumbing to the feeling of emptiness as you drifted into unconsciousness—the sound of your shattered phone playing your doting husband's ringtone. Replay by iyaz. One final smile appeared on your bloodied broken face as you heard the all too familiar sound.

Before.....nothing.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“Baby seats shouldn’t be this complicated to fit!” Bradley groaned as he tried to figure out how to secure the baby seat into the backseat of the Bronco. Jake was too busy trying to reread the instructions. “Nope, I can’t do this right now I need a break.” The pair of naval aviators had been off work for the better half of the week and while you were out grocery shopping, Jake had come over to lend a helping hand at putting together some flat pack furniture. “Good thing this baby isn’t coming for another few months.”

“Ah, you’ve jinxed it now!” Jake teased, clicking his fingers at Bradley to grab his attention. “Also, apparently it’s meant to face the other way round.” Jake grinned ear to ear as Bradley deadpanned him. Giving up in entirety before he turned back to the house with a huff. “Oh come on! Where are you going, Rooster! we almost had it!” Jake laughed, jogging after his wingman up to the house.

“I need a beer!” It had been a long afternoon for the two men who had done nothing but unpack and organise the nursery. Bradley was in his own nesting phase. He’d read in a bunch of parents books that nesting was something you’d go through in preparation for the little spud on the way. He was now finding that he was doing it too.

“Oh I’ll take one too.” Jake trailed behind Rooster into the kitchen. “Job well done deserves a bevy.” Just as Bradley opened the fridge and passed Jake the Budweiser, his phone began to ring out on the kitchen counter. “Oh—unknown number man.” Jake announced.

“It’s probably Y/n.” Bradley twirled his wedding band as he stood to answer his phone that was sitting on the kitchen bench, not recognising the number lighting up his screen. For a moment he wasn’t going to answer because why would you be calling from an unknown number. But he just had a gut feeling. He’d called you a few times before hand but you never answered, maybe this was you calling him back?

“Hello?”

“Hello? Is this Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw?” A woman who sounded more panicked than calm spoke—needing a confirmation before continuing with her call.

“This is he?” Bradley responded, turning back to Jake with a confused look on his face, eyes glancing up at the time. Five thirty in the afternoon. You should have been home an hour ago.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw, we’ve just had a one Y/n Bradshaw admitted.” The woman on the other end of the phone call Bradley almost didn’t answer, explained. “Your wife, she’s unfortunately been involved in a severe accident and—“ Bradley didn’t hear the rest of what the nurse had to say as he dropped his phone, it clunked and clambered from the kitchen bench to the tiled floor below. “Hello? Mr Bradshaw?” Unable to process the news he’d just been told Bradley began to panic as his vision tunnel and his mind went numb.

“Jake—“ Was it Bradley’s fault? Was he a terrible husband for not noticing how long you’d been gone? Was there something wrong with your car? You’d mentioned a time or two that the air conditioning had been making a funny noise. “Jake I can’t breathe—“ Bradley clutched at his chest as he groaned, it felt like his entire world was collapsing around him. “I can’t fucking breathe.”

“Oh-okay, yeah we’re leaving right now.” Jake confirmed as he spoke to the lady on the phone. Hangman had picked up the phone Rooster had dropped, he listened to what the woman on the other end of the line had to say as Bradley started to sob, losing his grip on reality.

Jake reached out to touch Bradley’s shoulder in an attempt to confront the aviator who’s world had just shattered into a million pieces, the moment he did though Jake Seresin witnessed his best friend collapse down to his knees in unimaginable pain at the thought of losing you. His girl. His wife. His best friend. The love of his life. The mother of...oh god the mother of his child.

“Rooster we gotta g—“

“I can’t lose her!!” Bradley screamed as warm tears drenching his flushed face. “Can’t—won't lose her. I can’t!” Jake knew Bradley was hyperventilating, he’d seen a panic attack a time or two before when Bob had stayed in his spare room while his house was being painted. Jake also knew a panic attack when he saw one because he got them too. But this? This was a panic attack shrouded in heartache, one Jake would never understand.

“Hey, hey Rooster.” Jake crouched down before his wingman— knowing he needed all the strength he could get. On the inside Jake was a mess. If Bradley lost you that meant Jake lost you too. Holding the back of Bradley’s head as he leaned in. “Listen man, this is so fucked up but she needs you, Y/n needs you to be there for her because she can’t do this alone? Alright? We gotta go— you’re her husband Rooster.” Jake reminded him. “Y/n needs her husband to be there for her okay? In sickness and in health you promised her.”

Bradkey sobbed uncontrollably—but he got up. Knowing Hangman was right. You needed him, and like fuck was he gonna let you slip through his fingers.

“Okay, okay let’s go.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

It’s needless to say Bradley Bradshaw was a mess—a sobbing, shaking, totally exhausted figment of his former stoic self in the private waiting room nurses had told him to wait in. Jake contacted your mum and dad, he called Mav and Penny too who were already on their way over to the Miramar Base Hospital because hell was Mav somewhat sob going to go through this alone.

“We don’t know what’s going on.” Bradley could just faintly hear Jake on the phone with Phoenix as he sat and twisted his wedding band around his ring finger. It kept him grounded but the tangible reminder of your love did nothing to stop Rooster's mind from thinking of the very worst.

“We haven’t been told a single thing—“ Jake sighed as he ran his hand through his sun kissed hair locks. “No, no he’s not in a good way.”

Bradley could hear only Jake's voice and only his answers. But he knew Phoenix would be going stir crazy not know what had happened or what was going on, they all would be. Every single member of Bradley’s naval squadron had become like family to you both. Extensions on the small albeit perfect family you were just starting.

Bradley thought he knew heartbreak, thought he’d been through pain. He’d lost his dad when he was just shy of three years old and his mother just after his seventh birthday. But nothing—nothing, compared to the heartache of not knowing what was happening to you. If you were alive, if your baby was okay? If Rooster had just lost his young family before it had a chance to grow old.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw?” An older looking woman in scrubs asked as she knocked. Both Bradley and Jake looked up—both just as desperate for answers. “Hi” She cooed. “My names Jannette, I’ve been with your wife since she came in—“

“H-how is she?” Bradley could barely speak at this point, he was too afraid to know but needed answers. Although he’d stood from the chair he’d been perched in he still twirled his wedding band around his finger. He still needed that tangible reminder. You loved him, no matter what the outcome was you would always love him. To the moon and back and twice over you’d say before he left for deployments.

In all Bradley’s years he always thought he’d be the one leaving you behind—he never once thought his wife that cut and arranged flowers for a living would leave him, the naval aviator who flew super hornets for a living. But here he stood in some twisted parallel universe that felt like a plot ripped straight from an episode of the twilight zone.

“She’s critical, my colleagues are still working on her as we speak.” The room went silent as Bradley forgot how to breathe. Jake was by his side in seconds. “It's touch and go.”

“My baby? How’s my baby?” If anything mattered to you, it was your unborn child. Bradley knew if anything happened to them that you'd never forgive yourself. You’d rather die than live a life without your baby. You’d done everything in your power to make sure they had the best chance of being strong and healthy and safe. You’d been the perfect mother.

“She” The nurse smiled. “Is okay, we did however have to do an emergency c-section because your wife was unfortunately not able to carry her to full turn due to her uterus filling with blood.” It was a whirlwind of emotions. Bradley Bradshaw was suddenly a father, he had a baby girl.

“Rooster, you have a little girl.” Jake helped Bradley take a few agonising steps as he took in the news. You’d given him a baby girl. A tiny little you. How could he ever thank you enough? How could he ever begin to repay that debt of gratitude, of love?

“You can see her if you’d like? She’s in the NICU.” Jannette explained. “But you won’t be able to touch her without protection until she’s used to the new environment, premature babies can catch infections and colds despite our best efforts, so it’s best she says in the incubation chamber.”

“C’mon Bradshaw, let's go meet your little girl, yeah? You know Y/n wouldn’t want her left alone.” Jake was right. Bradley could hear everything going on around him but he couldn’t speak. He was still taking all this in. He was a dad, a girl dad. He was the father to your daughter and you weren’t here to see him start this new chapter.

God it was bittersweet.

“When will I know how my wife is?” Bradley asked as he followed the nurse he towered over—she had a little waddle that Jake couldn’t help but notice.

“You’ll be the first to know her updated condition, Lieutenant, but from what I’ve seen so far your wife is one hell of a fighter, not a lot of people in her condition would’ve come out of that alive.”

Braduheld onto that tiny shred of hope, clung to it for dear life as he followed the nurse to meet his baby’s girl—way too early. How do you introduce yourself to a baby? Jake was right beside him. Do you think Jake Seresin would ever let his wingman walk alone through such a tragedy?

Absolutely not.

“Bradley, this is your daughter, obviously she doesn’t have a name so we called her Jane as protocol - short for Jane Doe.” The little girl was so incredibly tiny. She was dwarfed by wires and tubes connected all over her tiny body helping her little lungs breathe. Bradley couldn’t distinguish if she looked more like you or him. But fuck he wished she looked like you. He took a seat next to the incubator that held his bundle of joy. The joy he’d been blessed with by you. The joy and light of his world he’d helped create, a blend of you and him.

“H-hey little one.” Rooster struggled to talk. “I’m your Dadda, your mums in a little bit of a situation right now but I’ve got you yeah?” Tears ran down Bradley’s face as he placed a fingertip against the glass. “I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you, ever.”

Rooster always said he’d never love anyone more than he’d love you—but this little girl? God she was already Bradley’s entire fucking world. For a single second he forgot you were in surgery. Watching as your daughter's tiny lips curled into a soft smile of a mere second. Bradley liked to think it was her acknowledging his presents.

“Bradley?” Jannette interrupted, Bradley had forgotten all sense of time as he sat with his baby girl. “It’s your wife—she’s stable, sleeping but stable. She’s being moved to the ICU for around the clock observation.”

“When can I Uh, when can I see her?” Bradley let out a sob as he thanked the heavens above, his little family was okay—not great, not thriving with heath, but okay. Stable. Jake finally allowed himself to breathe for the first time all night.

“We can go up there if you like?” Bradley nodded in response—looking over at Jake who already knew what his wingman was about to ask.

“I’ll stay here, keep her company, go get your girl Rooster.” Jake hugged Bradley as tight as he ever had before. “You’re a dad man, congratulations.” Being the big brother Bradley needed but didn’t have. “I got you brother.”

Bradley didn’t know what to do when he first saw you—he stood at the doorway just staring at the women who had given him everything. So injured, so hurt. And he couldn’t do anything to help ease your pain. Even through all the injuries, tubs and wires, much like the little girl you gave precious life to, you still look beautiful. So gorgeous, so at peace.

