#next chapter of Brave Face is slow going

[trashmouth-richie]

Eddie x Fem! reader

master list

the conversation of the century finally happens, grab your tissues.

**edited to add as a content warning— the major character death I talked about in chapter 12— happens within this chapter, if we remember, Tooty experienced heavy trauma to her abdomen……… this story has never and will never be a pregnancy fix all trope. — sorry it wasn’t labeled correctly the first time. **

no minors 🔞, talk of trauma, another traumatic event, miscarriage

a/n: this is a shorter chapter the next one will be longer and not out as soon. Thank you again to @sweetsweetjellybean for beta reading for me and helped me tweak this chapter @blueywrites who helped me months ago come up with this plot. And @jo-harrington who helped also. This story would be nothing without all the people liking and reblogging it— so T H A N K Y O U for continuing to read it even when it got dark, when weeks went by and there wasn’t an update in sight, I appreciate each and every single one of you. Here’s to our two dumbasses, finally figuring it out 🥂

“Eddie.”

  Your throat was bruised and weak. The slow painful flick open of your swollen eyes have you paralyzed with doubt. 

  Deceiving sight of a beaten man sitting in front of you with a hard cast covering his right hand, the fingers are deeply swollen and bruised, the nails tinged with dried blood.

  This wasn’t a version of Eddie you had seen before.

  His normal pale skin is purpling and raised around his cheek and left eye. His top lip is split and agitatedly red against black stitches, probably from him picking at it. 

  He was handsome, even with his face twisting into relief and sorrow. Tears flow down the colorful sunset painting of healing and broken skin on Eddie’s face. He stands quickly, leaning over you carefully.

  Quivering, timid hands reach for your cheeks, realizing the cast would probably scratch or scrape you, he settles for one hand laid dainty on your cheek, thumb stroking the skin like a ghost.

  The dark pools of his eyes pull you in as his tears fall freely, and your heart begins to sew itself whole again. As his lips meet your hairline he whispers a cut off sob of his worries. Your tears flow with his. Merriment of grief and comfort as you cry into his shirt. Wishing you could live in this moment forever. 

  A dark wave full of emotions crash down on you  all at once. The joy of seeing Eddie mixing with shame and guilt over what he must have braved while defending you. Finally, confusion on what exactly had happened and how you both ended up here and alive? 

  “You’re here,” you choke, a tubing clustered hand strokes Eddie’s face, “I was so scared,” you mumble weakly, “I thought we were d—” your throat tightens on the word and won’t release it, lost on a sobbing gasp that is muffled into his shirt as he pulls you into him. 

  The soft cotton of his shirt envelops you in a calming light state, the same smoky essence of Eddie washes over you, settling your hiccuping cries. His hand is stroking your hair, careful around the stitches. And if you listened close you could hear his heart breaking. 

  Eddie would find a way to melt the galaxies for you if you asked, hearing you crumble about the thought of him being dead is almost too much for him to handle. 

  “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he says, strongly, firm toned to get his point across in as few words as possible, no need to go into detail about how it was done, you and the baby were safe and that’s what mattered, “he’s gone.” 

  Gone? Did he get away? 

  “Wh—-” you try your best to make any sort of sense register and click in your brain, but it’s not connecting, “Eddie?” 

  He took a deep weighty breath, the final swing of the wooden bat playing behind his eyes like a film in class, he watched Chad’s lifeless body slump to the floor, the dirty and blood riddled nails wedged into his temple like a knife through soft butter. The horrified expression Mr. Derry gave as blood splattered on the walls, and coated Eddie’s face. 

  He lowered his head and shook the image from his mind, “I took care of it,” he whispered gravely, “he won’t be bothering you again.” 

  The muddied storm in his eyes thunders as you comprehend his words. Would you be afraid of him? The same hands that held you so tenderly were also capable of murdering a man who nearly took your life. The thought of you being terrified of him tingles his spine and makes his knees weak, he turns away from you before you can see him cry again.  

  Chad is dead. And you want to scream at yourself when you feel remorse. He was terrifying. A real life in the flesh monster. Quite literally tried to kill you. All he brought to you was pain. And he was dead at Eddie’s hand. The nightmare finally over.

  He tried to hide the distressed pain burrowed deep in his face. He was everything the town always said about him. Satanic. Future convict. White trash, just needed to stitch  ‘murderer’ to the long list of insults he’d worn his entire life, like a cloak to shield others away from him. 

  With your head held high you wipe the tears from your eyes and pull Eddie’s chin to face you, and you’re surprised when he jerks away slowly. 

  You forget the time spent away. Finding it easy to fall into sync with him again, your Eddie. Would he ever be yours again? He’s been left out in the cold, sick from the frigid heart you peacocked off to him, boundaries up and lies in your head. 

  He was the most important person in your life. And it was time you told him so. 

  “Look at me, Eddie,” you coax, trying to make your voice seem velvety instead of the scratchy crack of desperation you currently are pleading to him, “you saved my life.” 

  The brooding deepens and he presses his lips tight together before looking at you, guilt and shame riddle his features, “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, closing his eyes, “I’m so fucking sorry,” the tears fall freely down his face, and he wipes them away hastily with the back of his leather covered arm, “I should have been there.” 

  The words stab like a knife into your soul. Everything happened because of your actions, your apprehensive heart. Eddie almost got himself killed and in turn had to kill your abuser, yet he was the one apologizing for not being there. 

  “It’s my fault,” you say weakly, reaching up to brush a tear away from his wet eyelashes, “I’m the one that pushed you away, and then… I’m sorry Eddie…I couldn’t..” 

  He pulls you into him, his lips skirting your hair line, kissing sweetly and soft like butterfly wings. He shushes you, and whispers that everything will be okay, and in that moment you realize you didn’t have to stroll the pearly gates to be his. 

  His eyes drop slightly to the blanket cozied up around you, flitting over your stomach. When his eyes find yours again, there are fresh tears, and a sad smile. It takes a nano second for the realization to hit you like a ton of bricks in the chest. A gasp breeches your lungs and guilt forms in the shape of tears in your eyes.  

  He knows. 

  Regret is billowing from your body and you try to cover your eyes, terrified of Eddie’s reaction to not only you being pregnant with his baby, but keeping it from him for months. 

  Outside of telling Eddie to leave and trying to convince him that you didn’t love him—- this was the hardest thing you’d ever done. But you told yourself he wouldn’t want to be a part of you with a baby in the mix. A baby that would ruin plans and put a halt to dreams. He didn’t need to be tethered to you because of one night. 

  One single night that you had been lying to yourself about— trying to ease away the pain of loving Eddie and pushing him away for his own good. People had been distancing themselves from you your whole life.. you were guarded and as hard as it was to let the barrier fall around your heart, it was just as easy to put it back up, barricaded in yellow caution tape of lies. 

  Unworthy 

  Before you can drift into a full fledged spiral Eddie’s warm hands find your cheeks and tilt your head upwards to look at him. 

  “I’m here,” his eyes search yours, and they flood with the warmth of the sun behind the black storm, “I’m not going anywhere,Tooty.” 

  The drop of an aluminum can and spray of carbonated soda fills the room behind a loud shriek, making Eddie jump and stand up, instinctively placing his body around yours, his back covering you in a leather shield, and you grab his hand between your fingers, an instant comfort to your panic.

  “STEVE!” Robin screams, her hands fly to her face like that little punk Kevin McCallister in Home Alone, mouth hung open in shock.

  Steve enters the room with a fancy company cell phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. A package of Oreos in his hands, “No, Jack— I don’t care how long it takes just fucking f—“ his eyes go wide in disbelief, and he slams the presses a button to end the call when you smile weakly and wave your fingers between Eddie’s at him.

  The next half hour is full of tears and hugs, calls to the Wheeler’s and the rest of your friends, letting them know you were awake. 

  The nurses flood in like a gaggle of cadets. Checking monitors and adjusting tubing. Letting you have your moment with your friends, explaining you were still going to be weak and the doctor would be by in a while to go over things with you.  

  Steve hasn’t stopped crying since seeing your eyes opened, blowing his nose every few mins. Robin talks enough for everyone, your throat still rubbing raw whenever you tried to say anything so you work with nodding along when asked questions. Eddie is unusually quiet, sniffing loud every now and then, offering you ice chips the nurses brought to you, a plastic spoon to your lips.

  “So what hap—” Robin starts and Eddie immediately glares at her, shaking his head and a firm “no” falls from his lips, and nobody tries to bring it up again. 

  Eddie didn’t want you getting upset, he’d protect you for the rest of his life if that’s what it would take. Fuck, he’d even be happy to sit in jail for a life sentence for killing that mother fucker. Pride swelling his chest knowing Chad was dead at his hand. Finally making his mother proud for protecting someone when he couldn’t do the same for her… and now there was someone else to protect. A tiny little someone. 

  The days you had been sedated he was beside himself. When he wasn’t in your room holding your hand and humming songs to you, he would be down in the gift shop. Thumbing through baby books, familiarizing himself with the favorite nursery rhymes of Mother Goose. His fingers traced the lace on a pair of tiny little white socks. Blue plastic baby toys that he found were called a rattle and made a clunky noise when shook. 

  He looked out of place. Torn jeans and chains hanging from his waist amongst the delicate pastels of the baby section, but he didn’t care. He made himself a promise. That when this was fall said and done and you were healed—he  would move you all into a new house. Out of Hawkins, away from this shithole of despair that only held bad memories. 

  And he intended to keep his word. 

  “Umm, I know it’s a little soon to figure this all out— but none of us want you staying… there, Tooty,” Steve says, blowing his nose one more time, hands on his hips in his typical mother hen style, “we didn’t know when you would… but eh…Leighanne already has the spare bedroom set up for you… and you can stay as long as you want.” 

  You hadn’t even thought about the house. But the thought of possibly having to go back there had you trembling. The smell of your own blood dripping onto the carpet filled your nose, Chad’s maniacal laugh…

  “Later,” Eddie says, shutting the conversation down by clearing his throat, his eyebrows pulled in and he tries to hide his worry again by wiping his hand down his face. 

  You’re thankful when visiting hours are through, your body aches and the bruises lining your stomach are tender, each movement making sharp bolts of pain shoot all over. Everyone says their goodbyes, you squeeze Eddie’s hand, a panic set lightning strikes in your eyes. You didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Not anytime soon. 

  He doesn’t pause, doesn't recoil. He stands tall, squeezing your hand, his eyes finding yours, a silent comfort washing over you as he whispers so only you could hear, “I’m here, always.” 

  He needed you to know how serious he was taking this. You, the baby, everything. He wanted to be there for it all. 

  Small waves from your friends and powerful hugs with murmured conversations between Eddie and Steve, leaving them both nodding and agreeing on something out of earshot. 

  The room feels small without them there. The elephant in the room hovering over you and weighing heavy on your chest, bigger by the second and you can’t wait anymore.

  “Eddie?” you croak, barely audible, vocal cords rubbing raw trying to speak. 

  The tears are already brimming in his eyes, he looks up at the ceiling, his thumb rubbing small patterns on the back of your hand, “when?” 

  You remember the exact day and time you felt something off in your body. Tired and achy all the time you couldn’t catch believe the amount of hours you could sleep uninterrupted. 

  The same calendar that once held your schedule for you and Eddie also held when your period was supposed to begin, but since Nancy had crossed Eddie’s name off you hadn’t even thought about possibly being late. Flipping through the pages you realized you were 3 weeks late. And blamed it on the stress. When February came and you still hadn’t gotten your period, you made an appointment with the clinic, and on the black monitor the doctor pointed out the tiniest baby growing in your belly, almost eight weeks along. 

  “When what?” You answered feebly, throat aching with each word. 

  Taking a deep ragged breath, Eddie looks at you, concern shadowing his face, he looks haunted, and depleted, “when did you find out you were pregnant?” 

  “Last month,” you clear your throat and reach for the ice chips, but Eddie helps you spoon them into your mouth. The ice melting on your tongue, pooling slowly and sliding down your throat to ease the ache. 

  “Eddie, I—” tears fall as you look into the hurt man’s whiskey colored eyes, “I was scared to tell you.” 

  He's blinking back tears, dropping your hand to walk around the room, landing at the window and pretending to look at the sky, “Did you think I wouldn’t care?” 

  A long pause between you is more than enough of an answer for him, and he sniffs loudly, “I’m not my dad y’know?” His voice hurt and wavering the delivery , “If you thought for a second that I wouldn’t give a shit about you or the baby, you’re wrong.” 

  Words you never thought would be said flow so easily from him, and you’re embarrassed you ever doubted him, “We aren’t together, Eddie,” you explain, letting the tears free fall, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”  

  Eddie scoffs and pushes off from the window, pouring his heart into his words as he explains his hurt,  “hold me back? From what the band? Tooty, I’ve been trying to prove to you for months that all I’ve ever wanted was you,” he moves across the room, sitting next to your legs on the bed, reaching for your closed fist to thread his fingers with yours.

  “Every part sweetheart, the good and the bad. Don’t you see that?” 

  Of course you did, but it was never that easy. 

  “I just— ” you couldn’t find the words, even though he deserved them, it was too much,  “I can’t even say that…how could I tell you that I’m pregnant after what I did and how I treated you?” 

  That night with Eddie blurred in your mind. He was gentle and sweet, you had never experienced such passion in all your life. It was everything you could have hoped for and more, but your scared heart ruined it. 

  “I’m a bitch, Eddie. Look at what happened to you because of me!” yoj gesture to his bruised beautiful face, and the tears flow quick down your cheeks, “you deserve someone who doesn’t hurt you,” you mumble, tearing your eyes away from him and looking at the ceiling tiles. 

  “Goddamnit Tooty, you are possibly the most stubborn person, biggest pain in my ass… but I have cared about you since you were 14. And I have loved you since the minute you opened up that front door and yelled at me.”

  You both laugh through the tears and he brings your chin to face him, his dark brown eyes swim with the glitter of fallen happiness, and he quickly blinks, “let me take care of you, sweetheart, both of you.” 

  It could be that simple. He loved you and you loved him. It wasn’t rocket science or poor willed fate. This was two people who cared about each other enough to look past all the ugly shit the world had to offer and chose to stick together. The epiphany sewed your heart closed and locked it tight, a branded “EM” on the lock and Eddie held the key.

  You grab him with more force than either of you were expecting and collide your lips with his. Tears and stitches fill the gaps where your tongue danced the last time these lips touched yours. But it was somehow sweeter than any kiss before. 

  “I love you, Eddie Munson…” you breathe, “but I swear I will cut that hair of yours down to the scalp if you try to name this baby ‘Ronnie Dio’, or ‘dragon slayer 86’ or whatever the hell you used to call yourself in your demon club in high school.” 

  For the first time in days, Eddie belly laughs, and kisses each of your cheeks, “ohh princess, don’t tell me your still jealous because Eyeball wouldn’t let you join?” 

  You cross your arms in a pout and Eddie laughs again, “there she is, that’s my girl.” 

  Pushing him away with a playful shove he comes back and kisses you again, both of you smiling and giggling, two idiots in love. With a wince, you scoot over in the bed and make room for him to sit with you, adjusting the wires and tubing around you both you snuggle into him, placing his hand on your belly where you assume the baby to be. 

  He snuggled into your neck and sniffs quietly. Content. 

  “Promise me something?” you whisper as your fingers thread through his curls, he nods into you, kissing your neck sweetly and humming a yes. It’s a big ask, and you’re new to this feeling, “please don’t ever stop loving me.” 

  Eddie’s grin is warm on your cheek as he sits up, looking so far into your eyes your souls reach out and hold hands, “I couldn’t even if I wanted too, baby.” 

  A knock on the door interrupts the moment and you both turn to see a doctor in a long white coat, and green scrubs. His face is jolly and caring, an instant comfort.

  “Ah yes, the nurses told me you were awake,” he says with a big smile, “it was pretty touch and go for awhile there but you look good considering what happened, how are you feeling?” 

  “Sore,” you answer, “everywhere.” 

  “That’ll be expected with the hellish ordeal you went through. Mr. Munson here gave us a brief rundown on what happened, and your injuries coincide that statement. We will be helping you both set up counseling appointments, usually with instances such as these, there will be panic and trauma that will develop from it. I urge you both to take them seriously.” 

  Eddie nods and answers for you, “yes sir.” 

  “Good. Now this soreness, is it generally all over or more localized in one spot?” 

  “I mean my head and face feel pretty awful, but mainly it’s my stomach.” 

  A small look of panic settles on the doctors face but is quickly replaced with a gentle smile, “we will schedule from scans for later today to make sure everything is okay, if you don’t mind— while I’m here,” he says, removing his stethoscope from his neck, “I’ll have a little check, alright?” 

  Eddie moves from the bed and settles by your shoulder,  briefly pressing his lips to your hairline, his warm hand rubbing your arm slowly. 

  “Just routine,” the doctor says, lifting your hospital gown to the top of your stomach, pulling the blankets down to the stop of your knees, “nothing to worr—” his broad smile fades and Eddie lets out a loud gasp. 

  The inside of your thighs and the sheet beneath you are soaked in claret colored blood. You don’t have time to register what is happening before the doctor crosses the room and begins yelling orders through the phone, “this is Dr. Newby, prep OR 2 for a D&E…possible c-section, I’ll need everyone available.” He hangs up with a loud click and turns to address you and Eddie. 

  “What’s going on?!” Eddie demands, fear stricken eyes almost onyx in color, his fingers gripping yours tight. 

  “She needs to be prepped for surgery,” he answers Eddie curtly but still politely. 

  You balk, “Surgery?! Why?!” 

  The doctor looks into your eyes with a sympathetic expression, “you’re having a miscarriage.” 

——

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #stranger things

[hispg]

Between royalty and vows

Pairings: Prince! Leon x Fem! Reader

Summary: A forced marriage, a fate set in stone, nothing could change that.

In the world of royalty, there were no choices, only obligations to fulfill. What you didn't expect was to become engaged to a renowned prince, ready to succeed the lineage.

Until that moment, you still had some hope that everything would work out, maybe it wasn't so bad. But it would be a shame if your future husband had a mistress.

Wouldn't it?

Wc:2.4k

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt/ comfort, cheating, arranged marriage, eventual smut, one sided love, affairs, (I'll put more once things starts to progress).

Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

An: So, initially I was going to post the other fanfic I did with Fuckboy! Leon, but I thought it was bad and decided not to post it for now. But I still have plans for it.

I intend to do several chapters on this fic(I'm sucker for royalty AU), I don't know exactly how many but I plan to do more than 10 or 15, since I have a lot of stuff I want to put in. Most of them are not comforting.

This is a thank you to the 200 followers, which by the way is almost 300 by now. I'd like to genuinely thank each and every one of you<3 And I hope you enjoy this story, because I'm genuinely excited about it.

Prologue

Royalty wasn't for everyone, that much was obvious to those who already lived in this reality. A world of appearances where everything was perfect, people, everyday life, relationships. But that was a facade, the reality took place between closed doors.

It was never clean, the backstabbing behind the king's back, the betrayals, the lust that hid behind the elaborate and sophisticated costumes. But in the end, what mattered was how beautiful that royal family was to its subjects, honor being a crucial element to maintain.

Faced with all this, the Italian prince, Leon, was well aware of the dynasty's sacrifices. He was already aware of his duty, and knew that at some point his life would take a completely different turn from what he had expected. As the only heir, he knew that it wouldn't be long before his father wanted him to marry, after all, he had to carry on the line. The honor of the kingdom had to continue, and he was the only one who could.

Although he already knew that the burden of succession would come to him one day, he just didn't expect it to be so soon.

Leon was a man known for his accomplishments, despite his young age he was a brave man, as well as the incomparable beauty he contained. Sharp features, a piercing blue gaze, a prince who wasn't afraid to speak his mind. He had a unique authenticity.

Yet he still couldn't fit in with his surroundings. His eyes staring at the chandelier, seeing how decorated everything in the castle was. Seeing the expensive clothes of each of the invited guests, the glittering dresses of the ladies who were there. He watched the people walking around the hall, seeing how comfortable they were in that situation.

But not him.

The evening was planned to be perfect, days and weeks of planning went into making this great event happen. All the most important royals were present at the castle, from the most prestigious dukes and duchesses to other kings and queens.

Today was the day that the Italian prince, Leon, would be presented to his future wife. He was the rightful heir, the next to rule his own kingdom. That's why the ballroom was perfect, every last detail thought of and worked on to create the perfect occasion.

To show off the future rulers of the country. The next ones who would take care of that kingdom and prosper it. It was a more than necessary moment to demonstrate the future couple.

Despite all the sophistication and dedication that the queen put into the celebration, Leon didn't seem to be at all excited or happy about the situation. He was sitting in one of the royal chairs, taking small sips of the most expensive wine, his expression sullen and bitter.

He didn't ask for any of this.

The day when the fates of two royals would cross, intertwine and become one. A marriage that would unite them, a commitment that once made could not be broken.

If he was being honest, he didn't even want to be a prince. This royal life didn't suit him, all these comforts and perks that didn't seem to fit in with anything he liked. A forced life, just because he was born into this family.

From where he was sitting, he could see you coming. The beautiful British princess, dressed in the most expensive of dresses, hair tied up in a bun. The ornaments that shone on you, as well as the enchanting smile that could melt even the hardest heart. At that point, all eyes were on you, curious and expectant. Everyone there was close to the soon-to-be queen.

Admiring your features, he couldn't deny that you were beautiful. Your sweet features, your face that exuded the purest grace and youth. Your way of walking that seemed to make you flutter with every step.

Still, you weren't her. You weren't the woman he loved. The only one capable of bringing a genuine smile to the skeptical man he was.

You weren't Ashley Graham, the princess he had fallen madly in love with. The one with whom he had sworn several vows of love, the one with whom he had promised to spend the rest of his life.

And there he was, preparing to marry another woman. One he didn't even know, or have any proximity to, and even worse, to marry a woman he didn't love. No matter how much he protested this to his father, nothing he said was listened to.

'You're going to marry her, whether you like it or not.' Words that still echoed in his head, and seeing how close this marriage was, he felt the weight of the situation on his back.

Yes, he had always known that this moment would come. His duty as a prince, to follow what was prescribed. What fate was supposed to have in store for him, even if he didn't believe in it.

But all his thoughts vanish once he hears a sweet voice calling him:

"Your Highness." The tender feminine voice coming from your lips, along with the elegant curtsy you made.

He blinked a few times, holding back a sigh out of politeness. Like the gentleman he was, he rose from his seat, returning the bow to you.

"Good to see you here, Your Highness." He says courteously, even if it's a lie. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was keep up appearances.

It was hard not to notice the prince's beauty, his handsome and charming face, his eyes the lightest shade of blue you'd ever seen. His blond hair was just as captivating. No wonder he was one of the most desired.

You felt lucky to be the woman who would marry him, even though you knew that the prince already had someone else in his heart. Rumors spread fast, especially when it came to a family as important as his. But magically things remained under wraps, even though the suspicions of this secret relationship were well-founded.

You always knew that like most marriages, you wouldn't marry someone you were in love with. But you still had a glimmer of hope that you could make him like you, at least a little bit. You hated to think that maybe your marriage was a ruin like all the others.

Love and royalty didn't go together, yet you wanted to try and make it something unique.

"Would you like a dance?" Leon asks, snapping you out of your deep trance of thoughts.

You nodded with a polite smile, holding his warm hand as he led you into the middle of the hall. The classical music that echoed through the space, as other people danced and celebrated, gave the place a joyful atmosphere.

As soon as you were in the middle of the ballroom, all eyes were on you. With a gentle kiss on your gloved hand, he bowed and began to dance with you.

One hand on your back, the other intertwined with yours, your bodies very close, your faces almost touching.

His feet moved in sync with yours, both of you moving gracefully. Whirling around the ballroom. The two of you waltzing all over the place, keeping smiles and gentle glances for each other. Acting as if you were a couple in love, making silent vows. His eyes not leaving yours for a minute, his hand briefly squeezing yours, the moment seemed magical. In a way you never imagined it could be.

His cologne filling your nostrils, the heat emanating from his body. Everything about him seemed to draw your attention, as if it were a temptation.

You could feel your heart beating fast, the butterflies in your stomach that showed your clear nervousness. But still you didn't stumble once, your grace and elegance being whispered about among the guests.

His eyes staring into yours, a slight smile at the corner of his lips. This dance was a demonstration of the cooperation between the two countries, the union that was about to take place. A reason to be honored.

Despite the delicacy of the moment, the fluidity with which you danced, the mesmerizing sophistication of your movements. The way your dress dragged across the floor and danced with you. The passionate look you insisted on seeing in him.

You knew it was a lie. A damn lie.

It was confirmed once you saw his eyes light up, the outline of a sincere smile forming on his lips. At first you thought it was directed at you, but that feeling was crushed when you decided to take a look back.

There she was, the breathtaking Highness Graham, the blonde who had captured Leon's heart. The girl who wore a delicate white dress, with sophisticated and expensive accessories, enhancing her beauty. She stood among the others, just admiring him with a beautiful smile.

She knew she had his heart in the palm of her hand, so she couldn't feel the slightest bit jealous of you. He belonged to her.

You felt it in the way he admired her, in the way he looked at her in a way you couldn't even dream of. He was hopelessly in love, to the point where he even forgot you were standing in front of him. His body just moved on automatic, as if his focus was only on Ashley, only on her.

Although you wanted to pull back a little, you couldn't. The waltz wasn't over yet, it was a tradition, and you had to go until the music stopped. You couldn't help but feel a pang in your heart, the feeling that you had already lost a battle that hadn't even begun.