A soft “oh god” escaped Bradley’s mouth as he held back sobs walking towards you. Nurse Jannette giving him the space he so desperately needed with you. Bradley took in the sight before him. His beautiful wife, mother of his daughter, laying so lifeless in a hospital bed. He wished so bad you could be at home with him right now, tangled in the warm sheets, smiling and being your “happy go lucky” self instead of here. He wished so badly he could take you anywhere else in the world.

Anywhere but here—like this.

“Hey beautiful.” Bradley whispered. Biting his bottom lip to stop himself from breaking down for what felt like the one hundredth time tonight. “You don’t know it yet but you’re a mama, and dammit baby you’ll be the best fucking mum on earth.” Bradley grabbed the nearby seat and pulled it close. Once his hand was in yours there was no place else Rooster wanted to be then right by your side. Although he wished the two of you could be anywhere else together.

“You’re gonna be okay baby, maybe not today or next week? But you’ll be okay. I won’t let you be anything but okay.” Bradley mumbled through soft sobs as he took notice of every injury that plagued your body. Every cut, stitch, wrap and blood stained patch that littered the soft and supple skin he loved so much. Bradley especially noticed the gash on your cheek—stitched.

As Rooster sat with you, he could see your eyelids moving. He knew you were conscious, just sleeping. Heavily medicated, he knew you could hear every word he spoke. But soon Bradley Bradshaw watched in awe as you placed your hand over your stomach. Checking to see if your little spud was alright. When you noticed how small your stomach felt you moaned.

“My—my baby?” Your eyes weren’t even open yet and you already knew something was terribly wrong. Even if your entire body was in agonising pain you needed to make sure your baby was alright.

“Hey shh, shh, shh, I got you.” Bradley cooed, his hand gently reaching out to cup your cheek—the side without any noticeable injuries that would bring you discomfort. “She’s alright mama, she’s here a little early but she’s okay—j-just like you yeah.”

“She?” Your eyes opened slowly at the sound of your husband’s voice—your neck killed as you turned to face him. Giving up quickly. Bradley was quick to notice the wince you let out.

“She mama, our little girl. Both my girls gave me a pretty big heart attack this afternoon huh? Are you trying to kill me honey?” Bradley smiled. Noticing how you smiled back for a brief moment before the muscles in your cheeks gave up.

“I’m so sorry” You whispered—eyes closed again as you couldn’t stand the light of the room. “I don’t know what happened— no one came though.” You started to cry. “No one came when I called for help for so long.” Bradley leaning in to place a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I’m here, I came, I’m not going anywhere my love.” Rooster sobbed back, sometimes being strong meant crying along with the ones you love. “God I thought I lost you.”

“He said it wasn’t my time to go.” You sighed, clearly fighting off the urge to fall asleep. So groggy from the medicine that even the thought of being a mother hadn’t truly set in yet—all you cared about was that your baby was safe. She was alive.

“Who did bub? One of the paramedics?” Bradley asked, a little confused as he pushed hair away from your face and made sure the oxygen tube was sitting just right.

“He was in the car, said I couldn’t leave you yet, that you’d be lost without me.” You softly grinned while your eyes rested. “Had a moustache just like yours.”

Bradley sat back in shock as he watched you drift back to sleep. Holding your hand thinking how the universe worked in mysterious ways. Bradley had promised to love you in good times and in bad - through sickness and in health. He’d live in the damn hospital if he had to—anything to be by your side.

“God I hate it when he does this.” Goose groaned as he watched his son’s name appear on the shattered phone on the floor of your busted up car. “You’re not ready, it’s not your time so why bother even putting your through this crap.” The man spoke as you fell unconscious. “It’s not your time my dear and my son certainly needs you by his side or he’ll go crazy.” You listened, tried to nod, smile, anything to let him know you heard him. “You’ll be alright kid.”

Bradley Bradshaw had his family. He had his daughter, he had you. Going back and forth with Jake from room to room watching as both his girls slept. Both of you were still so unaware of the turmoil Bradley had been through. He nearly lost you. Without you? Bradley would’ve been helpless.

But someone watching over him knew that as well as he did. A guardian angel not only watched over him....

But over his girls too.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~*

#bradley bradshaw x y/n #rooster bradshaw #bradley x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradleybradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster x reader #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst

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babydollmarauders · 5 months

Text

WRAPPED UP IN A BOW — QUINN HUGHES

quinn hughes x fem!reader

12 DAYS OF KINKMAS

summary: in which y/n welcomes Quinn home with a gift

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, praise, oral (f receiving), p in v (unprotected). (3.1k words)

notes: welcome to day 8 of the 12 days of kinkmas!

a week. seven days. one hundred and sixty-eight hours.

that’s how long my husband has been out of town.

four road games done and over with and now he’s finally coming home to me.

in retrospect, getting married at the very end of the summer wasn't the best decision Quinn and i have ever made. with no time for a honeymoon before he had to be back in Vancouver for training camp, and then hockey season starting, we've had barely any time to relax and bask in the joy of being newlyweds.

which may be why i'm feeling particularly in the holiday spirit. one more home game and then we get almost an entire week to laze around, celebrate the holidays, and just enjoy the life of being newly married.

i’ve spent the last three days decorating our apartment; a wreath on the front door, our tree with ornaments hung gently on the branches, mistletoe over every doorway. miscellaneous holiday themed trinkets are scattered throughout our home.

but my favorite part of the past few days isn’t the decor, or the music i’ve had blasting, or even the christmas cookies i baked. rather, it’s the idea that popped into my head while shopping for all of the said decor online; when i found a body bow.

and after numerous hours, which were impatiently waited through, and countless youtube tutorials, i sit perched upon the end of my bed, wrapped snugly in the red satin bow.

my breasts are tied high and taut, pushed together tightly by the soft fabric and half covered by the oversized bow; while a strip of the satin reaches over one shoulder and through my legs. technically, all intimate areas are covered, but with one tug of the bow, it would all unravel, leaving me naked and ready. a present for my husband to enjoy.

my eyes are glued to my phone, Quinn’s location dancing across the screen, getting closer and closer to our apartment with each passing second.

it’s not often that i would be awake so late, waiting up for him. often times, i’m asleep when he gets back from a roadie, only waking up when i feel his strong arms wrap around me in bed.

as his location pings at our apartment complex, my heart beat rises in my chest, excitement pulling at my every atom. i’m shaky, phone haphazardly tossed onto my nightstand before i get into position; legs crossed and my weight leaned back on my hands.

it feels as though time is dragging on, towing through metaphorical mud. seconds feel like hours as i wait to hear him enter our apartment.

all the lights are off leading into our room, adding to the illusion that he’ll find me fast asleep.

i’m so lost in thought, knees bouncing in exhilaration, that it isn’t until i hear footsteps bounding down the hall that i realize he’s arrived. blood whirls in my ears, my skin heating up at the mere thought of his touch.

“no, she’s probably asleep.” his words carry through the echoey hallway, “Jack, i’m not waking my wife so you can ask her relationship advice. just call her tomorrow.”

i bite back a laugh as i listen to the one sided conversation with his brother. Quinn’s voice turns hushed as he gets closer to our bedroom, obviously attempting not to ‘wake’ me.

the doorknob twists, the door creaking open to display my husband. his head is down, phone pressed to his ear as he carries his road bag into the room. even from here i can see the crease thats formed between his threaded brows, dark bags accentuated under his green eyes.

he turns, gently closing the door behind him with minimal noise, but when he turns back around, his eyes meet mine. his eyes widen, lips parting with a gentle huff of air before he mutters a quick parting to his brother.

“i gotta go, just call her tomorrow.” the call is quickly hung up, his phone set on the dresser with his bag, never breaking eye contact.

“welcome home.” i watch with a crooked smirk as his eyes rake over my figure, slowly dragging down my body before scanning his way back up.

“fucking shit.”

a giggle rises up my throat at his curse, his steps towards me hurried. he sinks down to his knees, eyeing the intricate bow that graces my body. with his hands finding my knees, he carefully pulls my legs apart so that he can fit between them.

“shit, baby,” he pauses, teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a moment, “this all for me?”

i nod, peering down at him with the most innocent eyes that i can summon.

“mhm,” my tone is quiet but sultry, “played so well, and i missed you so much.”

he stands, towering over me now with a dark expression, his pupils blown out in lust.

“yeah? you missed me?” he questions, coaxing a nod of my head, “how bad?”

“so bad, Quinny.” i whine, hands grasping at his tie.

“did you touch yourself? you push your fingers into your pretty pussy? imagine they were mine as you made yourself cum in our bed?”

his words elicit a broken whimper from my throat, my eyelids fluttering as he wraps a hand around the back of my neck, forcing me to tip my head up to him.

“did you imagine my head between your thighs?” his voice drops, “my tongue licking your wet cunt? making you scream?”

my legs are shaking to close, to clench together and bring some much needed relief to my soaked core; but his body blocks me from doing so.

“yes.” i breathe out, eyes closing as he dips down to capture my lips in a bruising kiss.

his tongue slips past my parted lips, the result of a sudden gasp after his fingers curl into my hair, tugging just slightly.

the kiss is messy and deep, tongue’s tangling and pushing against each other, and when he pulls away, saliva coats my lips.

“lay back, baby.”

i drop back at his demand, hair sprawling across the soft mattress behind my head, and watch as best i can as my husband lowers back down to his knees until i can no longer see him.

it’s not but a second later that i feel his soft lips brush against my inner thigh, kissing a path up my leg. an unignorable pulse sparks between my thighs, thumping harder with each kiss, as he gets closer and closer to my wet heat.

wanton moans break the silence of the room, my body quivering with lustful anticipation; but before he can reach the spot in which i need him most, he pulls back, steadily repeating the process on the opposite leg.

a muted whine pulls from my lips as he shifts his path, bypassing my covered core and kissing up my torso. our eyes lock in a heated exchange, neither set looking away, as his open mouthed kisses reach an end, the oversized bow blocking his path.

but just when i think he’ll back away, he captures one tail of the bow between his teeth, slowly pulling back to unravel the satin knot. the glossy fabric falls off my chest, pooling around my body, revealing my bare breasts. my nipples are peaked with desire, stiffened by a mixture of lust and the cold air.

Quinn stares down at me, admiring my exposed figure, before he continues his journey, pressing wet kisses up my sternum. as he reaches my throat, he begins sucking, teeth grazing against my skin before he presses his tongue against it, pulling away to blow cool air against the spot.

shivers travel down my spine, my back arching up into him as he finally presses his lips against mine once more.

“so beautiful.” he mumbles, his hot breath fanning across my lips, swollen and indented with the mark of my teeth.

dragging himself back down to his knees, my jaw slackens as his breath hits my core.

“you’re dripping for me, baby.”

his tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe up my cunt, and my head tips back further into the mattress, my legs pulled over his shoulders as he groans.

“you really are a fucking gift.” he growls, his fingertips tightening in a bruising grip on my thighs.

my breath catches in my throat, blood rushing to my head as his tongue flattens against my clit. he wiggles it back and forth, softly playing with the bud of nerves.

my hands fly forward, tangling into the fluffy waves of hair that fall onto his forehead. as his tongue tenses, trailing down to flick into my entrance, he spreads my wetness, earning a harsh tug of his hair.

my grip coaxes a laugh of confidence from my husband, his chuckles reverberating through my core, and a screamed cry of pleasure echoes off of our bedroom walls, his name falling from my lips like a solemn prayer.

“Quinn, please,” i whimper, a single digit swiping through my wetness and making my voice falter into a high pitched moan.

“doing so well for me, baby.” his praises set my skin alight, heartbeat thumping in my throat.

his middle finger delves slowly into me, curling up into my g-spot as his lips enclose gently around my clit. pumping in, he slowly gets me ready, slipping his index finger in when he deems me lubricated enough.

my thighs close around his head, his free hand snaking his way around to push my leg open, a choked sob of arousal leaving my throat.

i can feel my orgasm creeping up on me, my stomach tying in knots as my eyes roll back.

suckling at my clit, he rolls it softly between puckered lips, his fingers alternating between hooking upwards and scissoring my cunt, slowly stretching me out and preparing me for his cock.

as his fingers speed and his tongue begins to circle and flick against my clit, my legs shake, hands gripping tighter into his hair while curses fall from my lips.

“Quinn,” tears gather along my waterline at the immense wave of pleasure that rolls through my body, “oh my god, right there!”

the tips of his fingers push against my g-spot with every thrust, my back arching as i can feel myself get closer and closer to the edge.

my husband moans, vibrations carrying through my core and spurring me over the edge. my walls tighten around his fingers, trapping them inside of me, and my hips grind against his soft lips as i reach my release.

heavy breathing sounds through the room as i lay back in ecstasy, recovering from my intense orgasm. pulling his cum coated fingers from my dripping pussy, Quinn’s lips pull away from my swollen clit with a pop.

“you taste like heaven.” he hums, coaxing my eyes to open, watching him suck his fingers clean of my release.

“Quinny,” i breathe out, hands reaching out to pull him forward by his tie as he rises from his knees, “i need you.”

“i’m right here, pretty girl.” he gruffs, a hand resting on the bed next to my head, holding himself up as he hovers above me.

he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where my jawline meets my ear. trailing up until he reaches my chin, he suddenly diverts, his lips meeting mine in a gentle kiss.

our lips dance together, his free hand grazing up my body until he reaches my breasts. his thumb rubs over my stiffened nipple, circling it lightly before pinching, the stark contrast drawing a moan from deep within my throat.

i can feel his erection pressing against my upper thigh, my hips jolting up into his in order try and relieve some tension.

pushing lightly at his chest, Quinn immediately backs away, worry filling his eyes, “what’s wrong? did i do something?”

rather than answer, i sit up, beginning to untie his tie. i pull it free from his collar before my hands push at his suit jacket.

“take it off,” i whine as my hands fumble, “all of it, Quinn. i need you. i need to see you.”

his hand cups my cheek, thumb rubbing over my cheekbone as he chuckles, eyes looking into mine.

“get up on the pillows,” he gruffs, watching with fervor as i follow his command, kicking the long forgotten satin fabric off the bed and onto the floor. “good girl.”

sitting with my back propped on the pillows, i watch my husband undress; his suit jacket tossed on the dresser, his button up dropped to the floor as well as the undershirt, before finally the clink of his belt sounds through the silent room.

i admire his upper body as he undresses, mentally praising all the hard work and training that’s led to his muscular arms and tight physique. my mouth waters and i yearn to press kisses to his pale torso, but i stay rooted in my spot, knowing better than to move.

fully naked, his cock stands tall, fully erect with a pink tip, precum beading at the slit, and i don’t think before my hand reaches out, wrapping around his length as he crawls over me.

i squeeze just slightly, my thumb running over his tip and spreading the precum, earning a hiss of satisfaction from my husband.

“stop,” he groans, vocal chords tight, “you want me to fuck you, right?”

i peer up at him with innocence, nodding my head quickly.

“then don’t be a greedy little slut,” my hand drops at his words, allowing him to take a deep breath, “hands and knees, baby.”

i scramble into position, craning my neck to watch his facial expressions as he grabs his base, guiding his cock through the lubricant of my residual cum.

my body shivers as he glides himself through my slick folds, wetting his dick thoroughly. he slides over clit, my legs instantly wobbling as i make a silent squeak.

“Quinn,” my voice shakes, but before i can continue, he’s pushing into me, my back contorting as he runs a hand over my spine.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos after i let out a loud moan, “take it like a good girl.”

i reach back with one hand, desperately grappling behind me for his touch. my request is granted when he grabs my hand, holding it in earnest as his other holds my hip.

“fuck me,” i cry, pushing backwards to sheath him entirely inside of me, “please, i need you to fuck me.”

Quinn clicks his tongue against his teeth, my head hanging forward as he stills, teasing me. i part my lips to begin begging again, but he silences me quick, pulling entirely out before slamming back into me.

he drops my hand in favor of gripping both hips, fucking into me with harsh and unforgiving thrusts.

my arms feel like jello beneath me, quivering with every graze of his tip against my g-spot, until finally i fall to my elbows.

his thighs smack against mine, each thrust pushing me further up the bed until i have to place my palms on the headboard, keeping me steady as my knees dig into the memory foam mattress.

“so fucking wet,” he grunts, pulling my focus to the lewd sounds of his cock sliding through my wetness, “my pretty fucking wife, so ready for me; so easy to please.”

i whine at the use of ‘wife’, the title still bringing goosebumps to the top of my flesh.

“yours,” i gasp, eyes rolling back as he slows his strokes, angling his hips for his cock to run over my g-spot, “all yours. your wife.”

“yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he breathes, “you like being my wife? you like letting me fuck you and call you mine? forever.”

his hand slides to my front, sprawling over my stomach before dipping down to let his finger apply pressure to my pulsing clit.

“yes!” i squeal, hips jerking from the pleasure, “yes, Quinn, yes!”

his finger draws circles on my clit, thrusts speeding as i clench around him.

“who am i?”

my stomach fills with pressure, toes curling as my hair falls into my face.

“my husband!” i scream, legs shaking underneath me.

his finger never relents, my overworked clit tingling, and i can barely stutter out that i’m close before he’s leaning forward, pressing kisses to my sweat coated back.

his soft lips against my heated skin send me over the edge, my eyes drawing shut as i let out an intense breathy moan. my walls clench but his thrusts never ease, only fucking into me with more intensity as he chases his own high, and within a minute, he finds it.

his hips falter, his grip tightening on my hips as he lets out a strangled cry, ropes of cum spilling out of him and mingling with my own.

it’s silent as he stops, nothing but heavy pants and the squelching sound of him pulling out, before he lays down, finally allowing me to drop onto my stomach beside him.

a breathy chuckle leaves his lips, my face buried into the pillow beside him, and he reaches over to scoop me into his arms, helping turn my body until my head is resting in the crook of his neck.

“what a welcome home present.” he laughs, still out of breath, and i giggle into his neck.

“figured you might like that.” i yawn, eyes fluttering shut as i rest a hand on his chest, “well worth staying up.”

“hey,” he coos, head back away in order to look at me. i pry my eyes open, staring up into his, “don’t go falling asleep yet, baby. you need a bath.”

i groan, attempting to burrow further into him, “but i’m so tired.”

he rolls his eyes at my drawn out whine, gently nudging me off of him so he can stand up.

“i’m gonna go draw a bath and get some wine. you don’t fall asleep.”

i nod sleepily, pulling myself up in a sitting position to keep myself from dozing off.

it’s not but five minutes later that Quinn returns, helping me into his arms and carrying me into the bathroom. he sets me down into the hot water of the bubble bath, grabbing the wine glasses off the counter and handing them to me before he slips in behind me, taking his glass back.

having out a deep sigh, i relax into his chest, his free arm wrapping around the front of my waist.

“so,” i start, making him laugh at my tired tone, “how was the trip?”

#faithlynn’s 12 days of kinkmas #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes blurb #vancouver canucks #nhl smut #nhl imagine #nhl fic #faithlynn’s writings <3

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arabellasleopardcoat · 6 months

Text

Lookalike (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Inside the highest tower of the Red Keep, lives a girl with long silver hair...

Warnings: Oh man. What a trip. Rapunzel, innocence kink, daddy issues, cursing, mature language. Light groping, kissing. Daemon, and all his usual warnings. Manipulation. I tried to make it whimsical. You know, a fairy tale.

Requested: Yup. For the bingo. Daemon + retelling of another story. Posted it early because I couldn't sleep last night so I stayed up finishing this.

Once upon a time, in a far away land called Westeros, lived a King and a Queen. The Queen was a beautiful woman, with hair made of spun silver and gold.

The King and the Queen had a daughter, a bright girl called Rhaenyra. They loved her deeply, but as many powerful men behind him, the King could not help but wish for a son.

When the Queen had carried Rhaenyra, her pregnancy had been harsh. She had struggled to fall with child, and when she had, she had been sick the whole time. The Queen was not too sure if she could withstand another pregnancy.

“My love, I need my heir.” The King said to her. “You must help me and try again.”

“But husband, you know we cannot. The Maester said pregnancies were too rough on me."

“If I can't have my heir, I fear I will lose my throne!”

So the Queen decided to try again. Soon, she was with child. Yet, the Queen could feel something was different, this time. She got twice as large as she was when she was carrying Rhaenyra, her body ached even more. Only the hottest baths could soothe her abundant pains.

“This pregnancy is not normal, not normal at all.” Said the Maester, when examining the Queen. “I fear the delivery will be hard.”

And hard it was. For there was not one baby but two. A girl and a boy, a moon and a sun. The parents only found out when the Queen was unable to deliver the baby, and the King, believing it to be his precious heir, ordered the Maester to cut her open.

Wailing into the world they came, shrieks so loud they rose half the Red Keep. Every bell in the city was toiling for them. The King named his heir Baelon. The girl, the little moon, was forgotten. That was you.

Too young to know it then, your first hours were spent in your sister's arms, both of you forgotten in favor of the new heir. But it was barely hours at all when your little brother passed away.

At the funeral, the King was the picture of despair. His Queen was dead by his hand, his heir lasted no longer than a day. Now a father to a baby girl he didn’t know how to care for, and an unruly maiden.