Nobody said you could have his heart.

As he twirls with you, he seems to focus his attention on you once again. Just for a brief moment, he was smart, he knew he couldn't give too much leeway for other rumors to spread around.

It was imaginable that the marriage would be a failure, since both kingdoms only saw it as an opportunity to increase business. However, you didn't expect to get this response so quickly.

Destined for an unreachable man, who was so close and yet so far away. How cruel could fate be?

And so you continued, keeping up the play of a couple in love, dancing and waltzing around the room. His gaze shifting between you and her, just as his expression changed with every glance. For one he gave a polite smile, for the other he gave a genuine one.

And you already knew who was who in the story.

After what seemed like an eternity, the waltz was over. You are presented with a round of applause, whistles and sincere words of approval for your union.

This while you waved and smiled, then bowed to each other, a sign of respect from both sides. As well as showing your gratitude to each other for the opportunity to dance. Etiquette and tradition, which you were following to the letter.

As soon as the applause stopped, Leon held out his arm for you to take, so that he could guide you to the place where the king would give a speech about the future marriage.

Consequently, you and Leon would officially become engaged. There were many looks on both of your faces, so many that you couldn't even count.

One in particular caught your eye, the same woman who had captured Leon's attention earlier, Ashley Graham.

The subtle smile, which was soon reciprocated by Leon, although discreet, you were able to perceive this small exchange between them. You couldn't deny the lump that was forming in your throat as you tried to let the situation sink into your head, that you would at least understand how it would go on.

As you walked through the great hall, stepping on the expensive marble, making your way to where the king would make his pronouncement. Walking through the crowd of distinguished guests who were there.

You noticed him looking at you from the corner of his eye, as if he were analyzing you from head to toe. It wasn't as if he was judging you or anything, it seemed more like the look of someone who wanted to look at his future wife, as if he was thinking about how things would be from now on.

Which you didn't even know what it would be like, either.

It wasn't long before you arrived at the King's chambers, a polished and expensive place, you could feel the sophistication of his throne just by looking at it. The place was perfectly tidy, the carpet had no fuss at all, perfectly done. Every butler and waiter duly took their places, bowing as you walked.

It seemed that the king had already started his speech, but he hadn't gotten to the important part yet. First, he had to give a statement to those attending the event, nothing more than a courtesy to them for being there, as well as reinforcing his duty to his kingdom, and to each of his subjects.

A while later, the king stood up, raised a glass of wine and said loud and clear:

"Tonight is a special night," then his gaze falls on the two of you, and he smiles broadly, "My heir, my only son is going to marry."

Despite the obvious, a round of applause echoed around the room, whistles and compliments. Which caused you and Leon to smile at each other, acting as if the happiness was genuine, as if you weren't two unacquainted people about to get married.

As soon as Leon's father saw the general reaction, he raised his glass and said, "Cheers."

Enough for another wave of loud sounds and murmurs from people. They seemed to be very happy about the future of the kingdom.

Leon then gave you a hug around the waist, swirling you in the air. Even his smile changed, and you believed even for a second that it was real.

"We'll be happy," Leon murmurs, loud enough for the people around you to hear and giggle at the new couple.

"Yes, of course." You say with a sweetness in your voice, buying his conversation. Deep down you wanted it to be real, but you knew the shadow that stood between the two of you.

It was a lie, a facade, and maybe it would never be real.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon x y/n #leon x you #leon resident evil #leon kennedy smut #resident evil 4 leon #resident evil leon #leon smut #leon scott kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon re4 #resident evil #re leon

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 29 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-You dare not put it down on the big tablet on your easel where John will see, but you can’t stop yourself from drawing it out in your smaller sketchbook-journal that is easier to squirrel away under clutter, putting down marks like you mean to exorcise her from your memory. You draw her like a ghost in her field of happy white flowers, and write in the margins in your looping script, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make him forgive you. You want me to save him but I don’t know how. I don’t fucking know how.

Maybe she’ll actually hear your plea and do something useful about it, like haunt John’s dreams instead of yours.

Maybe you’re losing your damn mind. 

You find that either way, you’re not brave enough to mention her to your captor again.

She becomes an obsession, and you keep drawing her in your little sketchbook. You’ve only ever seen one picture of her. It was in the den, but has since disappeared. Still, you feel you know the lines of her face, the brightness of her eyes. You go back to your old fixation with the ladies of Mucha, sketching her out as the Lady of the Daisies with flowing auburn hair surrounded by her stylized flowers and flowing lines.

You strive to cover your true fixation by putting down anything as quickly as you can on the easel, knowing your captor will be by for inspection. You draw sunflowers, your favorite summer bloom, something fun but you can do with your eyes closed with colorful, juicy strokes of oil pastels. You hope to keep John off the scent of the book that holds your heartfelt neuroses that you bury under piles of all your new art supplies and anything else you can find.

It was stupid, of course, to think you could really hide anything from him.

One day you find him in the chair with his legs crossed, perusing your sketch journal with one of those magnificent thunderheads of a frown.

You are certain you are fucked, when he asks, “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Trembling as you imagine what he’s going to do to you for this infraction, you answer truthfully, “No.”

He closes the book with a snap, crossing the floor to stand before you, his powerful body moving deceptively slow, the way a tiger appears slothful in the jungle.

You know he can snap you up with one bite.

You cannot stop shaking, as he peers down that straight nose at you, pinning you with black eyes that somehow burn. He does not touch you, but God. He sees everything. You just know that he sees everything, and you find you are terrified of how he’ll react.  

“Have you been snooping through my things?”

“No.” The irony of him holding your sketch diary is not lost on you, but wisely you hold your tongue.

“How did you know what she looked like?”

“You had a picture out of her, ages ago.” At least, it felt like a like a lifetime ago.

“How did you know about the daisies?”

Now you know he’s going to flip his shit. It sounds fucking absurd, even to you. Your voice can barely rasp past what feels like dried twigs in your throat to whisper, “I saw them in a dream.”

You expect him to scoff and call you a liar. But he just searches your face, his eyes a little too wild for your liking. Here we go. He’d been damn near stable the past few days, but surely this will set him off.

You close your eyes, unable to watch the unfolding of your doom. This is it. He’s going to lock you up forever. You’ll never see the light of day again. The trembling in your frame kicks up to ten, and you hug yourself just to have something to hold on to.

When his next question comes, he could push you over with a feather.

“What does she say?”

You shake your head, realizing your cheeks are wet with tears.

“Nothing. She just…offers me the flower.” Going for broke you add, “She looks so sad.”

It is the sound of tearing paper that opens your eyes; with horror you find John making confetti of your art nouveau sketch that took hours to do. However, any protest dies on your lips—if destroying the drawing appeases him, maybe he won’t take it out on you.

Without another word, just a hard look, he stalks from the room.

Only when the sound of his footsteps fade down the hall do you let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your knees quivering like leaves in a storm.

However, you are not foolish enough to believe you’re in the clear just yet.

-Later, there is no dinner. You find the kitchen cold and empty. Not sure what to make of this, you graze in the fridge, before returning to your bedroom. Not sure where John has gotten off to, you shower, then go to bed, finding yourself lying awake in the dark without him beside you, almost itchy without his steady presence in the evening at your side.

Part of it might be that you fear something is brewing, and you can’t stand the waiting…but part of it might simply be that you miss him, as fucked up as that is.

In the end, against your better judgement, you go looking.

You search the house, until the only room that is left is the garage. Silently you open the door, slipping through without a sound. You too are learning how to move quiet as a wraith. The smell of rubber and oil assaults your nostrils. Classic rock is playing low on the radio. In the far bay, the hood of the Mustang is open, and John is bent over inside, wrenching on something and muttering to himself. There is a partially empty bottle of Blanton’s Bourbon on the workbench behind him, and an empty glass.

Unable to stop yourself from committing what perhaps might prove to be suicide, you creep to the other side of the Land Rover, using it as cover as you eavesdrop on this man grumbling to the ghost of his deceased wife.  

“What do you want from me? I loved you. I loved you with every fucking fiber of my being, but you left me. I died with you the day you left me, and she is the only thing that makes me feel alive again. I need her, and she never would have come to me on her own. She never would have stayed. She never would have stayed.”

He says this to himself over and over, and it wrenches your heart, because you know it isn’t true.

You think you manage to creep back out again without him noticing, Led Zeppelin on the radio disguising the sound of the door.

When at last he comes to bed and wraps you in his arms, holding you too hard for comfort, you feign sleep, smelling the bourbon fumes on his breath. You can’t help but tense, wondering if he will forget his promise this deep in his cups.

But he just sighs into your hair, crushing you as he pulls you even closer, and you don’t know why it breaks your heart all over again.

#heyyyy it happened! #bittersweet john wick imagine #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fic #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick

[lovingperfectionsblog]

For What It's Worth - Chapter 6

Max Verstappen x Reader

Chapter 6: What line is he willing to cross? 

Chapter summary: Carlos flirts and Max is willing to risk it all to make sure he figures this out properly. 

Warnings: Swearing. 

Word Count: 2791

Authors note: Hello, I’m back, life is slightly less hectic so hello :D This chapter is slightly shorter, it has taken me forever to write and it is a little more hectic, but I am really excited with where this story is heading :D I can’t wait to hear what you all think :)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

______

Lando could hear people shouting for him as he sprinted through the paddock, panting as his feet hit the ground below him, pushing him forward. He would never admit it, but you and Max had made him believe in true love, that there was someone for everyone in this world that so often made you feel alone, that maybe all of those rom-coms might actually be on to something, and since you had made him believe in that, he was going to make sure he played a role in getting you and Max together. 

So he ignored the burn in his lungs and how hard Carlos’driver room door was as he ran into it, forced to spend an extra precious couple of seconds, which Max really depended on, trying to get the door open in his panic. 

Both Lando and Carlos flinched as the door hit the wall from the force that Lando swung it open and from the moment that Lando recovered from the shock, Carlos was subject to an onslaught of information that there was no way he could possibly follow. 

“Slow down!” Carlos attempted to calm his friend down all while rapidly trying to process the information coming from Lando, “Did you just call Y/n hot?”

This finally shut Lando up. 

“Like Max’s Y/n?” The nod surprised Carlos, no one ever called you hot, well, not unless it was in whispered tones far, far, far away from Max. 

“Yes, Jesus, just, were you not paying attention to anything I just said?” Lando swiftly closed the door behind him, strategically standing in front of the slight chip in the wall that now existed.

 “How can anyone pay attention-” he was getting sidetracked, he needed to understand exactly what was happening with you and Lando, “Are you seeing her?”

“Who?” A confused look instantly adorned Landos face as he tried to catch up to Carlo’s question. 

“Y/N, You know, Max’s girl? I gotta know, is it like a shared agreement between the three of you or are you actually seeing Max’s girl behind his back?” Carlos couldn't help the unamused look on his friends face and he couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him as he continued, “Or is this you asking me how to make a move on Max’s girl?”

“Actually, I’m here to warn you that she’s coming to make a move on you.” A smug grin spread across Lando’s face as he watched the panic spread on his friend, “She’s wearing a cute little sundress on top of it, determined to get her man.”

“And she thinks that man is me?” Lando shrugged before relenting and sharing a small amount of information with Carlos. 

“She isn’t sure who it is.” The frustration seeped off of Carlos, “You going to listen to me this time round?” 

“Hurry up or get out.” And so Lado began to explain the entire story, start to finish, rushing through the parts that specifically made Max look really bad, with Carlos asking him to repeat those parts too many times and finally, between the two of them, they came up with a plan. 

One that would be kind to you and let you down easily and maybe get Max to actually make a move on you, and now all they had to do was wait until they ran into you. 

_____

Max could feel his face heat up as he watched you leave the motorhome and he was ushered into yet another meeting. He was torn between desperately trying to get your attention and not wanting to look at you for a second longer because every part of him was losing the battle of not just telling you exactly how he felt. 

How had he gotten himself into this mess, how had he finally been brave enough to say how he felt and then subsequently ended up helping you look for the love of your life? A man that you clearly were more interested in than him. 

“You’re staring” Daniel nudged him as you finally slipped out the motorhome doors, dragging his attention back to the meeting. 

“How can I not? This might be the last time I ever see her without the love of her life on her arm.” Dejection filtered through his voice as he allowed his thoughts to escape him, finally allowing himself to begin the grieving process. 

“Oh, you mean you’re finally going to tell her the truth?” Ever the optimist, Daniel couldn’t help but try and be positive about the situation, knowing deep in his soul that if any two people belonged together, it was you and Max. 

“I need you to stop.” Max couldn’t handle it. 

“Stop what?” Daniel could have guessed what he meant, but he was also willing to take advantage of any opportunity he could to convince Max that all he needed was to be a little brave. 

There was a long silence as Max picked at his nail beds, seeking out any distraction from the truth. 

“Giving me hope.” The loudest Max could get out was a whisper, not risking the crack in his voice. Not risking breaking the waterline of the first tears, of many he assumed, when he truly thought about the ramifications of the situation he could only blame himself for. “Please don’t give me hope when I'm about to watch the only woman I will ever love end up with another driver.”

“All you have to be is honest Max.” The glassy eyes didn’t surprise Daniel like he thought it would, but for the first time Daniel realized just how broken Max was in this situation. What had seemed so obvious, so simple, to Daniel, was completely lost on Max. He truly did not realize that you and him were it. You were always going to be together in the end. To Max, this was the end, and he wasn’t in it with you. 

Before Max could protest an alert sounded on both their phones, the exact same message brightening their screens. 

NoRizz: Okay, don’t be mad. 

NoRizz added Chili.

Maxie: Why would I be mad? 

Chili: Because I’m standing here looking at your girl in that sundress, kind of glad you fucked up. 

Maxie: I’m going to kill you. 

NoRizz: He isn’t going to do anything. 

Chili: You didn’t tell me she looked this good. 

NoRizz: HE ISN’T GOING TO DO ANYTHING. 

BigRicc: Carlos, stay away from her until we get there. 

NoRizz: Too late. 

Maxie: What do you mean too late?

NoRizz: She saw him and now they’re talking. 

BigRicc: So stop them? Get involved in the conversation!

NoRizz: Please don’t make me do that right now. There’s a lot of touching. 

Maxie: So you’re just going to let him take my girl?

NoRizz: I mean, technically she isn’t your girl. 

BigRicc: Jesus Lando.

Maxie: I’m going to kill you. 

Maxie: Both of you. 

Daniel could literally see the water in his glass splashing over as the table shook. Max’s leg bouncing rapidly underneath the table from a combination of anxiety and rage. 

Not a single second of this meeting has been absorbed by Max and it took less then a second before Max was moving out the door of the motorhome with Daniel hot on his heels when Horner dismissed them. He rushed through the paddock frantically searching for you amongst too many people. Normally it was like you were a beacon in any space, he was always drawn to you, like you were inexplicably connected somehow, but now Max felt as if that had been severed. He couldn’t see you. He couldn’t feel you. 

He was suddenly lost. 

Suddenly your laugh rang out through the crowd and Max couldn’t help but stop for a second and admire you.

The sun on your skin as you tilted your head back, laughing at whatever Carlos has said. It didn't even matter that it wasn’t him making you laugh, you just looked so beautiful. 

Maybe he could live with you ending up with Carlos if it meant that he got to see you this happy? 

That goddamn sundress really did look good on you. 

“Carlos! There you are.” Daniel made his way past Max and over to you, glaring at a skittish Lando in the distance. 

“You were looking for me?”  Carlos didn’t even bother taking his eyes off you as he addressed the two other drivers making their way over. 

“ Yeah, I wanted to wish you luck for qualifiers, Max over here is looking pretty angry so I think I’m a little nervous for all of us out there today.”  It was both a threat and a warning to the other driver, one Carlos couldn’t help but laugh at. 

“You’re angry? Why? What's wrong? Did something happen with Horner?” Max softened entirely the moment you turned towards him, concern detached in your brows, his heart fluttered as you placed your palm to his chest, a subconscious habit you had now developed whenever Max was feeling angry or anxious, finding that the physical touch calmed him completely. 

He loved how well you knew him, even if you weren’t completely conscious of just how much you did. 

Suddenly you had turned away from him, leaning closer towards Carlos as he moved to comment. 

“I can only assume he is upset over this whole flower situation.” Confusion replaced concern on your face as Carlos couldn’t help but laugh at the cute expression. 

“Why would Max be angry over the flower situation?” Despite Max’s anxiety, he couldn’t help but smile at the exact same thing Carlos was. The tilt of your head and furrowed brows as you tried to piece together everything that was being said. 

“Because whoever sent those flowers shouldn’t be a coward and just say how he feels instead of making you run all over the grid trying to figure out who it is.”  Daniel offered up as an explanation. 

“So it wasn’t Carlos?” Max was looking directly at the driver just mentioned, the question a lot more layered than what you understood? 

“I did not get her the flowers,” a breath of relief left Max, his hand coming up to wrap around yours, anchoring himself even more in your presence, in your reality. 

He still had a chance. 

“But I did tell her that I had a pretty good idea of who it was.”  Daniel couldn’t help but feel proud of Carlos, this is what Max needed, a little bit of pressure, and they were going to make sure he was getting it from all sides. 

“And he has decided to be cruel and make me wait till he tells me just exactly who it is.” Not even your pout could distract Max from the stare he and Carlos were locked in. Carlos was going to make you wait, which meant Max had some time. 

“He has two weeks.” Two weeks. Max could do two weeks. That was enough time for him to figure this all out, “Unless he pisses me off on the track.” Another threat and warning disguised as a joke. 

Max just gave a slight nod as your head was turned away from him, a promise that he would confess in the next two weeks, a promise that he’d let Carlos win whatever he wanted if he just gave him this time to figure it out.

Max couldn’t help but think about how easy it was to get into match fixing because this entire situation has him willing to throw the entire championship out the window if that's what it took. 

“You're technically Max’s PA right?” Suddenly Lando had popped back up into the conversation. 

“I am, why?” No one liked where this was headed. 

“Could you get us all coffee?” A slap to the back of his head was followed quickly by admonishment from the entire group. 

“My PA, not yours, and she’s not the type of PA to get coffee you dick.” Max had subconsciously moved between you and Lando, challenging him. 

“Redbull, whatever, can she just please?” There was a slight desperation in Lando’s voice prompting Max to give you a pleading look, knowing that he was apologize a million times over after this.

“4 Redbulls coming up.” You rolled your eyes as you moved away from the four men, not missing the very short words Max was having with Lando regarding your treatment.

“Listen, this isn’t about, just, wait, Carlos, why did you flirt like that?” Suddenly all the attention was off of Lando and back on Carlos. 

“You flirted with her?” Daniel let out a sigh so deep it could have only come from the very depths of his soul. 

“After the way Max treated her, she deserved to have her ego boosted a little bit,” it was so obvious and so nonchalant that none of the other drivers could even say anything against it, “Plus, Jesus, that dress.” A groan left Carlos tat every single one of them couldn’t help but agree with, none of them scared of admitting it in front of Max at this point, knowing he had absolutely no leg to stand on until he made a move. 

“At least you can flirt with her.” Max couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. 

“I mean, you could if you weren’t such a pussy.” The deadpan look he received was physically painful in its truth. 

“And she is really fun to flirt with, she gets this very rosy cheek when you do, at least it starts at her cheeks, eventually her entire chest is pink the more you -” 

“I advise you shut your mouth right now.”  Max couldn’t be damned if Carlos told, he wasn’t prepared to let him sit there and talk about you like that. 

“But apparently Carlos is so good with his mouth?” You blew a kiss towards Carlos and before he could even pretend that he had caught it, Lando had stepped in between you two, wildly moving his arms in the air, an attempt to usher off your blown kiss in another direction. 

“Don’t be gross.” All except Max and Lando laughed at his response. 

“Weren’t you just checking out my boobs all morning at breakfast?” Lando whipped his head towards Max, hyper aware of how red Max’s neck was getting. That was pure rage and Lando did not want to stick around for that. 

“You’ve done me dirty, and now since you have, I am leaving for my meeting early.” He made a big show of huffing as he turned around, urging Carlos to follow him off, all but ready to run if that's what saved his life from Max’s wrath. 

And then there were three of you, silently all deciding that it was time you made your way back to the motorhome. 

“Quali starts soon, I assume you boys need to get ready?” It was more of a statement than a question, you knew they needed to go and you were thankful for a moment to lick your wounds. That was your third rejection of the weekend and you’re not sure how many more of them you could go through. 

Before either of them could nod, you’d made your way to your work studio, ready to get this day over with, leaving Max and Daniel to get ready in their respective drivers rooms. 

As soon as Max had closed the door to his, he fully rested against the table in the middle of the room, attempting to figure out his next move as Carlos’s threat played over in his mind again and again. 

______

“Explain to me exactly how Carlos got that close to you in q3?” Daniel didn’t want to believe Max was willing to actually throw these next two weeks to keep Carlos quiet. 

“The Ferrari is quick.”  Max didn’t feel like talking, instead continuing to shove his clothes into his bag so he could just find you and get back to the hotel. 

“Not that quick. Max, you can’t let him win over some girl.” That stopped Max. 

“Not some girl.” Daniel knew what you were to him so why would this surprise him? 

“This is illegal.” Daniel couldn't believe his ears. There was no way Max was actually going to go easy on Carlos for the next two weeks. 

“I got P1, nothing illegal happened.”  He shoved his wallet into his pants and pulled out his phone ready to call you. 

“And what happens when you get closer to the deadline?” Daniel stopped him just before he could leave, stranded between the safety of the drivers room and the world outside. Stranded between a line that if crossed, he would never deserve to be a driver again. 

“She’s not some girl.” 

_____

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

#f1 fanfic #x reader #max verstappen x reader #f1 imagine #f1 #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #forwhatitsworth

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand. 

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.  

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part. 

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out. 

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.” 

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.” 

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.” 

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.” 

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn. 

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs. 

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up. 

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own. 

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.” 

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.” 

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time. 

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose. 

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?” 

“Did you drink?” 

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.” 

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass. 

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s. 

Ellie. 

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table. 

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.” 

“Thank you.” 

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?” 

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.” 

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed. 

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps. 

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur. 

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row. 

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display. 

Pure joy. His comfort. 

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now? 

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant. 

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring? 

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself. 

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.” 

“End? Have we started?” 

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?” 

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.” 

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer. 

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze. 

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps. 

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him. 

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth. 

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart. 

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you. 

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you. 

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt. 

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just nervous.” 

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs. 

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back. 

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness. 

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.” 

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind. 

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging. 

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?” 

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on. 

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.” 

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him. 

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling. 

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless. 

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus. 

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent. 

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone. 

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale. 

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism. 

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them. 

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts. 

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?” 

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.” 

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss. 

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs. 

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.” 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you. 

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?” 

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 11: You Are My Queen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI)—missionary, unprotected PiV (do not endorse, wrap it up), "fucked dumb" (more like "fucked tired") if you squint, food stuff (... idk it gets messy. Honey is involved.) ❧ Word Count: 10.2k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: After the defeat of Negan and his Saviors, you are confronted with the pain of what you've experienced, and you must confide in Daryl. Of course, the bittersweet moment becomes a reunion fit for lovers.

❧ A/N: Um so hi! You guys didn't think I was never gonna finish this did you? I mean I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I did it! I mean, I tried. I had a few different ideas for how to end the series, and then I realized that this isn't quite the end. I am going to write an "Epilogue" chapter that will just be wrapping up everything with Ezekiel and basically the princess telling her dad about Daryl. But for now, this is the end! Now I gotta focus on Begin Again now that I finally have this done(ish). Hope you guys like it, and thank you for waiting <3

Far from the carnage and warfare, miles away in a secluded wood, the hearth burned brightly, illuminating the small cottage in a warm glow that seemed so distinct from the deep, dark night that surrounded outside. 

The scarlet wound on his thigh bubbling with vinegar and wine, you held a wooden spoonful of warmed honey, letting it drip slowly over the clean injury. After the bath you’d given him, he wore nothing, save for the loose drawstring braies of linen that reached just above his knee. 

Your delicate fingers spread the translucent liquid gold over the surrounding skin. Out of the corner of your eye, you kept note of his visage. Though his face was relaxed, and softened by the warm glow of the fire, he was stoic. No matter how you treated his wound, he did not flinch, or so much as show any signs of discomfort or pain. 

As you wrapped his leg with a clean gauze, you spoke to him, cutting through the silence that had settled between you for the last several minutes. 

“Does it not hurt?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper. 

“No,” he replied simply, though that was not entirely true. The blade had been the worst hurt of it, but now, it was only a dull sting. Perhaps so much pain in his life had heightened his tolerance, or dulled his sense. 

In fact, the sensation was pleasant. All he could really feel was the soft pads of your fingers gently spreading the liquid over his skin, the honey acting as a soothing agent after the cleansing properties of the wine and vinegar had settled into the open wound. 

Wrapping the last bit of gauze around his thigh, you gently folded the linen of his braises back over, a soft puff of air escaping your lips all the while. 

“You are brave,” you said, your eyes lifting with a gentle flutter of your lashes. 

With a shift of your legs from underneath you, you carefully replaced the spoon of honey into its jar, setting it aside upon the floor next to you. It felt good to no longer be upon your feet, now bandaged and clean after Daryl had so adamantly insisted that you let him do so. Now, though, you’d tend to him, after everything he’d done for you that night. 

But with the fortitude of a true knight, he did not show pain nor pride. He did not bask in any glory or relish in his victory. He did not shed a tear, his limp as he walked not slowing him down or keeping him from getting you to the safety of the cottage. Not only was he brave, but he was humble. The man you’d once called a sorry excuse for a knight had turned out to be a paragon of gallantry, though he never had to prove that to you. You’d known the error of your words since he returned to you that night so many moons ago, promising to take you beyond the walls without payment or worldly reward.

That seemed worlds away now. The way you’d looked at him then was a far cry from now, when before you was the embodiment of the greatest warmth and sweetness you’d ever felt. The swell in your chest had cut your breath short for a moment, while the knight shifted on the floor cushion upon which he sat, leaning forward to pull you closer by your hands, until you were cradled in his arms, your body curled up upon his lap and your head resting against his bare chest. 

That was when your breath came back, the soothing motions of his hands caressing your sides reminding you of the safety he gave you now. Negan was no more, the Saviors were no more, and soon, your father and the surviving militia would meet you here, but now, there was nothing in this world except him, and you. 

When time just began to crumble away, your eyes heavy with the promise of sleep, you were brought back to the surface of consciousness by his voice, steady and low.

“You are brave.”

A puff of amused air escaped your lips, though you did not contradict him, only listened as he spoke, that voice of his more soothing than the honey on his wound. 

“You killed Negan.” 

Though you could not regret your actions, you shivered at the thought of that moment, the knife driving into his back, the feeling of the blade tunneling through tissue and finally puncturing his frozen heart. It made you cling tighter to his chest, as if to cower from the memory that haunted you in the back of your mind. 

“If you hadn’t, I would not be here now, holding you.”

Indeed, that was what he was made for―holding you, serving you. Just as you clung tighter to him, he held you with more strength, not out of fear that you’d be taken from him again, but out of sheer devotion. 

“And I owe you my life.”

“No,” you replied, almost startling him as you lifted your head. As if by instinct, he held your chin softly, the calloused pad of his thumb stroking its soft skin in short, but slow, back and forth motions. “There is nothing that you owe to me. Certainly not your life.”

Though you remained stern in your expression of earnestness, his lips curled into a gentle smile. 

“I owe you everything. My life’s devoted to serving you, you know that.”

But as you looked at him, his eyes so full of love and hope for the future he had with you, there was still a hesitation inside you. It was like a parasite, worming its way inside your heart to keep you from fully embracing the comfort he brought you. It had not held such an effect on you, until now. Now that you could comprehend it, the hideous guilt that troubled you so. 

He could see it in your eyes now, too, as evidenced by his smile fading and his eyes, still filled with that same love, growing dim with concern. 

“What is it?”

To keep it from him would only cause more abject pain, but to hurt him, to tell him of the betrayal that you believed you had committed against him. How could you go on, now that the thought of that man’s cold, slimy hands all over you would not let you rest in the arms of the man who truly loved you?

And if you told him, would he rebuff you, disavow his love for you and never even hold you again? 

“Nothing,” you said, but the quiver in your slowly faltering voice betrayed you, and the feeling of a cold, dead hand strangled around your heart made you shiver. He brought you closer to his chest, where warmth briefly tore you from the icy snare of guilt and shame. It was only a temporary respite, though. The only way to rid yourself of this regret was to tell him. 

Another man’s mouth had been on yours, the salty, bitter taste of which you swore still lingered and made a mockery of your once pure lips. You’d truly never felt that Daryl had ever taken any purity from you. In fact, he made you more pure, but the bitterness of Negan’s filthy tongue had sullied you, you believed, and now you were nothing more than a broken woman, despite how whole you felt when he held you in his arms.

“Tell me,” he said, with that eerie whisper of knowing on his breath. Even the soothing circular movements of his splayed out hand on the small of your back were made with careful concern. Indeed, he knew that whatever troubled you must have been to do with what had transpired within the last week. 

Afterall, the blot of watercolor black and blue around your eye gave him an inkling, one which made anger well up in him like molten lava bubbling to the surface, igniting him with a kind of rage that was strong enough to bring that scum of a man back to life just to slice his head clean off a second time. And, oh, would he do it again if he had the chance, just to know, again and again and again, that the man who tormented his princess could never bring more harm to her, or anyone else.

“Daryl, I…” 

Your words having fizzled out into thin air, you shook your head and loosened yourself from his arms, as though you were unworthy of their embrace. The more you thought of that night, the more you believed that to be true.

“What happened?” he asked, his body beginning to stiffen as he mirrored you—both of you frozen in fear of whatever you would say, if you would say anything at all.

For a moment, he felt both weightless and heavy, in some kind of strange limbo wherein worry overtook his physicality before any words could confirm the worst of his fears. It washed the color from his face, where once a warm pink had blossomed from the feeling of the nearby hearth and your body so close to his, once again, after everything that had happened. 

Now, he could only begin to think of the heinous things that could’ve been done to you… Knowing how Negan had looked at you, how he touched you that night of the joust. There was something sinister in his eyes then, and now, there was a similar dread in your expression as you looked away from him, eyelids heavy and head downturned.

With a gentle hand on your shoulder, his instinct to hold you too strong to completely ignore without at least a single touch, he began to speak again—voice quiet yet raspy. 

“Did he… did he touch you?”

Of course, he had, but what Daryl meant by his words seemed deeper than their surface level definition. The vitriol in his voice, the sting of the word touch, which once might have been so much more beautiful on his lips, was palpable, lacerating your heart further. If it wasn’t for the pain of the guilt, you would still feel the hurt of the sadness in his voice. 

You raised your eyes to meet his, though his face was blurred in the haze of your tears. A kind of shocked concern shaped his expression as he held your cheek with so much delicateness, as though you were but an assemblage of rose petals sewn together with gossamer twine.

He spoke your name now, low and almost a whisper. There was something so earnest about that, the way he called you only by your name and nothing else. No title, no epithet. Just you, just a woman, but not just a woman at all—a woman for whom he’d give the skin off his back to keep warm. 

With his fingers laced delicately through your hair, he begged you with his eyes, glassy and clear, almost translucent to the point you swore you could see his soul bared before you. Even just in his stare, he made himself vulnerable to you, and soon, whatever fear you had of him turning on you melted under that comforting, warm gaze. Just for a moment, you gave in, and used your tongue to forcibly tear out the words that were stuck in your throat. 

But still, you could not look at him as you spoke.

“Yes, he…” Your voice trailed off, followed by a deep breath of air you’d hoped would give you the strength to continue, but it only brought forth the tears that threatened to give way.

Two big arms encircled you hesitantly, slowly enough to allow you to break free had you not craved his touch, but his touch was all that could give you peace now. No further questions were needed, he surmised. He wasn’t sure he could even bear to know more of what was done to you, so he kept you in his grasp, which you did not fight. 

With a shaky voice, he spoke against your cheek as he held onto you. Your head found a cradle in his shoulder, where tears wetted his bare skin. On his breath was a gentle shhh sound, like a light breeze rustling the leaves of an ancient oak in cool night air. It comforted you, along with the steady motion of his hands on your back, moving in slow, languid circles. 

But no longer could you only contain your emotions to your sobs. Now, you raised your head and faced him, looking him sharply in the eye despite the pain that singed your heart with each syllable:

“I had a plan,” you began. “I… I only wanted to get close to him. He called me to his chambers… I had a knife. I let him touch me…” Once again, you could no longer hold his gaze. You continued on, now tripping over your own words as you scrambled to explain, through a tear-soaked voice that trembled in fear of whatever reaction you’d receive. “Only just with his lips… His filthy lips. Then as soon as I could, I tried to stab him. I swear, all I wanted was to get close to him, long enough to kill him.”

The knight only looked at you with a steady gaze, one that only softened with each passing moment. You felt his arms tighten around you, and you weren’t sure if it was an attempt to comfort you, or to suffocate you. Either way, you would’ve died a thousand times to feel that touch.

But you longed most of all, now, to know exactly what he was thinking. To hear those words you knew must’ve been brewing inside that head of his—those words that would crush you under the weight of their rebuke. Though those words never came, no shame or disappointment, only another kind of pain in his eyes. A pain that was born of your sadness as each tear you shed sent a new wave of agony through his aching body.

Shakily, you whispered to him, pleading in all but words for him to tell you how much he hated you for betraying him, for letting another man touch you. “My love… Won’t you end my suffering and speak to me?”

At times, Daryl’s movements carried more meaning that any service his vocal cords could provide. All he could do in that moment was hold you by your cheeks, his thumbs meandering in circles to gently rub the tears into your skin. 

And, finally, he did speak, but his words caught you off guard far more than you thought possible. 

“What are you afraid of, princess?”

Afraid of?

“I… I do not understand.”

“The look in your eyes, the fear. You look afraid of me. Why?”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you shook your head, both in denial and in confusion. “I do not fear you.”

Quite the contrary, you wanted nothing more for him to hold you until your heart gave out. 

“I—I fear that you will detest me,” you continued, now trying desperately to let your tears drown out your words. “I fear I’ve betrayed you.”

In your mind, you had, and Daryl would have had every right to leave you now: alone and pitiful. Though he didn’t. He only kept his eyes on yours, and though you had a shameful urge to look away, you could not tear your gaze from his. There was no spite in his eyes, no bitterness or loathing. Not even anger. 

All you could see in his eyes was the same gentleness, the same kindness and utter servitude that he devoted to you with each passing moment his eyes took you in. That sentiment had always been there, nothing had changed, no matter what you could say. It would never change. There was no enmity there, only the strength of his love for you. 

His hands held your cheeks still, pulling you gently closer until his forehead softly touched yours. The feeling made you shudder, as though still you could never fully comprehend the sensation his touch gave to you. You were sure that you would never get quite used to that feeling, though you never wanted to. That sense of novelty was a pleasant sensation all on its own. 

“My princess,” he said, his grainy voice barely above a whisper as his nose touched yours. His lips began to upturn ever so slightly into the softest smile, natural and sweet. “There’s nothin’ you could do to make me think that.” 

As you shuddered a shaky breath, he held you closer still. You let out a heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been lingering deep inside you ever since you escaped the Sanctuary.

“You’re trembling,” he said, running his coarse fingertips along the exposed skin of your neck, until his hand met the loose neckline of his chemise that you borrowed, draped over you more like a dress than a shirt as the oversized garment reached just below your thighs. He leaned back to look at you, still sniffling back tears. With a strong hand, he swept back your hair to nestle it in the warm crevice behind your ear. 

“You cold?” he asked, already beginning to tug a blanket from under a nearby cushion. “Here—”

“No.” Your suddenness nearly startled him. It reminded you just how fragile he was, no matter how reluctant he was to show it. “I’m all right.”

Daryl knew, though, that you still could not shake the guilt, like a vulture’s ravenous gnawing at your heart. He knew you too well, so well that it almost frightened him. There was no one else with whom he could see through, whose transparency reflected a deep, intrinsic understanding beyond conscious comprehension. The depths of you were overwhelming, but he could never fight the profound urge to navigate them, despite the sadness that his love’s empathy could bring.

With a deep breath of his own, he brought you back to his lap. The ease with which he could manipulate your body with the most gentle yet sudden caress would never fail to momentarily paralyze you. You melted into his arms once again. It was only a matter of time before you became completely at his mercy, though there was absolutely no part of you that protested, except maybe that last shred of guilt. 

“You know I love you,” he said. “You know I serve you.” You must have broken out into a smile, because he, too, smiled. “And you know that you’re here now. You’re alive. Whatever you did to get here, whatever I did to get here… They’re sacrifices—risks.”

You found your hands returning to his body, their place on his broad, firm shoulders solidified like indentations in concrete. Swallowing hard, you felt a chill run through you, but it was not from the fear of losing him now—it was the effect of his touch, his hands having found their way beneath the shirt he lent you, sprawled out over your back, stroking in gentle rhythms. 

“Daryl.” Your voice seemed to crumble under the pressure of the air that you spoke shakily into, the utterance of his name so delicate upon your trembling lips. “What I did, it haunts me. Perhaps you can forgive me, but how will I forgive myself, when I let that man—”

He did not let you utter another word before he interrupted, his own voice soft with sympathy. How he could remain so patient with you in this state, you would never know.

“I know your heart, I know you.” Now he all but forced your weary head to rest upon his chest, where the gentle beating of his heart warmed your cheek. “The only anger I have is for the man who touched you, not you.”

But still, it was hard for you to forget. The only cure to that ailment seemed to be Daryl’s touch, his assurance that he loved you beyond what words could convey. You needed his touch, but not just skin to skin. There was more, a lingering desire that floated between you perpetually, yet was stronger now than ever before. 

It was a desire that penetrates, that longs to be penetrated. The kind that only lovers of the truest caliber could satisfy in the company of one another, the company which you had been deprived of for far too long. 

The pestilence Sir Negan left for you to wallow in would only be destroyed by the greatest expression of love—that which made all pain and sorrow and suffering pale in comparison to the feeling of knowing that your heart was in the safe hands of no one else but him, your lover. 

Your knight. 

When silence overcame you, he uttered your name softly against one cheek, while his hand delicately brushed over the other. If he touched you anywhere else, you might crumble into a million pieces, like an ancient Grecian statue carved from the most fragile marble. 

Only the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth could be heard against your soft breaths caressing the shell of his ear, while your hands crept carefully up his chest, brushing over the creases of his underarms to grasp at his shoulders. They felt so hard, so firm and unbreakable. You held them tighter now, and in response, he tightened his arms around your waist to bring you ever closer, until your lips found his.

The kiss was tender, light, each of your lips dancing softly over the other’s. With a tilt of his head and a brief respite, he caught your lips again, this time more firmly, yet still somehow cautious. 

Perhaps he’d never grow completely forthcoming in his lust for you, which seemed almost sacrilegious, yet somehow sacred. He knew that he’d be killed for this, but how on God’s green earth was he going to keep his hands off you? How could any star up above in those vast, empyreal heavens compare to the gleam in your eyes when he uttered your name, each syllable dripping with honeyed cadence? How could the rich, melodic refrain of any skilled bard’s lute come close to the dulcet sighs that tickled his ears so delectably, almost tauntingly? How could there be anything more soft, more supple, than your body—that which occupied his thoughts far more often than he could ever truly admit? 

Even your scent roused his most lustful thoughts, that sweet citrusy musk entangled with heady notes of the most intoxicating rose, the petals of which could not compare to the plump, velvety lips he traced his work-worn thumb over now, parting them gently until a sliver of darkness formed, with just a flash of white where your teeth could be seen. 

Finally, those lips opened just a bit more to speak again. “I want to forget that night,” you said. “I want to forget everything that’s happened… besides you.”

Truly, nothing was of consequence to you now, but him. You wanted to be enveloped in him. To be absorbed in him. To be one with him.

If he hadn’t been so lost in the vibrant hue of your glittering eyes, speckled with sparks alight from the nearby hearth, he might’ve noticed the feeling of your hands exploring his bare chest, your palms melting against the buttery surface of those defined muscles. When the sparkle in your eye lost his attention, he did feel it—that soft touch with just a hint of something more… indecent.

With a slow, meandering movement, never taking those silvery blue eyes from yours, he took both of your hands in his, where they rested so delicately in the strong cradle of his warm palms. He brought them to his lips, the touch of which was so featherlight that you could barely even hear the sound of them pressing an ever so sweetly suggestive kiss to your hands. 

It was then that the chemise you wore slid slowly off your shoulder, its size much too big for your frame. With even just your collarbone and the slope of your neck now exposed, much to the delight of his increasingly wandering eyes, he knew there was no escape from the desperation you awakened in him. Only it was not just desperation, but the insatiable urge to provide for you the comfort you so needed. It was written clear as day in your eyes.

Even so, you could not let the heavy air between you go without another plea, though it seemed to him almost like a command—from a princess to a knight.

“Make me forget.”

And so he obliged, not with another kiss, but with a tight grip on your waist, lifting you until you sat upon his lap, where the heat of his center warmed the bare underside of your thighs. After he took a moment to gather his thoughts in the midst of his sudden haste, he did not keep you in that position for long. The feeling of your weight upon his lap was too divine, nearly too much. If he took you now with too much urgency, that which was so strong he could hardly hide it, he might reach the peak of his pleasure much too soon. 

So you were caught in a slight whirlwind for just a moment, in one last burst of quickness punctuated by a low, raspy rumble in his voice. Now you were laid out rather ungracefully, resting on piles of weaved woolen blankets and furs strewn loosely upon the floor. 

There was not as much hesitation now, having already seen your body in its most bare form. He lifted the chemise over your head with ease, and when the fabric no longer obscured your vision, you met his face—a gentle, almost unnoticeable curl of his lip. 

Above you, his eyes took their time roaming your chest, but not just your breasts. There was a delicateness to you everywhere—the slope of your collarbones, the way your shoulders rolled as you started to grow aroused, the pulsing of the strained tendons in your neck. 

But before he could bring his lips to kiss your neck as he so deliberately planned on doing, he noticed the now tipped over jar of amber-colored honey slowly dripping from the lip of the vessel onto the floor, not far from where your hair had been strewn about amidst the sudden movements of passion. Those same movements must’ve caused the nearby jar to lose its balance. 

Now brought to his attention, the silken honey seemed to shimmer with a warm, enticing glow. His heavy, blown-out eyes returned to your body, now with a sparkle of mischief, perhaps. You weren’t entirely sure, as you’d rarely seen such a quality in his gaze before.

In a trance of combined anticipation and confusion as the man held his half-naked body over yours, you looked up at him with innocent questioning. 

“My knight?” you asked quietly, your voice only a faint, fragile whisper, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. “You seem confounded.” A soft tickle of laughter trailed off from your voice. “Does something trouble you? You moved with such vigor only a moment ago.”

He was unsure of how to explain in words the idea that came to him then, though you seemed to have grown accustomed to his sometimes reticent nature. That would prove to work in his favor now, as he all but remained silent in response to your questioning, opting instead only to scoop a bit of honey onto his index and middle fingers, slowly removing them from the jar with a hefty glob of the sticky substance. 

You turned your head to watch in confusion, which quickly became concern.

“Does your wound need more honey? Does it hurt?”

“No,” he replied simply, with a more serious tone of lust to his deep, gravelly voice, the vibrations of which sent a fresh shiver down your spine. 

For several moments, you were held hostage by his gaze, which roamed down the expanse of your neck. Your heavy breathing told him what he needed to know—the way your chest heaved with each passing second. You craved him, more than ever before, perhaps. With each new breath, he swore he could hear a slight pleaing whimper just trailing behind. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, he brought his honey-drenched fingers to your lips, already slightly agape. 

But he did not want to force the liquid into your mouth, only to coat your lips in its sweetness. 

So he traced the shape of your lips, leaving behind a trail of gold sheen to glaze the soft, plump skin. Despite your slight disorientation, you allowed him to do as he pleased. After all, there was no other way to forget the pain of all that you’d experienced. No other way to be completely enveloped in the pleasure of love. 

Soon you could taste the honey seeping into your mouth, dripping slowly onto your tongue. It tasted sweet, of course, but as his lips gently pressed to yours, the taste seemed even sweeter. 

Between your lips was a sticky mess of warm sighs and saccharine wetness, with his tongue invading your mouth impatiently, swirling feverishly as your hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders. 

Your touch ignited a fire in him, deep in the pit of his stomach, from which a guttural moan melted into your mouth. 

And he knew there was more of your body that he needed, more skin he could drench in the warm nectar of the honey, more skin he could lick clean. 

A fragile sigh escaped your trembling lips as he separated himself from you abruptly, though the disappointment in your voice compelled him to return to your honeyed lips for just a moment to kiss them in an offer of apology for his momentary departure. 

He separated once more, leaning to the side to find the jar of honey, and immediately collecting another hefty, dripping glob of golden syrup. 

There was a shaky whimper in your voice when he trailed his honey-drenched fingers over your breast, circling slowly around the nipple. 

The more he applied to the soft tissue of your nipple, the more the substance globbed and began to drip slowly, like molasses, down the slope of your breast, making your back arch at the tickling sensation. 

The knight could only watch your breast become drenched in translucent golden liquid, the subtle scent tempting him to come closer, until you could feel his warm breath against your heaving chest. 

An absent-minded sigh escaped your quivering lips, with his name: “Daryl…”

Just as he heard it, his own name spoken on the wings of a swan’s breath, his flattened tongue caught a plump drip of gold slowly making its way down your breast.

He licked upwards then, reaching the hardened bud of your nipple, where his tongue circled eagerly now, yet with a slowness just enough to delay your pleasure, to properly torment you with his toying attention.

But his own temptation prompted him to take the whole sweetened nipple into his mouth, which craved above all else to taste every inch of you—the delicate, virtuous princess writhing naked underneath him as he made use of your body to the fullest extent of his desire.

With his mouth upon your aroused nipple, he suctioned his lips, now himself becoming too impatient to merely kiss the engorged flesh. 

The feeling sent your head reeling backwards against the pillow, with a low, breathy moan. Each kiss made you cry out louder, more impatiently as your body craved more of his kisses. 

But what he wanted was more honey.

So he took the jar again, this time tilting it so that the golden liquid began to drizzle in zigzag patterns over your chest, then your stomach.

Now you felt drenched in honey, sticky with it. Not to the point of discomfort, but amusement at his fascination with it, his tongue now licking up the trail.

You let out a quiet laugh, your voice low and sultry as you began to speak. “You’re making a mess of me.”

He did not stop lapping up at the drizzled honey, except to look up at you with a subtle mischief gleaming in his eyes of quicksilver blue for a few moments, long enough to say, “A very sweet mess.”

Soon his lips returned to yours, while his chest pressed against yours in a sticky embrace. You couldn’t help but laugh softly against my mouth, while your hands reached up to loosely tangle in the soft umber colored tresses upon his head. 

And it felt like heaven to him then—your softness underneath him, your own sweet taste overpowering the saccharine honey, the tickle of your laugh fluttering against his lips, the slight scratch of your fingernails upon his scalp, the intoxicating warmth between your legs opening up to take him in as your legs wrapped around his waist. 

That eagerness of yours made him snicker. Unable to resist the urge to chide you a bit, he pulled his lips away for a moment.

“Your highness seems restless,” he said, nodding his nose against yours with a small but wicked smile curling to one side of his face. “I thought princesses were supposed to be patient and proper.”

With a tilt of your head, you glared up at him, only with a very slight sense of playful annoyance.

“You know nothing of patience or propriety, depraved knight. It is you who so wantonly tempts my resolve… Who compels me to crave your devilish touch, which causes my weary mind such carnal turmoil.”

The knight’s quiet laugh seeped out from the charmingly crooked crack in his lips. With a low hum, somewhere between amusement and lust, he leaned down to kiss his increasingly restless princess once more.

When the kiss broke, he brushed the back of his hand against your heated cheek in soothing motions as he spoke softly against your slightly pouty agape lips. 

“Those are big words,” he said, with a low rumble of laughter underscoring his scratchy voice. “They sure sound pretty on your lips.”

As your hands absentmindedly roamed the broad expanse of his heaving chest, the muscles underneath the hair-speckled flesh flexing under your soft touch, you met his gaze from above you with a mischievous glimmer in your eye.

“My love,” you hummed softly, your eyelashes fluttering slowly against his cheek as his mouth roamed aimlessly over yours. “You torment me with your caresses… Your sweet touch.”

“You said it was devilish,” he replied between kisses, using your dramatized words against you. 

“It is,” you laughed softly. “Devilish and sweet. But it’s your touch. I wish to feel it every moment of every day and every night for all eternity, and the eternity after that, and before that, and every eternity in between.”

Daryl’s hand lifted to the side of your face, gently placing a strand of unruly hair behind your ear, to continue his increasingly feverish onslaught of kisses on your other cheek. 

“Yes, your highness,” he replied, much to your amusement. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“Mm, you’re mine.”

After a momentary pause, he seemed to turn more serious—almost frightening—as he grabbed you with more impatient vigor, your arms having no choice but to cling around his neck. With your face surrounded by soft tresses of brown hair, you let out an instinctive cry, as though he was a predator and you were prey, about to be devoured. Though there was nothing in your biology that compelled you to fight him off. You’d accepted your fate, and you welcomed it.

Your weight was suddenly cradled by the softness of the bed beneath you, though your legs were still wrapped tightly around Daryl’s waist. That did not keep him restrained for long, for he soon unraveled himself from your entanglement and began to strip himself of his worn linen braies.

There was hardly any time to marvel at his anatomy—he soon climbed back over you, catching your breath with his mouth once again. You could at least feel his now unhindered length, though. You could feel it harden between your legs, where the warmth of your soft thighs made his cock begin to twitch from the pressure. 

As though your body wasn’t close enough for his liking, he looped his arm under the arch of your back, lifting you up just enough to feel your belly pressed against his. If he concentrated enough, he swore he could feel the delicate fluttering of your excitement inside you.

The tingling became stronger now, his body moving above you with enough rhythm to force his cock against the fleshy folds between your legs. The feeling was still so foreign, having only felt it in its fullest form once before, but you knew that tingle just from the sight of him, the smell of him, the taste of him. He did not even need to touch you there to make your body react in such a way, you were certain. 

Taking notice of your soft moans against his lips, and the slight gyration of your body, he used his free hand to find the warmth that so enticed him. His fingers settled in that crevice, staying still for a moment, until by some impulse they began to move. Up and down, up and down… A rhythmic motion not unlike the way the rest of his body moved, too. For your part, you broke the kiss to let out a moan that could not be contained by the velvet cage of his adoring mouth any longer. 

“Oh!”

Your head had tilted back so far that your neck was now exposed, completely subject to his will. As his hand moved not faster, but with more pressure, more insistence, he trailed his lips down your jawline, leaving messy, imprecise kisses along your perfumed skin. 