Perhaps, sensing his despair and hoping to offer some words of comfort, and Arryn cousin took you from him and gasped:

“By the Sevens! If she is the very image of Aemma as a babe.” No one took in consideration that this Arryn cousin was not, in fact, older than the Queen.

“Is she?” The King asked, on the verge of tears. Your father could not stop remembering your mother’s face, as the Maester aided your entrance into the world. Her cries haunted him even in his sleep. He was turning into a decaying corpse, from inside out, guilt rotting him alive. “Rhaenyra, come here.”

“Father?”

“Does she look like your mother?”

Your sister squinted at you. You yawned, a toothless, sweet thing. Rhaenyra wasn't very knowledgeable about babes, but she liked you. You had grabbed into her finger the first time you had seen her, tiny fingers turning into the most adorable rings.

“She has her beauty.” She answered, politely. The King hummed, an idea sparkling into his head. Soon, the highest tower in the Red Keep was being repurposed, and the Hand relocated.

Nine and ten years later, that brings us to you, in a continent named Westeros. Inside it, Seven Kingdoms. Inside them, a city called King's Landing. Inside the city is a castle. In the castle, a tower. In the tower is a room. In the room, a girl. You.

You stared at your reflection, squaring your shoulders. You gave yourself a big smile.

“Father, I want to try claiming a dragon.” You repeated to the mirror, before shaking your head. “No, no. Too disrespectful. Lord Father, I was wondering if I could go and try to claim a dragon?”

The reflection did not answer. You frowned. You didn't like groveling, but you weren't too sure of what else you could do. Perhaps, sending him a note would be better.

As the youngest sister of the heir to the Iron Throne, you had led a sheltered life. Even more so, as the spitting image of his late wife, according to your father. When looked in the right light, your eyes were the same shade hers had been. And the way you spoke did resemble the short, clipped speech of the Vale.

No one dared question those things, even though your accent had been ensured by your father by providing you with tutors only from that region. The King was very protective of you, set on expiating his guilt over the death of your mother by ensuring your safety.

All of your care had been provided by him after her death. Viserys knew nothing about child-rearing, but refused to let any servant touch you beyond the wet nurse. You grew into a child, and your father didn't even know how to cut your long, silver hair.

Years passed, and soon you learned to take care of yourself. Used to long hair as you were, you never thought about cutting it. Instead, your mind was preoccupied with more urgent matters. For example, how could you get out of the Red Keep.

Sometimes, your father's protection turned overbearing. Unlike your older sister, you were not allowed to leave the castle. Nor had you been allowed to partake in the activities other young ladies did. The only way you had managed to know the world around you had been through your books and observations.

Your rooms were in the tallest tower in the Red Keep, ensuring you would be kept safe from intruders and even invaders, if such a thing ever came to pass. You had double the guards Rhaenyra and Viserys did. Instead of providing his new Queen with a sworn shield, he had chosen to devote all the Kingsguard to you.

While you knew your tower had been used for other things before, it had clearly been refurnished. Now, it worked as a castle of its own, inside which you had a tiny kitchen, bathing quarters, rooms, and a library. The idea was that you would never need anything outside it. A tiny universe, just for you. You had plenty of space for your books and trinkets, but it made for a lonely existence.

Each time there were unknown men roaming the Keep, you got sent back to your tower. Your father didn't like the idea of you being married off or corrupted by them. You were too precious, too good. He had said that when the day came, he would find you a good match. One that, you suspected, would keep you close to home. Perhaps Aegon, or one of your cousins in the Vale.

If you married at all, of course. Your father had gone through a phase of encouraging your faith in the Seven, in the hopes of you deciding to be a Septa. If you did, the King would be most pleased, for it would mean you would never suffer the same fate as your mother.

You wanted neither. What you wanted more than anything was to see the world, do the things Rhaenyra told you happened outside the Red Keep. And according to you, it would all get started if you got your own dragon.

With a dragon, you would be protected. Your father always used your lack of one as an argument for denying you the experiences ladies your age had. Your egg had not hatched, but if you claimed one, you would surely be allowed to leave.

Unfortunately, what was required to be able to bond with a dragon had been deemed too dangerous for you. King Viserys had banned you from the dragon pit, arguing that dragons could be unpredictable.

Today, you had been sent back to your tower due to an impromptu visit from your Uncle Daemon. You knew the man by reputation only, by how much he angered your father. If there was one person who you were prohibited from speaking to, it was him.

You had heard the rumors, of course. A few years back, after your mother's passing, he had taken Rhaenyra to a pleasure house. Whatever had happened inside was between her and him. To your father, though, it was enough to keep you away from him.

Smile. Square your shoulders. Try again to assert yourself. You eyed your reflection once again, wondering how you could convince the King to let you try to get a dragon. Outside, something scraped against a rock, again and again. Curious, you went to the window.

On the very base of your tower, there was a man hopelessly attempting to climb upwards. He was very dashing, sporting the same silver hair you did, only much shorter.

“Who are you?” You asked, slightly frightened. In truth, you were not used to strangers being so close to you. Your father always said men were dangerous, and that outside the Red Keep there were aberrant creatures, mean and ruthless, that hurt young maidens for their enjoyment. “Step away from my tower, or I shall call my guards!”

The man ignored you, choosing instead to stab a sword between the rocks that made up your tower. You screamed, alarmed.

“Stop that! That's not allowed, you are damaging my tower.”

The man ignored you, trying to use his sword to climb. He grunted in exertion. You ran towards your chambers and filled a jar with water. Then, you ran back to your window and dumped it on his head.

The man shrieked and fell down the few meters he had managed to progress. You laughed, startled.

“Aren't you a fearsome thing?” He muttered to himself. Then, he looked up at you, with the most purple eyes you had ever seen. “Please, Princess. Help me out.”

“Why should I? You are an intruder.” You glared down at him, not even entertaining the notion, but deciding to play along regardless. In truth, you were curious about him. And starved for companionship.

“I am being chased.” He screamed up at you, frantically looking behind him. “Please, help me.”

You leaned down towards your window, bracing your arms on the edge of it.

“Bad business, that.” Your voice was cheery and woefully uninterested. This was the most exciting that had happened to you in years, you were not about to stop it. But at the same time, you did remember all of your father's warnings. There were people out there that were not kind.

“Damn it, you are just like Aemma. Pair of cynics.” He cursed, and started to try to retrieve his sword. Your eyebrows raised.

“You knew my mother?”

The man looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. He squinted at you. His bone structure reminded you of someone.

“I did.”

Your mother. A cynic. You smiled. No one had ever told you about her, not beyond all those polite things everyone said about the dead. How kind she was, how beautiful and learned. It did nothing to make you feel closer to her, these empty platitudes. They were generic, they could be talking about any woman.

Your father never went beyond that, either. The Aemma he talked about was an idolized version of her, a woman frozen into a perfect state of likeness to the Mother. He didn't allow anyone to contradict him, not even Rhaenyra. When you were younger, she had told you your mother had been hesitant about having another pregnancy, and struggling to carry another baby to term. Your father had banned her from visiting you during the next six moons.

But this stranger was speaking of her as if he knew her well. Your heart ached to know more about your mother, know the real her. It was enough to help you make your choice. You gathered your hair and threw it down the window.

“Come up then.” You ordered.

The man looked at the mass of hair in bewilderment. He touched a strand of it, fascinated by the way it picked up the light. He did not move.

“Use it as rope. You won't hurt me.” Were all men so dumb? Surely, if this one was so slow, he could not be a threat.

“Of course. Magic hair. Fucking Viserys.” The man started to climb. He got quickly inside, panting with exertion.

“You know my father, too?” Your body tensed. This, you did not like. What if he was one of the men that were supposed to visit the castle today? One of those who corrupted and hurt young maidens?

Your heart started to beat harder and harder. You tried to convince yourself he might not be a bad man. Perhaps, he had met the King through your mother. Regardless, you turned away from him, keeping your voice and posture deceivingly calm.

“Would you like some water?” You did not wait for an answer, starting to move towards the kitchen. You reached into a cabinet, as if searching for a cup.

The man followed. You could hear his footsteps on the stone floor.

“I do know your father.” His voice was strange. As if he were realizing he was making a mistake but couldn't pinpoint why. Uninterested, you took out a cup. “He is a great King.” He added, hurriedly. Just in time for you to grab a pan, turn and smack it against his head as hard as you could.

The man dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. You hiked up your skirts and rushed to his side. Kneeling by him, you took a closer look at his sword and grinned. You had seen it before. In your books. That was Dark Sister, Visenya's sword.

You had caught Daemon Targaryen. What better proof to show your father that you were not helpless? You tied him to a chair and gagged him for good measure. Then, you pushed him inside your bathing quarters. Only then did you call for a guard.

“Could you summon my father? I need him.” The guard bowed, but didn't speak. Most of them didn't. Your father said they weren't allowed to.

Despite not receiving an answer, you knew your father would be here soon. He always came when you called. You placed a kettle in the fire. Before it could boil, King Viserys was already there.

“Dear.” The King kissed your forehead. You tried not to wrinkle your nose at the smell of herbs and milk of the poppy. Your father always smelled like a medicine cabinet. “As beautiful as your mother, like always.”

You smiled.

“Father. Tea is not ready yet, but sit.” You pointed to your small parlor. When you were a child, the two of you had used to pretend you were a great lady, hosting tea parties there. It had been how he had taught you courtly manners.

The memory was bittersweet. Your father was good to you. He had raised you as best as he could, loving you more fiercely than any of his other children. It was not your intention to upset him, but you knew this topic would do exactly that.

“Were you lonely, my heart?” The King settled on one of the loveseats. You sat across from him.

“I did miss you.” You gave him a coy little look. “But I asked you to come for something else.”

“Do tell.”

“Father. I think I am ready to claim a dragon.” You rushed to say, almost tripping over your words. Already, you could see how his expression was clouding over, a storm raging behind his eyes.

“You know you are not.” The King answered, sternly. “It's too dangerous.”

“I can handle myself.” You fought for your tone to remain even. If it came out too angered, your father would say you were hysteric or having a tantrum, and refuse to take you seriously. So was the curse of being a woman.

“My heart, you have never stepped out of this tower.”

And you had not. But what did dragons care about one's knowledge of the world? You had read about dragons bonding with babes, sharing their cradle with them. To claim one, being well traveled or wise was not required. One had to be chosen, that was all.

You raised your hands in the air, palms up, as if placating a beast.

“I don't want you to get upset, Father. I wanted to prove to you that I am capable, too.” You got up and opened the door to your bathing quarters. “Do not be scared.”