Applying increasing pressure, he sank his fingertips into you, that warm, sodden opening between your legs. The sensation was still so new, though the slight burning pain was less than before. You only clenched your teeth slightly, feeling his fingers extend deeper within you, curling upwards toward your belly. 

For a moment, he could not pay attention to anything but the way you felt—the way your body reacted to his invasion. Your passageway seemed to pulse around his fingers ever so slightly, as if it was some innate reaction, coercing his fingers further.

He only noticed your slight discomfort when he looked at you, your eyes shut tight. He pressed his lips to your cheek, his hair falling in your face. It was soft, yet ticklish, like a curtain of brown feathers draped over you.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice a soft, soothing whisper. If his touch wasn’t pleasing you enough, his voice so gentle and yet gruff was sure to push you over the edge of pleasure and into the realm of extraordinary bliss. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s only slight… You’re quite gentle.”

Against your cheek, you could feel his lips curl into a smile. All the while, his fingers moved slowly, back and forth, migrating between the shallow part of you, and the deepest part.

“Do you like it this way, your highness? Slow… gentle? I could go faster, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

With a laugh, you shook your head, amused. “You could hurt me and it would still feel like heaven.”

He smiled down at you, then pressed another kiss to those plump, agape lips, sparkling with wetness and trembling with desire. Daryl was never a particularly confident man, but something about the way you wanted him, craved him beyond anything he’d ever known, he felt like he had the whole world in his hands. 

And now, he felt the world quake and shiver round his curled fingers, an accumulation of warm wetness pooling where his knuckles breached the entrance of your body in repetitive motions. Coupled with the aching softness of your uncontrollable moans were the sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the rhythmic, involuntary squeezing of the canal creating drenched and airy sighs of its own. 

As his fingers pulsed inside of you, you clung tightly to his shoulders, the tan, sun-freckled skin stretched thinly over defined muscles. A strained sigh escaped your lips as your fingers dug into his skin. Daryl’s pace slowed steadily to keep you from coming too soon, but he knew you were so very close. 

It amused him a little, the way your body was so sensitive to his touch. He found arousal in the way he could so easily bring you the ultimate pleasure, and the way he could withhold it at will. Despite how subservient he was to you, he could not help but revel in the dominance that came over him when so much control of your perfect body was given willingly over to him.

But you sighed and pouted as his fingers paused inside of you. Opening your eyes, you tilted your head and looked up at him—he traced your jawbone with his finger, while the fingers he had inside you playfully wiggled upwards to make you shiver.

“Daryl,” you sighed, not quite sure what else to say but his name.

In response, he smiled as hazy silvery blue eyes roamed your face, taking in each and every flawless feature. “You’re so beautiful… My sweet angel. I’d like to have you like this forever.”

Though your heart fluttered at his sweet words, you could only muster a few words, as your body anticipated its release: “Do not stop.”

But he did the opposite, removing his fingers altogether and leaving you throbbing, writhing desperately as you groaned softly. 

Panting, he sat up, lifting himself up from the bed to look at you, taking you in for a moment as he decided on what to do next. After all, he was leading the way. 

Before you could say another word, or even lift up your head to see what he was up to, you felt his hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you towards him as he stood at the end of the bed. 

You managed a surprised exclamation at the sudden jolt, your legs now spread just wide enough to fit his body as he climbed over you, his weight holding you against the bed. Now he kissed you again, with lips and tongue moving wildly over yours. Lost in this passion, you found your hands exploring the wide, muscular surface of his back, moving in erratic circles. With each flex of his muscles underneath your soft palms, you let out a breathy sigh, swallowed by his mouth on yours. 

As much as you craved his kiss, you knew you craved the hardness between his legs that was pulsing against your sodden entrance more. It was so close to being inside you, so close to that feeling you had only known once before, that you coveted ever since he first made love to you. There was an overwhelming emptiness there always now, where you hadn’t quite felt one before. You had known the carnal pleasures of sex, and now it was like a curse of desire had overtaken you. Not a desire just for the feeling, but for him, and the feeling only he could give to you. 

He felt your desire, too. It only heightened his own as his lower body moved against yours, assuaging his hunger for the embrace of your body just enough to keep him from spoiling this moment of closeness with his impatience. You deserved more than a quick burst of passion that ended in an underwhelming sensation of relief. That was what he’d only known before, after all―mindless, loveless moments with nameless, faceless women who could satisfy his purely biological need in the most practical exchange of goods. These occasions were few and far between, but never satiating beyond that primal desire. This was unlike anything he’d felt before, and to make love to someone, real love, was a change of pace he had to orient himself with. A most welcome change, of course. 

But he could not hold out much longer, he knew this of his body well enough. So at last he pulled his lips away from yours, his focus turning to the space where your bodies were so close to connecting. He reached down, with a series of gruff pants escaping between his lips, to bring the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

There was just a tickle of his flesh brushing against yours, but it was enough to elicit a shiver and a sigh against his sweat-dripping cheek. There, you pressed your lips to his face, with the salt of his clammy skin on your tongue. As he slowly entered you, you felt your body loosen, no longer tense with need, but now just beginning to feel full and warm. 

And with a deep, guttural moan, he buried himself further. Despite how slow he tried to move, he could not waste another moment―he did not want for anything in this moment but to be completely inside of you. 

The feeling lingered for a while as both of your bodies rested in place. He did not move, neither did you. There was only the erratic beating of your hearts and the heavy breaths escaping your lips. Daryl’s head found its place in the space between your head and your shoulder, where he found refuge in the warmth of your hair, scented with galgant and cloves. 

Though you could bask forever in the feeling of him inside you, still and deep, your desire was to feel him move again. 

As if on their own accord, your hands moved swiftly down his back to squeeze the flesh of his buttocks, as you’d call it. Ass, as he would call it, you were sure. The feeling elicited a laugh which tickled your cheek. 

“Where did you learn to do that, princess?”

“Nowhere,” you replied, just as he lifted himself up to look down upon you. There was a look of playfulness in his eyes, with a considerable amount of increasingly impatient lust. It excited you more, so you moved yourself as much as you could in an attempt to feel the friction of his cock inside you. 

Amused at your clumsy wiggling, he relented with a subtle swirl of his hips and a movement of his body which pulled him further out of you, until he slowly buried himself deeper again. 

His arms propped up the bulk of his weight as he moved in and out of you at increasing pace, his breath becoming more and more ragged all the while. Nothing could hold him back as he began to lose control of himself. Every cell in his body screamed for release, and he couldn’t slow down now. His lower body moved faster with each thrust that shook you to your core, where the tingly feeling of pleasure was building up inside once again.

Wide-eyed and breathless, your hands moved to his shoulders in an attempt to keep yourself steady, but it was no use. His sheer physical strength and size was enough to make your body practically seize from the force of his thrusts. In these desperate, hungry movements, there was a deep reverence—a kind of devotion you’d never known before, not even as a princess. He made love to you like it was an act of worship, in every conceivable way.

From the way he focused on you, as though the sun and stars revolved around you, to the feeling of his body making every frantic, passionate movement not only to sate his need, but to please you, he wanted nothing more than to serve you, as was his sworn oath.

And as you came closer to losing control of your loins, your body squeezed and writhed around him. In a fit of pleasure, so close to the precipice of bliss, your back arched and your head was thrown backwards with an involuntary spasm, as your legs clenched tight around his waist to draw him further into you. 

He was so deep, and you felt so full. The pain was there, lingering, as you were stretched open again and again. In all your ignorance, a part of you feared he’d tear you open, but you trusted him—your gallant, noble knight.

Now your hands held for dear life to his upper arms, where well-worn and well-defined muscles gleamed with sweat and ached with each part of him that needed release, which was soon to come. Your heavy, quickened breaths formed a pattern that seemed to match his, with occasional moans, groans, and even a slight curse or two escaping his tightened lips. 

And soon, a sudden wave of vibrations overtook you—that sensation you’d been dreaming of since the first night he bedded you. It was like a hurricane sweeping through your body, each new pulse of tingling pleasure surging through you like a strong gust of wind that left you squirming and crying out underneath him. 

It was a feast for his eyes to see you like this, and to know just how much power his love held over you. With each gasp, each breathy moan, each soft convulsion that contorted your body, he lost himself in your bliss. 

He couldn’t help but kiss your trembling lips as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling his body further against you and into your pulsing center. This feeling, along with the soft dance of his tongue across and around yours, drew him closer to his own release.

It had been buried deep in the back of his mind from the moment he realized you were taken—that terrible longing, tainted by the fear that never again would he feel this again. Of course he knew the most important thing was rescuing you and returning you home safe, but there was that selfish part of him that desired you carnally, because once was not enough. 

Now that you were safe, he feared he’d never be able to go another second without you again.

So, with a final deep thrust and a hearty groan, he let his body go. He was quick enough to free himself from you, releasing the buildup of his arousal onto the soft inside of your thigh. 

The warmth tickled you slightly as it trickled down. You watched through hazy, lidded eyes as Daryl’s hand stroked his pulsing cock until it was rendered limp as if with exhaustion. His body drooped over yours, his head cradled against your shoulder. Fast, heavy breaths warmed your neck. In a matter of seconds, he caught his breath enough to catch your lips with his once more.

Heady air thick with the scent of honey and sex swirled between your bodies, moving languidly beneath the fur blanket Daryl had draped over the two of you somewhere between lazy, sweaty kisses and tangled arms. 

Tonight was different than the first night you made love. That night, the passionate fire he stoked inside of you kept your mind alert enough to stay awake with him into the wee hours of the morning, murmurs of dreams and worries slipping between your lips. Tonight, you could hardly keep your eyes open once you’d felt your body sink into the straw-filled cot beneath you. 

Daryl, in his lust, hadn’t noticed you’d begun to drift off as he showered you in kisses. When your hands began to slowly lose their tight, needful grip on his shoulders, he let his lips separate from yours with a smile. Your head sank like an anchor onto the pillow beneath you. With your last sensation the feeling of your knight’s lips pressed gently to your temple, you entered a deep, much-needed sleep.

The night was still when you awoke in a slight daze, colored a deep brownish orange from the flicker of the dying hearth. Your newborn senses clung to the feeling of the soft fur beneath your outstretched hand, where once Daryl lay. 

You stirred awake at the realization of his absence. Sitting up, the fur blanket fell from your body to expose your naked breasts. A sudden shock dispelled any last remnants of sleep. You weren’t at all accustomed to sleeping in the nude, after all.

Moreover, you feared something, though you weren’t quite sure what, had happened to your knight.

As you raised yourself from the modest cot to dress yourself in the once discarded chemise, you could not help the fearful thought of whatever remained of the Saviors taking Daryl from you, leaving you alive in some cruel, twisted act of revenge for the death of their leader.

But as you stepped outside, into the darkness of the early morning, Daryl’s voice, grainy and soft, came to you through the crisp air. In your slight daze from waking just moments ago, it took you a moment or two to recognize his voice speaking your name. 

Your eyes caught up faster than your ears when you turned to see him, illuminated only by the light of a small lantern placed on the pebbled ground near his feet. He was dressed already, a simple tunic of linen white, with a wool cloak of deep indigo on his back. The closer you stepped towards him, the more the almost crimson glow of the majestic Friesian’s coat shimmered to distinguish the creature from the black of night. 

“Phantom?” you spoke softly, rubbing your sleep-heavy eyes as if to wake yourself from a dream. You’d almost forgotten about the loyal steed, and it was hard to imagine him surviving the chaos of the battle just hours ago, but then again, you survived. 

Phantom seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. He lifted his head to meet your eyes, and left the side of his master to slowly come towards you. The gentle creature’s muzzle seemed to slide perfectly between your delicate hands as he huffed a breath of air. After a few moments of accepting your pets, he raised his head to nuzzle your shoulder, nearly putting you off balance with the sheer force of the large animal’s affections.

Daryl flinched for a moment, about ready to lunge forward to catch you if you fell, but you caught yourself with your back foot, laughing despite the slight pain of the raw blisters that began to form there from last night’s escapades. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you.” The horse lowered his head as if in reverence, some kind of formal acknowledgement of your voice. You ran your fingers through Phantom’s silky forelock, which you knew to be quite pleasing to the destrier. “I thought I might never do so again.”

“He found his way home.” Daryl’s voice came closer, until you felt the warmth of his chest against your back. His chin rested upon your shoulder, a comforting weight. “Like he always does.”

Daryl’s arms squeezed tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. While still lavishing attention upon the rather needy horse before you, you closed your eyes and took in his scent of pine and honey. But you did not stay still long, turning to see his face you’d dreamed of, just to remember that he was real. Phantom, though, huffed in slight disappointment.

“When will my father come?” you asked quietly. Something about the stillness and the darkness of the early morning, just a matter of time before the sun would begin to rise, made you whisper. 

Daryl’s chin lifted towards the distant horizon, where the first sliver of dawn slowly parted the darkness of night to give in to the pale light of morning. 

“He said we’d meet here at first light. Should be any moment now.” 

Daryl’s mind drifted elsewhere. Last night’s events had left him with a whirlwind of emotions and revelations. Negan’s death brought with it the triumph of war, the splendor of victory that he knew well from practically a lifetime of battle. And with war came the inevitable grief of countless lives lost. Daryl’s thoughts lingered on the duke, the prince, and the rogue Savior who’d helped them. He wondered if they’d made it out of the dungeon alive. 

And when those thoughts gave way to the realization that, within only a matter of time, you would return to the arms of your father, and no longer would you be his. The king would never understand your love for each other. Why should he, anyway? Daryl was of lowly birth, even if he was a knight. As much as he wanted to believe King Ezekiel would allow him to marry you, he knew he was more likely to end up headless at the mere suggestion. 

As he held you now, and as he knew you in the most sacred passions of love that you had shared, you were not just a princess, but his princess. When you were away from him, the world around you blissfully unaware of the truth, you were just a princess. Not his, at least as far as the world was concerned. Despite all logic, he knew there would need to be a time when the love between you was not hidden in the shadows of the forest. 

Daryl’s pensiveness was not lost on you now. You felt him cling tighter to you as he looked off into the distance, a heaviness in his face. Your hand caressed his cheek with enough pressure to bring his attention back to you. His expression became lighter by just a tad, but whatever plagued his thoughts was still lingering. 

“What is it, my love?” 

“Nothing, I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if to rid himself of these worries. “I wish  we had more time.”

Where there was once a look of concern blossomed a sweet smile that was almost potent enough to make him forget your father altogether. 

“We always have time. We will make time, like we always have.”

But in your heart, you knew what he meant, and you felt the same. How long could you go on like this, hiding your love from your father? Escaping into the woods to consummate your love in secret? For as much as you loved him, and as sure as you were that your heart belonged to no one else, you were not sure how you could keep your love a secret much longer.

Still, the time would come when you could tell your father. You were sure of that. 

“You told me that you’d marry me,” you whispered, lips fluttering against the soft hairs of his cheek. “You said someday, you’d marry me. And a knight always keeps his promise, especially to his lady.”

The knight let out a huff, then soon found himself nuzzled into the warmth of your hair, where memories of every moment spent in your company curled around his face in a deep, honey-scented embrace. 

“Someday,” he murmured. “I promise you, my princess.”

When his lips touched yours, he felt your tremble against the cold. He pulled the cloak from his back to swing it around you and wrap you in a woolen cocoon. Pulling you ever closer, your chest was heated by the fire that seemed to perpetually burn in his. Another longer, deeper kiss, then a smile shared between the two of you.

“Perhaps one day, I will be your queen.”

His warm hands rubbed your back in steady motions as his eyes traced dreamily over your face, each curve and crevice and color another feature he would keep to memory for in those moments when he could not hold you. He wanted for nothing in this moment—everything he could’ve dreamt of wanting was here, in the shape of you.

“You are my queen.”

A new heat rouged your cheeks and ignited your heart. To be his queen seemed to be the greatest height you could ever reach, if only it meant you were the queen of his heart. 

Dawn stained the sky with rich hues of rosy orange and dusty violet as you fell into another kiss, though your lips would be torn away by the distant sound of clopping hooves coming closer beyond the horizon. Not just a handful, but nearly hundreds. 

But the fearful flutter in your heart soon subsided as the blue flag of Alexandria raised above the militia, their silhouettes coming into view. They were led in triumph by the king, flanked on either side by Duke Richard, and one man you did not recognize—Prince Jesus of Hilltop. In your father’s hand was the chain that leashed his mighty companion, Shiva. They were victorious, and no more would you fear Negan, nor walkers, nor death itself. Not when your knight was near. 

Not even death could tear you from him, and as you held his gaze, you felt a calmness overcome you—a relief, as though you knew that everything, somehow, would be all right. 

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist

#daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x reader insert #daryl dixon #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead smut #the walking dead fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #norman reedus smut #norman reedus x female reader #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #norman reedus x you #norman reedus x y/n #norman reedus x reader insert #merciless beauty series #theteasetwrites fanfiction

[kodamafc]

Had to give my thoughts on this chapter as it was a real turning-point in Yashiro and Doumeki's relationship. It's all still incredibly messy and complicated, but I think we can all agree at least, that the relationship between the two of them has changed irrevocably for the better. 

Doumeki was brilliant in this chapter. He pushed and pushed. He was not leaving without an admission from Yashiro of his feelings and he got it. But he knew where the line was the whole time: 'The body chemistry is mutual'. Lightly worded, but his face in the previous panel! Doumeki is a man of very few facial expressions and here his pain and repressed feeling is written all over him. But he doesn't want to spook Yashiro with the weight of it. I've got no doubt that if it was up to him he'd want to tell Yashiro he was beautiful and how much he loves him over and over again, but he can't do that and is smart enough to know it. But the most important thing is he knows now that Yashiro has real feelings for him and there's no going back now. Yashiro will be his priority going forward, come what may. And what may come I'm sure is going to be very difficult to navigate with all the other story lines around them. 

Yashiro is brilliant and brave in this chapter. He lets Doumeki know where his behaviour has upset him. I predict Doumeki will never speak to him harshly again. It's the most open we've ever seen Yashiro. His face during the 'confession'... there's lots of different interpretations of what Yashiro says and means here. My rose tinted interpretation. Isn't he essentially saying: 'I like the way you do it/I want what only you can give'? It's certainly what he gets, at least. Doumeki is all passion and gentleness from here on. I feel like the message was received. Because now we see Doumeki doing things the way he wants to. He just wants to worship Yashiro's body. That's the kind of sex he wants and it seems to me Yashiro gives his permission. 

As for the end, again I feel so optimistic. Yashiro's face when Doumeki replies to his question of what kind of sex they are having is ambiguous for sure. So I might be way off here. But look at how Doumeki looks at him after he tells him it's just sex. Again, he's a man of few expressions and yet here he is so intense. And then a slow lean in towards Yashiro. And the tongues touching, a handshake of sorts. And Yashiro likes it. I think Doumeki played it perfectly and Yashiro was reassured. It allows Yashiro to take the next baby step. He can't suddenly play the part of a loving boyfriend, it's a role he's never had before. Where to start? This is better for them. A perfect first step towards whatever next. 

I'm probably way off on all of this but felt the need to put it out there. Love reading all your thoughts and thank you @itwearsadress for the translation. I would wash your feet in gratitude 😆

And lastly a few favourite moments. Yashiro's face after Doumeki swallows made me laugh out loud. Especially the second panel. 

And the way they are wrapped around each other when Yashiro is against the wall and Doumeki has him in his mouth. Yashiro's arm wrapped around and gripping Doumeki's head and the other around his shoulder. And Doumeki's hand wrapped around Yashiro's leg and the other... And the way they are curled around each other. So pretty.

#saezuru #saezuru tori wa habatakanai

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

sunflower, chapter nine

summary: after Y/n freaks out because Spencer got injured on a case, he just wants her to understand that he’s okay…

warnings:  references to 9x18, realisation of love, injured Spencer, kissing, crying, fingering, (comforting) dirty talk

word count: 1885

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

previous chapter - series masterlist - next chapter

You were on your way back up the stairs from your great adventure to see if there was any mail in your post-box. There wasn’t. But your trek up the steps was slowed down a bit by the distraction of a funny text from your sibling. Being too caught up in typing out your reply, you didn’t notice the figures that had caught up to you.

“Hi, Y/n!” you looked up to see Spencer, not in his usual choice of clothing, but instead in a red hoodie, some small navy shorts, and as a cherry on top, a matching sweatband around his head. Dare you say, he looked athletic today.

“Spencer, hey! You look,” trying and failing not to laugh, “great! I didn’t know it was casual Friday at the FBI headquarters today.”

“Oh, no, I just had to do a fit test,” his voice went up slightly at the end, making it almost sound like a question.

“A fit test? I would have loved to see that.”

“Yeah, pretty boy did about how you’d expect,” a man you hadn’t noticed till now interjected. He was helping a wobbly blonde woman up the last few steps, before turning to her with a smirk, “you did amazing though.”

“Aw, thank you, Derek, I’d hope so because I’m gonna be so sore tomorrow,” then looking to you and perking up a bit, “Oh, hello! Reid, who’s your friend?”

“Um, this is Y/n.” sounding a bit unsure of how to introduce you.

Trying to help, you added nervously, “I’m his neighbour.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed slowly, “she’s my, neighbour.”

“Well, I’m Derek Morgan, this is Penelope Garcia, we work with him,” the man named Morgan reached out his hand to you, “it’s nice to meet you, Y/n.”

Shanking both of their hands, you smiled politely, “it’s nice to meet you too.”

“You are just too cute! And this dress is amazing, where did you get it?” Garcia complimented.

Looking down at yourself, “I, um, actually don’t really remember. It’s really old.”

“Well, point still stands, you look gorgeous.”

Giving a tight-lipped smile, “thanks.”

Almost like a Freudian slip, Spencer agreed quietly, “yeah, you look really pretty today,” catching his eye, your smile grew more genuine.

“Um,” Morgan looked between the two of you, “baby girl, how about we leave these two lovebirds alone?”

“Sure, let’s go,” she agreed with a smirk, “see you tomorrow, boy genius!”

“Yeah, see you,” he replied, and then they left the two of you alone in the hallway.

“Do you wanna come in?” he asked, “I was gonna take a shower, but you can come in if you want.” Nodding, you followed him inside.

Almost as soon as you heard the door close, his lips were on yours, catching a quick kiss, “hey,” he whispered.

You were about to reply when your face fell. Being too distracted before by the way he was dressed, you had failed to notice the small cuts and bruises on his face, “what happened?” your voice shook slightly from the worry.

“What?” he asked, not knowing what you meant.

Lightly grabbing his face to inspect, “you’re hurt!”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not! What happened?”

“It was nothing. Just got a few superficial cuts and bruises on the last case,” he explained, trying to calm you.

“Superficial? That does not look superficial!” you yelled, not noticing the few tears that had rolled down your cheeks.

“Y/n, I’m okay,” he reassured, reaching out for you, but you shrugged him off.

“Why did you do a fit test while injured? What if you just aggravated something?”

“I didn’t, I promise I’m fine.”

“How do I know you’re not just putting on a brave face?” you accused, “you might have a broken rib or something, and you’re just not telling me!”

“You want me to prove it to you?” grabbing onto your wrist, he pulled you into the bathroom. Opening a cabinet below the sink, he pulled out a first aid kit, “here, you can help me, see for yourself, I’m okay.”

Agreeing, you sat him down on the edge of the tub and took off the colourful band around his head. Starting with the cut on his right brow, you carefully removed the two steri-strips, crumbling them up and placing them on the sink.

Placing a finger under his chin, you turned his head to inspect the bruise on his cheek, and to detect if there were any other injuries to his face. Not finding any other, you let go and motioned down to his torso, “can I?” you sniffled. Nodding, he raised his arms, letting you peel the hoodie and the white t-shirt he wore under it off.

He was very much okay under there. But still, you reached out and touched him with a cold hand just to be sure. After a few moments of your poking and prodding, he caught your darting eyes, “see, I’m alright.”

Lip quivering, you pulled him to you, hugging him tightly, not even caring that his face went straight into your boobs.

“You really scared me,” you sobbed.

Stocking his palms up and down your back, “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t ever do that again,” you mumbled into his hair.

“I’ll do my best.”

For minutes he just hugged you back, letting you squeeze him as tightly as you need to understand that he was broken, whispering repeatedly into your skin that he was okay.

You really liked him. Like, really really liked him. The thought of him being injured was obviously a terrifying thought to you, but why did it scare you this much?

He was hurt, how could you make it better? How could you make him feel better? He placed a few gentle kisses on your collarbone, and you suddenly noticed just how naked his upper body was in your arms. And then, an idea popped into your head.

Lowering yourself onto your knees in front of him, you cradled his head in your hands and kissed him deeply. Parting, you whispered against his lips, “let me make it better, let me help you feel good.”

Letting go of his face, you let your hands fall to his thighs, rubbing them lightly, slowly moving further up. “Y/n, you don’t-“ his sentence was cut short when your hand met his already half-erect dick.

Palming him gently through his shorts you pleated, “please, I want to,” you felt his dick twitch at your words, rapidly growing completely hard, “please Spencer.”

His eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a low moan, the sound making you rub your thighs together for some form of relief. Then, almost shaking it off, he caught your wrist, “no.”

“What? Do you not want me to?”

“No, no, I do, I just-, you don’t have to,”

“But I want to. I wanna make it better.”

“Y/n, you don’t have to do that to make me feel better,” he tugged some of your loose hair behind your ears, “how can I make you see that I’m alright?” then pulled you towards him and began littering your face with kisses.

Getting up from the cold tile floor, he pulled you with him, running his hand down your body as you caught his lips with your own. Backing you up, you bumped against the sink, making your lips part, and letting a small gasp out. Lifting you up, with surprising ease, he settled you onto the counter, parting your legs and settling himself in between them.

Kissing your neck, he ran his soft fingers up your thighs, thus pushing your dress up with it.

“Please let me do this,” he whispered, “let me prove to you that I’m okay.”

Pulling back to see your answer, you looked into his dark eyes, knowing what it was he was asking for permission to do, you bit your lip and nodded nervously.

Letting out a whimper, you squirmed slightly as his hand came into contact with your covered center. Your lips parted as he rubbed his fingers up and down, using a little extra pressure every time he brushed over your clit.

You grabbed onto the edge of the counter, “let me know, at any time, if you want me to stop, okay?” he breathed out, “you’re in full control here.”

Quickly nodding again, you reclaimed his lips, and he dipped his fingers under the waistband of your underwear, groaning into the kiss as he felt how soaked you already were. Drawing tight circles around your clit, you pulled away from his lips with a whimper.

Holding you close, he whispered, “I’m okay, Y/n. I’m right here.”

You then felt his fingers move up and down your slit but always ending each motion with a teasing touch to your clit. After doing it an agonizing number of times, he finally plunged his middle finger inside of you, making you moan.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he cooed, pushing his digit in and out of you at a slow pace. Releasing your grip on the sink, you clutched onto his biceps for support.

Adding his ring finger to the party, stroking your walls, and curling them slightly, he planted a hand in the roots of your hair and kept his lips right at your ear. “I’m okay, I’m right here with you. Trust me when I say, you make me feel so safe. Even if I was seriously hurt, just having near me takes all my pain away.”

Bringing his thumb up to stimulate your clit, your eyes struggled to stay open, giving in, you let them flutter to a shut. “You take my pain away, Y/n, I’m okay.”

In that rapturous moment, it surprised you what you had to stop yourself from blurting out. You didn’t just like him. If you just liked him, seeing him hurt like that wouldn’t have been so painful for you. You didn’t like him. You loved him. You loved Spencer Reid. That was all you wanted to respond with to his wonderful, sweet words. Instead, you just buried your head in the crook of his neck and let out a string of pornographic sounds as you road out your orgasm.

“I would do anything for you,” he groaned in your ear.

Hips jerking from the high, Spencer retracted his didges from your throbbing pussy. Keeping yourself close to him, you just stayed there a moment, trying to catch your breath. He wrapped his arms around you, hugging you even closer. Fuck, you loved this man.

“Hey,” he pulled back, “are you okay?”

Looking up into his eyes, you hummed in response. God, he was pretty. Standing there, studying your face. When he was certain that you were in fact alright, he smiled and brought his fingers, the very same fingers that had just been inside of you, up to his mouth and started sucking them clean. The sight honestly made you a little dizzy.

Pulling them out with a small pop, he asked, “do you understand now that I’m just fine?”

Biting your lip, you nodded, and then your eyes flicked down to his shorts, then up into his eyes again.

“Do you-,” you breathed out, “want me to…?” making a discreet motion towards his neither region.

“No,” he said calmly, with a warm smile, “I’m okay, trust me.”

next chapter

© 2022 thyme-in-a-bubble 

#sunflower #lea’s writing #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid series #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader smut

[xximpressions]

Raging Fire (6)

Daemon Targaryen x Velaryon!reader

Series Summary: Your Uncle has betrothed you to the King's brother, and when you meet, you are not at all what he expects.

Chapter Summary: The truth is revealed

Word Count: 1,710

A/N: Hi guys! I could tell we were all a little impatient to find out what happens next, so I've decided to put an end to the wait 😁I hope I get to hear your thoughts on this chapter! It'll help me figure out how I want to continue the story 😘

Previous | Next

House of the Dragon Masterlist

____________________________________________________________

A hush fell over the crowd as the doors to the throne room opened loudly.

When everyone turned to face the entrance, they were greeted by the sight of you and your husband walking in proudly.

You each paused in your steps as you took in all the eyes that were on you. Having never minded being the center of attention, you could only allow a secretive smile to grace your lips as you noticed you had the focus of the entire room.

Daemon was no different as a similar smirk grew on his face before he offered you his arm.

After taking it, you both moved in sync as you began to walk with confident determination toward the front of the room.

Upon reaching the King who was sat on the throne, you let go of the Prince’s arm as you stood less than a foot’s width apart.

Viserys only allowed the quiet to remain in the room a moment longer before finally saying,

“Brother, what is the meaning of this?”

As a show of respect, Daemon bowed his head before speaking.

“My King, we come before you with grave news.”

Looking you both over, Viserys sounded concerned when he said,

“What news causes you and your wife to appear at court as if you were heading into war?”

It was a valid question since you both were dressed in varying degrees of light armor with weapons in hand. Daemon’s rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword while yours held the curve of your bow.

Your husband’s answer was foreboding as he replied,

“News that will surely lead to a battle.”

When the King’s concern turned into confusion, he chose to say,

“Talk plainly, for I have no desire to decipher any of your riddles today.”

And though he had been addressing your husband, you were the one to announce,

“There is a traitor amoung us, your Majesty.”

As your voice carried throughout the room, the nobility and courtiers in attendance began to murmur amongst themselves since news of a traitor was no small matter.

When they fell quiet again at Viserys’ command, he proceeded to ask,

“What do you speak of?”

Taking a few measured steps forward, the Prince began to explain.

“As we all know, our new Princess bravely took an arrow that was meant for me.”

Looking back at you, he said,

“And I will forever be grateful to my good Lady wife for doing so.”

Flashing him a small smile, you watched as your husband returned his gaze to his brother.

“But that does not negate the fact that she was harmed in what we know was a planned attack against me.”

Beginning a slow pace, Daemon continued his explanation by saying,

“The only way the shooter would have known that we were traveling to the town square that day was if someone told him about it beforehand.” 

The Prince’s voice was direr as he assertively said,

“There was only one person, other than myself and you, your Highness, who knew we were going to take that exact route since they were the one to plan the trip.”

Furthering his point, your husband said,

“And in planning the trip, they knew they were planning my demise.”

Locking eyes with the traitor, Daemon finished by saying,

“Is that not right, Lord Hightower?”

With the accusation made, scandalized gasps filled the room as the Lord in question glared daggers at the Prince.

The King looked at his brother as he said,

“Those are serious allegations, Daemon.”

With a deceivingly calm shrug, your husband responded,

“Well he committed a serious crime, Brother.”

Hearing a scoff of disbelief, your eyes landed on the man who held the title of ‘Hand’ as he began to speak with impassivity.

“My King, these are baseless claims. They have no proof to support what they accuse me of.”

Smirking, you were all too happy to contradict him as you said,

“Well, we do have the shooter.”

Having had his eyes on the King, you took great pleasure in the way the despicable man’s head snapped toward you as your words reached him.

Calling for the guards, you all turned to watch as the assassin was dragged into the room with two knights on either side of him.

Basically being held up by the stoic guards as the chains around his wrists and ankles weighed him down, the captive was dropped to his knees when his arms were unceremoniously let go upon reaching the foot of the throne.

Leaning forward in his seated position at this new development, Viserys took note of the man’s ragged appearance before asking in a demanding tone,

“Did you attempt to end the life of my brother, Prince Daemon?”

Having already accepted his fate, the man simply nodded his head while keeping his eyes down.

When the King asked for the reason behind his actions, the assassin licked his lips and replied in a hollow voice,

“Because, I was contracted to kill him.”

And then sneered out as an afterthought,

“But the bitch got in the way.”

Before anyone could react, you used the hand that was not holding your bow to throw a swift punch at his face.

When he collapsed to the ground after taking such a hit, you simply motioned for the guards to heave him back up to his knees before looking down your nose at him and saying with venom,

“You will show respect, or you will feel my wrath.”

Jerking his head in a quick nod to show he understood, the menace called a man dropped his eyes to the floor in submission once again.

After giving you an impressed look, Viserys finally asked the question that your audience wanted to know the answer to.

“And who was it that contracted you?”  

This time, your captive did not speak. But he did allow his eyes to land on the person who had promised to pay him handsomely, and neither you nor your husband were surprised to find his gaze had fallen on Lord Hightower.

Knowing that this was slowly becoming a losing battle, Otto declared with a note of urgency,

“This is mere hearsay, your Majesty! I still see no proof other than the word of a killer.”

Having expected to hear such a rebuttal, Daemon was calm as he held up a small object. 

With a triumphant smirk, he said,

“Missing something, Hightower?”

That is when Otto and the King realized the object he was holding up was the gold lapel pin of the Hand.

Eyes widening at such a reveal, the Lord felt a cold sweat break out on his neck as he realized why he had not been able to find the damn thing.

You picked up where your husband had left off and explained,

“That pin was retrieved from the home of the assassin by members of the Kingsguard. He freely admitted that he stole it the night he was hired to kill the Prince which proves the only person that could be responsible for the assassination attempt is Lord Hightower.”

The King turned his head to look at his most trusted advisor and asked with disbelief,

“Is this true?”

And since Otto could say no words, his silence spoke volumes.

As his treachery finally sunk into everyone’s minds, you heard the young Queen quietly say with devastation,

“Father, what have you done?”

With every eye in the room on him, you all watched as his put-together facade fell apart.

“I did what was necessary for our family!” His voice exploded. “I did what was required to ensure it was our blood that ascended the throne!”

The deluded passion he was speaking with made his chest heave as his nostrils flared with unsuppressed rage.

“I did what needed to be done so that there were no other claims to the Kingdom.”

Furious, Viserys stood up as he all but shouted,

“Rhaenyra is my heir! You know that!”

“And Aegon is your first-born son! The throne rightfully belongs to him!”

And it was with that statement that you knew he had sealed his fate.

Because even if the King did not believe in the charges you levied against the Hand, for him to declare that he was trying to change the line of succession was a blatant act of treason that could not be ignored.

So after a quiet moment where he decided what to do, Viserys eventually announced in a solemn voice,

“Lord Hightower, you are hereby to be executed for the crimes of sedition, attempted murder, and treason come first light tomorrow.”

The tense silence that followed the King’s declaration was broken when Otto let out an enraged yell while pulling out a dagger from his belt. His attempt to rush your husband was thwarted when, in a flash, you had an arrow drawn, knocked, and shot into his shoulder in the exact same spot his assassin’s arrow had hit you.

Walking over to him in an unhurried fashion after the impact caused him to hit the floor, you proceeded to stand over him as you calmly said,

“Remember this tomorrow. Remember that it was a woman who bested you. Remember that it was a woman who kept you from succeeding.” 

Smirking down at him, you said, 

“And remember that it will be a woman who will ensure that Rhaenyra succeeds.”

Feeling your husband’s presence join you in standing over the pitiful creature, your smile turned ruthless when he said to the defeated lord,

“Your memory will be forgotten and you will fade to nothing.” Giving him a grin that was just as callous as yours, he happily stated, “It will be like you never existed.”

Whether from the pain of your arrow or from the sting of your words, tears welled in the condemned man’s eyes. But you did not care as you gestured for the guards to pick him up off the floor and escort him to the dungeons.

As the crowd behind you started to discuss the drama that had just finished unfolding, you turned toward Daemon as he turned toward you.

Locking eyes, you each became engulfed in a sense of victory as the threat that had loomed over you was finally vanquished.

Previous | Next

____________________________________________________________

Taglist: @filhadezeus2k21 | @teenagephilosophersandwich | @cleverzonkwombatsludge | @lollypopcrazylover | @ayamenimthiriel | @asexualaromosafezone | @omgsuperstarg | @novavida | @ex-nihillo | @moonlexx8 | @ephemeralninon | @justaproudslytherpuff | @qardasngan | @sweetybuzz25 | @joniinoj | @faatxma | @scarlettqueen190 | @thatgaytevinter | @smptxx | @remuslupinwifee | @vexedvalerie | @wonder-maximoff | @thriving-n-jiving | @huntycola | @23victoria | @budugu | @gxlden-honey

#daemon targaryen #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targeryen x oc #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x black!reader

[sprainedwriting]

where are you? (i don’t want to die alone) 3

all might x child! reader

chapter 1 ; chapter 2

tags/cw: child neglect, slight self harm, unhealthy coping mechanisms, VERY unrealistic everything

read on ao3 for better formatting + tagging

when you turn up on time to your first class, your friends seem relieved. ah, you nearly forgot, since its the 20 year anniversary for your school, the students will hold a cultural festival. there will be a concert, dancing performances and food.

you don’t perform on stage, especially not in-front of huge groups of people. your stage fright was too severe. still, you will spend the day helping to set up everything. being the man behind the scene and everything.

right now you were behind the gymnasium with your best friend, he was rolling a cigarette for himself. you were too paranoid to smoke, what if your voice changed too much and everyone ends up hating it?

leaning against the wall, you finished telling him of your crazy morning. he was the only one who knows who your father is. not because you told him, but because all might barged into your apartment and revealed his own secret identity. you don’t know how that could have happened, because you extra texted him AND left a message on his voice mail. who would have thought, he didn’t answer and screwed himself up.

the gymnasium is painted in a graffiti style, the new first years alway re paint it. a few years ago your group project was presented for everyone to see. now, it is buried under layers and layers of paint. even though the wall has been painted again and again, it still had a rough texture. your finger glided across it, nervously.

“…when’s your birthday anyways?” he asked, while patting his pockets, searching for his lighter.

scowling at him, you pressed your finger harder against the rough surface. your finger was starting to become raw.

“dude, that’s like the least important information in the whole world you could ask for.” reaching into your pant pocket, you pull out a lighter and give it to him. he quickly thanks you.

“it’s important to me! mmm, what’s your zodiac sign?”

sighing, you rub your forehead. you made sure not to tell the birthday story, yet. if someone congratulated you for your birthday you would start crying at this point. you straightened up when you heard voices coming close towards you. your best friend puts his cigarette out against the wall and puts it in his hoodie pocket. he stepped towards you, trying to look who was coming.

of course it had to be class 1a with their two teachers. so they were able to make it. with them was the director, giving them a tour of the campus. ugh you can never catch a break. you have to think fast, do you leave as quickly as possible or stay?

thank god you’re not a hero, so you don’t need to be brave and face uncomfortable situations!

“..i’m running, bro.”

“huh? wait..!”

before you could really think everything through, you started sprinting. not too far, just to put some distance between you and them. after a few seconds you slowed down and looked over your shoulder. the group just rounded the corner. quickly looking ahead again, you decided to walk towards the main building, since your next classes will be there. while you walked, you ignored the feeling of being watched.

________________________

end of the day, somewhat.

while your classes did end, it didn’t mean you could go home yet to rot away in your room. since today was the anniversary of your school, your job is to prepare the stage, so others can perform.

you aren’t late for the preparations! which is a blessing in disguise. right now you’re behind the stage, stashing away your bag.

“…so that’s why the hero class is here.” someone explained, a first year.

immediately perking up at the mention of hero class, you asked,

“why are they here?”

“ugh! dude, i explained it, like, 100 times already! they are here to play through like a boomb threat scenario. you know, since hero work also includes assisting during terrorism threats.” you knew if you were not an upperclassman, they probably would have refused to answer. children.

nodding your head at the explanation, you straightened your back and sighed. maybe you could fake sick…nah. gotta pull through.

massaging your temples you simply tried to focus on breathing.

“they will leave before the perfomances tho! they hid like a secret paper cut out somewhere. they also are not allowed to disturb us. so don’t worry, senpai!”

“well at least it is something. image how annoying it would be if they, like, were around us all the time…annoying like flies, man.” with those words you left backstage area. stepping into the stage was, maybe, not your best move.

the class, with their teachers (because why would they ever need to be independent) stood infront of the stage. at least they were no on here with you and a few others. you diged your thumb nail into your raw finger. the pain should ground you.

“ah! yagi! you know, our school was able to bring out not only small starts, but also a few big ones.” she winked at you.

schooling your face to stay neutral, you could hear a few whispers from the students. of course they remembered your face from the morning. that was some wild shit you pulled there. jesus.

“oi! aren’t you the one from the train station?!” called someone out.

furrowing your brows at the question, and thanking yourself for taking that action class as a joke, you answered in monotone voice, “huh? no, sorry. i have never seen you guys before, in my life. i swear on my fathers life.”

and then you smiled at them, brightly. fuckers.

what the hell are you supposed to say? yes? no way. why did you even do that. are you mentally unwell or something? …maybe it is some time for self reflexion.

turning around and scanning the stage, you make a mental note on what was missing. the piano was already there, thankfully. speakers, microphones, the drum set, amplifiers, the lights have to be tuned. and and and and.

much to do, with not a lot of time to spare. is the piano even tuned properly? ugh.

fucking back off back stage, you decided on starting with the lights and speakers, since you aren’t sure on what kind of perform order there is. not everyone needs microphones, but everyone needs lights.

“ayo! do we have anyone on the lights yet?” you called out. the answer came fast with a solid no.

thank god, you have a job. taking out your phone, you checked you text messages. your friends were not here yet. those traitors, tell you to be punctual but can’t do that themselves.

while you send out text messages, you could hear hushed whisper in the background.

“hello there! kid, which i have never meet before! could you assist me?”

great.

#all might x reader #bnha toshinori #yagi x reader #toshinori x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha angst #angst #mha x reader #mha angst

[daze4all]

A Fox’s illusory Trick: Kitsune! Reader x Inazuma

When the Last Thunder Sakura Petal Falls Series

Synopsis: The editor of Yae Publishing Company is tricked into leaving the safety of her nest by her sister and boss Yae Miko to partake in the irodori festival to cosplay as Miss Hina and catches the eye of fans and the original Miss Hina.  

Tags: Miss Hina Cosplay, Romance, Fluff & Angst, Hikkomori Reader

Reader: Kitsune sister of Yae Miko. Hikkomori Reader. Fear of Storms (Astraphobia), Editor of Yae publishing company. Miss Hina Cosplayer. PTSD. Makoto’s familiar fox

Kitsune! Sister to Yae Miko Reader : named Yin (for y/n you or reader)

Next Up:

The Real Miss Hina – Yin meets fellow Miss Hina fan, Itto and Miss Hina herself as  Gorou

Lessons at the Camellia Kamisato House: Yin Meets the host of festival and is invited to flower arranging, dance lessons, and tea with Ayaka and Ayato

Chapter 1: A Fox’s illusory Trick

Yae Miko & Sister Reader (Platonic though slight Sister complex Yae Miko)

Comforted during the storm & dressed up by Yae Miko as Miss Hina 

Dear Miss Hina, 

I love stories. Stories were safe. They could build a world with just a few words and carry off to faraway places. However, recently my sister wished me to get my mind out of stories and step outside. 

However, the outside world is so scary with all the fighting and thunder. I have been inside for so long since the war started that I find it hard to go out. 

Sometimes I freeze up when I so much as I try to even take a step outside and retreat to the comfort of my bedroom to cover myself with blankets and sleep the day away. 

Sincerely 

Bed Bug

---

Dear Bed Bug,

I too enjoy stories and change can be scary. Taking the first step outside would be a good place to start. 

Then staying outside longer enjoying the breeze smelling the fresh air and enjoying the scenery might help. Slow but surely start exploring places you feel safe in or places not crowded like the countryside. 

Perhaps with a friend before taking on the city. When facing the future be brave and believe you can do it. Now with the war over there is so much to look forward to as we rebuild and move forward!

Have you ever wanted to visit the places you yearn for in a storybook? That may be obtainable now that the Sakoku decree ended. Change may be scary but see it as writing your own story. 

Sincerely, 

Miss Hina

---

Her hands shook reading her reply. Trying to well up the courage to do as the note suggested she had done all the steps, but the city was her last challenge. 

Shutting her eyes tightly she whispered fiercely to herself as if praying for the courage to 

“Just step outside. Just step outside. Then you can see the city and maybe even meet Miss Hina! That’s all you want right after-“

BOOOM FLASH 

Lightning split the sky and she trembled dropping the letter. It was just weather but she was still afraid after all this time. Silly, she should know that Miko’s shrine was the center of storms due to the proximity of the sakura thundertree. 

Still, her voice broke off at the thunderclap. Memories of battles and fallen forms flitting behind her lids leaving her to cower. 

Her thoughts began to skitter cowardly in the other direction. 

“Stay in the temple and Yae can keep you safe.” A warm hand caressed her the last reassuring caress she would feel from her…

Wait just a bit longer for the one who will lift the storm to return and tell you what to do next.

But you know what she would say right?

“Worthless weak pathetic” A figure embracing a fallen form spat at her.

 A familiar voice in her nightmare ever since she fell. 

She had let her go without her- She let her master fall. She could have stopped- 

These thoughts had her in a vice grip as the storm raged leaving her to dash for the safety of next built up with soft blankets and pillow to muffle the storm. Her trembling fluffy ears poked out from under the coverlet of the kotatsu. 

She heard soft padding across the bamboo floor of the temple and stinks of jewelry. She looked up to see the miko skirt and sandals of Yae Miko. The rustle of heavy expensive silk hit her ears as the priestess knelt to face her and peeled back the blanket enough to meet her gaze.

“Oh dear not again I thought we were over this stage” Yae tsked at the huddled bundle as she approached. Her face was concerned and compassionate as this was her sister. Yae Miko made a soft soothing sound to coax her sister from the cover and stop her shivering. “shhhh” she stroked her sister’s ears comfortingly. 

“Ei has already forgiven you and she left Euthymia long ago. You too should leave the safety of your nest now the storm has passed“ reasoned Yae once the worst of the trembling has subsided from her sister form. Outside the storm had lulled to a calming drizzle. 

Yae’s glance wandered to the open door where the wind was blowing and she plucked the abandoned letter before it fluttered out of the sliding doors. 

“I saw your letter. Sister you wish to meet Miss Hina, and go out and socialize yes? Why I have the perfect solution!” Miko tapped the edge of the letter to her lips as a wicked smile slowly spread over the fox lady’s features.

“You do know, I own Yae publishing house? Yae’s sickly sweet vice enticed. The perking up of her sister's ears pleased her. 

“Of course, I work for it after all as an editor” cautiously ventured her sister unsure if she wanted to be involved with her sister’s schemes. 

“So, you’ll be happy to help out at one of the promotional events yes?” said Yea with the sly smile of a cat that had caught its prey. Her shadow fell over her sister. 

Lightning flashed across the sky sending the sister scuttering back into her nest of her covers “What no!” She cried face paling at the thought of socializing making friends and losing them again….

“I cannot keep coddling you,” said Yae in a decided tone at the shivering huddled bundle with fox ears twitched to the oncoming thunderous booms. Her sisters face a fright at the oncoming idea of socializing in a city. 

“You will go to the irodori festival. Dressed as Miss Hina~!” Declared Miko with a sly smile who had decided to impose upon her sister this task for the sake of socializing and better business prospects. 

Several days later at the irodori festival, the kitsune found herself made up, trussed up, and fit into a green kimono lined with white, gold, and black accents. a tied tight with yellow. 

Her eyes were lined in red, and her ears transformed a warm brown complete with a bushy brown tail courtesy of her sister’s kitsune magic. A stronger spell than she could break on her own. 

“Miss Hina won't be happy having someone l-like me dressing up at her what if she presses charges” She said as she teetered in Geta sandals having not worn such high ones in a while.

Don’t worry about that, I’ll tell you a secret miss Hina does not look exactly like this said Yae Miko with a twinkle in her eye as patted down the blush and did her eyebrows 

What? Then what does she look 

“Let’s make a deal you can stop say… when you find the real miss Hina ~, “ Miko said as she applied the rouge to her lips with precise strokes. 

Tilting her chin this way and that to do her sister’s makeup.

"b-but to that" stuttered Yin in protest.

“Precisely it will be good practice for you” chirped Miko as she patted her cheek in mocked concern after finishing up the cosmetics. 

“Please Yae, let’s stop this,” said her sister suddenly feeling fear at the thought of socializing sluice through her suddenly. 

“Oh, dear you look so upset, how about I give you a hint: she leaned down to brush the shell and whispered “You see Miss Hina is not her but him ~” 

Yin sat frozen in shock digesting the news. 

“ Yin, the world is yours explore you just need to take the first step~!” sang Yae Miko mischievously before she got up from the bench, parted the curtains of the tent, and revealed the thronging crowds.

“Wait! Sister!” Yin reached out but in vain as Miko slipped out of the curtained book booth. 

---

Kitsune! Sister to Yae Miko Reader : Yin (for y/n you or reader)

A kitsune kin with a talent in transformation & illusions but no vision to speak of.

Dreams of peaceful world under protection of the Raiden shogun and Yae Miko

 

She was more outgoing and playful among friends lost to the past. But became fearful and reserved her trigger being storms for it the last thing she heard when Makoto left her. She has ptsd and trauma from all her friends being dead being trapped in euthymia for so long (probably same as Ei).

Timid, polite and shy she not a fighter but a helper she used her abilities to hide during the archon wars and to hide villages from the fighting.

Her master was the previous Raiden shogun Makoto who she failed to stop from going to khaenriah when she knew her master’s plans thus inviting Ei's ire and grief after Makoto fell in kheanriah.

At one point Yin was stuck in the plane of euthymia for too long to dream of bygone picnics with her lost kitsune, tengu, ogre, and her master as punishment or her own accord but is released by time the war ends.