The bound Daemon was still gagged, inside the tub. This time, though, he was awake. Upon seeing his brother, he immediately started screeching and squirming, making up a ruckus.

“Shh.” You said to him, kicking the tub a little. He was turning out to be a very annoying guest. “As you can see, Father, I caught him.”

“And you put him in the tub.” The King said, perplexed.

“He was dripping water all over my floors.” But your explanations fall on deaf ears, since your father has already moved on from his shock. He grabbed Daemon's shirt, forcing him to sit upright.

“Haven't I told you this tower is out of limits?” The King barked at him. “I will throw you into the deepest, more dark and humid dungeon I can find, and then I will…”

“Father.” You did not like being ignored. Daemon was a secondary concern, you just wanted to know if you were allowed out now.

Yet, your father seems to think the issue was an entirely different thing.

“Oh. Sorry, dear. What father meant is that Uncle Daemon has been very bad.” He gave him a shake for good measure.

“I can tell.” Your tone was flat. “Have I proven myself enough to be allowed to try to claim a dragon?”

The King let go of Daemon. He turned towards you and tenderly started checking you over for injuries.

“I would die if something happened to you.” He answered, evasive. You didn't need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. It was too dangerous. It was a no.

Five more long days went by. Poor you, having to stay all day in your tower. After Daemon, your father had now deemed it too dangerous to allow you to roam the Red Keep. It was the tower and nothing more. All you could do was sing Old Valyrian songs and look out the windows. Sometimes, birds would chirp from above, and you would feel slightly better, as if they were singing with you.

Perhaps it had been your song, what had led him to you. Perhaps it had been his own guilty consciousness for a sin long forgotten, or a sliver of empathy for the lonely girl in the tower up above. Whatever it was, before the sixth day came to an end, Daemon appeared under your window.

“Princess, Princess, let your hair down.” You heard him say. You walked to your window, curiously. Daemon was back!

“Come down if you want to be free.” The Prince ordered. “I do not have much time.”

His words stilled you. Freedom. Your father often said freedom was a dangerous thing. If you let people make their own choices, it was much more likely that they would choose unwisely. That was why you were kept in the tower, safe from the world and bad decisions. As long as King Viserys controlled your life, you would be protected.

But what if you left? What if you ran, jumped out of your tower and made your way to Dragonstone to get your dragon? You imagined a version of yourself, dress fluttering in the wind like a flag as you ran, barefooted in the sand. You imagined yourself feeling the sun in your face, having your first cup of mead or watching a parade.

Then you imagined yourself tripping and falling into the sea. You didn't know how to swim. No one saw the need to teach you such a thing. You imagined yourself at the parade, getting robbed. You imagined a man, trying to hurt you. What if people out there, what if Daemon, were truly as wretched as your father said they were?

Your face must have shown your distress because Daemon, impatient, shouted something more.

“I won't hurt you.” The Prince raised his hands in surrender. “I will not tell you I am a good man, but I will take you to Dragonstone.”

His honesty was what sealed the deal. You threw your hair down, grabbed one of your warmest cloaks, and shouted for him to loop your hair around a branch and not let go.

Daemon obeyed. You jumped, and as your feet hit the floor, you wished to be able to say you didn't look back. But you did. And as you saw the silhouette of your tower getting smaller and smaller in the distance, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness deep in your chest.

Noticing how quiet you have gotten, Daemon adjusts your cloak and gives you a grin.

“Do you want to ride Caraxes?” He asks. You match his grin, sadness nearly forgotten. There is a whole world out here, begging to be explored. You can be sad later when the adventure ends.

Caraxes is the most bewitching creature you have ever seen. He is red and serpentine, looking so much like the drawings of dragons you used to do as a child. You nearly scream in excitement.

Daemon whispers to him to stay calm, but Caraxes seems to sense your happiness, for he keeps trying to correspond your loving pets.

“Oh, by the Seven Hells.” The Prince pushes you towards the saddle. “If neither of you stop the tail wagging, we are going to get caught.”

“And we don't want that.” You agree, kissing Caraxes' scales one last time.

Caraxes gives another excited, full-body wag. He seems to be preening under the attention. Daemon must not praise him very much, which is a shame.

“You are such a good boy. So pretty, too.”

Caraxes preens even more. It makes his body shake, tail hitting against the floor in an ominous beat. Daemon groans.

“Enough, enough.” The Prince grabs you by the waist and gets you up in the saddle. You shriek in laughter. Caraxes appears to be happy about it, too, since he starts spreading his wings. “We are going to get caught.”

Daemon jumps into the saddle, hugging you tightly to him. You squirm, unused to the closeness of another human being. When your father and Rhaenyra touch you, it's never like this.

Daemon feels overwhelming, in the best kind of way. His chest is firm, and his smell surrounds you. His arms around your waist hold you tight, but remain loose enough to not hurt you. Your hips fit snugly against his, and make something you can't yet name stir in your lower belly.

It's different. It's strange. You want it to stop. Why do you feel so nervous, as if Caraxes was suddenly dropping down and not barely getting ready to fly?

“Soves, Caraxes.” Daemon orders, careful not to scream in your ear. “Are you alright, little Princess?”

You cease your squirming, hoping that he doesn't notice whatever is different with you.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“You keep squirming as if there were ants inside your bodice. Are you uncomfortable?” The Prince snickers by your ear, pressing a soft kiss right by the top of it. What happens next is impossible to hide. Your body gives a shiver, all of your hairs standing up. The sensation is as confusing as it is pleasant.

“My stomach feels funny.” You complain, knowing that it isn't exactly that, but close enough that he probably won't question it.

“Funny how?” Daemon kisses behind your ear. You make a hurt, confused noise. You have been kissed before, but never there. In your experience, kisses are not this devastating.

“Funny.” You refuse to elaborate because while naive, you are not dumb. This must be precisely why your father wanted you away from men. If they were able to inflict so much pleasure, it was no wonder why maidens let them do whatever they wanted to them.

“Does it hurt, little Princess?” One of his palms goes to your lower stomach, pressing slightly. “Here?”

You squirm. So he definitely knows.

“Yes.”

“Hurts? Or…?” Daemon's hand goes dangerously low, nearly pressing between the parting of your legs. You squirm more. He brushes something that makes you jolt, delighted.

“We shouldn't.” You answer. It would be much more convincing if you were not relaxing into him. He laughs right in your ear, but retracts his hand.

Even with his hands away from your most sensitive areas, you still feel worked up. Your bodice is too rough against your skin, the way Caraxes moves under both of you makes the area between your legs tingle.

You keep your eyes firmly on the sky in front of you. As it starts to change into pinks and yellows, the feeling ebbs and starts to fade. You feel sleepy, so you recline more against Daemon. A tiny yawn escapes you.

“Tired?” Daemon brushes your hair back, much more tenderly than your father would. With your father, the touch is always harsher, more possessive. As if he is always grasping to the last threads of Aemma he can hold. With Daemon, it feels like he is actually touching you.

You hum, soft and sweet.

“Sleep, little one.” He kisses your cheek. “I'll wake you up when we get there.”

The next time you wake up, it is in an unknown bedroom. At first, you panic. The canopy over the bed looks too similar to the one in your tower, and you wonder if perhaps you dreamed it all. Daemon, Caraxes, the flight, your feelings. Then, you get even more scared because the more you look, the more you realize this is not your room.

You get out of bed. You are still dressed in the same dress you were wearing earlier, but your shoes are gone. The door is closed. Fear grips at you. What if Daemon has sold you to someone evil and rotten, as your father says people outside the Red Keep are? What if he is the evil man?

You rush to the door. It opens easily. There is a hallway that looks much like the ones in the Red Keep, but there is no one there. You scream in fear.

Another of the doors opens in the hallway. Daemon, in a sleeping shirt and breeches, runs out.

“Princess!” He hurries to your side. You are crying, you realize, as he wipes away some of your tears. “What is it?”

“I woke up alone, and I didn't recognize…” You sob, softly.

“Oh, little girl.” Daemon scoops you in his arms. “I should have thought of that. I am so sorry.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you look at him, eyes swollen from your crying.

The world had impressed you during the day, but now that the night had fallen, and you found yourself in an unknown castle, you were afraid. What if there were monsters lurking in the hallways? Or if you needed something? What if someone hurt you?

“I do not want to go back there. I am scared.” You rubbed your eyes. Your hands dug into his arm, not wanting to let go of him.

“Do you wish me to keep you company while you fall back asleep?” Daemon asked, gently smoothing your hair down. You must look a mess, and would find it embarrassing were it not for the fact that being alone in such a big place terrifies you. At this point, you would do anything to keep him here.

“Please.” No more words are needed. Daemon doesn't want you to beg, nor does he want anything in exchange. It's comforting.

One of his hands goes to your shoulder blades, leading you back to the room. Daemon tucks you in and sits by your side.

“I'll stay until you fall asleep.” He says, smoothing down your frown with the gentlest touch. Daemon starts to hum in High Valyrian, softly. You know the melody. It's about flames and burning together. Almost against your will, your eyelids start to drop.

“Don't… Don't want you to go.” Your body feels so heavy, as if sinking into the mattress. With great effort, you manage to curl your fingers around one of his.

“Oh, Princess.” He says, interlacing your hands.

“Stay.” You order.

Daemon lets go of your hand, and you whine, awake instantly. You go to sit up, but he shushes you.

“Shh. I am just… Let me.” He slides under the covers, behind you. You close your eyes, trying to relax against him. It's no hardship at all. Now that the candles have been blown, the light is low and Daemon feels so warm against you.

He starts to trace your features. Finger meets brow, temple, cheek. Thumb brushes nose, then lips. Idly, so very idly, his voice mutters near your ear.

“How many mouths has yours kissed?”

The question startles you. You suppose there is no harm in telling him, yet there is a tinge of embarrassment over it, too. It has finally dawned on you what this new, uncomfortable, thrilling feeling is. Desire. You lust after Daemon.

“I have…” You answer, softly. You do not dare speak it out loud. Not when you rather know exactly how far the two of you are. “How about you?”

“I have lost count. Twenty, perhaps more so.” Daemon says it so casually, as if it did not matter at all. But to you, it does. What are you, compared to this man? How could you want him in such a manner, having so little to offer?

“What makes it special, then?” There has to be a reason for him to bother with kissing all these people. Perhaps, to him, all kisses feel as devastating as his does to you.

“The person, I would gather.” The Prince answers, softly rubbing your back as one would do to help a child fall asleep. You frown. It does make sense. You know what love is, after all. Being in love with someone, or at least desiring them, must make it special.

You would like to kiss him, you think. Daemon is handsome, and his touch does not feel as damning as other's do. He has already provided you with pleasure, even if unknowingly.

You make a wish, then. For your first kiss to be special, with someone you like and that knows what they are doing. If not Daemon, at least someone like that.

“Was your first special?” You ask, curious.

“No. She was terrible. Sharp teeth and all.” Daemon moves your hair aside, exposing your neck. You barely get any warning before he is taking a bite out of your nape. For a playful gesture, it's oddly painful. Your body tenses, and you try to fight it, but Daemon's hands are like a vice around your waist. “Like this.”

With no other choice, you ride it out. Pain is nearly unfamiliar to you, beyond small cuts or painful cycles. It's scorching red and hot, making you break into a sweat. Daemon forces you to take, and take, gently holding your hands in his. It's only after that you go limp under him, twitching slightly, that he lets up.

The aftermath of pain is sweet, you learn. Daemon kisses around the painful bite and blows a raspberry behind your ear. Now that he has let go of your nape, you find out that the pain was not so bad. You are not even bleeding.

“You are such a good girl.” Daemon praises. “So strong. I'm so proud of you.”

You preen as if you were Caraxes, delighted to make him feel proud of you. Daemon smiles against your temple, as if amused by you, and presses a little kiss there. It’s so tender, and so loving, a sharp contrast to his earlier behavior. It makes you feel as if you were once again on dragonback.

“Could you kiss me?” The words escape out of your mouth, without any real thinking. You know they are the wrong thing to say as soon as they leave your mouth.

Daemon pulls away from you. A hurt, confused noise leaves your throat, hands desperately searching back for his warmth.

“Oh, little Princess.” Daemon mutters, tone full of regrets. “I should not.”

“Why not?” You complain. You are not used to being denied so. The only times others do not bend to your will, you get what you want by your own means. Case in point, leaving your tower. Your father had said no, so you had ensured it happened by other means.

“I have done…. What I have done to you, why I took you…” Suddenly, it is as if an icy hand has taken hold of your throat and started to suffocate you. Betrayal settles over your features, overpowering it all.

“You are only doing this to piss off my father.” You say, shocked. Daemon raises his hands, trying to interrupt you, but you halt him with an imperious wave. “You had no intention of taking me to the dragons. You sought to ruin my reputation, as you did Rhaenyra's.”

“No, Princess, no.” Daemon shakes his head. You get up from the bed, angered. He does not try to stop you. “I swear I didn't mean for anything untoward to happen.”

“I bet you said that back then, too.” You retort. You have half a mind to do something crazy. To grab the fire poker and smash his head with it, to set the whole place on fire. You want to make him hurt.

“I… I did mean to anger your father.” Daemon admits, still trying to placate you. It only makes you wish to scream and scream and never stop. “But I do think it is a shame not to let you even try. Dragons are your birthright. Denying you is unnatural.”

You glare at him. You are unconvinced of the truthfulness of his words. Your father was right. You were unprepared for the world, and it couldn't show more. Daemon has tricked you as easily as if he were taking candy from a babe.

“I'll take you there regardless. I promised to.” His eyes are pleading, but you do not wish to hear him, or see him any longer. Instead, you sit in front of the vanity and look at yourself.

The long, silver hair. The scared eyes. The night, the first you have of freedom, is spent utterly cold and miserable. You stare at yourself and stare at yourself until you think you are going mad.

Daemon does not say a word. He doesn't leave the room, either. Perhaps he falls asleep at some point, perhaps he does not.

You look at your reflection again. You look at your hair. Silver, like his. The lovely color Daemon loves so much. Long, and braided back, flaunting your maidenhood and youth. Forever your father's little girl, never allowed to grow, to love, to lust.

A braid that long won't allow you to claim a dragon. You are more likely to set yourself on fire or trip on it. It's that thought that gives you the determination needed to do what needs to be done.

In the first drawer of the vanity there are a few miscellaneous ribbons. There is also a pair of scissors. You grab it, and grab your braid. You chop it off. As it falls from your shoulder, you feel a weight lift off from you. No longer your nape is heavy with the weight of all these expectations laying on you.

There is a woman staring at you, from the mirror. She looks like she is getting ready for war, eyes alight with determination. You stare at the contours of her face, mesmerized by what you see. All traces of Aemmas's ghost are gone from your reflection. You look more like yourself than you have ever done.

Daemon is up at sunrise. He may have been watching you chop all your hair off and expose the lovely bite mark that now mars the skin of your nape. He may have been sleeping. Whatever it is, he doesn't say a word about your change of appearance, choosing instead to dress in silence.

“Off we go.” He says, briskly, leading you out of the castle. Daemon points to a hill in the distance. “But after that, you are on your own.”

You are suddenly filled with doubt, the determination you had felt when looking in the mirror dissipating under the morning light. Your stomach clenches. Your legs are sore, unused to the exercise of riding. The bite on your neck burns.

"I do not feel ready to claim a dragon.” You say to him, as you get closer and closer to the hill. You feel like a fool. What if your father is right? What if you end this escapade with nothing to show but a ruined reputation?

“You are.” Daemon answers, barely paying attention. It makes you angry beyond belief. To make your mood known, you stomp over a few leaves, grinding them to dust under your heel. Ugh. Why were you looking to him for reassurance in the first place? It was not like Daemon wanted to help you. He just wanted to make himself feel less guilty over trying to cause a scandal and kill your father from the fright.

“I am not.” It’s almost as if you can hear the voice of your father in your head, telling you exactly why no dragon would bond with you. You are a fool, you are a little girl, you…

“You are a Targaryen.” Daemon interrupts your trail of thought with a squeeze to your nape. Right over the bite. It makes your knees nearly buckle. “You were born ready.”

“But what if it isn't enough? What if they see me, and don't want me? I am not brave, like Rhaenyra, or cunning like you or learned like my father. ”

“They will.” Daemon says. “Because you are strong here.” He taps your sternum. “And your father is a fool for not seeing it.”

You look at him. Past the guilt, past the acting up to get your father's attention. His eyes are nervous, but they hold the same steely determination yours had earlier. Daemon believes in you, you realize. You look up at the hill and think to yourself, it is time to see if you can claim a second dragon.

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leo-muscle · 5 months

Text

Kings of the World: Caribbean Waves

Kai knew he was far above the rest. Born into money and power, he got everything he wanted, exactly when he wanted it. Women, cars, planes, food... all at the drop of a dime. He dressed in designer suits, which he constantly bragged about the price of. He wanted the whole world to bow to him, and worship the very ground he walked on.

This leads to Kai's 22nd birthday party, taking place in the Bahamas. He had invited five of his wealthiest friends, the only people he deemed worthy of associating with. They had spent the entire month on Kai's father's dime with women, watersports, booze, and dice, all leading up to one final drinking night on Kai's actual day of birth aboard his luxury yacht, moored to a private island. The party was too much: strippers dotted the decks, fireworks went off every half hour, loud music floated about, and poker chips poured like honey. Kai himself sat at the head table with his five rich friends.

"Here's to one more year of life!" Kai cheered, his voice slurring.

"Hear, hear!" His friends replied, and they all chugged down their liquor like it was water.

"Alright, guys, I've got the next round coming!" Kai shouted, as he dashed back to the bar... only something was amiss.

The scantily-dressed barwoman was nowhere to be seen. Instead, an absolute giant of an irishman stood behind the bar, dancing to the beat of the music. He wore no shirt, just a bowtie with a nametag reading "Dom," and short shorts, accentuating his enormous muscles. An easy smile sat on his face, accented by the enormous emerald earring in his right ear. Just by being in the room with the man, Kai felt a need to compete with him.

"Where's Chrissy?" Kai asked, a simmer of anger in his voice.

"Ach, she was feeling a tad ill, so she came to fetch me." The bartender replied in a soothing Irish accent. "Watcha looking for tonight?"

"Something powerful and special." Kai said. "You'd know a thing or two about that."

The bartender's smile twitched. "I think I got just the thing for a birthday boy like you. Little something from back home, you aught to enjoy it."

The bartender turned around, and started pouring a variety of liquors into a shaker, then dancing to mix it all up. Kai couldn't stop looking at his ass: while Kai was incredibly straight, he could easily tell that this man had a great, bouncy bubble butt. His pecs too were incredible, the girls should be all over him-- why weren't they?

The bartender brought the shaker right up to his enormous left pec, opened it up, and dumped something in it that Kai couldn't see. He then presented the drink into a tall tankard. It was a sparkling emerald green, unlike any drink Kai had seen before.

"What is this shit?" Kai groaned.

"Special recipe of mine. You'll learn to make it yourself, someday."

"As if. People make my drinks, not the other way around."

Kai took a big swing of the emerald drink, chugging it all in one go. Instantly, he could feel his insides bubbling.

"Did you poison me?!" Kai screamed, but was inaudible over the clamor of the party.

"Nope." The bartender said. "Enjoy." And with that, he vanished.

Kai ran to the restroom as his muscles began burning and pulsing with new strength. He could barely make it to the bathroom before he began to shake, shiver, moan, and grow.

As Kai grew, a single thought entered his head.

My behavior is not suited for a King.

----------

Kai's friends were starting to wonder where their leader had gone, when suddenly, a single text appeared on their phones.

Kai: Everyone, come down to the island. There's someone you need to meet.

The group stumbled to the beach, where a single man awaited them, carrying four drinks with him. He was enormous, seven feet tall, and was a stunning example of peak masculinity. He was clearly from the islands around here: his beautiful, dark skin reflected the setting sun perfectly, while saltwater trickled through his tight curls, mustache, and goatee. His gigantic, bouncy, fuckable pecs sat atop a tight muscle gut, indented with the turtle-shell pattern of abs. His biceps outsized his head, and were crisscrossed with a pattern of veins showing his strength. His legs would have been incredibly oversized on any other man, but on him, they were glorious, perfect cylinders striated with pure strength, able to cut through water with ease. His ass was a perfect breeding site for any cock able to work its way past his thick muscle cheeks. An inviting aroma of saltwater and musk wafted from him, beckoning the boys over. It assaulted their nostrils, the scent unimpeded by clothes, for this beach hunk wore only a speedo and a necklace of purest silver. It smelled divine, and although these boys were straight before, this musk was worth far more than any feeble heterosexuality. They almost climbed over each other to get closer to the man.

"Now, now," The beach hunk said. "We can take me in some other time; I'm not the important one here. What is important, is you."

"What do you mean?" One of the rich boys asked. "You're perfect!"

"And you can be too." The beach hunk replied. "You boys want a drink?"

"Yes?" Another rich boy said.

"I made them myself," The beach hunk said, gesturing to the drinks in his hands. They gleamed a pure silver, like liquid mercury.

"From this big boy down here." He continued, patting the massive cock straining to break free of his speedo.

By this point, every single boy had a raging-hard on. They needed to know what this man tasted like. They dashed over to the beach hunk, and each grabbed a glass from the man's enormous hands, and drank the whole thing in one gulp each.

Instantly, their bodies expanded. Their thighs grew from twigs to tree trunks, laced with power. Their arms mirrored their King's, bursting with strength the size of coconuts. Their abs, one by one, popped into existence, forming tight eight-packs on all of their cores.

Soon, one boy started noticing how hot his neighbor was getting. While the beach hunk was a true being of masculinity, his friend was definitely becoming capable of rivaling him. He reached over to his friend's chest, and touched his nipple--

And suddenly, his friend's chest ballooned past almost every letter of the alphabet with mass, growing larger and darker and more sensitive, until his pecs were just as bouncy and voluptuous as his King's.

"B-bro..." He moaned. "I... I need you to touch them..."

His fellow transformee showed no slowness as he latched his rapidly-expanding hands onto his friend's enormous muscle tits, pawing and kneading the muscle and nipple. His friend moaned with pleasure. How could his chest feel so good?

The other two had noticed what their friends were doing, and immediately joined in. One began worshipping another's ass, while the final one began giving his friend a blowjob. Soon, their asses and dicks had all expanded into pillars and beautiful mounds of dark flesh, sensitive and plush, perfect for kneading. The friends grew closer and closer together, their hair darkening and tightening as they went, until they had all become a massive literal clusterfuck. Each man was sucking a nipple, taking a dick, fucking an ass, all in the most intense pleasure any of them had ever felt in their life.

Though, eventually, it was all too much. They felt their load coming right from their new enormous bull balls... and they just couldn't hold it any longer. In a burst of cum, they all released each other, panting on the sand in their beautiful new forms.

King Kai knew his new boys would make great citizens of his kingdom, but there was still much work to be done. He would go about this subtly, with his own line of drinks laced with kingly fluid. Soon, the islands would be peaceful, and everyone would live freely and without strife.

#male tf #male transformation #jock tf #race change #latino tf #black tf #bear tf #butt growth #pec growth #straight to gay #kings of the world

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justallihere · 1 month

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some fluff for your saturday 🫶🏻

***

Xaden’s favorite time was the middle of the night, when his wife slept peacefully and he got to hold his daughter and watch the snow falling.

Fia, like her mother, liked the library. Xaden was sure it was the floating mage lights that kept her attention—at seven months old, she certainly couldn’t read—but it was the place that calmed her the quickest when she wouldn’t sleep. He liked to think it was something she’d gotten from Violet.

Fia looked like him: his warm brown skin, his dark hair and dark eyes, his mouth. But she had Violet in the shape of her nose, the fullness of her cheeks. She was calm and quiet like Violet, attentive and curious, even just beginning to sit up and grab for anything within reach. She liked Xaden’s wedding ring, liked the texture of Violet’s dragon scale corset. She liked looking at the dragons: she would sit and stare at Andarna for hours if Xaden let her, endlessly fascinated by her shifting scales as Andarna stretched her wings in the sun.

She was an easy baby for the most part, but Violet’s pregnancy had been hard.

They’d assumed it would be, but she’d been in pain almost constantly—aching joints and swollen feet and hands. By the second half, she spent more time in bed than out of it, barely sleeping due to the pain. Thanks to Brennan and the best midwife in Tyrrendor, the birth had been smooth, though long; Violet labored for over a day before Fia joined them. Then she’d spent more weeks recovering, Fia sleeping on her chest as Violet read to her.

It was why Xaden always got up in the night when Fia woke. Violet would have done it gladly, he knew that, but she’d given so much to bring Fia into the world while he’d only been able to watch. Rocking her back to sleep once or twice a week was the least he could do. Violet protested, and he ignored her. Sometimes she’d come find them, but more often than not she slept on comfortably and didn’t wake until Xaden joined her in bed again.

“What do you think?” Xaden murmured to Fia, stopping in front of a window and turning her around so she could look outside. She pressed a chubby little hand to the glass and cooed. “How long are we gonna be awake tonight?”

Fia babbled unintelligibly. Once the window had lost her attention, he shifted her in his arms so her head could rest against his shoulder, and she lay limply against his chest. He rubbed a broad hand up and down her back, marveling, not for the first time, at how tiny she was. How easily she fit into his arms. He never wanted to let her go.

Violet protested that it was bad for Fia to be held constantly. She needed to move and look and engage with the world around her. Xaden argued that she’d have years to do those things, and he only had a few months to hold her like this. That usually made Violet soften, and she got that tender expression on her face that he never tired of because it reminded him that she loved him just as much as he loved her.

He walked half a dozen laps around the library, humming under his breath. Fia settled slowly as he rocked her, bouncing her lightly in the way she liked and stroking along her spine. He felt her little form go entirely limp, finally asleep; her head tipped to press against his neck, her breath against his skin, the beat of her heart against his own. He could go put her back to bed, but he didn’t stop walking.

Just a little longer, he decided. Just a few more minutes holding her.

“I think she’s drooling on you,” a voice whispered, breaking through the still serenity of the library.

Xaden turned and found Violet leaning against a shelf, watching him with a soft look on her face.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Xaden murmured.

She smiled sleepily. She was in a nightgown and thin robe, barefoot with her hair loose and tangled, like she’d woken and hadn’t wanted to be alone. “Come here,” she said quietly.

Xaden went. He held Fia with one arm, and reached out with the other to take Violet’s hand. She fit her fingers into the spaces between his and stepped in close, resting her head against his chest next to their daughter. She stretched on her toes to brush a fleeting kiss against Fia’s soft cheek, and then titled her face up to Xaden expectantly.

He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and finally pressed his mouth to hers. “I love you,” he murmured.

Violet’s eyes fell shut, contentment written in every line of her expression. “I love you, too.”

#this doesn’t exist at any particular time or in any particular world #it’s not related to sitq #just a lil fluffy moment #fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #riorgail #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #xaden x violet

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tastesousweet · 3 months

Text

⭒ the girl with the tattoo (vii) - pt 1 pt 2 p3 p4 p5 p6

matt sturniolo x fem!oc / reader

summary : a little weed sure eases theses two up.

warnings : implications of sex & use of weed

mickey speaks : sorry this took a while to get out friends, hope u love it. also lowkey self inserting w the hawaii trip :P

THIS IS PART SEVEN GO READ THE OTHERS FIRST!!!

“OH, he’s obsessed!” andrea exclaims across the table, a wide smile smothered over her face.

it didn’t take long for asha to call you and begin debriefing her month-long europe trip to you, only for you to cut her short (because matt began knocking on the door, complaining about how long you’d taken to piss) and ask her to finish her tell-all over lunch. she of course agreed and texted you the location of her favorite ramen place along with: “tell your roomie andrea that she can come with i wanna see u bothhhh!”

she’s spent the last half hour detailing the total princess treatment she’d experienced from a guy she met at her stop in london. “yeah, too bad i won’t see him again,” she pouts.

“you didn’t get his phone number that entire time?” you ask, fiddling with the chopsticks in your hand.

“oh of course i did, i just won’t be using it,” asha laughs and tucks a piece of her dark curled hair behind her ear. “it was nice while it lasted but i’m definitely not trying to deal with the hassle that comes with dating anyone right now,” she shrugs.

“you’re so bad!” andrea shakes her head and giggles, "but you know what, i get it."

asha hides her laugh by guiding noodles towards her mouth.

your phone buzzes softly against the counter and lights up, showing off a new text message from your mom, but more importantly your lock screen wallpaper displaying a sleepy figaro on your chest.

asha squeals through her chews as you pick up your phone to decide whether you’ll confront or procrastinate the text message (that will most likely sour your mood). andrea’s eyes widen at the girl as asha finishes up and starts to explain, “who’s cat is that?!” her acrylic nail taps against the table.

“oh, it’s ours,” you peer over your phone, deciding you’d rather not answer your mom’s text (she's asking how degree-related job searching has been, again).

“what?!”

“oh yes, he's my babyyy,” andrea coos while unlocking her phone to show off the many photos, “his name is figaro-.”

asha swipes through the phone in awe, “and when the fuck did this happen?”

“like a few weeks ago, i wanna say…” you turn to look at andrea while trying to remember.

“i’m coming over way more now. oh my god.” she gushes over the many photos of the playful black kitten before returning andrea’s phone.

“please do, it felt like you were gone for so long.” you whine out the beg before taking another sip of the warm broth.

asha sighs (in a way that causes her lips to flutter a little), “i know, i miss hanging out with my friends!”

“and we miss you! your ass is always traveling somewhere we have to soak up all your LA time while we can,” you joke.

the two laugh along with you, “i think i’ll be here for a while…not until like, my birthday.” asha thinks through her schedule and her mouth widens at the thought of her birthday, “oh my god! i forgot to tell you- mostly because it’s kinda far out? so, the past four years i’ve hosted trips for my birthday in late november... and i want you two to come this year!”

your eyes widen in excitement and your mouth is full of noodles, keeping you from letting out the loud 'yes' you wanted to. so andrea answers for the both of you, “well of course, we’ll come!”

asha’s face can’t possibly be stretched further with happiness as she celebrates, “yay, this’ll be so fun! you’ll get to meet some of my girlfriends and f’course the boys will be there so you’ll know a few people already!”

“and where are we going?” you ask with big, curious eyes.

“hawaii!"

౨ৎ

a distinct berry shade drips over the room in full swoops as the leaving sun peeks through matt's curtains ever so gently. your lips are now almost the same shade of the woven fabric, especially after enduring matt's undying and bitter kisses.

you hear him breathe a soft laugh, finding your body's limp, laid-out position to be straight out of an erotic femme painting: right leg and arm stretched above and below you, left arm above your waist to cradle your tits, and left leg bent and falling over the opposing leg.

you turn your head when you recognize his return, whispering, "hey."

matt’s bed dips accordingly when he lowers himself next to you, fixated on your still-exposed silhouette that hosts a few deep hickeys (he’s recently taken a liking to giving you them, his ego gains a small ignition at the thought of him placing them only where he gets to see), rather than your observant eyes.

he finds one he’d kissed into the skin under your printed hello kitty, leaning closer to lick and suckle at it more. you squirm and push his head away with a whine of his name.

he chuckles and moves his hair from his face, “put some fuckin’ clothes on then.” he lays your sweatshirt and panties, he gathered on his way back to you, against your chest.

you lift yourself easily, though a sleepy yawn still makes its way to you as you fit into the hoodie. matt shifts himself to slouch against his headboard. you finish your redressing before moving yourself higher on his bed as well.

matt thinks your phone screen is severely bright and headache-inducing but he doesn't complain as he normally would, instead he's more focused on balancing his joint-rolling necessities atop his wife beater clad torso.

you pay no attention to him as you exchange texts with remi:

REMI - 6:43 PM

OMFG

REMI

this guy im friends w thinks i should set you up on a blind date with a guy he knows :D

REMI

HE JUST SHOWED ME A PIC AND ... fuck

REMI

PLS SAY YOULL DO IT

REMI

u deserve a nice date night

Y/N - 8:36 PM

hi WHATTT

Y/N

idk rem😭😭

REMI

ABOUT TIME U RESPONDED HELLO

REMI

rlly you dont wanna??

Y/N

ill have to think about it

you sigh while turning off your phone, moving your body to better face matt, who's hands work to add the potent plant into his detailed silver grinder. there's obviously no need for you to stay in his bed or hang around for any longer, but as of late you both aren't necessarily itching to kick the other out as soon as clothes are back on.

"i wanna learn," you declare as you sit up more, looking down at his slouched figure.

"to roll?" he asks pausing his smooth routine and licking over his lips expectantly.

"yeah," you move your hoodie’s long sleeve cuffs away from the lower half of your palm, showing him your dedication and anticipation.

matt smirks and continues to zip the plastic bag once more, shaking his head.

"what? why not, matt?" you pout.

“because i’m already good at it,” he shrugs, “you can smoke with me but you don’t have to be the one to roll.”

“‘kay, whatever. i’ll just get someone else to teach me then, like chris or lucas or somethin’” stretching as you collapse back onto his bed and bury your face in the crook of your arm. when matt does nothing to pull you out of your dramatic fit, you decide to mess with him further, grabbing his phone from its place near his thigh and rolling over so that you lie on the plush of your stomach.

you pretend to type (actually just tapping against his uncharacteristically soft lockscreen, displaying a vintage looking photo of a woman you’d only assume to be his mother) then putting the phone up to your ear, mimicking the ring with a burring noise in your throat. “hey lucas! yeah it's me, matt never gave me your number! i know. that is really selfish and unfair!” you nod along while staring at matt who thinks you look and sound so stupid that it’s kind of cute.

you twirl your hair and bite your lip, really getting into character, “you're right, he is the worst. he won’t even let me roll up with him! but that’s fine, i think i may just need someone more skilled and sexy like you to hel-”

matt taps your barely covered ass harder than he intends to, shocking you in the best way. “alright, stop fuckin’ around and pay attention ‘cause i’m not repeating myself,” he softly demands, gesturing you to sit up with his fingers.

"ow!" you rub at the spot and roll your eyes in faux irritation, fighting the urge to smile now that you've successfully recaptured matt's attention and can still feel the heat of his hand on your ass. you try to give yourself grace in moments like this but you can't help but reflect and feel a bit pathetic when having a crush on someone like matt.

matt, who would never take a relationship further than casual sex and unserious after-sex smoke sessions, especially not with you.

"shh. come here, bruh" he hushes you and you obey, shifting to sit next to him, reflecting his bent position. "'kay," he hands you the grinder, mumbling, "take a look," as he grabs one of the natural hemp rolling papers and places the packaging on his nightstand.

you open the silver lid gently, eyes widening slightly and impressed with the dollops of finely crushed weed laying in the container. "how much do you use?"

"all of it," your head practically snaps over to look at him and he sighs, "y/n, it's like half a gram."

you fight the urge to dip your index finger in the crowd of weed and move it around, "still looks like kind of a lot."

"well, it's not," he shakes his head and adjusts his shoulders. "now you're gonna take some in your fingers and place it in this paper," he taps your distracted arm with his hand to bring your attention to the rolling paper he has curled slightly around his thumb. as you begin to take a hold of some of the substance he warns, "and don't do too much at once- i don't need you spillin' any on us or my bed."

"you're such a diva," you huff and softly sprinkle the weed into the wrapper he's holding.

once it's full enough matt shows you how his fingers guide the paper and fold it into its proper joint shape. he moves his hand towards your mouth, "now you gotta lick and seal it." you inch closer, hesitantly peeking your tongue out just a little to lick at the small flap. "okay, you need more than that baby-ass lick. but don't over-do the spit 'cause that'll fuck it up too," he eyes your mouth when you expose more of your tongue, successfully sealing the joint (with matt's guidance).

he finishes off the end of the joint before presenting it to you, "voilà," matt fiddles with the joint in front of your face before you boldly grab it from his hands.

you immediately encourage him with a wave of your fingers, "gimme that lighter, please."

he's slightly impressed with your sudden confidence and adjusts himself (removing the remaining items from his lower stomach, including the lighter you ask for) and reaches over to light it for you.

matt's lip falls between his teeth due to natural anticipation. the sharp, orange hue sparks to life and you gain a shyness as he approaches the joint in your mouth with it. suddenly your fingers take it away from your mouth as you whisper, "wait, matt."

matt dramatically throws his arm down, "yeah?"

"i don't actually know how to do this," a smile spreads across your face when you see matt's mouth slightly ajar and eyes disengaged.

"seriously? you started talkin' like you've at least smoked a couple times."

you hold a laugh in, "well like, i wanna try it. you just have to tell me what to do..."

"inhale the shit," matt gestures his hands, "hold in your lungs, blow it out. it's simple as fuck," he points to your hand holding the joint, "let's see it."

you deadpan, "you're so unhelpful," you shake your head and place it back in your mouth, "just light me up."

he rolls his eyes as his hand moves back up to you, you lean into the flame and immediately inhale as it comes to life in your mouth.

matt just smirks from next to you, amused at your attempt. you focus on holding it in your lungs and close your eyes as you exhale. the smoke exits smoothly and surrounds your head, when you open your eyes you immediately look over to matt who laughs when he sees a cough brewing in your lungs. you push his shoulder just as you begin a small coughing fit.

he goes to grab the joint from your hand but you raise it away, finishing your cough and putting it back into your mouth to taste the odd plant flavor again.

matt's laugh is still there just died down, "who the fuck are you?! 'just light me up' and then here you go actin' like you own shit." he points a finger at you with his eyes big and playful.

you smirk sarcastically, and your eyes crinkle in the softest way, when you lean closer to him in response, blowing smoke in his face.

౨ৎ

"so why're nick and chris staying so late at the warehouse?" you ask and play with the strings of your hoodie.

matt draws lines across your inner thigh with his fingers, "it's nick's month to do inventory and chris bought some crazy wall art shit he had to finish setting up-"

"you're not gonna help them?"

"oh yeah sweetheart, i'll actually go there right now and help them out." his eyes are so dewy and red you find yourself excusing his annoying sarcasm and instead wanting to kiss him and his puffy eyelids and his flushed cheeks, especially when you're sat on top of him like this.

"still, they probably wanted you around," you explain.

"why do you care so much about shit that doesn't involve you? i left them and invited you over so you should be happy." his voice eases his delivery to not come across so harshly while his eyes squint a little.

"you're right, s'not really my place to have a take on y'all's dynamic." you shrug and feel as his hands stop running over your thighs and instead squeeze harshly as he looks in your eyes.

"mmm, thank you for telling me i'm right," he smiles and leans forward to give your jaw a kiss with his wet, pink lips, "say it again and i'll be fully hard."

"you're a dog," you laugh as he pulls away. "what'd you do today?" you whisper, ignoring the sensation that comes with him feeling up your lower half.

"guess." he blinks slowly.

"mmm... i don't know. you tattooed some people, fucked me, made fun of me, smoked..." you list off on each of your fingers.

he nods along as you list each, making different facial expressions depending on the task. "those are all definitely things i did.."

"did you eat?"

"i mean, yeah...ish." he rubs his eyes and his mouth begins to curve slightly, knowing your next sentiment well enough he could say it with you.

as if on queue, you prompt him with a question that tends to come up quite often when the two of you finish fucking, "can we get food?"

౨ৎ

the doorbell of matt's shared townhome rings through the house as the two of you giddily stand near the door, "3, 2, 1.." you count through giggles before opening the door and facing the young man dressed head to toe in papa johns gear.

"oh. my. god!" you exclaim in a ridiculous country accent, "baby come here, they sent a man to sell us insurance or somethin'!" you call out and pinch your eyebrows.

before the man can get a word in matt comes into frame, cowboy hat in tow and his mocking accent deeper yet identical to your own, "now who 'den sent you here to harass my woman? huh?" he holds a tooth pick in his mouth and squints his eyes. "and how much would i owe to have whatever you got in them boxes, son?" he points and you try not to laugh from behind him.

"uh, it's just a pizza delivery that was ordered to this address, sir..." he looks around, checking the numbers displayed next to the door once more.

you peek your head back in, "you know what, charles, it was probably little john, you know he's always orderin' that amy-zun and what not from that tablet!"

"mmm..." matt pretends to think and not laugh as he holds onto a fake belt around his black sweatpants, "my lady's right," he cracks a smile, "you know how the kids get," he tuts and gestures to the man again while pulling out his wallet, "i owe you?"

"only $12.57."

"right," matt grabs a few bills and whistles, "wife, come grab this box for little john would you?" he hands the money over as you reach for the pizza box, "keep the change, boy." he tilts his hat in dismissal and as soon as the door is shut matt's falling to the floor with laughter as you laugh and place the pizza box down, screaming about how close you are to pissing yourself.

౨ৎ

"asha told me about her birthday trip in november," you say, licking your lips of excess pizza sauce.

matt nods and swallows to respond while wiping his mouth, "yeah she does that shit every year."

you adjust yourself on the bed and grab another slice of the cheese pizza in between you two. "it sounds fun, i'm excited," you say before taking a bite.

"yeah, it's usually fun. usually." he laughs.

"meaning?"

"last year in mexico nick almost fist fought asha's boyfriend because he was bein' shitty to her on her birthday. it was a fuckin' brawl everyday of that trip, i swear."

"damn."

"yeah. but don't trip, asha's not letting anything ruin her birthday this time, she loves herself too much to do that." he rolls his eyes in endearment towards his friend.

"well, how about you? your birthday's next weekend.."

matt shakes his head and looks to the side for a moment, "we always struggle to figure out what we're doing for our birthday. the three of us wanna spend that time together but chris wants a party, nick wants a small get together with games, and i'd want a lowkey dinner or something."

"you could always do all of the ideas but on different days."

"that drags it too much, we'll most likely host a party like we did last year, chris will probably nag us enough to make us give up." matt shrugs and takes a bite of his slice.

"well, i'll be at whatever you decide to do," you smile.

"oh will you now?" his eyebrows lift for just a moment in humor.

"well duh."

"and who's inviting you? cause it won't be me," he smiles and stuffs his mouth again right as you push his shoulder and laugh off his bad joke.

꩜⋆ ˚｡⋆🎱˚

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