#genshin impact #genshin impact oc #Genshin Thunder Sakura Series #genshin yae #yae miko #yae miko x reader #yae miko sister #kitsune oc #miss hina #genshin impact ms hina #genshin gorou #genshin itto #genshin ayato

[justallihere]

I was doing so well until Violet’s constant stream of “sorry” 😭😭😭😭 aetos you raggedy bitch, leave my (and Xaden’s) baby alone!!!!!!!!!

Xaden on a warpath is so HOT. WHEW. Violet you are a stronger woman than I will ever be because I would fold like a lawn chair for that man.

Is it bad that all I could think about was Xaden getting his physical touch privileges back 😭 this is a true slow burn because I am feral for a simple glance and hand touch

Cam being in Aretia is concerning me because what if the higher ups at Navarre spin a story to the citizens that Xaden used the wyverns as a distraction to take the prince hostage and they declare war. They’ll never admit to torturing Violet Sorrengail for 5 days but they will spin the narrative that justifies their reaction. I’m so nervous for the political implications. Hopefully Lilith tells Tauri I think tf not you trick ass bitch

I think about this story an unhealthy amount. I have never recommended fanfiction before because it feels so personal but I would legitimately recommend this to everyone in my life. Can’t wait for the next chapter!!💞

The moment of Xaden feeling/hearing Violet was actually the last thing I wrote for this chapter. When I wrote it I was like “oh fuck they’re gonna kill me” 😭

I don’t think we’ve seen Xaden this angry yet?? Violet getting stabbed was close maybe but ugh. Murderous Xaden is so fucking hot

Xaden and Violet will touch next chapter!!! And all the chapters after!!! You’re gonna have to pry his dead body away from his wife if you want him to not touch her after this experience

No one can prove that Cam is in Tyrrendor, no one is brave enough to try to prove that Cam is in Tyrrendor, and Xaden sure as fuck isn’t going to admit it. He’ll lie straight to Lilith’s face about it, and Lilith will know it’s a lie and then lie to King Tauri about it if it protects her daughter. Lilith is the real star of this show

I love that you guys are recommending this and sharing this with the people you love, it means the world to me. Thank you!! 🩷🩷🩷

#storm in the quiet

[suddenlybambi]

as long as you stay here [2] ♥ kyle broflovski

pairing : kyle broflovski x reader

college AU - 18+

tags : strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst, alcohol, afab reader, she/her pronouns, eventual smut

words : 3.1k

chapter 2

previous | next | alaysh masterlist

main masterlist

a/n - time to meet kyle 😈

“When you said a dress that shows off my ass, I didn’t expect for it to just be hanging out,” Y/N stood, awkwardly trying to see just how much cheek people could see. Bebe had chosen a dark green velvet dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“Just a little bit!” Bebe smiled, wrapping her arms around her friend’s waist from behind and giving her a hug. “Give people a teaser.”

“A teaser for what? When I’m drunk, and the whole thing is on show?”

“Exactly! Now, come on; I need you to help me with my hair.” Bebe led Y/N out of the bedroom and directly into the bathroom while Clyde lounged on their crappy old thrifted couch, flicking through Netflix. He didn’t look at them as they snuck past behind him.

“What? You don’t trust your boyfriend to do it?”

“Yesterday, he thought my curling iron was a dildo.”

“If you’re brave enough, it can be.”

“I’m never leaving you alone with my curling iron again.”

“You never leave me alone with it anyway,” Y/N mumbled as she carefully separated Bebe’s hair to start curling pieces. She knew exactly how Bebe liked her hair on nights out as she was often the one to do it for her in exchange for Bebe bringing her back whatever takeout she drunkenly picked up on the way home at 3am.

“Because you keep on trying to make the perfect grilled cheese with it,” Bebe rolled her eyes. “We have a sandwich press.”

“Correction, Wendy has a sandwich press. She took it with her to Stan’s.”

“So you use my curling iron instead?”

“Only to get those perfect little stripes on it! I use the regular clothes iron for cooking the rest because there is way more surface area. I’m not completely crazy.” 

“Our stovetop is next on the list to be repaired when we’ve saved up, right?” Bebe asked as Y/N finished the final little curls that framed her face. Their stovetop had broken a week into living in their apartment, and Y/N wasn’t going to even attempt to mess with it as she did with the plumbing. They had been living on takeout and microwave food. “Then we can use a frying pan like normal people.” 

“Or we could buy more curling irons and start a whole production line? Sell the sandwiches, get rich, get bitches, go wild.”

“Are you done in there?” Clyde called out from the other side of the bathroom door.

“We’re almost done!” Bebe shouted back.

“Why are you both in there?”

“We’re having sex!” Y/N answered before Bebe could, trying desperately to hold back her laughter.

“We’re doing our hair and makeup!” Bebe ignored Y/N’s claims, which she was having none of.

“That’s girl code for having sex!” Y/N elaborated, earning a light smack on the arm from Bebe. She opened the door to see a very confused Clyde waiting.

“Ignore her,” Bebe gestured back at Y/N. “We’re done anyway.” 

“If you leave the t-” Y/N started to warn Clyde that she would castrate him if he left the toilet seat up, which she had once threatened Stan with, but Bebe slapped her hand over her mouth before she could.

“Don’t talk about leaving the toilet seat up around him; it’s a sensitive topic,” She whispered, trying not to let Clyde hear.

“How is- you know what? I’m not going to ask,” Y/N shrugged it off. “Every story I’ve heard from South Park is weird, and that’s coming from someone whose town mayor was openly involved in ritualistic sacrifices and still kept on getting voted in.”

“Wait, what?” Clyde thought he had misheard. “They still got voted in?”

“In hindsight, that might mean the ritualistic sacrifices worked?” Y/N pondered this for a moment. A devilish smile appeared on her face. “Hey Clyde, wanna help me pass this semester?”

“Huh? Do you want to study together?” He asked, not catching what she was not so subtly hinting at.

“You’re not ritualistically sacrificing my boyfriend!” Bebe scolded Y/N, dragging her out of the bathroom. “Come on, let’s leave Clyde to pee in peace.”

“Peace isn’t an option in this house!” Y/N called out as Clyde shut the door.

“Ominous threats don’t work on him,” Bebe sighed. “He doesn’t understand them.”

The club was loud and crowded. Y/N absolutely hated it but did her best to put on a smile for Bebe’s sake. She had been briefly introduced to the group, who were already there, but Wendy and Stan were running late.

Bebe had disappeared off to the dancefloor. Y/N narrowly managed to avoid getting dragged along with her. Kenny’s date had apparently dumped him, so she had kept him company while he complained. He was the only one of the group she had already met as he worked delivery for a burger place she and Bebe usually ordered from. He had tried once to flirt with her, but she politely rejected him. That hadn’t stopped him from getting her number and sending her the occasional message while he was stone, which she would respond to with a picture of a frog, which would distract him.

After 10 minutes of standing around, Kenny spotted a girl from work he had a thing for, so Y/N pushed him to go and talk to her, which didn’t take much encouragement. As she stood alone, wondering if she could get away with escaping without anyone noticing, Clyde approached her.

“Here,” He held out a drink for her. She hesitantly took it from his hand.

“What’s this for?” She asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“For you. Bebe said you’d like me more if I bought you a drink.”

“Oh, did she now?”

“I don’t think I was supposed to say that to you….”

“No, I don’t think you were,” Y/N laughed softly. She knew Bebe was just trying to make sure they got along well since they were living together, but she wished she hadn’t sent Clyde in with a bribe. 

Clyde took a sip from his cup, and his eyes widened. “Oh shit! This is your one, and that one is mine!” He quickly grabbed the cup from her hand and swapped it with the one he had just drunk from.

“You took a sip out of it,” Y/N looked down at the cup in disgust. “I can’t drink it now.” 

“Why not? I watched you share two drinks with Bebe earlier.” 

“I don’t know where your mouth has been.” 

“Well, Bebe’s mouth has been on my-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence! It’s bad enough I can hear you through the walls. I don’t need a description.” Y/N groaned as Clyde laughed at her discomfort. She hoped that if she stayed quiet, he’d feel awkward and go and join the rest of the group on the dancefloor, but she was sadly mistaken. Apparently, to Clyde, an awkward silence was just an opportunity for him to ask more questions.

“If you’re a dancer, why aren’t you dancing?” He asked. She mentally cursed Bebe for mentioning that she used to be a dancer, as it always led to people asking questions like that. Truthfully, she had always hated dance. It was just something that her mom forced on her. Her mom hadn’t spoken to her since she had announced she wasn’t going to pursue a career in dancing and was instead going to study Literature in a college states away. 

But she didn’t want to blurt all of that out to Clyde, so instead, she stuck with her usual excuse. “Because it’s surprisingly hard to do a contemporary jazz solo to… what is this? Eminem?”

“So, like… are you studying dance?” The question coming out of Clyde’s mouth made her laugh more than if anyone else had asked it.

“Are you studying dance?” She fired back at him.

“What? No? Why?” 

“Think about it, dude; we’re in the same class. If I were studying dance, you would be too.”

“Right! You sit behind me!” Clyde seemed like he had completely forgotten that they had discussed the fact that they shared a class together only hours earlier.

“Unfortunately,” Y/N mumbled, trailing the conversion off again in hopes he was finally satisfied. Sadly, he still didn’t take the hint.

“Hey… uh… quick question… what did you do to the plumber?”

“I didn’t do anything to him!”

“She bit him!” Wendy had arrived and joined the conversation, followed by Stan.

“Except that!” Y/N mumbled. Wendy gave her a big hug to say hello, and surprisingly so did Stan. She could smell the alcohol on them, a sign that they had pre-drinks. That would be why Stan hugged her.

“Oh my god, you are a vampire!” Clyde pointed at Y/N, who couldn’t help but laugh at this. He seemed so serious, and she was keen to see how far she could actually push that theory on him.

“How did you even get in a situation where you bit the plumber?” Stan asked, slurring his words slightly.

“I was advised by a lawyer not to talk about it.” Y/N lied.

“Wait, you bit the plumber? I assumed that you guys had a dog or something,” Kenny had returned to greet the new arrivals. The girl he had disappeared to dance with was nowhere in sight. 

“Nope, it was me, human person Y/N.”

“She’s just a bit feral,” Wendy rested her head on Y/N’s shoulder as she spoke. Y/N wondered how much Wendy had drunk already, as she wasn’t usually this touchy with her when Stan was around. After the date incident, he was a little defensive in front of her. “But we’re taming her.”

“Vampire werewolf!” Clyde looked like he had just connected the dots to the biggest mystery in the world.

“Does everyone in your group know about me biting the plumber?” Y/N asked, earning a myriad of nods in response. “You know what? Fuck it,” She downed the drink that Clyde had gotten her, no longer caring about him having taken a sip. She’d had worse things in her mouth and would probably have worse things in it in the future. Stan cheered as she downed the drink, holding his hand up for a high-five which she hesitantly returned.

“I thought Kyle was coming?” Kenny looked around for their other friend. Y/N had never met Kyle, which was odd as Stan was his best friend, and Stan had spent a lot of time in their apartment when Wendy still lived there. 

“He’s sulking in the corner,” Stan pointed out the boy with red curls poking out from the crowd, who was looking down at his phone, completely uninterested in everything around him. “We had to drag him out of the house.” Y/N could relate to that. She was counting down the seconds until it was socially acceptable for her to go home.

“Oh god, Cartman is here,” Wendy groaned, burying her face in Y/N’s neck to hide. Y/N had heard about Cartman, but it was never anything good. Apparently, his mom was paying for his three-bedroom apartment, but he refused to let anyone else stay there unless they paid him an extortionate amount of rent. She was confused at why the group stayed friends with him after all that he had put them through, but she figured there must have been some reason.

“In that case, I think we all need another drink,” Clyde announced, earning cheers from Stan and Kenny. Stan grabbed Wendy’s hand and dragged her off with them to the bar. She tried to reach out for Y/N to pull her along as well, but she managed to escape it. Wendy pouted for a second but quickly got distracted by Clyde chanting, ‘Shots! Shots! Shots!’.

Instead of joining them, Y/N decided to take the opportunity to talk to the one person she felt she could empathise with.

“You look as miserable to be here as I feel,” Y/N joined Kyle in the corner, hoping to break the ice with some shared disdain for where they had both ended up.

“Yeah… This isn’t really my scene,” Kyle looked up from his phone to acknowledge her. He paused, seeming to recognise her. “You’re-”

“Y/N, Bebe’s flatmate,” She finished for him.

“Kyle,” He introduced himself, though he had likely clocked on that she already knew that. He held his hand out. It took Y/N a second to realise he was offering her a handshake. It was a strange sentiment in the middle of a nightclub, but welcome nonetheless. She shook his hand and smiled at him.

“This isn’t really my scene either,” She confessed, looking around in disdain at the flashing lights and sweaty bodies grinding against one another.

“Really?” He sounded quite genuinely surprised by this.

“Really. I hate it here,” She pulled out her phone from her bra and waved it around a little. “I have the Uber journey ready to go on my phone. I just need to hit the button to book it.”

“I always assumed you were the party type from what I’ve heard about you,” It felt odd to Y/N that people knew about her, despite not knowing her. Though, she supposed the same thing could be said about anyone she had been told stories about yet never actually met.

“Bebe calls me the party-hating party animal. I’d rather go wild by myself,” She froze as the words processed in her mind after they had already left her mouth. “That came out wrong.”

“I’m usually alright if I have a few drinks,” Kyle shrugged. “But I need to study tomorrow, so I don’t want to be hungover.”

“I’m studying tomorrow too,” Y/N smiled, realising they had quite a bit in common already. “I have a shit ton of notes to write up before my lecture on Monday, and it's bad enough studying while Bebe and Clyde are in their room, but if they’re going to be hungover, it’ll be worse.”

“I’m in the same boat with Stan and Wendy,” He nodded along. “I have to escape to the library most days.”

“I might have to start joining you,” She was half joking, though she waited for his reaction to see if he would seriously consider studying with her or if he would laugh it off.

“As long as you don’t go wild while studying, it’s nice to have a study partner,” He agreed, and she grinned.

“Ah, shit, I go super wild while studying!” She dramatically threw her hands up in the air as though this was devastating news. “Sometimes, I even have three books open at once.”

“That’s hardcore,” Kyle laughed along with her for a minute, stopping only to tilt his head so he could hear the music better. “Oh god… What is this song?” Y/N stopped to listen to it as well.

“I can’t tell if she’s singing in another language or if it's just aggressively… cursive?” She tried to make out some words, managing to get ‘love’ and ‘sorrow’ from them. “She sounds like a goat trying to do a Shakira impression.”

“And the goat has a blocked nose,” Kyle added. “Oh, wow! Somehow, the chorus is even worse. How is that possible?”

“Wanna bail on this club and share my Uber home?” Y/N decided to just take the opportunity to get out of there. At least with an accomplice, they could both be buzzkills together and share the disappointment of their friends.

“I thought you’d never ask,” He smiled at her as she unlocked her phone, booking the Uber to arrive ASAP. “We should let them know so they don’t look for us.”

“Or we just leave and text them when we’re already gone so they can’t try and force us to stay?” She suggested but looked over at where Bebe was dancing with Clyde. Both of them looked unsteady on their feet from the alcohol they had already consumed, and Stan and Wendy looked even worse for wear. “Actually, you’re right. There’s no way they’ll read their phones in this state.” She led the way over to the group, wrapping her arms around Bebe from behind so she could talk next to her ear and be heard over the music. She swayed slightly with her.

“I’m leaving!” She announced. “Stay safe, and see you at home! Love you!”

“What?” Bebe let go of Clyde, who pouted at the lack of attention, instead turning and swinging her arms around Y/N and holding her in a close hug. “No!”

“I do love you, I promise!” Y/N knew that wasn’t what she meant, but she was trying to diffuse the situation so that Bebe would let her go.

“I love you too, but you can’t leave!” She pleaded, her hands clumsily trying to play with Y/N’s hair, but her rings just got caught in it. “Oh… shit…”

“I hate it here, and so does Kyle,” Y/N explained, pulling away to help untangle Bebe from her hair. “So we’re sharing an Uber.” As she did so, she heard Kyle telling Stan and Wendy that he was leaving.

“You have your keys to let yourself in, right?” Kyle asked.

“Uh…” Stan patted his pockets but came up empty. “Wendy?”

“I thought you had them?” Wendy groaned.

“Crap!” Stan grumbled, checking his pockets again as if they would magically appear there. Unfortunately, they didn’t.

“I’ll have to let you in later,” Kyle sighed, checking his watch.

“Dude, you’re such a heavy sleeper!” Stan protested. “You’ll sleep through it, and we’ll be stuck outside all night!” Kyle looked dejected at the thought that he couldn’t leave until Stan and Wendy wanted to leave.

“We can just get the Uber to our place, and then you guys get one later with Bebe and pick Kyle up as you drop her off.” Y/N jumped in with the suggestion, looking to Kyle for confirmation. “If that’s okay with you, of course?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kyle nodded eagerly, looking relieved that he didn’t have to stay.

“Booooo!” Clyde called out, a few heads turning to look at him as he shouted louder than he probably intended to. “Party poopers!”

“Have fun!” Bebe winked over at Y/N, who gave her a very confused look in return. What was she suggesting? Before she had the chance to ask, her phone buzzed.

“Uber is two minutes away,” She grabbed Kyle’s arm so she wouldn’t lose him in the crowd. “Let's wait outside.”

taglist - @n0tangeliccc @solana-central @charqing-qing @eiizabeth-torres

let me know if you want to be added to it 💕

#kyle broflovski #kyle broflovski fic #south park fanfiction #south park fic #south park kyle #kyle broflovski x reader #south park x reader #as long as you stay here #alaysh #alaysh suddenlybambi

[thesimulationswarm]

Balsam Prelude and Chapter 1: Some Kind of Noble Calling

This is a story about trauma. What trauma does to a person, and what trauma does to a community. And how, in the midst of it, people find their way to joy, delight— even love.

Pairing: Joel Miller x original female character Summary: After the events of tlou, Joel and Ellie try to establish a “normal life” in Jackson, but neither of them are any good at normal. A town doctor tries to care for residents who have experienced unspeakable trauma, and struggles to overcome her own past at the same time. Joel finds himself drawn to her, as their lives become increasingly intertwined. Meanwhile, outside Jackson, troubling things are happening... Rating: explicit 18+ MDNI Word count: 6k Warnings: slow burn, I promise there will be smut but not yet, f/m relationship, not a reader insert, canon-typical violence, descriptions of medical situations, descriptions of trauma and PTSD, Ellie and Joel figuring out how to be family, Tommy and Joel figuring out how to be family, angst, fluff, based on show Jackson because I haven't played tlou part ii, this is the first fic I've been brave enough to put out in the world so be kind.

Series Masterlist

PRELUDE

The boy struggled to work the crowbar; his fingers were so cold he couldn’t really feel them and his grip kept slipping. Finally, though, the old wood splintered around the bolt latch and gave way. He pushed through the door of the shed and fell to the ground inside, spent.

The cold hurt. He was so tired. He’d gone past ordinary hunger, to that desperate place beyond. So now that he was out of the cutting wind, all he wanted was to go to sleep.

Coco had followed him in. She sniffed at the boy’s face, and he felt the warm breath on his skin for a brief, lovely moment. Then she padded away toward the back wall of the small room.

“Come back here, girl,” the boy called out. But she didn’t come back. Was she leaving him now, too? He just wanted to burry his face in her fur and smell her smell as he drifted off. If his father couldn’t be here with him, at least the dog he’d loved could.

He heard a brief, sharp bark. He lifted his head. Coco was sitting by a metal rack on the wall, pointing her nose at something on the second shelf. 

“What is it, Coco?” She barked again, still pointing. 

He moved slowly, regretfully, as he pulled his aching body up again. She was pointing at an old shoebox, and didn’t stir as he approached.

He brushed the cobwebs away and lifted the lid. It was full of small, dark brown packages. He lifted one close to his face, to examine it in the light coming through the open door. 

MEAL, READY TO EAT, INDIVIDUAL, it read. CHICKEN A LA KING.

CHAPTER 1: Some Kind of Noble Calling

“You need to take her to Dr. Conner,” Maria said brusquely, as soon as she’d walked in the room. Ellie was curled listlessly on the couch, face flushed and mottled and hair slicked down with sweat.

“Dr. Conner? Where is he?” Joel asked.

“She is on 2nd street, top of the hill.”

He nodded and looked away from Maria’s icy face. Just what he needed, for her to add sexism to his list of sins. He squatted down to lift Ellie in his arms, held back a groan as his knees popped, and headed toward the door. He was always surprised at how little she weighed, given her sheer force of nature.

“I can walk. I’m not dead yet,” she whined at him hoarsely, squirming against his hold. It was half-hearted, and he kept his grip.

“Not happening.”

Dr. Connor’s was a narrow, two-story building, and the windows were covered with dark curtains. The sign above the door was painted simply with a red cross on a white background.  He knocked but didn’t wait, yanking the doorknob and shouldering through the entryway.

Inside was bare, with a row of wooden chairs and a hand-written sign instructing visitors to take a seat. Two doors stood closed, and Joel was eyeing them to determine which he should open next when a breezy voice called from behind one.

“If you’re breathing and not bleeding out, hang on and I’ll be there in five.”

He sighed and set Ellie on a chair before dropping down beside her.

“Nicer than the FEDRA clinics at least,” Ellie deadpanned, her voice creaky and strained.

He looked around the little waiting room. It wasn’t exactly impressive, but if you’d only ever seen a QZ medical facility it must've seemed like the height of luxury.

“There used to be places like this. You got to see the doctor in a room by yourself instead of a big ward with half the neighborhood lined up.” He paused. “It was nice. Especially if you had somethin’ going on you didn’t want to share with everybody you knew.”

She quirked a sweaty eyebrow at him. “Like what?”

“Pass.”

They looked up in unison as a door creaked open and a woman strode in, dressed in jeans and a canvas apron. She was small, tawny-skinned and dark-haired. Younger than he’d expected, although not young-young on second inspection—the start of lines spreading out from the corners of her eyes, a resigned slope of her shoulders. In her 30s, maybe: the last generation to remember life before.

“Please, follow me.” The woman gestured into a small room with a bright overhead light. She pointed Ellie to a cot covered with a faded, flowered sheet and Joel to a stool beside it. 

“I’m Nina, I work as a healer,” she said, extending a hand first to Ellie—who limply grasped it—and then to Joel.

He kept his arms down by his side.

“I thought you were an actual doctor,” he said sharply. 

He didn’t come here for one of Maria’s communist friends to do some crystal healing, align Ellie’s chakras or some shit.

She gave him a small smile. “People call me that because I’m the closest Jackson has, and I’ve been treating people for years. But no, I’m not old enough to have finished medical school 20 years ago.” Her voice was mild, even friendly, but her eyes asked a question: Are you going to be a problem for me?

He set his jaw but sat back on the stool. He’d at least see if she could help.

“It’s Ellie, isn’t it?” Nina moved closer to Ellie and smiled brightly at her miserable face, looking her up and down. She pulled an old glass thermometer out of a pocket and held it up for Ellie to see before popping it in her mouth. While she waited for it to take a measurement, she slid her other hand down to grasp Ellie’s wrist and held it lightly, watching the numbers on her watch as she felt for a pulse.

“When did she start feeling bad?” She nodded her head slightly in Joel’s direction—Ellie had her mouth full—but kept her eyes on her patient.

“Two days ago. Hit her like a ton of bricks. She’s had fever and chills, and won’t eat anything. Barely takin’ sips of water when I beg her to.”

“Sore throat?”

“Says it feels like knives.” Ellie nodded bleakly to confirm.

The doctor—or the healer, or whatever the hell she was—pulled the thermometer out and nodded at it. She raised both hands to Ellie’s neck, but paused before touching her. 

“I’m just going to feel here for your lymph nodes, Ellie.”

She waited to see confirmation in Ellie’s face before continuing, running her hands carefully down below her jawline.

The exam went on, through the familiar steps: Open your mouth as wide as you can, that’s good, now I’m going to check your ears.

He had a sudden, clear memory of sitting in the pediatrician’s office. Watching Sarah as she sat on a paper-covered table.

He could smell the disinfectant and powdered latex, and see the silhouette of her doctor standing there. He was a gray-haired man, always friendly in a fake-feeling way, who whore a crisp white coat over a shirt and tie.  Made him feel self-conscious, looking down at his dirt-caked boots and browned forearms.

Sarah used to sit on that exam table and cry when she had to get shots. Not all hysterical or fighting to get away like some kids—just silent tears that slipped out of the corner of her eyes.

He remembered how, when she was five years old, she’d swallowed a penny and he’d rushed her over to the clinic. It wasn’t like her to do something like that: she was thoughtful and sweet even at that age, a rule-follower to a fault. His heart had jackhammered in his chest as he had visions of her intestines puncturing or her being rushed to emergency surgery.

The doc explained patiently that these things usually “passed” on their own. With a little chuckle he gave him a plastic bowl that fit inside the toilet and instructions to check it for the next week to make sure the penny came out the other end. 

He recalled the rush of relief and the flush of embarrassment. Watching the doc laugh and feeling like a moron for having gotten himself so worked up.

“Earth to Joel,” Ellie croaked. He turned to see two pairs of eyes on his: Ellie’s red-rimmed and liquid brown, the doctor’s—he was now noticing— so dark they were almost black.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Most likely it’s strep throat, although there’s no way to tell for sure without tests I don’t have,” the doctor said. “I’ll give you some antibiotics, and if it is strep, it will start to get better right away.”

“What if it’s not strep?” Joel asked, heart in his throat.

She smiled. “Then it’s a virus, and she’ll get better on her own.” Her tone was reassuringly confident.  Joel watched her disappear briefly out the door, then return with a paper packet she pressed into his hand.

“Take these twice a day. Even if she starts to feel better, do not stop the medicine until it’s all gone. I know we’re all used to stretching supplies, but it doesn’t work that way with antibiotics—she’ll get sick again, and worse.” She looked to him for acknowledgement, and he nodded.

“Keep pushing her to drink fluids.” She turned to Ellie now, who was hunched over and looked about ready to pass out. “You’re dehydrated, kiddo. It’s part of why you feel so bad right now. If you don’t drink, it’s only going to get worse.” She spoke pointedly but gently, and Ellie shrugged an assent. “And if you aren’t feeling better in two days, come back and see me.”

It was late when Tommy got home. Pretty much every part of his body hurt after the day’s work— fixing freeze damage to their well system— and he had been dreaming of crawling into bed with Maria. 

Not the way he sometimes dreamed of crawling into bed with her, even now with her looking like she’d swallowed a watermelon. Maybe he’d have the energy for that in the morning, but tonight he just wanted to feel her in his arms and time his deep slow breaths with hers.

She was already fast asleep, so he moved as carefully as he could, lifting up the covers and sidling in behind her. She was curled on her left side and he tucked his body tightly against hers, his arm snaking gently around her bare belly. When he was lucky he could feel the baby kicking against his hand in this position, although right now both baby and mama were at rest.

He lay there, willing himself to relax into sleep. But there was too damn much on his mind these days. 

This winter had been brutal, even for Wyoming. The town had held together with a lot of hard work and ingenuity. But out there in the countryside, others had not been so successful. He’d heard awful stories: starvation, cannibalism, raiding parties far and wide. The patrols kept running into trouble, and although so far the groups had been small enough to handle, who was to say they’d stay that way?

Tommy knew that people in Jackson looked to him and Maria to keep them safe. It was more responsibility than he’d ever had before in his life, really. He was proud of himself— and scared shitless.

He breathed in Maria’s smell, nose pressed against the nape of her neck. He tried to count all the blessings in his life, savoring each one. It was a trick he used sometimes, to make his thoughts shut up. This incredible woman who had saved his life. The baby she was growing for them. This town. A full stomach. A warm bed. Joel doing so good, for once, with that kid of his.

Although Joel was maybe not the best topic to think about, if he wanted to sleep tonight. Not that he wasn’t grateful, or happy to have him nearby and safe. But his feelings were complicated. Sometimes he hated to admit how much of a hold his big brother still had on him. Made him feel like a little boy, hungry for approval. And at the same time reminded him of the lowest points in his life.

If he was honest with himself, he’d felt a lot of relief along with the guilt and sadness when he’d left Boston. He’d felt the same when he cut off radio contact.

Something had changed with Joel though, lately. He was still a bitter man, tightly wound and full of pain. But Tommy had seen moments of tenderness from him that he thought he’d never see again. Even moments of joy.

He felt the prickle of tears in his tired eyes. He knew he was being naive, that a little bit of good couldn’t undo all the darkness that they’d been through. But he clung to the hope still, as he started to drift off to sleep: him with his baby, Joel with his girl—maybe they would all be okay.

“Tommy!”

He turned with a smile as the doc walked up, clapping a hand against his back. “Hey Dr. Connor! How’s it been?”

“I’m going on your next southwest patrol,” she said. Announcing, not asking, as she had a frustrating tendency to do.

He took a sharp breath through his nose. “Nina—“

“It’s time to harvest willow bark. I need enough for the next year, for all of Jackson.”

“I understand, I really do. But this winter has been rough and people are desperate. We’ve had some kind of trouble almost every patrol. It’s just too dangerous to stop and hang around out there.” He used the most authoritative tone he could muster, trying to stare the small woman down.

“And people won’t be any less desperate until we’re well into April. By then the trees will be in full leaf and we’ll be out of the window for harvesting. And I’ll have half a dozen angry locals wanting to know why I don’t have the tea for their arthritis or their heart condition.”

She fixed him with a dark stare, and he fiddled with the frayed edge of his jacket cuff. 

She knew how Jackson worked, and if he said no she could and would bring it up at the council meeting. Where she would no doubt whip up the town’s crotchetiest and most infirm—who had nothing better to do than sit in on every meeting of every committee—into a rage over herbal tea. Shit.

He nodded curtly. “Friday at dawn. If there are any signs of trouble before we hit the riverbank, we’ll have to turn back.”

“I really appreciate it Tommy,” she said with what she surely thought was a winning smile. Which he did not return: he was not in the mood.

Marisa stirred the stockpot of oatmeal gently between customers, to keep crust from forming on top. She stared out at the dining room and watched the clusters of people. Some were deep in conversation; some wolfed down their breakfasts so they could hurry on with their days; others looked half-asleep still.

A group of teenagers were tucked way back in the corner, as far as they could get from the adults, clearly enjoying their morning bullshit session. She remembered doing that just a few years ago, with Anya and Jamal, when her dad wasn’t around to see her goofing off. He believed that if teenagers had energy to run their jaws, they had energy to work.

The new folks came in with a blast of cold air. 

They were an odd pair. The girl was rude and mouthed off too much, but she had a lot of energy and seemed like fun. The kind of kid Marisa had always been fascinated by, when she was that age. Wishing she could move in the world with that kind of confidence.

The man, though, gave her the willies. He was intense and stern, like her dad. He never smiled, although he did at least say please and thank you. She couldn’t hardly believe he was Tommy’s brother. Tommy was his exact opposite, gentle and friendly.

She used to think Tommy was cute. She still did, really, but she didn’t think about him much lately. She was too busy daydreaming about her Beloved. 

She called him that after an old romance book she’d found in an empty house and hidden under her mattress. The book took place during the Civil War, and the buxom narrator fell in love with a dashing soldier. She wrote letters to him every day, addressed to My Beloved. The soldier in the book had beautiful blue eyes, just like Marisa’s Beloved.

Tommy was out there now, talking with Dr. Connor. He looked unhappy. Dr. Connor could do that to people. She was always so nice when you were sick or hurt and went to see her. But out in the real world she could be mean as a snake. Or maybe she was more like a fox: someone sly, someone you had to watch.

Brandy Burkholder had started working with her last summer, after a several month campaign. Nina had eventually determined that she was serious about learning to practice medicine, despite the fact that she wasn’t terribly serious about anything else. She was an outgoing sixteen-year-old with a pretty smile and a flare for the dramatic, and she came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays to help Nina with various tasks.

Today it was supply inventory. Every other week she went through what she had, checked her levels on common medications and herbs, and looked through her equipment for signs of damage or wear. 

Nina enjoyed inventory, even if what she had to inventory was often pathetic. There was something calming about lining up all the bottles, looking over her orderly shelves, and counting all the pills and needles and rolls of gauze. 

And there was some extra excitement this afternoon: they were going through a bag of random medicines and gear to see what could be salvaged. Anya and Clemons had found in an empty house on a hunting trip earlier that week.

Brandy held up an orange plastic bottle of pills from the haul. “Dox—y—cy—cline,” she sounded out carefully. “That’s an antibiotic, right? So it goes in the cabinet above the sink?”

“Hold up. What’s the date on the bottle?”

“Um, let me see.” She squinted to read the fading print. “Damn. It’s from 1999. This is an antique!”

Nina shook her head. “Toss it. Expired tetracyclines can be toxic.” It was a shame— she really could have used it. 

She pulled out a bottle of Benadryl tablets, and pried open the lid. Some of the pills had swollen with absorbed moisture and cracked, but they were mostly intact and there was no mold. She added it to the keep pile.

Brandy showed her a box of individually packaged 22 gauge needles. The plastic wrappers were warped and brittle and had cracked open along the seams. But the needles inside were straight and sharp. She would sanitize them in the autoclave and they’d be good as new. Another keep.

A bottle of cough syrup had hardened to a shiny paste— toss. Two inhalers were empty—toss again. Half a tub of vaseline went in the keep pile. Then she found something really good at the bottom of the bag: an almost-full bottle of Valium.

“Isn’t this the stuff that bored housewives used to get high on?” Brandy asked, smirking.

“Yes, and that’s why it goes in the locked cabinet,” Nina said pointedly. She didn’t need Brandy getting any ideas. “But more importantly, it’s the best treatment when someone’s actively having a seizure. It’s also very helpful for setting bones.”

“Sweet! There was some good loot in that bag.”

Nina looked over the shelves appraisingly. “Yes, but it’s not enough. This all has to last until Mo comes by in April.”

“Are you going out to meet him?” Brandy’s eyes sparkled at the mention of the smuggler. Nina knew how people talked about him: the dashing Robin Hood who stole from FEDRA and gave to the people. But it’s not like he gave them anything: they paid him, in valuable farm goods like butter and honey, for every last thing.

Nina didn’t say anything about that to Brandy, though; let the kid have her fantasies. She also didn’t mention the fear that kept her up at night— that next time she went out to meet Mo, he wouldn’t show. She knew it was only a matter of time before his line of work caught up with him, and that when it happened they would be shit out of luck. Jackson did a lot of things well, but manufacturing antibiotics wasn’t one of them.

“Yep, April ninth. Three weeks after the equinox,” was all she said.

The sun was melting into the horizon, bathing the street in golden light and purple shadows. Joel was walking to the saddler when he saw the woman up ahead and quickened his pace.

“Hey! Dr. Connor!”

She turned as he approached and raised an eyebrow. “So I’m enough of a doctor for you now? How’s Ellie?”

“Well, she’s a hundred percent better. Givin’ me shit and drivin’ me crazy.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. “I’m sure you deserve whatever shit she’s giving you,” she added.

“Look,” he said, furrowing his brow. “I wasn’t very fair to you the other day. And you helped us out anyway. I appreciate that.”

She looked at him, meeting his eyes with an intensity that startled him. There were those deep brown irises he’d noticed in her office, framed by thick black lashes. 

Then she smiled, holding out her hand to him. Her grip was surprisingly firm as they shook. “You’re not the first person to doubt my expertise. I appreciate you putting your daughter in my care.”

He looked over her shoulder, at the reddish sky reflecting in the window of a supply depot, and took a breath. “I know people don’t pay for things here or anything, but I feel like—I mean, I would like to give you something at least. For the medicine.”

She waved dismissively. “I’ve seen you go out on patrol. You keep Jackson safe, I keep Jackson alive. We all do our part.”

She laid a hand on his stiff shoulder and gave him a pat. Then she turned and headed back in the direction she’d been walking, before he could figure out how he ought to respond. He watched her for a moment, her dark curls swinging over a denim jacket, his shoulder tingling with a phantom pressure where her hand had been a moment ago. 

Jackson made him real fucking uncomfortable, sometimes. 

He didn’t like owing people favors, and he didn’t feel like he belonged in a town where everyone was so nice all the time. The doctor was case in point— he’d been mean to her when they’d first met, and that hadn’t been right. But he’d tried to be nice to her too now, and it still felt weird as hell. Maybe he’d entirely forgotten how to be nice.

He walked on, hands shoved in his pockets. If he was honest, he didn’t want to be living here. In the house across from his little brother, like some kind of post-apocalyptic sitcom. It brought back all kinds of things he didn’t want to think about.

He was going on patrol Friday and he was looking forward to it. At least out there he knew what to do with himself. Stay alert, keep moving, assess the situation, maintain control— with force if needed.

Ellie looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then quickly opened the door below the red cross and slipped inside. She sighed with relief to see no one inside the waiting room, and sat down with her backpack clutched to her chest. 

Dr. Connor stepped into the room, thankfully alone, and smiled warmly as she pointed Ellie toward a door. Ellie darted in and jumped up on the cot, then looked down at her sneakers. One had a bit of rubber starting to come loose around the toe, and she gently wiggled it with her other foot. She heard Dr. Connor close the door behind her, and then the expectant silence.

“How can I help you today, Ellie?” 

Her cheeks burned, and she found she couldn’t look up. Why did the town doctor have to be beautiful? For an old person, but still. She kept studying her feet, as she heard the scrape of a chair being pulled over and the soft thump of Dr. Connor sitting down a few feet away.

When the doctor spoke again, her voice was soft. “I’ll ask you a few questions. All you have to do is say yes or no. You don’t even have to speak, just shake your head. Okay?” Ellie exhaled, then nodded.

“Did someone hurt you?” Ellie shook her head no emphatically.

“Are you having a problem with a private part of your body?” Ellie paused, then nodded once.

“Is it your related to your period?” Head shake. “Are you having pain?” Head shake. “Itchiness?” Nod. “Discharge?” Ellie felt like her cheeks were going to catch on fire as she nodded again.

“Are you sexually active?”

“No!” Ellie shouted, looking up at Dr. Connor with a startled stare. 

“It would be okay if you were. You wouldn’t be in trouble. And I wouldn’t tell anyone—not even Joel.” Her voice was even and conversational, as if she were talking about the weather and not about fucking. 

“Well, I’m not,” she snapped. “I don’t know why this is happening. It’s never done this before.”

“Have you ever taken antibiotics before?” 

She thought for a moment. At FEDRA school they gave you pills sometimes if you were sick, but they never even told you what they were. Some of the kids said they were sugar pills, and some of the kids said they were tranquilizers designed to make you behave. She shrugged. “I don’t actually know.”

“Did your symptoms start after you began taking the pills?” Ellie nodded. 

“I’ll want to do a quick exam to be sure, but yeast infections can be a side effect of antibiotics. Your vulva actually has a lot of bacteria living in it—good bacteria.” Ellie raised her eyebrows and fixed the doctor with a horrified look, but she ignored her and went on speaking. 

“It’s like a garden with lots of different plants growing side by side. The plants are healthy, and there are enough of them that they fill up the space and keep the weeds out. The antibiotic got rid of the bad bacteria in your throat, but it also wiped out the good bacteria in your vulva. It’s like we picked all the good stuff from that garden, and now there’s good soil and plenty of space for bad stuff to grow. That’s allowed the yeast to take over—it’s actually a fungus.”

“Like cordyceps?” Ellie asked, eyes widening. 

“Yes, like cordyceps. But it’s a different species, and unlike cordyceps we have medication that will kill the yeast. You’ll be back to normal in no time.” Ellie felt relief wash over her. 

Wednesday morning was for house calls. As she left the dining hall, her supply bag bouncing heavily against her left hip, she ran into Ellie and Joel on their way in. The girl smiled sheepishly and looked away; the man twitched a corner of his mouth and held the door for her.  Which for gruff types like that, new to civilization, was as good as a pledge of everlasting fealty.

She watched her breath fog through the cold March morning as she walked, feeling vaguely anxious.

Miss Nora’s house was on the corner, a low redbrick ranch. She let herself in, knowing Miss Nora’s son was out prepping the fields for planting, and headed into the living room that doubled as Miss Nora’s bedroom these days. She was sitting up in her bed, carefully knitting a big orange sweater. “Dr. Connor! So good of you to come by.”

Nina leaned in, letting Miss Nora plant a papery kiss on her cheek. “You know you can call me Nina,” she said, pulling her stethoscope out of her bag and sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

She gave her brightest smile, trying to hide any trace of the dismay she felt every time she walked in there.  Miss Nora was 67, and until last fall had looked a decade younger than that. Now every week she seems to age another 5 years, her face growing gaunter, her hair thinner, her skin more sallow.

Her son Jamal, ever diligent, tried to tempt her with all her favorite foods, but she would push the plate away after a bite or two. He fought with her over it, convinced that if she would just force herself to eat she would regain her strength. 

Nina, on the other hand, was not so optimistic. She thought Miss Nora’s body was shutting down: the lack of appetite was only a symptom of something much more serious.

She suspected cancer, but couldn’t say for sure what kind. Obviously, it was affecting the liver or the common bile duct, based on her yellowing eyes and skin. But that could be a metastasis from a solid tumor somewhere else. She once again felt the woman’s abdomen gently, palpating for a mass. Still nothing. Not that it mattered, ultimately—even if she could magically intuit that it was, say,  pancreatic cancer, she wouldn’t be any closer to being able to treat it.

At least her lungs still sounded clear. Nina pulled the stethoscope from her ears and slung it around her neck.  “Are you ready for your breathing treatment?” 

The woman nodded enthusiastically as Nina carefully packed the pipe she’d brought with dried leaves.  

It was old, crumbly, and low quality, and it was hell to get ahold of. But like the opium she kept carefully hidden away in her locked cabinet, marijuana was one of the more potent herbal medicines in her arsenal. 

She had nothing else to offer Miss Nora.

She saved Maria for her last stop of the morning. Maria could have easily come to her clinic, even 7 months along, but Nina wanted to confer with her anyways. And she loved Maria’s house—with the late morning light pouring through the windows she could almost believe she was in the suburbs of her childhood.

Maria was making tea when she arrived, and they sat in the living room with a mug each. The steam felt good against her face—while they were out of the worst of the winter, the wind was still brutal on these mornings as she walked from house to house.

After a little small talk she eased Maria backwards on the couch and pulled out her Pinard horn, rolling it between her palms for warmth. Nina had carved it herself out of maple wood, shaping the little trumpet painstakingly to match the illustrations in an old midwifery book.

She could still remember the sense of triumph when, years ago, she first pressed it into a woman’s belly and heard the fetal heartbeat buried inside. People thought medicine was some kind of noble calling—and there were moments when it felt that way to her, too. But more often she was driven by that magic feeling of the body yielding up its secrets to her.

Everything looked good on the exam, despite Maria’s “advanced maternal age.” The same as it had been every week of her pregnancy so far.  

Still, Nina worried. 

There was a lot that could go wrong bringing a baby into the world, for both baby and mother. Maria was her friend, and she knew how devastated she would be if she lost the child. She also knew how much Maria meant to Jackson, and she worried about the impact of losing Maria even more.

“I’d like your thoughts on something.”

Maria fixed her with one of her looks. “It’s usually not something good when you say that.”

Nina sighed. “I had a patient come in yesterday with what was almost certainly the clap. I treated him, but the man in question was married, and I have reason to believe he didn’t get it from his wife.”

Maria’s brow shot up. “Jesus, Nina. That’s not something I want to know about.”

“I would rather not have to know about it either. But we need to know about it. Both women he’s sleeping with could have infections.” 

Maria’s expression hardened as she listened. 

“And if the women have other partners, who knows how many people in Jackson are affected? Gonorrhea isn’t just a drippy dick. People could have pelvic inflammatory disease, ectopic pregnancies, miscarriages. Babies can be born with infections.”

“Do you know who the other woman is? You could treat her, too,” Maria offered.

“I… have my suspicions. But I’m not 100%. And he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

She thought about Derek Starkey sitting in her clinic, head buried in his hands. Starkey’s wife, Jenna, had given birth to their first kid last summer. They’d always made a beautiful couple: Starkey was a big guy, tall and broad, with ruddy cheeks and icy blue eyes. Jenna was tough and sweet, with a blonde ponytail and freckles across the bridge of her nose. The son they doted on took after them both, depending on the day.

She was inclined to hate Starkey’s guts. 

A guy who couldn’t take it when his wife wasn’t dressing up as prettily as she used to or wasn’t as available as she once was to him, because she was busy caring for his infant child. Marisa Robinson, who worked with Starkey in the kitchens when he wasn’t on patrol, was younger and needy and made puppy dog eyes at him while he kneaded dough with his big strong arms. It was a tale as old as time: another shitty man behaves badly.

She struggled to hold onto her resolve, though, as they spoke. Starkey’d been barely sleeping since the kid was born. Every night in bed he was flooded with images of terrible deaths. He saw his child infected, shot, decapitated, drowned. All those monstrous things he’d seen over the years and had been powerless to stop, and which he now felt powerless to protect his beautiful boy from. Life in Jackson had given him a measure of peace, which had seemed like enough when it was just him and Jenna. But it felt too horribly tenuous now to trust. And Jenna didn’t get it. She slept like a rock between feedings. She told him to get over himself, had no time to talk him down from his panic attacks. Someone else had been willing to hold him while he shook with fear.

“Then we have to tell the wife, at least.”

Nina shook her head. “I keep going back and forth on it. It might break up a marriage, and that could have reverberations throughout the community. And the other woman, there could be consequences for her, too.” She thought of Marisa’s controlling father, who always creeped her out. 

“But also the next time someone has symptoms like this they might not come to me, because I wouldn’t be a safe person to tell. Then this stuff would spread around town and we wouldn’t even know.”

Maria gave her an exasperated look. 

Nina wasn’t sure what she had expected. It would feel so nice to off-load this problem onto Maria. But her friend was maybe too absolutist to navigate this one. Or else there just was no way to resolve things that would feel right. 

“I’m going to have to think on it some more,” she said, as she packed her supplies. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

#tlou fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x original character #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #Ellie Williams #Tommy Miller #Maria Miller #soft!joel miller #series #tlou fluff #tlou show #tlou

[envysnest]

Snakeskin (Sephiroth/Reader) (ch. 12/?)

AO3 / Pillowfort

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13

Tags: First Time, Reader-Insert, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Frank Discussions of Past Rape/Abuse, Everyone is Queer, Canon-Compliant (if you squint), Pre-Crisis-Core Seph, Slow Burn, i continue to disappoint my friends and family, sephiroth is a virgin and in this essay i will, Reader is a Cis Woman, fluffy sex, Praise Kink, Gratuitous Biochemistry

Summary:

You are a young biologist, fresh out of graduate school, working in Shinra's R&D Division under Professor Hojo. You had long since given up on finding a partner and starting a family, preferring instead the company of your cell samples and your scientific instruments.

As the conflict in Wutai worsens, you strike up an unexpected friendship with a First Class SOLDIER.

(Sephiroth/Reader Slow Burn)

No trigger warnings apply for this chapter.

—

The tights fit perfectly. The black fabric was opaque; it even covered the bottom of your Lifestream tattoo. You cursed yourself for buying something so incredibly decadent. There was no going back to the drugstore tights after this. These would be perfect, except…

Were you supposed to wear underwear under these? Over them? You felt strangely bare. You stood on your bed and squinted across the room at your bathroom mirror. 

The Shinra-co. Sunrise ™  clock read 6:45 PM. You were going to be late if you kept fussing. No choice: you would have to brave Midgar with nothing under your skirt. Guilt and shame twisted your gut, and you pulled your coat on with a grimace. 

It’s for me, you thought. It’s not for him. 

You stared at your craft bench, at the iron wing you made earlier that week. Deep down, you wanted to seduce him into bed again. You wanted the lightning to strike twice; you wanted to burn. If you dressed yourself in the same way— if you had these stupid, expensive tights underneath your skirt this time— then maybe…

Genesis’s angry face flashed in your mind. You felt that same sick, sinking feeling from the training videos. It was rare to see SOLDIERs with injuries; whatever had hit him had hit hard. Whatever hit him would've surely killed you.

It was windy outside, and below freezing. A breeze teased at the hem of your skirt. You shoved it back down and glanced around. Everyone else waited for taxis or seemed preoccupied with their friends. You turned towards Shinra’s familiar silhouette against the cloudy sky. If you walked fast enough, you’d be right on time. 

A couple, hand-in-hand. meandered down the sidewalk in front of you. You hesitantly inched past them. You pulled your coat tightly around yourself, but this turned you into a wobbling, upright caterpillar. You loosened your grip; the wind threatened your skirt again. Back to the caterpillar. This, of course, made your overnight bag slide dangerously down your arm. The air smelled like frost and mako.

Plink. That was probably Sephiroth, wondering where you were. You swore and picked up your pace. You shouldn’t have fussed so much about the tights.

Maybe you shouldn’t have bought them at all.

You automatically looked up at the next intersection, expecting to see the defaced poster, but it was already gone. A few Shinra workers, bundled and masked against the cold, straightened a pale-blue Potion poster over it instead. A foreman shouted instructions from the sidewalk.

The crosswalk light flashed red. The crowd in front of you lurched to a stop. You dug around in your pocket and woke up your phone, hiding its screen from the people waiting next to you:

>> Double booked. Work again

“Oh,” you said to yourself. The crowd around you began walking forward; you stayed behind. 

Your phone chimed. Sephiroth again:

>>So so sorry……

And again:

>>Will return asap but may be tmw

You darted towards an expensive building and ducked under its awning. Here, at least, the wind was broken, and you were out of the way of evening traffic.  Thank goodness your gloves were smartphone-compatible, even if they did nothing against this biting cold. You tucked yourself against an enormous decorative hedge. The doorman eyed you with suspicion as you typed:

>>Don’t be sorry!|

You hesitated, staring at the blinking cursor. You continued:

>>Don’t be sorry! I’m on my way any|

You backspaced and tried again:

>>Don’t be sorry! Need a house sitter?

It sounded kinder than Can I please go into your apartment it is SO cold and I’m exposed to the elements here. Before you could second-guess yourself, you hit Send. 

An ellipsis bubble appeared immediately.

“Ma’am?” said the doorman.

“I’m sorry,” you said to him, holding up a finger. “Just one second.”

He grunted and resumed his glum forward stare.

Plink. A new message:

>> No sitting needed. It’s yours

Your reply:

>>Thanks, but I don’t want to mooch

You tapped your foot while you waited for his response. Sure enough, you didn’t have to wait long:

>>Don’t burn it down and we’ll call it even.

>>Ha ha

You sighed in relief and resumed your brisk walk down the street. You typed:

>>I’ll wait there for you!

Sephiroth’s reply to this was blindingly fast:

>>Tease.

You shivered and hid your smile in your scarf. You were close to Sector 0 now, and the Saturday night crowd buzzed around you. A line snaked around the Loveless theater, ending at where black-clad theater employees clipped everyone's tickets and looked through their bags.

Your phone chimed again. Balancing your overnight bag on one thigh, you woke your phone and peered down at the screen.

Sephiroth had sent a winking emoticon.

—

You touched the key FOB to 4301. The lock sang a small tune before it clicked open. As you shuffled through the door, Sephiroth’s familiar smell hit you all at once: comforting, warm, a soft touch to your cheek.

“Hello?” you called. 

Sterile hallway light spilled into the dark apartment; you could just make out the marble coffee table, the couch, part of the bookshelves. The curtains were drawn. You passed your gloved hand over the wall until you felt a smooth, plastic switch. At your touch, it chimed happily, and all of the apartment’s lights came up at once.

Nothing seemed particularly different, save the eerie silence. You closed the front door behind you and kicked off your shoes. There were still piles of books everywhere; if any had been moved since last weekend, it was impossible to tell. The fireplace and television were off. Automatically, you looked to the top of the bookshelves: Masamune was gone. There were no flowers on the coffee table. No one had been here for a while.

You put your phone in your skirt pocket. “Seph?” you said. No reply. The wooden floor was cool under your stockings; had it always been that way? You couldn’t remember. 

Gloves went into your jacket pockets; the jacket went onto the hangers (empty, save for a black golf umbrella). You pulled out your phone and sent Sephiroth a message:

>>Here! All looks very unburnt to me

You hesitated, then sent a smiling emoticon, too.

You tossed your overnight bag forward, onto the grey carpet, where it landed with a whumph. Everything was still, and you could hear your own breathing. You leaned over the bar counter and looked into the kitchen. The washing machine and dryer sat empty; the dishwasher simply said READY. 

The refrigerator was half-empty, save for the mako samples. A few pre-made meals sat at eye-level: Shinra MREs, cold little bento boxes with rice and sticky tofu in sterile, tidy compartments. A few lonely oranges rolled around at the bottom of a produce basket. Nearly all of the lush, fresh produce from the weekend before was gone. The mako bottles clinked as you closed the refrigerator. 

You poured yourself a glass of that eerily-tasteless water, drank it in a few gulps, and set the empty glass down on the marble countertop. Being in this kitchen felt like entering a haunted house: there were warm memories here once, but they were long gone. 

Your  therapist had smiled as you recounted— with names and details removed— the story of last weekend. Rather than meet her eyes, you spent the session staring at your shoes. That’s amazing! she had said, warm and effusive, and even now, you feel embarrassed.

What would it feel like to enjoy yourself? she had asked. To trust him?

You pulled absently at your blouse. You had spent all this time getting ready for him; he hadn’t specified when he was coming back. Shouldn’t you wait and see when he’d be here, and be ready for him when he did?

After moving the glass to the sink, you turned and walked to the bedroom. There had been a way to turn the lights off from Sephiroth’s phone, but the light switch next to the front door seemed to control the entire apartment. The bedroom, tidy and well-lit, waited for its sole occupant with bated breath. The bed was neatly made, its duvet smoothed over. There were a few books missing from next to the bed; the biology textbook had migrated to the armchair in the corner. 

Your hands hesitated at the closet doors. You had only briefly seen into Sephiroth’s closet while watching him change. Instinctively, your eyes flicked up to the spackled wall, where the awards had once hung. There wasn’t much storage space elsewhere, besides a few drawers on each nightstand. Anything you hadn’t seen before was likely in here.

The closet doors groaned as you pushed one door aside, then the other. The entire closet was only several feet deep, yet it spanned nearly the length of the wall. To your right were hanging uniforms: pants and sweaters, folded neatly on their hangers, next to some button-up shirts. You recognized the pants Sephiroth had worn to the holiday party; then again, they all looked like the same pants, variations on SOLDIER standard khaki and navy. Maroon luggage trunks and cardboard boxes were piled haphazardly on a shelf above the hangers; one turquoise trunk sat below. You tried the lid, found it loose, and opened it, but the velvet-lined interior was empty. In the far corner, you could make out an ironing board propped against the wall. 

In front of you, stretching to your left, were several wooden dressers. Their sparse, generic design reminded you of the GU dorms; there weren’t even drawer pulls. You opened one drawer and looked inside: jeans and sweatpants. The one below: thermals, mostly in dark colors. The one above that: T-shirts. Every item was folded neatly.

You carded through the T-shirt options, which were many and grim.  Born To Ride, said a cartoon dog on a motorcycle. A pair of skeletons lounging on beach chairs, clinking margarita glasses. A cartoon, muscled torso, wearing flowery board-shorts. You raised your eyebrows in disbelief. After an exhaustive search, you settled for a blue-and-green tie-dye shirt, with seagulls flying into a bright sunset. The looping font read COSTA DEL SOL 1998. 

You pressed the shirt to your nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled of his laundry detergent, the very same he had used on your clothes. Last Sunday, when you had returned home, you had tucked your date-night outfit into the back of a drawer. Over the week, you pulled the blouse out and pressed it to your nose, let the memory wash over you. A wild part of you thought that smell was all you’d have to remember him by. 

You turned and tossed the shirt onto the bed behind you. The other dresser held fresh linens: crisp white sheets, a few blankets. You pulled out the black weighted blanket again and set it on the ground.

Sitting atop one dresser was a small, worn wooden picture frame. The photo inside, in faded color, showed a single woman looking at the camera. Her dark brown eyes looked straight down the lens, the barest hint of a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. Her head was held high. Creases marred the photo: clearly it had been folded, then re-folded, many times, perhaps to fit into a pocket. 

Who was this?

You carefully picked up the frame and brought the faded photo into the light. A past lover, maybe? No: Sephiroth had said his past paramours were all men. Its grimy pastels suggested age: twenty, maybe thirty years. Perhaps it was someone who raised him?

Oh, but no— you recognized those gentle, inquisitive eyes, that soft mouth, the fall of straight hair over her shoulders. You sat cross-legged on the carpet next to the blanket, studying the photo. This was someone related to Sephiroth. You stared at the tidy creases, how they surrounded and protected her face from damage. This photo had been hidden somewhere special, right where he would see it every day.

But hadn’t his mother died? 

You ran your fingertips over the glass, gently tracing her face over and over again. It was strange, you thought, that he would have this photo. Why would she have carried a photo of herself? His father had left, and quickly, too; why would he relinquish her photo with Shinra? His story didn’t suggest more than a nameless mother and father: no relatives, nowhere to go, at Shinra’s mercy for the perpetual favor he now owed them. The moment he was born, his family disintegrated. No one could have given him this photo, but there was no one else this could possibly be.

Then where did this come from?

CLUNK.

You gasped and turned towards the door. You half-expected Sephiroth to be there, staring at you angrily as you pawed through his personal belongings. 

The doorway was empty.

Your blood roared in your ears; you could taste metal on your tongue. You leaned forward, trying to see into the kitchen beyond, but it was empty, too, just as you left it. You pressed your back to the dresser and curled into a small ball, staring hard at the open doorway.

Plink. Your phone, still in your back pocket. 

You reached for it, but you were still holding the photo. Bracing yourself against the dresser, you rose to your feet. It took you several tries to set the photo upright where it had come from. Surely there was someone-- or something-- in the apartment you were now responsible for.

Phone. Phone first. Still staring at the doorway, you reached for your phone. The Shinra messaging app, with Sephiroth’s name at the top of your notifications list:

>>Confirmed out until tmw. Sent dinner. Sorry again

You read the message over again. Your heart raced behind your ribs; you gently rubbed your chest with your free hand. It was only when the scent of hot peppers hit you that you remembered the dumbwaiter in the kitchen, the awful noise it made when it reached Sephiroth’s cabinets. 

You left everything behind as you tread warily into the hall beyond. The hot pepper smell became more intense. “Seph?” you asked, just to make sure you were alone. Silence. Your skin crawled as you craned your neck, looking towards the living room beyond—

Nothing. Empty.

A billow of warm steam hit your face when you opened the dumbwaiter. Inside were several plastic bags, tied neatly at their tops, straining against takeout containers. You took each out, one at a time, setting them on the counter below. 

You opened the first container and understood, instantly, what Sephiroth had sent you: Wutaian cuisine, far too much, and all of it steaming-hot. There were several types of rice, both fried and plain; noodles with shrimp, noodles with fish sauce, noodles with chicken and beef and pork; an assortment of steamed vegetables, buns, and grilled dishes, more than you could count; more food still that you didn’t even register. Fried bananas with ice cream; red bean buns. Every container filled to bursting; all of it smelling heavenly. You stood there, blinking at the assortment of food before you. There had to be enough for you to eat for a week. 

Something tightened in your chest. You took a picture with your phone and sent it to him.

>>Youre so generous!! I can’t eat all this hahaha

Sephiroth replied immediately:

>>Then save some for me. It’s my favorite.

A small price to pay, you thought. 

>>what do i owe u??

An ellipses bubble blinked into existence. Then: Plink.

>>A detailed review... Ha ha

A small price, indeed. Perhaps too small.

—

You weren’t sure what to do with yourself on Saturday. The apartment was still empty and quiet. Dark, gloomy sheets of rain came down over Midgar. The floors were warm again; heated, you thought.

Sephiroth’s dresser yielded another, marginally-less garish T shirt to wear (several seagulls wearing sunglasses and flower necklaces). It practically reached to mid-thigh on you. After dressing and making yourself coffee, you wandered over to the fireplace, but there wasn’t a clear way to switch it on. You felt around the edges until, at its base, you found a small black button. There was a long hiss from behind the glass. Just as you began to worry about burning the building down, blue flames leapt up and settled into place.

You browsed the bookshelves for something to read. Restitution to Nature: The Growth of the Wutaian Resistance Movement. The War for Grain. Several biographies on people you had never heard of. You skipped over a few shelves, trying to figure out Sephiroth’s organizing system. Yes, there, on the bottom shelves: novels, in every genre imaginable. There was the Cosmo Canyon Mystery series, each of its volumes bound in beautiful red cloth. First editions, too, with pages so yellowed and fragile, you didn’t dare flip through them.

In the end, you looked through the coffee table books on the Ancients. Plenty of jewelry ideas in here: small wire figures, cave carvings, symbols of forgotten deities. The apartment’s silence became unnerving, so you turned on the television. You washed your clothes from the night before in the Shinra-co washing machine. The rain stopped, started, stopped again. You heated up some leftover takeout rice and picked at it. The dumbwaiter brought groceries, and you put them away on Sephiroth’s behalf. The bottles of wine, all looking precariously expensive, didn’t seem to have a home, so you left the reds on the kitchen counter and laid the white in the fridge, next to the MREs. As the sun sank lower in the sky, you put on a documentary about a radio telescope. The dryer chimed impatiently; you opened and closed the door to silence it. Back on the couch, you curled up under the weighted blanket and re-started the movie you had fallen asleep during last weekend. This time, you stayed awake through it all, straight through to the dramatic kiss at the end. You peeled a clementine and licked the juice from your fingers. 

When the streetlights came on below, you began to realize Sephiroth might not return. You checked your phone, but there were no messages. Nothing left for it but to shower and eventually fall asleep in front of the television. At least Sephiroth’s apartment was quiet.

You couldn’t place the odd, homesick yearning that tugged at you when you realized you’d go back to yours tomorrow, and work the day after that. If only you could stay at this apartment every night; the sleep you got here was so total and all-encompassing without traffic or loud neighbors to disturb you. The apartment was kept at a perfect 25-degrees Celsius at all times. You felt…

Safe. That was the word.

You took a shower with the water set to scalding temperatures. The bathroom filled with steam. You brought your own soap with you, too shy to think of taking from him, but curiosity won out: The half-empty bottle of body wash smelled just like his bed. There it was again, that safe feeling, so at odds with the videos and the poster. So at odds with everything. 

But not at odds with the photograph inside his closet. Not at odds with the books under his bed. You felt, more and more often, that you were looking at two different people.

You dried off and secured your hair out of your face. Back in the living room, with a white towel wrapped around your body, you hunted through the bookshelves. A novel called Again and Again looked interesting enough: a forbidden romance between a troubled artist and a planetology ingenue at a Cosmo Canyon university. You brought this into the bathroom and set it aside on a small wooden side table next to the bath. As the hot water ran, you thought about digging into one of the red wine bottles from the groceries. Would he mind?

A horrible thought occurred to you: to anger him, to see where those two different people— the Sephiroth you knew, the Sephiroth everyone else saw— merged into terrifying oneness. It was an impulse to not just open the wine bottle, but to shatter it against the same counter you sat on a week ago. You wanted to shatter all of them.

You wanted—

You walked to the kitchen, opened one of the red wine bottles, and poured yourself a glass. Back in the bathroom, you pulled the side table to within arm’s reach of the bathtub. 

You sank into the warm water gratefully, sighing. Under the bright lights of the bathroom, you could see your body under the gently-undulating water. The Lifestream tattoo appeared to swim and wobble. Fragile came to mind, then you smelled his soap on your skin again and thought, breakable.

Don’t think about that, you chided yourself. Just relax. The irony of just relax: the longer you thought of relaxing things (beautiful, perfect data; the sun shining over Midgar; finding scrap in your old neighborhood in the slums), the more tense you became. You snatched up the wine glass and took a too-deep gulp. It was a cabernet blend, and a dry one. The alcohol scorched your throat on the way down, but you drank more, anyway. You were going to relax and enjoy this, even if it took substances to get you there.

You would relax. You would.

You picked up the novel and began to read.

Go to next chapter >>>

#momofics #snakeskin

[flowerandblood]

My Best Friend (21)

[modern! club owner • Aemond x fem!reader]    

[warnings: kissing, fluff, so none?]

[description: Aemond has his own club and often does business at the home of one of his business associates. There he often meets his younger sister, with whom he develops a deeper relationship through shared secrets. This is slow burn love story.]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Aemond and Y/N walked slowly through the park, their fingers intertwined. Aemond had never thought walking hand in hand would feel so natural and effortless to him. And yet, here he was with his girlfriend, walking to his apartment in the middle of the night after their startling moment of elation that made his lips twitch in amusement. He glanced at Y/N once in a while, but she didn't look at him, completely embarrassed, unable to believe what she had done with him. He pursed his lips to keep from laughing at the sight.

She didn't even realize how much it made him feel better. Not just because they did something forbidden and exciting, or because they had sex. What surprised him the most was how she opened up, suddenly stopped being ashamed. It was the first time he had seen her so sure of herself. Somehow, she could be charming and exciting while maintaining all her innocence. His senses raced against her, taking in many stimuli at once.

Somehow, it gave him an extraordinary pleasure to think that it was his first time with her. Of course, he hadn't had sex with a virgin before either, but it wasn't the same. On their first time, he'd known he had a psychological advantage over her. This time, their situation was more even. For some reason, the thought that he had done something with her that he had never done with any other woman filled him with pride.

They reached his skyscraper and went inside. The bodyguard glared at them from under the bull, but said nothing. Aemond wondered if they looked drunk. It seemed to him that they sobered up a bit by walking in the open air. And because of the physical effort they made in the park. They got on the elevator and went to his floor. Y/N felt his eye still on her and turned sideways, but he pulled her closer, smile of satisfaction on his face.

"Don't look at me like that." She mumbled, unable to bear it any longer. She looked like she was about to die of embarrassment. She snuggled against his chest, sighing and he laughed and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her against him.

"I'm not doing anything." He grunted and kissed her hair, amused by how she was going through it all.

She sighed again and pulled away from him as the elevator doors opened. They walked down a familiar corridor. They stopped outside his door, which he opened and let her in first. He turned on the light in the hall, and they both took off their shoes. He noticed as he hung up his jacket on the hanger that she wasn't as intimidated by the place as she had been the first time, and bravely walked towards the living room and kitchen to pour herself some water.

Aemond followed her in, giving her a meaningful look. The corner of his mouth twitched up as he watched her drink water from a glass. She frowned.

"Stop laughing at me!" She groaned as she pulled away from him, but he moved closer to her. He understood completely Klaus and why he teased her all the time. Aemond decided that teasing her was one of his new favorite activities. 

He pulled her to him and kissed her hungrily, entwining his fingers in her hair. At first she grunted in displeasure, but he wouldn't let her pull away and she finally gave in, returning the kiss. They stood like that for a while and kissed, embracing each other. Aemond felt he had all the time in the world.

He pulled away after a moment and pressed his forehead against hers. The thought of spending the night with her filled him with warmth.

"Sleepy?" He asked softly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He saw her eyes close on their own. She hadn't slept much through their intense night, and she hadn't had a chance to rest now. He suspected she was worn out, and he already felt that the last merciless days had taken their toll on him. 

Even though it seemed to him that the world was collapsing on his head, now, with her, he felt completely at peace. He wanted to keep this alien feeling for as long as possible, and he knew it would last as long as she was next to him.

Y/N nodded, placing her cheek against his chest. She embraced him, closing her eyes.

"I like your smell. It calms me down." She said softly as she hugged with him. Aemond narrowed his eye, her remark pleasantly tickling his ego. He ran his fingers through her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

"And I love the smell of your hair. Ever since you told me about Albert in the kitchen and cried in my arms, I associate this smell with you." He purred contentedly, kissing the top of her head tenderly. Y/N blushed, not knowing he was paying attention to that. Now that he had told her, she remembered that whenever he hugged her, he buried his nose in her hair. She blushed even more at the thought that he had been doing it on purpose all along.

Aemond took her hand, turned off the lights in the kitchen and hallway, and led her into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He turned to face her and looked at her. They looked at each other in silence. Y/N pursed her lips as if she wanted to say something. Aemond approached her slowly.

“Our morning and evening were intense. I…"

"I know." He stopped her, looking at her calmly. "Let's go to sleep. It was a tough time for both of us."

Y/N smiled fondly, grateful that he understood without words what she needed. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek.

"I love your big, strong hands." She said softly, kissing his fingers gently. He shuddered at the sight of it. "I love it when you touch me with them."

He swallowed softly and pulled her close to him.

"If you want me to leave you alone today, save those words for other occasions." He grunted low and kissed her hungrily, their wet lips pressed together in a passionate kiss. He threaded his hands into her hair and pulled her to him. He sighed as he felt her fingers on his cheek and the back of his neck. He pulled away from her and in one swift movement took off his shirt. He looked at her expectantly.

"We can go to sleep, but don't think I'm going to let you lie next to me other than naked. No way." He said low, raising an eyebrow. Y/N blushed and swallowed loudly, but she wasn't about to argue. The thought that he wanted to see and feel her body spread a pleasant warmth in her lower abdomen. 

They both began undressing in an unhurried rhythm. Y/N climbed onto the bed and made herself comfortable on her back, crossing her legs. Aemond grunted in satisfaction at the sight, staring down at her slender, soft, pale body. He sat next to her on the bed, touching her thigh. His fingers moved to her belly and sternum, tracing unhurriedly over her skin. He felt shivers go down her spine and smiled.

"Do I affect you that much?" He asked, looking at her defiantly. Y/N blushed and looked away.

"Are you surprised?" She asked as if it were obvious. Aemond moved closer to her, laying down next to her, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at her.

"Why shouldn't I be surprised?" He asked calmly, looking at her. She looked at him uncertainly, pursed her lips. She ran the back of her hand over his torso, looking at his chest thoughtfully.

"You are a very handsome man. Don't you know that?" She asked after a moment of silence, looking at him with eyes full of desire. Aemond swallowed softly as he looked at her. Women often told him they liked him. That he has a great body. But her words meant something else to him. 

They had a different weight. He tried not to think about it, but deep down he wondered what she thought of him. What she thought of his face and scars. She had never given him any reason to think she might loathe or fear him, but nevertheless he felt deficient in that aspect.

"Well. I'm not the most objective person about my appearance." He grunted, looking to the side. Y/N blinked, wondering what he was thinking. It scared her that he might agonize over what she might think about the lack of his other eye. About him wearing an eye patch. She stopped noticing it a long time ago, but she remembered it when they were in the company of people who saw him for the first time. She knew their glances and furtive comments were torture for him.

Y/N reached for his cheek, where his long scar began. She glided slightly higher, down to the material of the eye patch, and went down again, down to his cheek, stroking it leisurely. She saw him flinch and begin to breathe erratically. He swallowed hard, running his fingers lightly along her arm. He didn't look at her. She debated whether or not to say what came to her lips. After thinking for a moment, she spoke up.

"You said we'd sleep naked. But you're not naked. Isn't that cheating?" She asked warmly, her fingers touching his blindfolds again. Aemond looked at her in shock, knowing what she was implying. She saw his muscles tense. She surprised him. He was speechless for a moment, embarrassed. She felt guilty for starting the topic at all.

"You don't want to see it." He said casually, trying not to show how tight his lips were from the sudden emotion and fear. Y/N blinked.

"I want." She said softly. "I want to see you whole. I won't be scared."

Aemond looked at her, resignation and terror in his eyes.

"It's not a pleasant sight. Why spoil our evening?" He asked annoyed, as if she had spoiled his plans for a pleasant, wonderful night. Y/N pursed her lips and removed her hand from his face, feeling that she might have overdone it.

"Sorry. I didn't want to pressure you. I just really want to see you. But I understand and I'm sorry. Please, don’t be angry." She said softly, looking pleadingly at him. Aemond looked at her after a moment, his gaze softer now.

He leaned over and kissed her deeply, she immediately kissed him back, startled. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back and shoulders steadily, their kisses warm and moist. 

"Forgive me." She whispered into his mouth and he shivered at the words, caressing her lips further, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

He broke away from her and looked at her. Their faces were centimeters apart. She could see that he was fighting with himself, thousands of thoughts ran through his head. 

"No one but my family has ever seen me without an eye patch." He said calmly, pressing his lips together. Y/N swallowed softly and nodded her head.

"I see." She whispered and stroked his cheek. "I understand. It’s okay." She smiled warmly, running her fingers over his face. She touched his eyebrows, nose, mouth, as if she wanted to remember his face by touch as well. She did it slowly, every time she touched his skin again, he shivered. He was looking at her intensely. He swallowed loudly.

"If you want, you can take it off me." He spoke softly, uncertainty lurking in his voice. She saw him tense again at his words, waiting for her reaction. Y/N took a deep breath, her heart starting to beat faster.

"I do not want to force you. You don't have to do this for me." She said hesitantly, stroking his chin.

"Do it." He whispered. Y/N looked at him shocked. It seemed to her that he himself had had enough of it. Constantly wondering what will happen if the patch accidentally slips off, will unravel or if he forget to put it on. What she'll think of him when she sees him for real. She could see that it was really difficult for him and he couldn’t do it alone.

She swallowed hard and lifted her hand slightly. Aemond's mouth parted, his breathing quickening. She saw pain and fear in his eye, as if she was about to peel the skin off him. She could see that he was afraid of her reaction, that he was terrified. She wanted to earn his trust and told herself that whatever she saw, she wouldn't let her expression change an inch. She touched the fabric of his blindfold with her fingers, and he shuddered and closed his good eye. She hesitated for a moment, then took an eye patch it off his head. She felt her heart pounding as she looked at him.

The other half of his face was practically one large, already healed scar. His artificial eye was completely white, making it look as if he was blind. She blinked and thought she didn't even have to control her expression because she didn't see anything scary. She was fascinated. She set his blindfold down on the sheets. Her hand, trembling with emotion, touched the scar next to his artificial eye, then his eyelid. Only now did she notice that Aemond had been watching her carefully for some time, watching her every move.

He swallowed hard and sucked in a breath, as if remembering to breathe. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, his brows furrowed in despair. Y/N stroked his scarred cheek tenderly, a warm, melancholy smile appeared on her face.

"I can finally look at face of my beloved man." She spoke softly, her voice, eyes, and touch betraying nothing but a warm, tender feeling. Aemond's mouth parted slightly and he shuddered at her words, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. He leaned over her as if seeking comfort. She pulled him close and kissed him passionately, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Aemond moaned into her mouth, pressing her painfully hard against him, his hands clasping her hair. His kisses were impatient and hot, as if he couldn't get enough of the feeling he felt for her and the sense of relief that filled his heart. If it wasn't for his promise, he'd take her now, take her all night, fuck her to no end.

"Every day I wake up and fall asleep thinking of you, my love." She whispered into his mouth, and he shuddered, his body shivering violently. She smiled at the sight, touching the tip of her nose to his.

Her words made him want to cry. She raised herself slightly on her elbows and began to place tender, warm kisses on his scars, her pleasant breath caressing his face. He sighed softly, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her to him. She cuddled up to him, nuzzling her nose into his cheek, feeling that he was aroused, and blushed. But he only kissed her hair and pressed her against him, his fingers roaming wildly over her back.

"Stay with me for a few days. I'll take you to class tomorrow and pick you up. In the meantime, we'll go get your things and come back here." He said hesitantly. Her heart beat faster at those words.

"I do not want to disturb you." She said softly, embarrassed, and kissed his cheek, stroking his shoulder.

"You won’t be."

___

I had a moment to post an update, so here we are! 😌

If you want to be tagged, just leave a comment. ~

@chainsawsangel​​​  @yentroucnagol​​ @cardi-bre91​ @melsunshine​ @bellaisasleep​ @candypurplebutterfly​ @malfoytargaryen​ @serrhaewin​ @svtansdaddyx​  @iiamthehybrid​  @beiigegalx​ @sarahkimtae​ @fangirlninja67​ @namoreno​ @thetrueblackheart​​

#aemond x oc #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond the kinslayer #modern!aemond #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #hotd x reader #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfic