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wheresarizona · 2 months

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Learning to Live Part 31

summary: Mondays are Javier’s least favorite day. Add in he has a meeting he’s doing as a favor to the Sheriff that he doesn’t want to do, and the day was destined to be shitty. But things take a turn for the better that morning when he gets a text message from his fiancée that reads: Need u bad. Lunch? ;)

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, alternating POV, age gap (about ten years), explicit smut, Protective Javier Peña, Angry Javier Peña (not at you), Switch Javier Peña (there’s subby Javi as a treat). first smut: masturbation (f), vibrators, accidental voyeurism, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it up), creampie, **BREEDING** (an actual attempt at babymaking). second smut: dry humping, coming in pants, semi-public sex? (it happens in a hospital). in both: dirty talk, praise | discussion of pregnancy, dysfunctional family, insults, yelling, arguing, angst with a happy ending, Javier meets your parents for the first time, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional hurt/comfort, Javier going off)

pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader (a nurse with no physical descriptions)

word count: 16k

a/n: The dirty talk in this one makes me 🫠🫠🫠. This chapter is something a lot of people have been waiting for. Thank you to everyone who comments and reblogs! I try to reply to them all, and if I miss any, it’s not on purpose and I’m sorry! The love so many people have for this silly story of mine makes me literally 😭😭😭. So, THANK YOU. We’ve got about nine chapters left after this one (could become more). Thank you to the love of my life @juletheghoul for giving this a look over and ensuring my Spanish is correct. I love you.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

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The New Year started with Javier’s big hands caressing your face as he kissed you, the Times Square ball having dropped on the nearby television in your best friend’s living room, where you were attending a party. He had tasted like cherry and orange jello from the Tequila Sunrise jello shot you convinced him to take with you a minute before midnight and smelled like his spicy cologne; the familiar scent had made you feel warm and safe—it had made you feel at home.

Javier Peña was your home.

He was your always and forever, the sun shining after it rained, a warm, cozy blanket on a cold day, the bright star that guides you through the darkness, and the greatest love you would ever have.

And he belonged to you as you belonged to him.

The New Year started with a kiss—one full of promises for the months ahead and shared hopes and dreams; your lips pressed together and moving in sync, silently proclaiming to the other your insurmountable love and undying devotion. And when it had ended, you wore matching grins, Javi's cheeks tinted in a lovely pink flush, his perfect full lips glistening under the room's lights from saliva while his beautiful chocolate-colored eyes gazed tenderly into yours, and he said, "Happy New Year, Cielito. I know it's gonna be a great fucking year because I have you—my best friend, the love of my life, and in ten days, my wife.”

Monday, January 4, started like any other Monday—the alarm going off and your fiancé hitting the snooze button so he could pull you into his arms and get nine minutes of uninterrupted cuddling in before the incessant beeping went off again. When your time was up, he sometimes, like this morning, grumbled as he moved to turn it off, "Fucking hate Mondays." This was why his coffee mug had Garfield the cat on it with a speech bubble containing the same sentiment, just without the cursing, but let’s be real, if that orange cartoon cat wasn’t censored, he’d absolutely say ‘fuck.’

In December, Javier’s prima (cousin) Alma—his tío’s (uncle’s) daughter and sister to Sebastián—was home from college and introduced you to something the kids had started doing: texting. You found this new form of communication came in handy when you were busy and didn’t have time to talk, like right this second as you stood in a storage room at work an hour into your shift with a bag of saline in your hand, your cell phone in the other sending Javi a message.

Your thumb punched the numbers on the keypad, typing: Need u bad. Lunch? ;)

The phone went back into your scrub pants pocket, and you started grabbing the other supplies you needed from the shelves. Seconds later, ringing sounded, making you sigh and have to juggle what you held into one arm to fish your cell phone out again, seeing he was calling from his office phone. You pressed the accept button, the device going to your ear as you answered in exasperation, “Why do you always call instead of texting back?”

“Because talking is easier than trying to type shit out with the keypad,” Javier replied. “Why do you send messages when you know I’m just going to call you?”

“My naive hope that you’ll get I’m too busy to talk.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll make it quick—is this a regular lunch quickie, or is it finally time…?” He sounded hopeful.

“With how I’m feeling a little crampy and insanely horny this morning, I’m pretty sure it’s time—like, the horniness is bad enough there’s no way I can wait until work is over.”

There was noticeable excitement in his voice. “Apartment or truck?”

As tempting as the truck was, you weren’t in the mood for the risk.

“Home.”

“Got it, and why is there extra punctuation after the question? Is it code or something? Should I know what it means?”

“Turn the phone sideways, and it looks like a winking face—I was trying to be flirty and cute with my request for dick.”

“Huh, I guess it does kinda look like a face…”

“I have to get back to work, babe. We’re meeting at home on lunch for you to fuck my brains out, got it?”

“Yes, Cielito—home on lunch to fuck a baby into you.”

“Perfect. Love you, bye.”

“Love you, too. Bye, mi amor (my love).”

The device was put away, and you double-checked you got everything you needed for the new patient who’d just been brought to your department to recover from surgery. While in the patient’s room setting up their IV, you felt your pocket vibrate. After ensuring your new occupant was comfortable and not in need of anything, you left the room, looking at your phone as you walked down the hall and finding you had an unread text from Javi that you opened:

I love you and im excited for lunch ;)

It made you smile, and you replied back: Love u too. cant wait to see u <3

A few minutes after getting back to work, you felt the vibration of another message from him that ended up containing a question: What does <3 mean?

Robyn got a rushed 'See you in an hour' as you left for lunch in a hurry.

You didn't have road rage—it was more road annoyance when people were driving below the speed limit, didn't go as soon as the light turned green, or cut you off like that asshole who worked over at the hardware store did; what was his name? Jimmy? Jerry? Terry? It didn’t matter; he got a raised middle finger. When you pulled into your parking space at the apartment complex, Javi's spot beside yours was empty, and you booked it inside, kicking off your shoes once you got through the door, throwing your purse onto the console table in the entryway, along with your keys.

The thought of leaving the front door unlocked for Javi was squashed almost immediately with the reminder of him telling you always to keep it locked when he wasn't home—so you locked it, the deadbolt turning with a click.

When you told him you were insanely horny, it wasn’t an exaggeration—the horniness had your heartbeat pulsating in your cunt and made the scrubs you were wearing feel stifling over your heated skin, needing them off as soon as possible; your mind was consumed with all of the dirty things Javi could do to ease the ache between your legs—his thick fingers pushing into you and crooking them to hit that one spot only he could reach; his hips pounding into you from behind while rubbing your clit just right to make you come around him; his talented tongue and mouth working you over, licking and sucking on your wet heat with the finesse of a man devouring his first meal in weeks; his cock fucking into you nice and slow, feeling the stretch you couldn’t replicate with your fingers or a toy.

All those thoughts had you wanting Javier with every fiber of your being, and each passing second he wasn’t there was driving you crazy.

Walking toward the bedroom, you removed your clothes as you went, shimmying out of your pants, pushing down and off your panties, your blue scrub shirt getting tugged over your head next, followed by your white tank top, and finally, upon entering the room, your bra was unsnapped, and gravity took it to the floor, leaving behind a trail of garments that’d lead your fiancé to you buck naked and wanting.

You crawled onto the bed Javi had made that morning, the navy blue duvet decorated in golden suns, moons, and bright white stars. The burning ache at the apex of your thighs was begging to be assuaged by any means necessary, and with the absence of the person you wanted more than anything, it was up to you to take off the edge until he arrived.

Pulling open your bedside table drawer, you got out your small bullet vibrator and got comfortable lying down with your head on a pillow and slightly spreading your legs—cold air hit the slick-coated skin on your inner thighs and the lips of your sex, making you shiver. The toy hummed to life with the click of a button, your eyes closing as you slid it along your wet folds, the thrumming igniting sparks of arousal in your belly. You were imagining Javi on top of you, his hips pinning you to the mattress with his dick buried inside you, thrusting deep while his tongue was in your mouth—your jaw went slack, and your spine stiffened when you circled the vibe around your swollen clit, the sharp bolt of pleasure shooting to your core causing you to gasp.

The excitement in your pelvis was growing, moving the waves of vibrations side to side over your sensitive nub, fanning the flames of arousal in your center. You were so turned on your orgasm was building quickly, your nipples tightening, the heat in your abdomen spreading out from your groin, and getting hotter by the second. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and sweat was beginning to bead on your forehead, your thighs shaking as you envisioned Javier fucking you.

“Javi,” you moaned.

“I’m here, baby,” came his deep rasp. Your eyes flew open as you gasped, jolting in surprise.

He was standing at the end of the bed in his charcoal grey suit pants and a white dress shirt gaping at the neck from the three or so buttons he’d undone. His jacket and the red-patterned tie he’d left for work wearing were nowhere to be seen—there was a noticeable bulge at the front of his slacks, his pupils blown wide, his hungry gaze feasting on you spread out in front of him while he rolled up his sleeves to reveal the golden skin of his forearms, the overhead light glinting off of the face of the silver Rolex watch on his wrist you’d gotten him for Christmas.

Seeing him there in the flesh had such a strong spike of arousal cutting through you that you were unable to stop your desperate moan of his name. “I need you,” you whined, lifting the vibrator from yourself and turning it off in preference of having him instead. “I need you to fuck me—right now, Javier.”

His big hand was stroking over his straining length beneath his pants, his eyes locked on your glistening center. He licked his lips like he was imagining what you’d taste like. “You weren’t lying about being insanely horny, Cielito,” he said, not moving his gaze from between your thighs. “Look at how wet you are—how needy your pussy is for me. You want my dick, hermosa (beautiful)? You want my come?”

“Yes,” you answered, nodding your head.

“You can have it, Cielito.” You squeaked in surprise when he grabbed your ankles and roughly pulled you toward him to have your ass at the edge of the mattress. “—in a minute,” he continued and dropped to his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

He eagerly dove in, running the flat of his tongue through your slit to gather your wetness with an appreciative hum. It felt so good, your lip was pulled between your teeth, and your fingers curled into his hair, moaning as he lapped at your cunt.

The tip of his beautiful nose rubbed your clit with every drag of his plush mouth along your pussy, causing shocks of electricity to course through your wet core, your eyes rolling back, and the pleasure building inside you. His groans were vibrating against your sensitive skin, his tongue dipping into your opening before moving up to tease your bundle of nerves—flicking at it side to side, over and over again.

Your fists tightened in his hair. “Javi,” you whimpered. “God, it’s so good.”

There was something about someone enthusiastically going down on you that made the act a million times better—your past boyfriends would only do it if you asked, or they felt they had to because you gave them a blow job. But Javier? This man wanted to eat you out. He craved your taste; he loved getting you off with his mouth. You were pretty sure if he could, he’d live with his face shoved in your cunt, and you loved hearing how much he was enjoying himself; his moans making it sound like you were the one pleasuring him.

The horniness and using the vibrator had you so worked up that adding in Javi eating your pussy like it was his favorite meal had you cresting in hardly any time at all—your insides knotting up, winding tighter and tighter until the tension shattered and you came with a gasp of his name, relishing the euphoria that washed over you. His tongue went down to your entrance, licking up every bit of your release he could get, not missing a single drop.

The orgasm was nice, but it was more of an appetizer—it got you into the mood and even more excited for the main course that was getting his cock inside you so you’d finally be relieved of the aching emptiness in your core.

You let go of his hair, your words coming out hoarse, “Can I have your dick now?”

He let your legs fall off his shoulders and rose with a crooked grin, his mustache and the bottom half of his face wet with your juices. He started undoing his belt. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” he said, popping open the button on his slacks and pulling down the zipper. “I wanted to make sure I got you off first.” He shoved the pants and white boxer briefs down his legs, his cock springing free under the hem of his dress shirt.

Sitting up on your elbows, you smiled at him. “A gentleman,” you replied with a wink. “I’ll take it you’re unbelievably excited about possibly getting me pregnant, and you don’t think you’ll be able to last? Which, no shame—it flatters me when you’re so jazzed about fucking me you bust a nut sooner than you wanted.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’m excited.” He looked down, lifting the bottom of his shirt with one hand and spitting onto the fingers of the other, using them to slick up his throbbing length and making it shine in the lights of the room. “I’m really fucking excited.” He hooked his left arm under your knee and pulled you a little closer as he stepped forward with his dick in his right hand, pumping it a couple of times and pressing the tip to your soaked hole. “I love you,” the last word devolved into a groan as he pushed forward, sliding all the way home inside your cunt until he was balls deep.

The moment he breached your entrance, your mouth fell open at the delicious stretch your tight walls had to make for him to fit; your breaths went ragged, and your fingers clutched the duvet at the fullness. This was what you wanted. This was what you needed, feeling him so deep inside you that you were sure if he went any deeper, he’d nudge your spleen.

Your eyes had closed, and you fell back, the first sound escaping your lips coming out as a trembling whisper of his name. Javi went completely still for some seconds to calm himself down before he got his arms under each of your knees to spread you wide.

His voice was huskier when he spoke. “This what you needed, mi amor?” he asked. “My cock? Need me to fill this perfect pussy with my come? Need me to fuck it so deep I get you pregnant?”

“Yes,” you moaned.

“I’ll make you a mother, Cielito,” he said in a sure tone.

That statement had you clenching around him, Javi hissing. He audibly swallowed.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “It’s fucking embarrassing how close I am.”

You huffed in amusement, your mouth dry and sweat forming on your brow. “You riled yourself up while riling me up—you played yourself.”

“Don’t give me shit.”

Opening your eyes, his broad figure was looming over you with a grumpy look on his perfect face, his dark eyes on yours.

“I’m not giving you shit, Javi,” you said. “I love it—now, hurry up and fuck me, so we’ll be parents in nine months.”

That seemed to kick him into gear, Javi pulling out almost all the way and slamming back in hard enough to push the air from your lungs, setting up a hard, fast pace that had your mouth forming a perfect ‘O.’ He was pounding into you, grunting with each thrust, and stuttering your moans—it was so amazing, arousal was seeping from your cunt and down his shaft, hearing him working his dick in and out of your sopping hole and the harsh slap of his balls against your skin.

Heat was growing at the base of your spine, your thoughts consumed with how good he was fucking you and the fact there was a chance he could knock you up—that alone had you speeding toward another orgasm.

Ever since the first time Javier told you he loved you, his preference in sex positions had changed—before, it was backshots, railing you from behind to the point he had you incoherent and drooling. Now, it was anything face to face for the intimacy and wanting to kiss you, which was so unbelievably sweet.

A newer development that you’d noticed not too long ago was he liked having access to your breasts—he was still an ass man, but there’d been an uptick in titty action, like at this moment with him wrapping your legs around his waist so he could lean down to suck your nipple between his lips while he palmed your other breast, his hips never waning from their brutal onslaught.

His tongue laved at your stiff peak, sucking and licking it and causing lightning to shoot straight to your core, the volume of your moans increasing. The hot pleasure curling in your gut made you move your hands into his hair, your legs squeezed tight around his hips.

His cock was pushing in and out of you, filling you over and over again, his mouth moving to your other nipple to give it the same attention while his fingers pinched and rolled the first—he had your pussy weeping for him, your slick escaping where you were joined, dripping down between your asscheeks as he fucked you into the mattress.

You were almost there. The muscles in your stomach were tensing in preparation for your release.

You wanted to kiss, and he got the message when you pulled his head up by the hair, his lips smashing against yours, holding his weight on his arms beside your head. The kiss was messy, with your tongues tangling and teeth clattering, sharing breaths, his body taking up your vision. You were lost in it all and all of him, Javier becoming the only thing you could think about, the two of you in your own little world, where nothing else mattered except each other.

When you needed air, your mouth blazed a sloppy trail of kisses along his jaw to his neck, his breathing getting shallower and rhythm jerky, knowing he was close—you sucked on the taut skin of his throat hard enough to leave a mark, and it made him whine, the sound going straight to your cunt.

“I’m gonna come inside you,” he said in a breathy rumble, the deep timbre of his voice making your scalp tingle. “I’m gonna—shit—I’m gonna fuck a baby into you.” It was your turn to whine. “I’m gonna fill you up, keep you stuffed until it—fuck—until it takes.” He sounded totally and completely wrecked.

Your words were muffled into his neck, “Y-Yes, Javi—give it to me. Fuck a baby into me.”

“I wanna,” he groaned, “I wanna see you pregnant with my child.” He wasn’t going to last much longer; his strokes were getting sloppier, and he’d hit the point of being so close that he rambled. “I wanna see your body change—your tits get bigger with milk.” His dick twitched hard inside you. “You’ll be so fucking beautiful—fuck—so fucking beautiful carrying my baby.” He was panting. “I love you so much—please don’t leave—please don’t ever leave me.”

You grabbed his cheeks and passionately kissed him, saying into his lips, “I’m never gonna leave you—I love you—I love you,” you repeated with more emphasis. “I’m yours—I’ll always be yours. Put a baby in me, Javi—fuck your come deep.”

That did him in.

His groan was ragged as he broke the kiss to shove his face into your neck—his teeth were bared, his hot breaths fanning against your skin, his pace going frantic.

“Yes, yes, yes,” was gasped from your lips, chanting the word like a prayer. “Come in me,” you practically beg.

His hips bucked into you one last time, pushing his cock in as deep as it could go inside you, feeling it thicken and jerk as he came, gushing inside you with a rumbling moan. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder, the pleasurable pain making you gasp, feeling the hot flood of his come painting your insides. His hips were rolling to fuck it deeper, catching you off guard when he suddenly shifted his weight onto one arm to shove his other hand down between your bodies to rub your sensitive clit.

There was a quivering in your belly, a quaking that spread out to make your arms and legs tremble, his fingers circling, stroking, over and over again.

“Come for me,” he murmured against your ear. “Let me have it.”

You hit your tipping point, falling over the edge with an unintelligible cry—the surge of pleasure that bursted from your core had your hips jerking and your pussy spasming around him, Javi’s head falling against your shoulder with a strangled groan of good girl because you were squeezing him like a vice.

Now, this was one of those orgasms that consumed your entire being, taking you apart piece by piece until you were nothing but an incoherent, blissed-out puddle of a person who couldn’t even remember their own name.

A body slumped onto you, welcoming the familiar weight, the only sounds in the room being the hum of the air conditioning and panted breaths of the two inhabitants. It was reflex that had your fingers pressing into his slightly sweat-damp hair and rubbing your fingertips along his scalp—he made a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

Seconds pass, then some minutes, it was Javi who spoke first, grumbling with his face now in the crook of your neck, “I don’t wanna go back to fucking work.”

The reminder that your workday wasn’t over made you whine ‘No’ dramatically.

His hand, not above your head, rubbed along your ribs. “I know, baby—it’s shitty.”

“Why did we think a lunch quickie was a good idea?”

“Was there any thinking…?” he questioned.

“God, you’re so right. We suspected I was ovulating and immediately jumped to ‘We need to fuck right now.’ Zero planning whatsoever. An error was made when we assumed it’d be like our usual sexy lunchtime shenanigans.”

He hummed in agreement. “Was it better than normal for you, too…?”

“Um, yes—apparently, actual babymaking sex is another level of amazing.”

“It really is.” He held up his wrist so you could look at his watch. “How much time do we have?”

“Not enough for you to shower or either of us to eat—we probably should’ve gotten up like five minutes ago.”

“Fuck,” he said. Javi groaned as he pushed himself up to stand, a hiss slipping through his teeth when he pulled himself out of you.

Sitting up on your elbows, his attention was focused on the swollen lips between your thighs, his come starting to dribble from your used hole. You spread your legs a little wider for him to get a better look.

“So fucking pretty,” he mused, his hand moving without a second thought to catch his leaking spend on two fingers and press it back inside you. “Not letting a drop go to waste, mi amor.” His eyes met yours, laying his free hand low on your belly over your womb. He smiled. “A couple of weeks from now, you could be pregnant.”

You shared his happy expression. “We are going to fuck so much that your dick is going to hurt by the end of this week—might even get chafed.”

He grimaced. “Why are you excited about that?”

Reaching, you pressed a palm to his cheek. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll ice it for you.”

“That doesn’t make it any better…”

“It’s a sacrifice we must make to knock me up.”

He pulled his fingers out. “Sacrifice we have to make? I’m the one making the sacrifice…”

Your eyebrow lifted. “Okay, and what about the sacrifice I have to make with my body growing a tiny human from practically nothing, sharing said body with them for nine months, then having to go through probably the most excruciating pain of my entire life to push them out of my vagina, Javier? Still think you’re the only one making a sacrifice by being uncomfortable for a couple of days after contributing your pleasurable 1% to our group project, that I will be doing 99% of the work on?”

His eyes had rounded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right,” he said and cleared his throat. “I’m fine with the dick discomfort—I’m sorry, cariño (sweetheart).” He rubbed your bicep with his clean hand. “Can I get you some water?” He checked his watch. “Fuck it, I’ll go back to the office late. I don’t have a meeting for another half an hour anyway—I’m gonna make you lunch to take to work.” He bent to pull up his underwear and slacks he didn’t bother buttoning up and leaned to give you a quick kiss. “I just need to wash up real fast—I love you. Thank you.” He pecked you on the lips again.

“I love you, too—you don’t have to make me food,” you said as he retreated to the bathroom. “I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you’re not mad,” he replied over his shoulder, “but I’m still making my wife and the future mother of my children food because I love her and appreciate everything she does for me.”

You gasped in pretend shock. “You’re married?!” you exclaimed. “I’m sleeping with a married man?!”

He stopped in the bathroom doorway and turned your way with a look that said he was done with your shit, and it made you grin.

“You will be in seven days,” he replied.

You got up from the mattress on shaky legs, walking toward him.

“Does your wife know that?”

“Cielito?”

“Yes, Javier?”

“I’m fucking you in seven days—mark it on your calendar.”

That made you giggle. “If I scheduled all the times we fuck, there wouldn’t be any empty days on the calendar.”

You were close to him.

“Probably.” He shrugged. “But next Monday is special.”

“Is that so?” you asked, finally in his space and wrapping your arms around his shirt-covered middle. He hugged you back, looking you in the eyes with a smile.

“Yeah,” he answered, “‘cause it’ll be the first time I fuck you as my lawfully wedded wife.”

“Should I expect sex to be different as Mrs. Javier Peña?”

He nodded. “It’ll be better.”

And before the lunch quickie, you’d just had, you would’ve told him that was impossible. However, now, you thought he was right; that as your relationship continued to grow and evolve, so would you both, and it’d affect something like your sex life, hopefully, positively as each year passed. It felt like you won the lottery that this kind, sweet, caring, respectful, incredible man loved you and would no doubt ensure sex with him was nothing less than spectacular.

“Well, Mr. Peña, I’m excited for you to make an honest woman out of me.”

His head moved, hovering his lips over yours, feeling his breath as he spoke in a low husk, “I’m excited to be your husband and share my last name with you, Mrs. Peña—I love you.”

“I love you, too—kiss me,” you whispered.

He nudged his nose against yours. “As you wish, mi amor—I promise to kiss you every day for as long as I live.” He pressed his lips to yours, kissing you tenderly.

Robyn was going to give you so much shit for returning to work late…

Javier didn’t mind Mondays when he was in Colombia.

To be honest, during his first stint trying to get Pablo Escobar, he was working so much his days blended together, and he didn’t know the date until he looked at a calendar in the office or Steve told him. As attaché, Mondays were the start of his week, and if he happened to have Sunday or the whole weekend off, he was still doing work at home and couldn’t wait to get back to the office—Monday mornings were used to plan out and go over his week’s schedule with his staff, the rest of the day he attended required meetings and when he had time, assessing where they were at in their operation and strategizing next steps.

He’d been too consumed with his job to take a break or relax over the weekend. it wasn’t something he would’ve wanted to do anyway because it’d mean he’d be alone with his thoughts, and who’d want that? Thinking about all of the mistakes he’d made, how much he fucked up and let his family down, mulling over how alone and miserable he felt—obsessing about his work meant there wasn’t time to think about those things, so Mondays were always welcome.

His life had changed since then.

Drastically.

Now, he looked forward to the weekend.

It meant a full forty-eight hours he got to spend with the most amazing woman he loved more than anything. It was forty-eight hours full of love, happiness, and contentment. He could actually relax with her, let his guard down, and just be himself.

The weekend was sacred, and he hated waking up on Monday morning, knowing he'd have to be away from his media naranja (soulmate) for at least forty hours over the next five days.

It was safe to say that Javier wasn't the jolliest of people when the alarm clock went off at the start of the week; it was such a common occurrence Cielito often compared him to Garfield, the cat.

He felt he'd done some good work since starting at the Sheriff's office a while back. The narcotics unit, he advised, had managed to do double the busts and arrests than the previous year, the DEA practically frothing at the mouth over the amount of drugs, weapons, and dirty money they’d seized. The agent in charge of their region, who he’d previously butted heads with, had even commended him on their last call. His notoriety was known enough he’d lost count of how many offers he'd gotten to do lectures and the number of agencies in Texas and across the country who had tried to poach him at most or get him to do short-term freelance consulting at minimum.

Basically, there were a lot of people who wanted to pick his brain and/or talk about his time with the DEA.

His, was it, popularity? In the drug enforcement circles and public knowledge of his efforts in Colombia had led to an interesting phenomenon, the Sheriff loved and Javier hated. Philanthropists, sometimes businesses, a lot of the times just individuals, many of whom weren’t even from the area, wanted to donate decent sums of money to the various anti-drug and addiction treatment programs the Sheriff's office and county, in general, ran with the caveat of discussing where their money was going with someone who fought in the War on Drugs.

Him.

Most of the time when he met with these 'philanthropists,' they just wanted to hear stories about Pablo Escobar and the Cali cartel that weren't reported in the mainstream media, or in other words, Javier had to schmooze.

Javier hated schmoozing.

He absolutely fucking hated all the ass kissing he had to do with higher-ups as attaché, and he sure as fuck, didn't like having to do it now with people who had more money than god and a morbid curiosity about two of the biggest, most violent cartels in recent history.

He could decline these meetings if he wanted—Sheriff Arturo told him it was completely his choice if he took them or not. Obviously, his preference would be the latter, but he cared about his community and checked into it to confirm the donations were being used as intended, so he figured it was worth an hour of his time every once in a while.

This morning, he'd been extra annoyed it was Monday because he was scheduled to meet with one of these potential donors who was from Dallas or somewhere else in the state; he wasn't actually paying attention the prior week when Joy, the Sheriff's assistant who also helped out Javier sometimes, was giving him the information due to the fact seconds before she walked into his office he'd gotten a message on his phone from his wi-fiancée that read:

Can I blow u on lunch?

And he’d needed Joy to leave so he could call Cielito to give her an emphatic yes, with the stipulation he could eat her out for his afternoon meal instead of the sandwich she made him. All that’d registered when his, kind of, assistant was talking were the date and time for the meeting he hastily scribbled down on his yellow legal pad.

Since it was the beginning of a new week and having the meeting on his agenda, he didn’t have much hope for it being a good day, and then his phone vibrated with a text message from his soon-to-be wife:

Need u bad. Lunch? ;)

See, in the week after they came home from Miami, they had an in-depth conversation about starting their family—yes, they both had already enthusiastically agreed to try for a baby, but Cielito wanted to manage his expectations and ensure he understood the statistics, risks, and tragic possibilities he didn’t even want to think about, yet needed to be aware of.

That night, he’d gotten out his mother’s rosary for the first time in a while, sat on the edge of the bathtub in the locked bathroom, and had a quiet conversation with her about how happy and ecstatic he was, along with his new fears and worries, making a tearful request for her to please watch over them. He wasn’t religious by any means and didn’t see a point in praying to some all-powerful being that possibly existed and, if so, had more serious matters in the world to attend to, but Javier knew his mom would care if she was listening, and it comforted him, thinking she was, and that she would watch over them.

Another thing his fiancée had done was try and pinpoint when they actually had a chance of conceiving, and that was how he found out she’d begun keeping track of her periods when they started dating, her reasoning:

‘I thought you didn’t want kids, so I made sure I could catch any surprises as quickly as possible to give us time to figure out what we wanted to do, then I found out you’re actually pro-kids and knew the data would come in handy when we decided to go for it, and I was right.”

She was right, she was always right, though, and had marked possible dates their chances were high on the Star Wars-themed wall calendar in the kitchen—January’s picture was a still from the first movie of Darth Vader interrogating Princess Leia in her cell on the Death Star—and Javier had been waiting for the prospective days with almost the same amount of glee as their impending nuptials.

Today was a possibility, and getting her text message and having her confirm over the phone her telling symptoms had him fist pumping with an excited ‘Yes!’ when he hung up.

His day had completely turned around, and he wasn’t even bothered about his afternoon meeting because he was on top of the world and beyond happy about the possibility of becoming a father.

He’d been vibrating with so much excitement he couldn't even focus on his work, and there were some important reports he needed to go over and create; he also had a few files on some recent busts one of the guys on the narcotics team wanted him to look over to see if Javier noticed the same things he did without disclosing what they were—he’d be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued.

Over the months he’d been with the Sheriff’s office, they’d had some leads on how the drugs were crossing the border from Mexico into Laredo, but they all ended up being dead ends. They knew what cartel was supplying; however, they didn’t know the link that was getting them into the US, and it bothered him so fucking much. Every person they caught and interrogated either wouldn’t say anything because they feared what the cartel would do or didn’t know shit, and had the same story that they got a call from an unknown number that gave them a location to pick up what was usually a vehicle with the drugs hidden inside along with their cash payment, and a destination where they needed to take it—generally, random parking lots they’d abandon the cars in. The narcotics team had attempted numerous times to get one of the traffickers to wait for their next call and report the specifics in order to conduct a sting, but once they were arrested, they were never contacted again or, in some cases, mysteriously disappeared; the assumption was they either fled to Mexico, or the sicarios got them.

It also didn't help that the town police department wasn't very forthcoming with their drug arrests and made getting their reports a pain in the ass—apparently, this only became an issue when Javier came on board as a consultant, which told him the person making their life difficult was the Laredo Police Department Chief, who also happened to be Lorraine's uncle.

That fucking family.

Since he'd been too amped to work, the time leading up to the lunch hour was spent going through the catalogs he had delivered to the office he hid in his desk drawer, containing baby stuff—clothes, toys, furniture, and making notes of the things he liked or needed to call Connie about to get her opinion.

The lunchtime quickie that ended up not being very quick was better than he ever could have imagined; it was so fucking fantastic that it easily made his top three Greatest Fucks—the other two were the sex on his birthday last month and the first time they fucked after they confessed their love on the kitchen floor—and it had him itching for the end of the workday to go home, and do it again, and probably again after that. It seemed Cielito wasn’t wrong about the probability of his dick hurting by the end of the week, and after some perspective (her gentle reminder of her sacrifices), it was something he was more than okay with—he was looking forward to it, actually.

He'd made her a cheese quesadilla and cut up some apple slices for her to take back to work and eaten his own before he left the apartment.

Javier had fussed with his clothes and hair to ensure it wasn’t obvious what he’d been doing the past hour and thought he did a pretty good job. He arrived at work ten minutes before his meeting and stopped by Joy’s desk, located outside Sheriff Arturos’s office, to get any messages he may have missed. The Sheriff was standing at his door talking to her in his uniform of a short-sleeved khaki shirt and army green pants, his gold Sheriff star badge gleaming under the overhead lights.

The older man’s dark eyes landed on him as he approached, the expression on his face turning to amusement.

“Parece que tuviste un buen almuerzo (Looks like you had a good lunch),” the Sheriff said.

His eyebrows furrowed. “¿Por qué dices eso (Why do you say that)...?”

Arturo tapped the side of his neck with his finger. “Ella te marcó (She marked you).”

Javier knew the exact spot, his hand instinctively moving to cover it. His attention went to Joy, who looked just as amused as the Sheriff. “How bad is it?” he asked her as he uncovered it.

She peered up at him through her wire-rimmed glasses, examining the spot. “She got you good, but you’ve had worse,” she answered. This was something that had happened many times before. “I can cover it up for your meeting if you want.”

He usually didn’t care about walking around with hickies on his neck—he actually loved that it broadcasted he was with someone. Unfortunately, there were some instances where he needed to look professional, and Joy would help by covering the marks with makeup Cielito had given her.

Checking his watch, the people would be arriving any minute. “There’s no time,” he sighed. “I’ll get my messages after the meeting—thank you!” He started walking to his office down the hall.

He’d made sure his desk didn’t look messy, keeping a legal pad and his pen at the ready, his suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and he had some program brochures in case whoever he was meeting with wanted them. He was sitting, absentmindedly thinking about what kind of flowers he’d bring home to his fiancée, leaning towards a bouquet of colorful tulips or there’d been a pink rose and lilies arrangement he saw last week he thought was really pretty, she’d like.

His desk phone rang, and he picked up the receiver, answering, “Peña.”

“Your appointment has arrived, Mr. Peña,” Joy said on the other line. “Are you ready for them?”

“Sure,” he replied. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.” There was a lot he could do instead of regaling people with stories from the worst years of his life.

“We’re on our way.” She hung up, and so did he, Javier standing up from his chair.

Joy appeared at his doorway, holding out her arm to direct the newcomers inside, as she said, “Right this way.”

Three nicely dressed people walked in, two men and a woman, Javier stepped around his desk to shake the first man’s hand—he was much older than Javier, giving him a firm handshake.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Javier,” the man said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—he had an air about him that he knew he was the richest and most important person in the room; so, snobby. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“From someone I know?” Javier figured it was an agent at the DEA.

“I believe so,” he answered. “We can talk about that in a minute—this is my wife.” He looked at the woman beside him, and Javier shook her hand. She was probably ten to fifteen years younger than her husband, dressed in clothes and jewelry that had to be worth more than he made in a year—she wasn’t smiling. It was obvious from her expression that she was disappointed in what she was seeing and unimpressed, Javier cringing when her eyes zeroed in on his neck.

This was going to go so well.

Maybe she was expecting someone older who looked more experienced?

“It’s nice to meet you,” Javier said with a polite smile. He let go of her hand. “I didn’t get either of your names?”

The man spoke, “Call us…” he paused. “John,” he finally answered, “and Jane.”

“Okay… John and Jane…?”

“Doe.”

Fake names. “So, you want to be anonymous donors…?”

It had happened before; however, in those instances, they did tell him their names and just requested they be listed as anonymous.

“Precisely—you’re a smart guy, Javier,” John said, with a smile that wasn’t sincere and the comment coming off as condescending, making Javier’s teeth clench.

“Right…”

“Well—” John clapped his hands together once. “—let’s talk business.”

There was still the other man behind them—tall, gangly, balding, probably about John’s age, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a black suit, holding a briefcase—a lawyer if he had to guess, which wasn’t odd when there were large sums of money involved.

“I’ll take it the gentleman accompanying you is your lawyer?” he asked.

“Yes.”

They obviously weren’t going to introduce the guy to Javier, so he walked around them and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Javi,” he said, “and you are?”

“Gerald,” he answered, shaking his hand.

He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Gerald.” Javier moved to close his office door. “Please, have a seat,” he told the room as he made his way to his desk. “Sorry, I only have two chairs, but I can have Joy bring in a third.”

He sat down in his, the couple taking seats in the two chairs in front of his desk.

“That won’t be necessary,” John said, waving away his offer. “Jerry is fine standing.”

Javier looked up at the man in question standing behind them. “Would you like a seat, Gerald?”

“I’m fine,” he answered.

Javier nodded and turned his attention to the people in front of him, who now looked annoyed because they apparently didn’t like politeness. He crossed his arms on his desk and gave them a close-lipped smile.

“So,” he started, “I was told you wanted to meet with me specifically. I’ll just say I don’t normally do these kinds of meetings, but if it helps get funding, I will. How can I help you? Would you like me to go over the programs?”

“We had some questions for you,” John replied.

“Okay.” He nodded. “I’m assuming they’re about my work in Colombia?”

“Some,” he answered.

“What university did you go to?” Jane asked.

“Texas A&M.”

“What degree?”

“Criminal justice with a minor in psychology.”

Her nose scrunched as if she smelled something bad, and John sat up straighter in his seat. “Were you really involved with taking down Pablo Escobar?” he asked.

“I helped—spent seven/eight years going after him with my partner. I wasn’t there when he died, but my partner was.”

“That’s a considerable amount of time to hunt someone. Why weren’t you there in the end?”

“I was on leave here in Laredo visiting my family.” Kind of true. “Bad timing, as you can tell.” He humorlessly chuckled.

“Right… And there was another cartel you were involved in dismantling?”

“The Cali cartel,” he answered. “They took over after Escobar.”

“Sounds like a dangerous job. Do you have to worry about their associates or the criminals you put away coming after you?”

“Not really? Many are dead, and I’ve been out of the DEA for a while, so I think if something were going to happen, it would’ve by now.”

“Your achievements are impressive.” He said it, but he didn’t look impressed. “How old are you?”

“Forty.” He felt like he was being interrogated. “Can I tell you about the county’s programs?”

“Right, right,” John said. “Money. We promise you’ll have a check. We’re just interested in learning more about The Great Javier Peña.”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t say I’m great…”

“We wouldn’t either,” Jane mumbled under her breath, not looking at him.

“That’s something we can agree on,” John said so smoothly that Javier was stunned by the rudeness.

What was with these people? They requested this meeting with him and didn’t seem to like him all that much—he was pretty sure the wife hated his guts, and he had no clue what he’d done or who they were. He didn’t have to put up with this shit, no matter who they thought they were or how much they were going to donate, so he let his mask fall along with all the pleasantries.

“So, I’m doing this as a favor for the Sheriff,” Javier said. “I don’t have to talk to you people, especially with you giving me the impression you don’t even like me. I don’t want to waste your time or mine—let’s cut to the chase; how much money are you donating? And I’ll decide if it’s worth answering any more of your questions.”

His shift in demeanor had the couple looking taken aback at his audacity, like they couldn’t believe he’d speak to them in such a way.

“Is that how you talk to people who want to give you money?” Jane asked.

His eyes went to her. “It’s how I talk to people who clearly don’t like or respect me. if you want this meeting to continue, tell me how much.”

“Okay, Javier,” John said. “Is one hundred thousand enough?”

He kept his face neutral, but Javier was shocked. No one had ever donated that much.

“That’ll work,” he responded. “What do you want to know?”

“Is it true you’d pay and sleep with prostitutes to get information while in Colombia?” Jane asked.

Javier jolted as if she’d slapped him, his eyebrows creasing. “Where’d you hear that? What does that have to do with Webb County or my career?”

“It’s a question of your morals,” she answered. “Did you use women for your own personal gain?”

“One hundred thousand,” John reminded him.

Jesus Christ.

His jaw ticked, his fists clenching. He answered, “Yes.”

“Is it true you were fired from the DEA for helping a paramilitary group that killed civilians?” Jane asked.

“I only helped them get a handful of Escobar’s sicarios and told them no civilians were to be harmed.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

He icily stared. “Yes.”

This was an interrogation.

“Were you engaged to Lorraine Smith seventeen years ago and left her the night before your wedding?”

How the fuck did they know that?

“She was trying to trap me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

John leaned forward, staring him down. “All those deplorable things—do you actually think you’re good enough to marry our daughter?”

There it was.

Everything finally made sense.

He’d only seen a few pictures of her parents since his fiancée didn’t enjoy going through her family photo album, actively avoiding the reminders of how she’d been neglected and shunned, so he hadn’t recognized them. Now that he knew their true identities, he could see the features Cielito had gotten from each of them—eyes, mouth, chin, nose, that crinkle between her eyebrows when they pulled together—if her mother had smiled just once instead of glowering at him the entire time, he would’ve clocked who they were in ten seconds flat.

These fuckers, he knew they were up to something, and to wait and show up a week before their wedding, was fucking diabolical—obviously, they were going to pull some shit to try and stop him from marrying their daughter. A sick part of Javier wished they knew he could still smell Cielito in his mustache and had some of her dried come on his dick; he was happy the mark on his neck stood out since it showed he was with her recently.

His surprise only lasted a second as it quickly turned into burning hot anger, Javier glaring at them.

“Do I think I’m good enough for your daughter? No, but she thinks I am, and her opinion is the only one that matters,” he answered.

Jane rolled her eyes, and John sat back, crossing his arms.

“It used to be common courtesy to ask the Father for permission to marry his daughter,” the other man said.

Javier leaned back, mirroring John with his arms over his chest. “When they considered their daughters property,” he said. “Your daughter is not your property; she’s a person who can do whatever the fuck she wants without your permission—get out of here with that sexist bullshit.”

Jane scoffed.

John jutted a finger at him. “You’re not good enough for our daughter,” he said. “You’re not cut from the same cloth—she’s Cashmere, and you’re a dirty old rag. She’s better than you—she deserves better than you, and you cannot marry her. We won’t allow it. She needs to marry someone from a family of worth or a man in a profession of notoriety who makes good money, like that great surgeon she dated, Dr. Andrews. He’s made a name for himself and would’ve been a great match for her. If she marries you, people will talk, and we’ll be a laughingstock amongst our peers that our daughter was with someone so beneath her—you’d sully her name and all that we’ve built. So, here’s how this is going to go, Javier,” he spat. “We promised you a check, and you’ll get one for one hundred thousand as we agreed for you to put toward whatever menial program you wish. Then you’ll get a second check for the same amount to call off your wedding and leave our daughter. You will never speak to her again, and if she happens to be pregnant with your child—god help us—you will sever your parental rights and have nothing to do with either of them. Am I understood?”

Javier was so fucking angry he thought he was going to explode.

He figured they’d lay into him about his unworthiness to try and make him second guess being with her. He also thought they’d try threatening him with god only knows what to stop their wedding. Trying to pay him off to keep him from marrying their daughter was unexpected and unbelievably insulting. They were out of their minds thinking money would get him to leave her; they were fucking insane thinking money would get him to leave her and their child.

His ears were ringing, his blood was boiling, feeling hot and so full of rage he was seeing red.

His tone was low and menacing, “Get. The fuck. Out.”

John sighed. “Fine. two hundred fifty thousand.”

“I don’t want your fucking money.”

“Everyone has a price,” Jane said.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, resting his arms back on the desk. “Some people don’t actually give a fuck about money, Jane. So, no, I don’t have a fucking price. You could offer me one million dollars right this second, and I’d still tell you to fuck off. You people are fucking despicable—does she even know you’re here?”

“Of course not,” John said, giving him a look like that should be obvious. “We’re here on business.”

Javier’s attention went to him. “Your daughter’s happiness is ‘business?’ Wanting to ruin our lives is ‘business?’ Do either of you have hearts, or is it purely hatred keeping you alive? You know what, I don’t fucking care—be honest with me, do you even love her?”

“Yes, of course we love her!” Jane replied. “Why do you think we’re doing this? We love her and want what’s best for her!”

“No, you want what’s best for you.” He pointed at her. “If you actually loved her, you wouldn’t be doing this because you’d care about her happiness and not your family’s image. If you loved her, you’d be happy about our marriage.” His voice rose, “If you fucking loved her, you would treat her as such and respect her life choices! You don’t fucking love her, and you never have all because she wasn’t born with a fucking penis and didn’t follow some stupid fucking career tradition! No, you don’t fucking love her!” He stood from his chair so abruptly that it rolled back to ram into a bookcase.

He took a deep breath, his heart pounding, face hot.

His voice brokered no room for argument, “So, here’s how this is going to go. I won’t tell her about this absolutely fucked up conversation and attempted bribe, and you’re going to get the fuck out of our town without another word. You will not see her before leaving, and you will never show your faces here again. If you do not follow any of these instructions, I will tell her everything, and because I genuinely love your daughter—“ He pressed a hand over his heart. “—and know her, I can tell you that you will never hear from her again, and you won’t ever meet our children. Am I understood?”

After this meeting was finished, he was rushing to Cielito’s work to tell her all that had happened—he wouldn’t keep anything from her, especially this.

“One million,” John tried.

“Stop offering me fucking money!” Javier shouted, slamming his hands onto the desk. “You can’t pay me off!” His volume lowered. “Now, are you gonna go straight home, or do I need to call your daughter, my fiancée, on speakerphone so you can tell her what’s happening?”

John looked over his shoulder at the man behind him. “Jerry, the paperwork.” He snapped his fingers.

Gerald used his knee to prop up the briefcase that he popped open. Grabbing a large manila envelope, he passed it to John, who tossed it onto the wooden surface in front of Javier.

“Sign it,” the older man ordered, pointing at it. “Standard prenup—you get divorced, you take what little you brought with you, and don’t get a single cent of our money; if you won’t be reasonable, then you’ll play by our rules. She knows she must either keep her last name or hyphenate when she marries.” Cielito had never mentioned that and planned to take his last name, which her parents definitely wouldn’t like. “The children she has with you will have hyphenated last names, ours first—which shouldn’t be a problem for you.” That was aggressive and not fucking happening with how adamant his future wife was about getting rid of her maiden name. “—and they’ll have trusts set up for them that they can access at the age of eighteen if they pursue a medical degree, if not, then they’ll have to wait until they’re twenty-five.” How fucking rich were these people? And his kids would go to school for whatever they wanted; his fiancée had told him she could afford it. “—you, Javier, are barred from touching any of the money.”

“I don’t want your fucking money, pal,” Javier rolled his eyes. “Stop acting like it matters to me, and pull your head out of your ass—we don’t give a single fuck about you enough to do any of this asinine bullshit.”

“I’m not done,” John’s words were clipped with irritation, and his face showed it. “And you’ll want to hear the rest.”

“I don’t think I do, but please, buddy, keep up this disappointing attempt to intimidate me. Just remember, I spent years with a target on my back and know what it’s like to be at the end of a loaded gun, so your words aren’t gonna do shit.”

“We expect you to visit during the holidays and act civil; that means smiling in the annual family photo.” Javier snorted at this man being so full of himself to think he could get them to play ‘one big happy family.’ “If you don’t sign, then your children will get nothing, we will write our daughter out of our wills, and she will never get any additional financial support from us outside of the money we put aside for her college education—” She had the same stipulation that unless she went to medical school, she wouldn’t have access to her college fund until she was twenty-five. “—and what her grandparents left her; our son will inherit everything.”

Well, shit.

Javier frowned. This just put him between a rock and a goddamn concrete wall of a hard place.

“I’m sure you want your children to have a head start in life,” John continued, looking smug, “so we advise you sign, right Jerry?”

“It’s a substantial amount of money,” Gerald replied. “It would be in your best interest to sign, and that’s just my unbiased opinion.”

Javier was ready to tell them to take the prenup and shove it up their asses, the problem: he couldn’t make an executive decision on Cielito’s behalf that would lose her inheritance. This was something he needed to discuss with her and figure out if she wanted him to abide by the demands—which he would, for her; he wouldn’t like it, but he’d do anything for her. Now he needed to get these assholes to leave, so he could head to the hospital and talk to her.

“Thank you for your unbiased opinion, Gerald,” Javier said. He looked at the man who’d unfortunately be his father-in-law in a week. “Have you listed all of that in here?” He poked the manila envelope.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not gonna sign a legally binding document without having my lawyer look it over—I’m a smart guy, after all. You got a card with your fax number on it, Gerald?”

“Yes,” he answered, pulling one out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and walking around his bosses to hand it to Javier.

“Thanks. I’m going to let my lawyer determine if it really is in my best interest to agree to this, and he’ll be in touch in a couple of days—you probably won’t tell me, but where’d you hear all that shit about me?”

How people in town found out about his history with the informants has been a mystery since he never told anyone. He knew a person could find out about his involvement with Los Pepes from reading an article in a Miami newspaper, and everyone in fucking Laredo was aware of Lorraine.

John looked at him like he was stupid. “Private investigator,” he answered.

“Let me guess, he talked to Lorraine and her family?”

“No comment.”

So, that was a yes.

He sighed. “I’m really fucking curious about where he got the intel on my… relations with the women in Colombia. It had to be someone I worked with—“ He knew it wasn’t Steve. “—or who knew me down there.”

“They contacted us anonymously, so I don’t know.”

It smelled like Stechner, which, now that he was thinking about it, that fucker had been through this area before he arrived unannounced a couple of months ago, working alongside the DEA with what was going on in Mexico. He would’ve loved stirring up trouble by letting it slip about Javier’s relationships with informants.

He nodded once. “Well,” Javier started, “eating a bowl of shattered glass would’ve been more pleasant than this shitshow of a meeting. You folks really know how to make a great first impression,” he said sarcastically. “Now get the fuck out of my office and town.” He gestured toward the door. “You’re not welcome here.”

The couple got up from their chairs.

John checked the time on his Rolex, the gold watch featuring a white dial that easily cost three to four times the amount of the one on Javier’s wrist. “We need to get going anyway,” he said, “I have to be in San Francisco tomorrow for a medical conference, and I can’t miss it since I’m speaking at it—hopefully, I’ll run into Daniel. It’s always nice talking to him.”

Javier’s eyes rolled so hard he thought they might get stuck.

“We’re happy to leave this awful town,” Jane sneered. “One day, she’ll tire of you and realize the mistake she made letting you trap her here. We’ll be there when she finally comes to her senses and returns home to us.”

Javier huffed amusedly. “You’re fucking delusional, lady. You don’t even know her! She loves living here. Especially since it’s so fucking far away from you snobby fuckers.”

The woman raised her nose at him and hmph’d.

“Last chance, Javier,” John said, meeting his eyes. “One million dollars and all you have to do is disappear from her life—you’ve done it before, so do it again, and this time be compensated for it. Someone like you can easily find another woman to love.”

Javier straightened, his hands sitting on his hips, staring daggers at the other man. “I don’t want another woman,” he growled. “You’re not understanding, so let me say it nice and slow, and maybe you’ll get it: I. Love. Your. Daughter. No one else. I will never love anyone else. I love her more than life itself. I would take a bullet for her. I would die for her. I would do anything for her, like signing this fucking document—” He tapped his finger on it. “—that I don’t agree with or want to do 99% of because I love her, and I want her to be happy. She is my entire world, and just the thought of being away from her makes me sick to my stomach. So, unless she tells me to leave, I’m not going anywhere; I am spending the rest of my life with her, and there is no amount of money in the entire fucking universe that could get me to do otherwise.” He took in a big breath and slowly let it out, frowning. “From the way you can’t seem to grasp the love we have and what your daughter means to me, I’m under the impression your marriage is transactional or for appearances only—there was never any love, it was just a way to improve your social standing, or whatever stupid shit you rich people care about, but the fact of the matter is it wasn’t built on love. It’s superficial.” He looked at John. “If you went bankrupt tomorrow, she wouldn’t stay with you.” He pointed at the wife. “There’s no for richer or poorer with you two, and that’s really fucking sad. I pity you.”

The couple were scowling at him. “We don’t need your pity,” the older man said. “You know nothing about our marriage. We’ll be expecting to see the signed papers soon.”

They didn’t wait for him to respond, storming toward the door with Gerald following.

Javier sighed, pressing his fingers to his brow.

He knew eventually he’d have to meet Cielito’s parents. He had thought about what he’d say to them when he did so many times he’d lost count because Javier needed them to know how angry he was with how they’d treated the woman he loved. He needed them to know how they failed her as parents. He needed them to know how much he loved her and that he wouldn’t let them continue hurting her. He finally had his chance, and they’d made him so mad, he couldn’t remember a single fucking thing he said and hoped in his rage he got some of his points across.

They were at a crossroads now. He’d tell her what happened, every detail he could remember, and then it would be up to her—will they cut off complete contact with her family? Or would they have to abide by her parents’ demands? Javier thought he knew which way she’d choose, but money had a way of making people do things they normally wouldn’t, and from the looks of it, there was a lot of money on the line.

He sighed again. Anxiety had his stomach twisting into knots, and he was so fucking worried about what she’d choose that his chest was aching. He’d go along with whatever it was because, in the end, it was her decision, and he’d respect it, even if it was something he didn’t like and, holy shit, did Javier hate the idea of these stuck-up pricks remaining in their lives and having any kind of relationship with their future children.

There was a knock on his office door, and his hand lowered, finding Joy standing in the doorway with worry on her brow. She was a great kid who’d really gotten the hang of the job, which was her first out of college, and she was doing very well—Joy also loved Cielito and hung on her every word when they talked.

“Is everything okay, Javi?” she asked. “I heard yelling.”

“They were my in-laws, and they fucking hate me. I’ve never met them in person; hell, I’ve never even spoken to her dad on the phone, and they flew all the way here to talk to me.”

Her eyes went wide behind her glasses. “It wasn’t to congratulate you on your marriage, was it…?”

He scoffed. “No, they were trying to convince me to call it off.”

“Then why are you still here? Go to the hospital! Don’t worry about your messages.”

“I’m going,” he said, grabbing the large envelope containing the documents and moving toward the door, not even bothering to put on his suit jacket.

“You should know they left this with me.” She held up what looked to be paper as he approached, and he took it, reading what it was.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he said in disbelief. “They donated the fucking hundred grand—we didn’t even talk about the programs. How did they know who to write the check out to?” He met her eyes.

“They asked me which one was my favorite.” She shrugged. “Now, go!” She snagged the check back. “I’ll get this to where it belongs, and you go deal with what you need to—tell her hi from me.”

“I will.” He made his way out of the door. “Thank you!” he said, walking as fast as his legs could go.

Once in his truck and on his way, he’d gotten his cell phone out and speed-dialed a number.

Ring.

“Doctor’s Hospital of Laredo. How may I direct your call?”

“Robyn Thompson, post-op.”

“One moment.”

Ring.

“Hi, this is Robyn,” she answered.

“Hey, it’s Javi.”

“Oh, they paged me to answer the phone. Let me go get her.”

“No!” he quickly said. “I need to talk to you.”

Her tone went serious, “What’s goin’ on, Javi?”

“I’m on my way there right now and need to talk to her about something that happened. Would you be okay if I borrowed her for ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

“Javier,” she whispered, “are you gettin’ cold feet?”

That being her first assumption stung, and it hurt worse because she knew damn well how head over heels he was for her best friend. It looked like even after all these years since his failed wedding, it didn’t matter if he was madly in love with someone and had a great relationship; people were still going to wonder if he would leave his new bride at the altar.

“What? No! Never! Not with her. Her fucking parents came to town and tried to pay me a fuckton of money to call off the wedding and leave her, I told them to fuck off, but they want me to sign a goddamn prenup with a list of demands that I need to talk to her about.”

“Her parents…? Here in Laredo…?”

“Yeah, I was pretty fucking shocked, too, then so fucking angry I can’t remember what I yelled at them.”

“She can take her break early, and I’ll cover.”

“Please don’t say anything to her.”

“Oh, this is all you.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

He ended the call.

The radio’s volume was down low, and the air conditioner was turned up high, Javier alone with his thoughts as he figured out how he was going to tell her about what happened—he’d tell her the truth, of course, but he didn’t want to upset her. That was the thing, though; she was going to be upset and royally pissed off.

The patient in room three wanted some apple juice; room five was asking for pain meds, but they had an hour before they could have another dose and hated being told ‘no’ so much they wouldn’t stop hitting their call button as if each press would magically make the minutes go by faster; room one was asleep and in—you checked the time on your watch—the next forty-five minutes, an orderly was coming by to take them for a walk to exercise their new hip.

It had been a busy fucking day, and you felt awful about coming back to work a little late after lunch.

You were heading toward the storage room to get the apple juice and just put your hand on the door handle.

“Hey,” Robyn said as she walked up to you. “What are your rooms needin’?”

“Three, apple juice. Five, pain meds, but we have to wait an hour. One is asleep for now.”

She nodded. “Okay, I’m gonna take care of all that for you while you go on break.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, looking at your watch. “It’s way too early for me to take a break. I’ve got another hour, at least.”

Her smile was small, patting your arm. “You’re gonna wanna go now ‘cause Javi’s waitin’ for you over at the desk.”

Your head whipped in that direction, and sure enough, he was standing there in his charcoal-colored slacks, white dress shirt, and red-patterned tie, staring at you with big brown puppy dog eyes and a little smile—and doing a little awkward wave that was both adorable and weirdly out of character from his usual suaveness.

“Uh, why is he here?” you asked, returning his gesture with a small wave of your own. “I was just with him on lunch...”

She turned her attention to him. “Oh, look at him doin’ a lil wave,” she cooed as if she was fawning over a cute baby, waving back. “Isn’t that just adorably weird and a reason you should talk to him right now?”

“You’re really okay if I take my break?” Your face turned her way.

She met your eyes. “Girl, my two patients are passed out, and the next one isn't arrivin’ for another hour, shoo.” She shooed you away with her hands, and you went.

Javi had stopped waving as you approached him, and once you were close enough, you asked, “Is everything okay? What are you doing here?”

The look on his face wasn’t happy; he was clearly worried, and it made you nervous.

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

Alarm bells started going off in your head.

“Javier, is your dad okay? Did something happen to him? Or someone else in the family?”

He grabbed your hand, his thumb rubbing on the skin of the back of it. “Pop’s okay, Cielito—everyone in our family is okay. Take me somewhere we can talk, and I’ll explain.”

You chewed on your lip, not wanting to ask the question but needing to in order to prepare yourself. “Does this have something to do with our wedding…?” your voice was quiet.

“Baby, no,” he reassured. “Mi amor, look at me.” You did. “Us, our family, our friends, are all good—something happened at work, and I can’t talk to you on the phone about it or wait until we get home. I’ll tell you once we’re somewhere alone.”

“Okay.” You nodded, interlacing your fingers with his and leading him down the hall. For privacy’s sake, you took him to the closest on-call room, the small space containing a twin-sized bed and a desk.

The door was locked, and you moved further into the room and stopped, turning to face your fiancé.

Your eyes were on his. “What’s going on, babe?” you asked.

He took in a big lungful of air, saying as he exhaled, “Your parents came to my office today.”

What he stated was so absurd you thought you misheard him. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you right. It sounded like you said my parents were at your office, like physically, in person at your office, which is just absolute crazyballs because why would they come all the way here and not tell me or visit me…?”

The look on his face was so sad it made your stomach drop to your toes. He slid his hand soothingly along your bicep, up and down, over and over.

His tone was gentle. “You know how we’ve been wondering if they’re up to something?”

“Yes,” you whispered, dreading what he would say.

“They were pretending to like me and support our marriage, so you wouldn’t suspect them of having anything to do with their plan of getting me to leave you the week before our wedding....”

“What are you talking about?”

“They came to my office today to try and pay me a lot of fucking money to disappear from your life.”

Your eyes widened.

“They tried to pay you to leave me…?”

“Yes, and it made me so fucking angry that they’d do such a thing and try to frame it like they were doing it out of love and wanting what was best for you when in reality, it’s what they want—I’m still fucking pissed.” You could tell he was with how upset he was getting as he continued speaking. “I suspected if they were gonna pull some shit, it’d be trying to make me doubt I was good enough for you or threaten me with what? I don’t know, but to try and pay me off? Like our love can be fucking bought? Or to assume money would mean more to me than you?” His eyes were getting watery. “You, my fucking soulmate. I told them no amount of money could get me to leave you. It was so fucked up, and I hate them,” he seethed. “I’m sorry, baby, but I hate your fucking parents, I hate your family, and I lost my cool and yelled at them for not loving you and being so goddamn despicable.”

It took a second for you to process that your parents flew thousands of miles to try and pay Javi to break things off. You knew they didn’t approve of him, but to go so low? It had anger welling up inside you the longer you thought about it, getting madder at how upset they made your sweet, caring, loving fiancé, who you knew absolutely laid into them for trying such a heinous thing.

After your mother’s abrupt change in opinion of him, Javi and you had been suspicious of how out of character it was for her. There was a tiny bit of hope about the size of a grain of sand that she was being sincere with how she called more in the following weeks, wanting to hear about your wedding plans and find out the date. When you thought about it, it wasn’t all that surprising she was just fishing for information to put together her scheme. She never had any intention of helping you when she offered to hire you a wedding planner; it was a ruse to buy her time to figure out how to stop the whole thing, and you threw a wrench in her plotting by getting married so soon.

And this was the final straw.

You’d given your family enough chances, and this time, they went too far—there was no coming back from this. They could never be trusted, and you wouldn’t let them continue treating the man you loved so horribly. This whole thing was confirmation they didn’t love you.

You reached to cradle his smooth cheeks in your hands.

“I’m so sorry, Javi. I’m sorry for what they put you through. I’m sorry for how they treated you. I’m sorry for them, and I’m done. They’ve shown me who they really are, and it’s the nail in the fucking coffin.” Tears didn’t come to your eyes, and you felt no sadness about cutting them out, probably because you’d already spent enough time mourning the loss of a relationship with them and had come to terms with it. “I’ve got you, your dad, your family, Robyn—I don’t need people full of so much hate. I’m done, it’s over. I won’t be answering any of their calls.”

His eyes closed in relief, his breath stuttering on a sob. The emotion was thick when he spoke, “I want that to be true, but there’s more…”

“What do you mean there’s more?”

He looked at you. “Your father gave us an ultimatum—I sign a prenup, and we go along with his terms, or you lose your inheritance; they’ll write you out of their wills, and our kids won’t get any money. They said all you’d have is your college fund and what your grandparents left you.” He held up a large manila envelope. “You can read everything he’ll require us to do, and I’ll sign if that's what you want.”

“Wait, let me guess his terms.”

He looked confused. “What?”

“Did he say I had to keep my maiden name?”

“Yes… or hyphenate it.”

You huffed out a breath. “Typical. God, did he say the shit about our children having my last name first? Which I know you have your dad and mom’s last names, but that’s how it’s ordered: your dad's, then mom’s; it’d be weird if we did mine first.”

“He did…”

“Yeah, I’d prefer our kids just being Peñas. Um, what else? Oh! Was there anything about our babies getting money for medical school?”

“Trusts… They can access at eighteen for medical school, twenty-five if not.”

“Figures.” Your eyes rolled. “Didn’t get access to any of my money until I was twenty-five.”

His free hand caressed your face, his expression still pinched in confusion. “Cielito, what is happening right now? Why aren’t you upset?”

Your eyebrows dipped. “Why would I be upset…? You’re not signing that.” You pointed at the packet. “I don’t want their money. Do you want their money?”

“What? No. I told your father exactly how much I didn’t want his fucking money. I’m not quite getting why you aren’t more upset about no longer speaking to them…”

“Oh! This is probably hard for you to understand because your parents love you unconditionally and are, in general, fantastic people. See, my parents’ love is conditional, which you’re holding proof of, and when you spend the first eighteen years of your life trying to live up to impossible standards for the tiniest scrap of affection, you kinda develop a lot of resentment toward the ones who are supposed to love you no matter what.

“Then there’s the way they think they can dictate my life choices as an adult,” you continued, “and only call me so often to keep tabs on what I’m up to in order to ensure I’m not doing anything that would embarrass them or bring shame to the family name—they’re fucking ridiculous about their traditions and keeping up appearances that their family is perfect.

“So, sure, I love them,” you told him, “but I’ve been tired of their bullshit for a while now and have been clear about my boundaries; plus, they knew they were on thin ice, and Javi, every time I’ve told you I’d choose you over them, I meant it.” You swiped his bangs off his forehead. “Your love is unconditional, and you genuinely love me; what’s better than that? And that’s why I don’t have any issues cutting them out of our lives and don’t care about losing my inheritance.

“You’ve seen firsthand how toxic they are,” you said, “and I won’t have them around us or our children. Our happiness is more important than keeping shitty people in our lives for money, and babe, believe me when I say we don’t need their money.”

His eyes were searching yours. “Are you sure?”

You smiled. “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t—yes, Javier, I’m sure, I’m more than sure. You are what matters to me. You and our future babies are what matter to me.” You took the envelope from his hand and looked around the room, finding the small garbage can over by the door. “Swoosh!” you called out and tossed the documents toward it.

—them landing on the floor beside the trash with a thud.

“There goes my NBA career,” you mumbled.

A surprised sound left you when lips crushed against yours hard, Javi’s big, warm hands holding your face—there was a second delay before you started kissing him back just as fervently with your eyes closed, your fingers threading into the soft, thick strands of his hair, pressing your body into his as close as you could get without crawling into his skin.

His palm slid down your back to grab a handful of your ass, his tongue slipping between your lips to massage your own.

Javier could be an imposing figure with the broadness of his shoulders, his wide chest, and tall stature. He had a way of making you feel delicate and safe when he caged you in his arms, something ancient in the back of your mind repeating, 'Protector, protector, protector...' and purring happily.

He could easily get you to move where he wanted, and he walked you back until your legs hit the side of the bed. In the blink of an eye, he had your spine to the mattress with him on top of you, the kissing getting frantic.

"I love you," his sentence muffled against your mouth. "I love you—I need... I need." He sounded desperate, unable to articulate what he wanted, but if you thought about what he went through that day—the excitement of actually trying for the baby, the rage at meeting your parents, the worry at what you'd choose—he felt a lot of big emotions, and you knew his way of coping when he got overwhelmed was losing himself in another person's body.

He needed you.

His hips were cradled in your thighs, feeling him hardening.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Today, however, there were a couple of issues, the big one being that you were at your place of employment, and the second was you didn’t have time—Robyn was already doing you a solid by covering, and it’d be rude to go over your allotted fifteen minutes of break time.

Javi needed you, though, and you wanted to make him feel better.

With a quick glance at your watch, you had seven minutes to work with, a plan quickly forming in your head.

It wasn’t hard to get him to roll you both to have you on top of him, straddling his hips and shoving his arms above his head, where you held them down. Your mouths were fused together, the kiss becoming needy and hungry, your lips slick, and your tongues moving together with practiced familiarity. With a roll of your hips, you ground yourself against his hardened cock, heat zipping through your belly at the broken whine he made, which only encouraged you to keep going, continuing to grind, rubbing your pussy along his thick shaft.

He wanted to touch you, making an attempt to get his hands out of your hold, but you kept them firmly in place. You spoke quietly into his lips, “You gonna be a good boy and let me make you feel good?” He groaned, his entire body shivering under you.

His length was between the lips of your clothed cunt, grinding yourself against it, the friction to your clit causing sparks to dance in your core. "You gonna come for me?" you asked, keeping your voice low and nipping at his bottom lip, kissing him again, rough sounds rumbling from his chest.

Your mouth broke away from his, pressing your foreheads together. "You gonna think about how I still have you inside me?" you murmured, not slowing your movements, sliding your pussy over him repeatedly.

Occasionally, there were voices or the wheels of hospital beds rolling outside the room’s door as people passed by. Inside, where you and Javier were alone, the sounds filling the air were the mattress springs softly squeaking, his breathy moans, and your panted breaths.

"You gonna think about how you might've gotten me pregnant today?" you asked. That got you a groan and him bucking his hips.

"You gonna think about how you’ll fill me again when we get home? How you're gonna keep me all nice and stuffed so I have your baby in nine months?" A desperate sound left him, and he started thrusting up into you while you kept grinding.

"You gonna think about what I'll look like knocked up with your baby? The big belly and swollen tits? You like that my boobs are gonna get bigger, don't you?" You were reveling in his whimpers and moans, knowing you had him. "Have you imagined what I'll look like riding you when I'm pregnant?"

“Yes,” he answered breathlessly. His hands broke free, pawing at your body and zeroing in on your breasts with the enthusiasm of a man who just got home from war. “Get so fucking hard imagining it.” His fingers dug into your waist as he helped you move faster and pressed you harder against him.

“Are you gonna come thinking about it?”

The question made him gasp out, “Yes.”

You knew he was close when his breaths got shaky.

“Come for me, Javi,” you said. “Come on. Let go.”

Your mouth descended on his, the kiss sloppy and more of a mash of lips to quiet his sounds. He suddenly went still and stiffened with a choked whine, feeling his dick under you pulsing as he fell apart, your movements stopping. It was quiet in the room, save for the heavy breaths. Your mouth left his to kiss his chin, then both of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and finally, his forehead. You admired his pretty face with his closed eyes, and his reddened lips turned up in the cutest smile you couldn’t help but kiss.

His breathing started to even out. “How are you feeling?” you asked. Checking your watch to see you still had two minutes remaining.

“Better,” he whispered.

“Good.” The bed complained as you got off of him and it, taking a couple of steps to grab the box of tissues from the desk. “You’ll probably want to clean up the mess in your pants,” you said, setting them on the mattress beside him. “Sorry about that.”

“Liar,” he replied, blinking his eyes open all cat-like and turning his head to look at you.

You smiled. “I mean, it’s very hot, and I’m proud of myself. I wish I could stay longer, but I need to get back to work.” Bending down, you quickly pecked him on the lips before straightening. “Bye.”

You started to walk away, and his arm shot out to grab your hand. “Wait,” he said.

Meeting his gaze, you asked, “Yeah?”

His eyes had gone round, and he was looking at you like you hung the moon or painted the sky with stars; there was so much awe and love in his expression that it stole your breath and made you feel as though you were all that mattered to him, and wasn’t that the truth? It was hard to believe that someone loved you so completely and would do anything for you, knowing that had you said you wanted your inheritance, he would’ve gone along with all the shit that came with it—he would’ve hated it a lot, but Javi still would’ve done it for you because he loved you. He loved you more than any other person or thing on the planet, and when you had kids, he’d love them just as much, and that thrilled you.

You knew what he would say before the words left his mouth.

“I love you,” you said at the same time, and he smiled so big it made his eyes crinkle at the edges.

“What am I gonna say next?” he asked.

“Well, you had a day, and now you’re ridiculously happy about never having to deal with the people I’m related to again; add in that you just came and have all those love chemicals floating around in your body, you’re gonna wax poetic about how much you love me very beautifully and probably in Spanish because you tend to reset to your original programming and speak in your first language when you’re extremely lost in the sauce or come really hard.”

He huffed out an amused breath. “Smartass.”

“But am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Then lay it on me.”

“I don’t want to now—you already know what I was gonna say.”

“Okay, then I’m heading back to work,” you said, calling his bluff.

He frowned and squeezed your hand. “Wait, don’t go yet.”

“What’s up?”

“Te amo (I love you),” he replied. “Te amo tanto (I love you so much).”

“Yo sé y yo también te amo (I know and I love you, too).”

“No, cuando digo que te amo, es una promesa de que solo te amaré a ti por toda la eternidad (No, when I say I love you, it’s a promise that I will only love you for all eternity). Cuando digo que te amo, es una promesa de que sólo tú tendrás mi devoción completa (When I say I love you, it’s a promise that only you have my complete devotion). Cuando digo que te amo, las palabras vienen de lo más profundo de mi alma, donde has llenado la parte que me faltaba (When I say I love you, the words are coming from the depths of my soul where you’ve filled in the missing part of me). Cuando digo que te amo, lo siento en cada célula de mi cuerpo (When I say I love you, I feel it in every cell of my body). Cuando digo que te amo, lo digo en serio: te amo y siempre te amaré hasta el fin de los tiempos (When I say I love you, I mean it: I love you, and I’ll always love you until the end of time). Te amo, Cielito (I love you, Cielito).”

He had your eyes feeling a little misty at what he said and how it was apparent he meant every word.

“God, I love you,” you told him, “and I hate that I can’t articulate how much I love you as poetically as you do—just know I love you as much as you love me, and I’m yours forever, and I mean forever. Let me kiss you, and then I really have to go. I’ll lock the door on my way out so you can clean up.”

“Baby, I don’t need you to say sappy bullshit for me to know how fucking much you love me.” He brought your hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “I feel it in all the things you do for me. Like throwing away the prenup and knowing I was fucked up about everything today and making me cream my pants like an inexperienced teenager getting his dick touched for the first time to make me feel better. I know you love me, and that’s why I’m marrying you next week and am so fucking excited to start a family with you.”

“Oh, Javi,” you gasped. “You creamed your pants like a besotted grown man getting his dick touched by the woman he’s madly in love with—I’m being honest when I say it’s romantic and very hot.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer by the arm, and you leaned down to press your lips to his, hoping he felt it in your kiss, the all-consuming love you had for him.

“You are the woman I’m madly in love with,” he murmured into your mouth.

“And you’re the man, I’m madly in love with,” came your muffled reply.

There were a lot of ways your life could’ve turned out and many paths you could’ve chosen. What you knew for certain was they all would’ve led you to him. Mistakes weren’t mistakes, all of your choices were right, even if they were wrong, and it didn’t matter where you lived in the past or all of the people you’d met over the years; the invisible string tying you together would’ve somehow, some way pulled you to him in that grocery store on that hot summer day because it was the perfect moment in both of your lives to find one another—you were two lost souls who finally found what you’d been missing: each other.

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diejager · 3 months

Note

how would the cod group react to someone who has medical conditions that affect them mildly but constantly throughout the day? Like, it’s very mild, but constantly there and noticeable

(Eds is a pain in the ass)

I don’t know what Ed was, but it gave me erectile dysfunction as a medical condition, or an eating disorder for mental disorder. I’m not sure which is which, so eh, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Parosmia Cw: I have no medical knowledge, this is all from google, mild medical condition, loss/distortion of smell and taste, triggering scents, tell me if I missed any.

You were transparent with your annoying condition, your documentation had it written down in medical conditions along with occasional tinnitus and sudden bouts of depression related to your distortion of scents. You’ve had some odours lose their potency, the fresh smell of cold aloe and cucumber dimming to a ghost of it’s freshness, and you’ve had scents that became too strong and nauseating, the usually delicious taste of steak became a nauseating rot and overpowering.

Laswell had disclosed it to Price the day she showed him your file, letting him know that your nose might comprimiseyour operations if anything triggered it, but that, form experience from working with you, you knew how to deal with the disgust and urge to puke. She left him with out much convincing needed, because he’d seen you work once in a past mission in Siberia, a clandestine OP that had him sweating despite the freezing tempature and you hadn’t batted an eye at the attrocious rotting of dead elks and wolves near the base. He let the others know and reassured them that it wouldn’t compromise the mission if it were triggered. Gaz and Soap were more enthusiastic about having you, a little excited of having another teammate to act out with or to prank, and Ghost was more apprehensive and careful about introducing a new operation, but he’d turn around —eventually.

And he did, Ghost was the most careful around you, making sure that his musk and sweat was too strong to your nose, he watched out for any triggering odours and made sure to memorise all your triggers. He might not know how it felt, but he could only sympathise, trying his best to relieve your annoyance and stop anything from happening if he knew how to. It surprised Price how fast Ghost had opened up to you, to your snark and snide replies and heart-stopping grins.

Fortunately, your parosmia was mild, a constant annoyance, but it was milder than the headaches Price had every night. He might not have as much time as the others to spend with you, but whenever he had the time, he would join your ragtag group for a drink in your room rather than the bar when he learned that the smell of oily and oversaturated fries and burgers had your head pulsing and throat clog up. He never brought up the need to go at a bar, he didn’t mind buying bottles and hide them in his office until the moment came for a night drink with his Task Force.

Suprisingly, Gaz was understanding, quick to drop something to help you if you had a moment. Gaz would help you lean over the toilet seat, his hand running down your back in a soothing pattern, encouraging you to let it out and praising you for being strong. He helped you to your feet, knees weak and still a bit nauseous, and cleaned your face with a wet towel and handed you a cup to rinse your mouth before he lead you to your room, seated on your bed and helping you sleep it off. Gaz was a softer shoulder to lean on, confident in his care and unworried about being caught cuddling with you.

And Soap, oh ignorant Johnny, was confused at first, he made mistakes here and there, but he’s smart and resourceful. He might’ve been confused, but he made up for it, coming up with the weirdest and most amusing way to help you around base. He was as obnoxious about it as he was shamelessly showering you with affection, hanging off your shoulder and babbling your ears off while he wafted a scented near you that he learned was relaxing and comfortably soft for your olfactory nerves.

They were surprisingly welcoming and went out of their way to make you comfortable in all and every form, you were honestly happy about it, even if you happened to annoy Ghost with your back talk as much as you did with Price, only encouraging and being encouraged by the younger men of the group.

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honeyoru · 5 months

Text

Too late (law x reader)

trying to practice writing one shots more in between my never-ending outlining for my WIPs.

law x reader, mentions of zoro x reader, sad boi law :( 1300+ words

“You-you what?” you shakily exclaim, looking over your shoulder to make sure neither of your crews could hear you.

Law thinks he’s never been so open, so exposed as when he asks to speak with you, tugging you into the shadows on the Straw Hats’ ship during their party celebrating their last night as an alliance. He chooses to rip your heart out again, telling you with a deep breath that he loves you.

Saying you’re floored would be an understatement.

It’s logical, he thinks with clenched fists, fingernails piercing his shaking palms. I was the one who decided to break up all those months ago, after all.

You graciously moved on since then, burying the hurt you felt to joke with him again, tease him with your Captain, finally able to meet his eyes without that sorrowful, pity-filled look that told him you understood why he decided to break your heart like a coward.

He couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to grow so close to you, to share tender, intimate moments in the middle of the night, where he could drop the indifferent mask he wore around everyone else.

To fall in love with you.

You, who he first met all those years ago during a supply run at a sleepy little island. You weren’t a pirate back then, but a doctor-in-training that thrilled him with your vast amount of medical knowledge, caring nature, and wit. It was clear to him even then that there was more for you out there than what the island could ever give you.

His crew had teased him mercilessly about the person he was attached to even weeks after they’d departed. It wasn’t until you had parted ways, promising to meet up if he ever stopped by the island again that he regretted not listening to his frail, dimly beating heart that had urged him to beg you to join his crew, the smell of your coconut-scented shampoo haunting him.

When he spotted your sweet, gentle smile on a Bounty Poster years later, he couldn’t hide the proud grin that lit up his face. Crossing paths with you seemed more feasible now that you too were on the Grand Line, and he refused miss an opportunity like this again.

And later on, the rare, public smile he displayed upon seeing you again in person promptly dropped the moment your captain slingshotted into him and started calling him ‘Traffy.’

Were you so desperate to leave your island that you joined the first crew who asked? He couldn’t help but think so after that initial meeting with the Straw Hats, who bickered with all the closeness of a dysfunctional family and utterly baffled him with their antics, wondering all the while how they managed to charm someone so talented and perfect like you.

It was because of you that he agreed to the alliance in the first place, ever so motivated to get revenge for Cora-san and win your heart in one fell swoop.

And when you kissed him for the first time since he had left your island in the crow’s nest of the Sunny, Law would never admit that he had gone to sleep that night smiling like that love-sick cook of yours, heart soaring at the idea that a happy ending for him was feasible.

It wasn’t until he watched your interactions with your crew over your time spent together that he realized the silly fantasy he had was never going to happen. You were too close, too bonded with the Straw Hats, to ever leave for someone like him.

So when you confessed in the privacy of his room after months of dating that you loved him, tucked in his arms in the way that he had grown so fond of, he panicked and did what he did best to salvage the pieces of his heart that would surely shatter when you would inevitably rejected him after the alliance was over.

He hurt you.

It was for the best, he told himself as he spewed horrible, untrue, nasty things to you that he was certain you wouldn’t excuse, even for someone you loved, refusing to acknowledge that deep down, he knew you never expected him to say the three words back anytime soon.

He accepted the harsh words and fists of your crew and moved on as much as he could, retreating back to the role of a spectator just grateful enough to bask in your orbit for a little while longer before you would part ways.

He’s drawn back to the present when you scoff in disbelief.

“Why now?” you demand, unshed tears blurring the rage in your eyes at his audacity, the wide smile you had been wearing all night nowhere to be seen. “I’m with Zoro now, Law, I’m happy,” your voice cracks.

He closes his eyes, swallowing the bile that rises at the thought of the swordsman he inadvertently pushed you towards, who looks at you like he would crawl through hell if you asked him to. “I know.”

“So why then?” You ask harshly, your arms crossed as if you’re trying to hold yourself together. “Are you trying to mess with me? To get back at me for moving on?”

“No.” Law feels a pain splintering throughout his chest when a tear finally falls. “I just… couldn’t leave without telling you,” he mumbles.

You angrily wipe it away. “I’ve been nothing but kind and gracious to you,” you spit. “Hell, I’ve tried to act like what you said, what we had, never happened. For this alliance, for my crew, and for you so you could finally get closure for... you know.”

He can’t help but shudder at the memory of his mentor, the movement catching your eye.

You take a deep breath and dig your fingers into your arms, forcing yourself to keep talking and not give in to the innate urge to wrap him in a hug. Law thinks he can hear a wood plank creak from where your boyfriend is no doubt eavesdropping around the corner, ready to step in if you need it. “Luffy wanted to end the alliance the minute he found out, did you know that?”

He didn’t but it isn’t surprising; the Straw Hat had given him a look so carefully blank the day after the two of you broke up that Law finally understood why the rubber man had such a dangerous reputation.

“I know you were scared, Law, I was too,” you whisper, eyebrows furrowed. “Being loved after so much heartbreak is terrifying. But you made a decision on how our relationship would end without giving me the chance to say anything about it. And those things you said to me,” Law feels his lungs strain at the way your lip quivers in a bitter smile. “We could have made it work, you know, after the alliance was over,” your tone falls soft. “All you had to do was ask.”

It’s then with your admission that Law is utterly aware he’s made a mistake confessing to you. He thought it would give him closure, to finally admit what he didn't want to believe since he first caught your eye back on your island years ago.

Instead it was a slap in the face for you, a taunt that all of the suffering he put you through could have been avoided if he’d only been less of a coward.

You sigh, scrubbing at your eyes before looking at him with a pained expression, turning towards Zoro, who had quietly stepped forward to guide you away from him. “I hope you can find someone in the future that you can give your heart to entirely, Law,” you tell him sincerely.

He swallows down the regret that burns his throat as he watches you and Zoro walk away.

#fnlyroe #onepiece #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law x reader #one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #law one piece #law x reader #writers on tumblr #one shot #drabble #anime #angst #roronoa zoro x reader

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fandomxpreferences · 1 year

Text

Fair Game

Masterlist

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Kook!Reader, Rafe Cameron x Kook!reader

TW:18+, cheating, dysfunctional relationship,alcohol consumption, mentions of weed, smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink, spanking

Summary: JJ sets his sight on something that isn't his.

Word Count:4.8k

JJ watches you intently over the rim of his red solo cup, the plastic crushed between his fingers so hard it's seconds away from busting. You're hanging off of Rafe's arm as he ignores your attempts to garner his attention, too caught up in his shitty conversation with his even shittier friends.

You're entirely too pretty in your sundress that sits just below the curve of your ass to be asking for an ounce of affection. The world should be falling at your feet, and JJ wonders if you know the power you could hold if you decided you want it.

You're all soft glowing skin and sun-bleached hair, the type of ethereal beauty that isn't of this world. Your effervescent personality radiates wherever you go, and he's seen guys fall under your trance on more than one occasion without you even noticing the effect you have.

JJ isn't sure of a lot of things in life, but the one fact he's absolutely certain of is that Rafe Cameron doesn't deserve you. He doesn't cherish you the way he should, or kiss the ground you walk on, grateful to even be in your presence. JJ would.

He doesn't have a lot going for him in terms of money, but he damn sure knows how to treat a lady. JJ swears, hand to God, that you belong in a museum. Though, on the flip side, he doesn't like the idea of anyone else getting to observe you the way he does.

He stares with steely blue eyes and rigid muscles as you resign to your fate, folding into yourself when you realize you're just a background character in your boyfriend's life tonight. You're too nice, borderline angelic, as you keep up the persona of a doting girlfriend.

Though, JJ has been laser-focused on you for the majority of the evening and doesn't miss the way your smile falters for half a second or the way the light in your eyes dims. He hates it. JJ could treat you better, he knows that as much as he knows the ocean will be waiting for him in the morning.

He wonders if your lips taste as sweet as they look or if you still use that coconut coffee lotion that he got a whiff of one day that hasn't left his mind since. He doesn't understand just what you see in the kook king if he's being honest.

He figures it must be your habit of forgiving too fast, always wanting to see the best in people even when there's nothing good to begin with. He's convinced that Rafe doesn't buy you flowers or open doors for you, both things he would do religiously if given the opportunity.

He doesn't think that Rafe takes his time with you, worshipping you like a priceless artifact the way you deserve. Oh, but JJ would. He'd kiss every inch of your body, and spend hours drowning you in love and affection until you're sure you're swimming in a sea of it.

He isn't usually one to be enamored, especially with a kook. He also wouldn't consider himself the type to steal another man's girlfriend, but the way the moonlight is bouncing off your face makes him think maybe he doesn't know himself at all.

His eyes stay glued to your figure as Rafe whispers something in your ear, jealousy rearing its ugly head. That should be him sending a shiver up your spine and getting drunk off the scent of your shampoo.

He briefly tries to think of a game plan to get you alone, if only for a minute, when fate hands him his wish on a silver platter. You're moving toward the keg now, no doubt acting as Rafe's personal bartender.

His feet carry him forward with purpose, any logical thought erased from his mind the closer he gets to you. He swears you must be a siren, emitting some sort of magnetic pull that he couldn't resist even if he tried.

"Hey. Y/N, right?"

He feigns mild ignorance, not wanting to come on too strong. He knows your name; it's engraved on his heart in a pretty script that matches your handwriting.

You turn around, bright smile growing wider upon seeing him. It's always present, a permanent staple of your personality just the same as your bubbly laugh and kind heart. He speculates that your parents never taught you about stranger danger as his own grin split his features, signature dimples popping out on either side.

"Hey, JJ!"

His heart skips a beat upon hearing you say his name, your saccharine voice floating to his ears like a summer symphony. It skips again when it registers that you know who he is, and he thinks this might be what kills him. What a blissful way to go.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing over here all alone?"

His eyes light up at the way a blush stains your cheeks, your hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"Oh, I'm just getting Rafe another drink."

He nods his head and lets out a disappointed 'ah', pretending like he didn't already know your answer.

"He let you wander off all on your own? Some boyfriend."

He knows the comment is out of pocket, and does his best to make it sound playful even though a clear tone of disdain slips through. You chuckle lightly and raise your eyebrows for a second, and he feels the tides start to turn.

You don't jump to Rafe's defense the way he's heard before in passing. In fact, you almost seem to agree with the sentiment.

"Whatcha drinking? You look thirsty."

He doesn't even know what that means. How does someone look thirsty? It's better than what he wants to say though which is 'You look like someone I could love for the rest of my life and then some.'

"Just water. I can't really drink."

Your eyes are cast toward the ground as you answer his question, and his eyebrows furrow. Now, JJ has seen you out drink frat boys before so he knows that's not the truth. Not the whole truth, at least. You used to be the first one to grab a drink and the last one to turn down a keg stand.

Now that he thinks about it, you used to do a lot of things that you don't anymore. You used to be louder, more adventurous with the mouth of a sailor despite looking innocent as a nun. He hasn't been able to focus on anything but the idea of what you'd look like tucked into his side, and it's hitting him like a train how much you've changed.

You're more reserved, timid almost. Always perfectly put together with styled curls and flawless makeup.

"Can't or aren't allowed to?"

The words leave his mouth before he can stop himself, rage flooding his system as he puts the pieces together. Rafe doesn't love you; not for who you are. He loves the way you boost his image, a perfect prospect to be his future trophy wife.

"It's not that I'm not allowed,"

Your eyebrows pinch together and JJ has to stuff his hand in his pocket to resist the urge to smooth over the creases with his thumb.

"Rafe just usually gets too drunk and causes problems. It's easier if I'm sober."

JJ tsks, displeased with your excuse, and takes a daring step forward.

"You know, we're playing a life or death game. No one makes it out of this alive, so you might as well make the most of your time."

He extends his cup to you, a sparkle in his irises as he beckons you to take a risk. You mull over his words for a moment, turning to look at Rafe. He hasn't even noticed you're gone, and some days you wonder whether he'd know if you stopped showing up altogether.

JJ tilts the cup forward, a mischievous smile on his lips when he sees you considering the idea. He laughs victoriously when you take the cup and bring it to your lips, chugging the contents with ease. You don't even grimace at the strong liquor, holding it out to him and nodding.

"Bottoms up."

He takes the hint, leading you to the side where his private stash is hidden in a bush. Your head whips around when you hear loud laughter, and JJ follows your line of sight to the beer bong table.

"Wanna play?"

You smile once again, your eyes lighting up at the idea.

"Fuck yeah."

He cheers you on, giving you high fives and sideways hugs each time you sink a ball, completely obliterating the other team. Not to his surprise, Rafe doesn't come looking for you once.

On the contrary, he seems preoccupied. JJ's stomach sinks when he sees Rafe sitting by the bonfire with another woman curled up in his lap, her hand trailing dangerously close to his belt. You're well past intoxicated at this point, most of your body weight leaning on JJ for support.

You don't seem to miss your boyfriend at all, or even realize he exists, and this sparks his interest. He's been so focused on the fact that Rafe doesn't seem to care for you, that he hasn't even stopped to think that maybe you don't care for him either.

"Don't wanna."

JJ's head tilts down to look at you, confusion evident in his ocean eyes as you slur into his shoulder.

"Don't wanna what, cupcake?"

Your movements are sloppy as you shift your head to peer up at him through glassy eyes and long lashes, and JJ's hold on you tightens.

"Dont wanna go home with him."

His eyes rake over your features for a second, trying to figure out if these are just drunken words or sober thoughts. He can't help his curiosity, his free hand coming up to smooth out your messy hair.

"Why not?"

You huff dramatically, eyes rolling so hard JJs sure you can see the back of your skull.

"S'no fun. You're fun. And pretty."

You grin as your eyes flutter closed, and JJ chuckles.

"You think I'm pretty?"

Your eyes suddenly shoot open and you stand up straight, albeit on wobbly legs.

"Have you seen yourself? You have these lil' dimples and fluffy blonde hair and a cute laugh. Don't even get me started on how good you smell."

Your fingers poke his cheek and ruffle his hair as you say it, and he barely contains a groan at the feeling of you tugging on the strands.

"If you don't wanna go with him, I'll take you wherever you ask me to."

You perk up at this and take his face between your hands in a way that squishes his cheeks and makes his heart pound.

"Your place!"

His eyes widen slightly as he tries to shake his head, a giggle falling from your lips when his hair tickles your hand.

"I don't know, cupcake. You're really plastered and-"

You cut him off, doing your best to look stern although it doesn't quite work.

"Please? I'll be good, I promise. Just wanna sleep."

He mulls over the idea for a second before lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you toward the parking lot. You squeal in glee, paying no mind to your boyfriend that looks seconds away from fucking a stranger.

It breaks JJ's heart, the fact that this is nothing new glaringly obvious to him. He briefly wonders if you would have even gone home with Rafe, or if the asshole would have left you to find your own way back. Find a way, you did.

Any guilt he had before is destroyed, and he sets you on his bike before placing his helmet on your head and climbing on. You wrap your arms around his torso instantly, heat radiating off your form as you mold your body to his.

"Don't let go, okay?"

He feels you shake your head and nuzzle in further, your arms tightening in the process.

"Never."

Wind whips around you as JJ speeds toward the chateau, your body naturally leaning with his when he takes a turn. The coolness that comes with the blanket of night raises goosebumps on your bare arms and he brings a hand down to hold your trembling fingers.

"Almost there." He promises, and you squeeze his hand in acknowledgment.

True to his word, it's only a couple more minutes before he comes to a stop and helps you steady yourself in the grass.

You follow him silently as he leads you up to the porch, your feet stumbling a bit as you try to climb the steps with airy giggles.

His hands never leave your waist, ensuring you don't face plant while he guides you toward the spare bedroom.

You take in the space through blurry vision; posters plastered to the walls and various t-shirts scattered about. It smells of old spice and weed, a scent you've come to associate with the surfer in the past few hours.

It's wildly different from Rafes pristine and minimally decorated room that always makes you uneasy. Nothing about it feels warm or safe, you're always terrified to leave a stain or bump something out of place.

Standing here now you're immediately engulfed in comfort, and you can't help the feeling of being home.

JJ watches as you strip off your dress, trying and failing to avert his eyes from the bare skin now in front of him, as he argues with himself that he's not seeing any more than he does when you wear a bikini.

His gaze follows you while you float around his makeshift room, your small hand gripping one of his t-shirts. You slip it over your head like you've done it a thousand times before, closing your eyes to inhale the lingering fragrance of JJ.

He's engulfed you in every way except physically now as you curl up under his comforter, a blissful smile on your features.

JJ is frozen in place, trying to process this entire night. Somehow, he's ended up with you in his bed in the most domestic way possible and his mind can't quite make sense of it. It seems so foreign yet so natural at the same time, something in his chest screaming that this is how it should have always been.

His lust turns to adoration when you nuzzle into his pillow, butterflies trying to claw out of his stomach as he notices you seem to feel the same way. You look at peace with your hair fanned around your head like a halo and hands tucked up under your chin to hold the blanket close.

He fights every cell in his body as he turns around to let you sleep, but stops when your tired voice rings out.

"Where are you going?"

You sound so angelic with a soft tone that makes his heart melt, a tinge of sadness lying under the surface.

"I just assumed-" He cuts himself off, turning to the side just enough to meet your gaze.

You look so small and innocent, big doe eyes silently pleading for him not to leave. He knows it's a bad idea; you'll probably kick him in the dick as soon as you wake up sober and realize who you're laying next to.

Despite that fear, he craves your tender touch and glances between you and the door as war wages in his head.

"Stay with me. Please?" You whisper, and his eyelids flutter closed.

Who is he to deny you? He's been willing to burn the world down and dance in the embers just to see you smile ever since he first laid eyes on you, so how is he supposed to turn down such a simple request?

He hesitates for only a moment just to avoid seeming too eager before joining you in the safety of his bed. Something about you calls out to him, and his body overrides any objections his mind may have made.

Rafe is long forgotten as you snuggle into JJ, his muscular arms finding purchase around your waist. You hum in contentment, your mind cloudy from the alcohol but still coherent enough to understand where you are and who you're with.

You fall into a deep slumber almost instantly, the warmth radiating off his body acting as a sedative. He follows suit, drifting off against his will. He already feels like he's in a dream, and he dreads the fact that he'll probably wake up to an empty bed.

His worries are erased when he's awoken by sun rays beaming through the broken blinds to find you still cuddled into him. Your legs have tangled through the night, bringing the two of you impossibly closer as he can't tell where he ends and you begin.

He just lays there in silence, basking in the beauty of your morning hair and soft snores. It doesn't take long for you to stir, and his heart rate spikes so quickly that he thinks he may have a heart attack.

"G'morning." You mumble, and he stays quiet not wanting to pop the bubble of paradise the two of you are in. It's not until you press a lingering kiss to his arm that he finally speaks up, unaware if you know it's him your lips are touching.

"Morning."

He feels you grin against his skin as you register his deep voice, still thick with sleep. Every second that passes feels like a bomb waiting to be detonated, ticking toward the inevitable moment that you rouse from your sleepiness enough to put the pieces together.

The other shoe never drops though, and you turn around to bury your face into his bare chest. He stiffens for a second before relaxing into you and looks down when he feels you tilt your face up to peer at him.

The confusion and anger that he was expecting are nowhere to be seen, tranquility swimming in the eyes he thought would hold fire.

"Sleep well?" You whisper, and he nods slowly; unsure if he ever actually woke up.

"Best sleep I've ever gotten."

You hum in acknowledgment, and he nearly combusts right then and there.

"Me too."

This gives him a little more confidence, the idea that you slept better with him than Rafe going straight to his head. His heart pounds in his ears, and he's sure that you can see it trying to break out of his chest like a cartoon.

"I hate to be the one to bring it up, but won't Rafe be wondering where you are?"

The words taste like acid on his tongue, and he wishes he could take them back the second they hang in the air. You let out a long sigh and prop up on your elbow to see him better.

"He's most likely waking up with his flavor of the night in a far more compromising position than this, so honestly? Probably not."

The casualty with which you say it makes JJ's stomach plummet, an air of familiarity around the statement. He doesn't press for more details, sure that it's not something you want to talk about.

"He's a fucking idiot."

He says it before he can think better of it, and is relieved when you bark out a short laugh.

"Yeah, he is."

JJ's brows pull together as he analyzes your expression, trying to decipher what's going on in your head.

"So why are you with him?"

He knows it's none of his business, but the way you seem so open compels him to ask anyway. You flop back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, placing both hands on your stomach before turning your head to the side to look at him.

"I don't know. It just kept going on, and the longer we were together the harder it seemed to leave."

Your use of past tense catches his attention and he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Were together?"

It's only two words, yet you know exactly what he's asking.

"No way he wants anything to do with me after this. He's allowed to fuck who he wants, I'm not." You scoff. "It's kind of just the way of the kooks. There's the prim and proper trophy wife and then the side pieces that actually hold his attention. It's fucked, but it seems to work for most of them."

JJ crinkles his nose at the idea, disgusted that anyone could see you as anything other than the catch you are.

"What about you? Would you be happy with a life like that?"

You purse your lips for a moment, digesting his question before shaking your head.

"No. I'd rather be broke and in love than miserable and cushy." You answer honestly, and JJ smiles.

"Stay with me." He almost begs, any shame demolished by the mere idea of getting to hold you every night.

Your eyebrows shoot up at his forwardness, and you run a finger down his jaw while leaning in closer.

"You think you could treat me better?" You tease, but JJ's face is stoic as he replies.

"I know I could."

This elicits a real smile, the one that causes your eyes to crinkle in the corners in a way he hasn't witnessed since you started your tumultuous relationship.

"Convince me."

There's a sultriness to your voice that causes his brain to go haywire, and he glances at your lips in a silent request for permission. You answer by closing the gap between your mouths, kissing him slow and soft.

It doesn't say that way for long, quickly turning into clashing teeth and battling tongues as he takes dominance over you.

"God, you taste even better than I imagined." He sighs, licking his lips as he tastes the cherry lipgloss that somehow still stains your lips.

You moan into him when he shifts on top of you, your mouth falling open when he trails his lips down your jaw before sucking at the pulse point beneath your ear.

"Is this okay?" He stops for a moment to check in, and your only response is pressing his face back into your neck while he smirks.

You relish in the way he feels against you, the oversized t-shirt giving him easy access to where you crave him most.

He pushes your panties aside and dips a ringed finger between your folds, groaning when he feels how wet you are already.

"All this for me?" He rasps, and you nod quickly.

"I'm the luckiest motherfucker to ever walk the earth."

Your lip quirks up at his statement, your body burning hot under his gaze. You've never felt so desired, and it causes you to drip onto the sheets.

He makes quick work of your clothes, stripping you down so you're sprawled out beneath him fully nude. Under different circumstances, nerves would cause you to try and cover yourself up. You don't even consider the idea as JJ stares at you like you're a rare piece of artwork the world has never seen.

He thinks he must have died and gone to heaven as he takes in the expanse of silky flesh that's at his disposal. There's so much he wants to do, but he starts with exploring every inch of unmarked territory.

"You smell so fucking good. So soft and breathtaking."

You're a blubbering mess of moans and gasps as his lips attack anywhere they can reach, sucking amethyst bruises into your skin.

"You're so god damn stunning. The prettiest thing I've ever seen. Look at you panting and shivering when I've barely even done anything." He keens, and you arch your back to press into him.

"Patience, baby. I want to take my time with you."

You start to whine but are cut off by a moan when his lips attach to your nipple. He's slow and deliberate as he nibbles and laps at the perked mound before giving your other the same attention.

By the time he kisses down your stomach and sits in front of your heat, you're begging for some kind of relief.

"Please, JJ." You whimper, and he looks up at you with lust-blown pupils.

"God, my name sounds like the prettiest song coming from those sinful lips."

You don't have a chance to respond before his mouth wraps around your clit, and you cry out when he plunges two thick fingers into your slick. He curls his digits in the most delicious way, finding that sweet spot that sends fire down your nerves with ease.

He doesn't waste any more time teasing, aware of how desperate you are for your release. He moans into you when your walls clamp down, the vibrations nearly sending you hurtling over the edge into blinding pleasure.

He takes you in, mesmerized by the way your body glistens with a thin sheet of sweat and writhes against him. You're bucking into his face, chasing that sweet end, and his other hand rubs at his painfully hard cock through his sweatpants.

"Come for me. Let me have it all. I wanna memorize how you sound and taste." He groans, and he continues his movements as your body spasms. He lets you ride out your high and drags his tongue across you in broad stripes before moving back up to your face.

You accept his tongue eagerly, letting him explore your mouth before licking your arousal off his chin.

"Taste how sweet you are, angel?" He pants, and you nod before reattaching your lips to his.

He moves to grab a condom out of the nightstand, and you stop him to suck on his fingers.

"I'm on birth control." You assure him, and the last of his restraint disintegrates.

He rips his sweats and boxers off in one motion before positioning himself at your entrance.

"I need you now. I don't think I can make this slow and sweet." He growls, and the way you blink up at him nearly makes him bust instantly.

"Fuck me, JJ."

That's all the instruction he needs, and you release a strangled gasp when he thrusts into you. His hips clash against yours as he bottoms out, and he uses the last of his willpower to give you a moment to adjust.

You grind against him subconsciously, and he sets a brutal pace. The bed creaks as it slams against the wall, the rhythmic thumping combining with your sweet sounds to create an intoxicating melody.

He props one elbow beside your head while his other hand grabs your wrists and pins them above you. Your brain goes completely blank except for the feeling of his cock pistoning into you and the way his face contorts in pleasure.

His furrowed brows and gaping mouth bring you closer to that second release, and his head drops onto your chest when you clench around him.

"How the fuck are you so tight? God, you're gonna kill me." He strains, and your eyes roll back in your head.

He's quick to flip you onto your stomach, large hands bringing your hips to be level with his as he slides back into you. Your face presses into the bed as your fists claw at the sheets, your back arched so sharply that it brings a delightful mix of pain and pleasure.

The sound of shrill moans and strangled grunts bounce off the walls, surely alerting anyone else in the house of what's taking place but you don't care. The feeling of him inside of you combined with his bruising grip is enough to drive you mad, and it makes you delirious in the best way.

"You're taking me so fucking well. Like this pussy was made for me."

You whimper at the lewd praise and his hand comes down on your ass in a sharp slap as your thighs quiver.

"You gonna be a good girl and come on my cock, baby? Soak me and these sheets? Come on, make a mess. Make me proud."

Stars erupt behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure surges through every square inch of your body, your muscles contracting as your second orgasm rips through you violently. You feel JJ become more erratic behind you, a broken moan tearing from his lips as he coats your walls with hot ribbons of cum.

He slowly comes to a stop, both of you disheveled with tangled hair and flushed skin as you try to catch your breath. You collapse as soon as he relinquishes his hold, and he gently pulls you into his chest and hikes your leg over his waist while you wait for the feeling to come back to your limbs.

"Holy shit." You mutter, and he chuckles before nodding in agreement.

"Was that enough to persuade you?" He jests, and you give him a lazy fucked out smile while he rubs his thumb along your thigh absentmindedly.

"Hm, I don't know. Might take a little more to really seal the deal."

JJ licks a stripe along your cheek playfully as you giggle before dropping his mouth to your ear.

"That's just the beginning."

@genius2050

#jj maybank imagine #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fic #jj maybank #jj maybank outer banks #outer banks imagine #outer banks smut #outer banks fic #outer banks #obx imagine #obx smut

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zipper-ghost · 23 days

Text

From chapter 2 and 3 of my fic where Kim and Harry go to a gay club for a case

You can read the uploaded chapters so far here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55229812/chapters/140088478

First part of chapter 3 is under the cut. Waiting for my friend to finish beta reading it for consistency and general unhingedness before I post it.

The smoking section is a small square patio with exposed brick walls on all sides, a couple of chairs, and a trellis with a brown drying vine. A string of fairy lights drapes the walls and provides the barest illumination. Kim is relieved to find it empty. He can still feel the bass of the music inside through the walls. Lighting his cigarette he leans against the exposed brick wall and inhales a lung full of smoke.

He reaches for his notebook which isn’t in his jacket.

Tonight is more stressful than Kim expected it to be. It’s been nearly a decade since the last time he’d been at a gay club and he’s no longer used to the atmosphere. He can’t believe he used to find the loud music and crowds fun.

Harry is having fun, at the very least. As Kim expected, he is very popular.

“I can’t believe him,” Kim mutters. It annoys him, more than he likes to admit, how pleased Harry is at getting attention from those two young boys. They are twenty-five at most.

Kim exhaled the smoke through his nose, the scent of chestnut engulfing him. He glanced down at his hands, for once without driving gloves. The skin is tight against sinew and bone, with blue veins visible underneath. He isn’t young anymore. He isn’t spritely, wide-eyed, enthusiastic, adventurous, or full of wonder. Kim isn’t sure he has never not been jaded. But now he gets pain in his back and neck randomly and he can’t sleep as easily as he once could, he can’t drink as much without getting terribly hungover.

Kim shouldn’t be surprised that Harry is enamored with them. He always had a thing for young, pretty, whimsical things- people unlike Kim.

Kim takes a deep drag of hot air and then watches his cigarette balanced between his fingers thoughtfully. His body relaxes, and the jittery feeling in his hands eases. A part of his dreads going back inside and seeing Harry dancing with Lucas.

That boy has no shame, rubbing himself against Harry and mewling like a kitten. Kim could never-

Kim shakes his head. He’d never want to act like that, crawling all over Harry and shamelessly flirting with him for all the world to see.

Of Harry’s many flaws, the one that bothers Kim the most is how clouded his judgment becomes under the fugue of sexual attraction. It was bad when Klaasje used Harry’s obvious attraction to her to manipulate him but somehow this felt worse.

It’s different when it’s a woman, Kim can’t compete with that. If Harry can love a man why not him?

Kim groans, he wants to slap himself. It’s not a competition, he isn’t competing for Harry’s attention.

Again he reaches for his notebook. He wants to get this jumble of thoughts out of his head. He wants to write everything down and burn the pieces.

He knows he shouldn’t like Harry like that, he shouldn’t want Harry. Harry doesn’t see him like that.

They are coworkers, partners, and friends. They’ve saved each other, again and again. Kim shouldn’t want anything else, anything more. It would make work complicated.

One cigarette might not be enough today.

Kim tilts his head up and looks at the sky. The city lights drown out all but the brightest stars.

It’s hard not to find Harry loveable. For all of Harry’s tragedy and dysfunction, when he says something deeply insightful and intelligent he leaves Kim in awe. When Harry’s eyes are full of joy as he exposits about some newly acquired niche fact, when he glances at Kim for approval and reassurance, and when he looks so pleased to make Kim laugh, when he looks at Kim like he hung the stars in the sky, Kim feels his resolution crumble.

Sometimes Kim catches a heated look in Harry’s eyes, a predatory hunger that borders on longing, Kim wonders if–hopes maybe Harry too desires him.

But Kim can’t be certain. He can’t trust his eyes, or his judgement clouded by desire. He can’t ever risk being wrong about this.

If tonight was any lonely sleepless Saturday night, Kim would be in the safety of his bed spinning inane fantasies, where Harry, unable to contain his desire pushes Kim against a wall, or on the hood of his kineema and kisses him. Harry’s kisses are terrible at first; wild and messy.

He’d tear off Kim’s orange pilot’s jacket and push his hand under Kim’s white t-shirt. Kim takes off whatever mismatched outfit Harry is wearing, ripping seams and buttons in the process. Harry growls Kim’s name in his low gravelly voice and leaves bite marks and bruises on his wake as he trails kisses down Kim’s body. Kim knots his fingers in Harry’s hair as Harry takes him into his mouth. He'll lick the tip and stroke the rest with his hand too intimidated to take Kim down his throat.

Kim will guide him and praise him and Harry will do his best to please Kim.

Kim sighs out a lung full of smoke, again grateful to be alone.

Then, as if his thoughts manifested it, Harry burst out through the doors.

Unconsciously, Kim licks his lips when he sees Harry, the wisps of his fantasies still lingering in his mind.

“Kim, he’s here!”

“Who?” Kim takes another drag from his cigarette, barely paying attention to Harry’s words. He watches Harry’s lips, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Kim wants to reach out and touch his face, feel the roughness of his beard between his fingers, making out the crooked shape of his jaw beneath. Harry is more handsome each time Kim sees him. Kim wills himself to look away.

“Who else!” Harry whispers-shouts at him. “The suspect. Red hair and a tattoo on his arm, exactly like the witness said.”

The suspect, of course. Kim half hoped he wouldn't appear tonight but it is good. They are here for a case, not to flirt and fantasies.

“Alright,” Kim says. His dark jeans are tight and unforgiving, constricting his half hard cock. He straightens his posture in hope of some relief without making Harry suspicious. “What do you suggest we do?”

“We should go talk to him.”

Kim taps his cigarette to shake off the ash.

“That’ll be risky, we might scare him off. We should just watch him for now.”

“But he is here! Now!”

“We can’t be 100% certain it is him. The witness didn’t give his name, just a vague description. We need to confirm he knows the victim and was with him last night.”

“We can do that by asking him,” says Harry.

Kim narrows his eyes. “No, not you. I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“Your interrogation techniques are effective but we can’t let him know we are interrogating him. I’ll talk to him, you’ll scare him off.” Kim admires Harry’s wild, throw anything against the wall until something sticks method but it has a high chance of scaring people or pissing them off. Neither option they can risk tonight. They need the name of the suspect at the very least, ideally confirmation that he knew the victim and met him last night.

“I wouldn’t,” Harry insists, furrowing his brow.

“Yes, you would,” Kim says firmly. “I’ll go now, wait a few minutes before coming out.”

God, Kim wants to kiss him. He wonders if Harry would be shocked or pleased. If Kim slips in his tongue would Harry suck on it?

Kim walks up to Harry and places his half-smoked cigarette between his lips.

Harry’s eyes widen as he searches Kim’s face, bewildered, trying to figure out what he's thinking. But he accepts the cigarette in place of Kim’s tongue, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette.

“Finish this for me alright?” Kim says.

Harry nods dumbly. Kim itches to kiss Harry now, to breathe in the smoke from Harry’s lungs. Harry staggers back and leans on the brick wall for support.

Kim goes back into the club before he does something he shouldn’t.

Close up on their faces incase Tumblr chews up the quality again 😭

#disco elysium #digital art #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #de #kimharry #harrier du bois #de fanfic

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death-paint · 7 months

Text

Spellbound

Leon Kennedy x Fem! Witch! Reader

Word Count: 2224

Warnings: sickeningly sweet fluff

Finally finished it! This fic has been in the works for months. Mainly because of writer's block and general executive dysfunction. It's definitely happier than my last fic, but I do also have another angst fic coming. This is my second time ever posting a fic on Tumblr, so please be gentle with any critique ;w; I hope you all enjoy!! Fic under the cut!!

Although this particular piece isn't NFSW, minors DO NOT INTERACT with my content.

dividers by @cafekitsune

You danced around the apartment you shared with your boyfriend, waving around a little stick of incense as the smoke wafted into the room. He scrunched up his nose at the smell, but stared at you affectionately from the doorway. The music you had playing only enhanced the mood as you finally set the incense in the holder before walking into the kitchen and setting it on the windowsill. You were in a good mood today, wiggling your hips as you washed the dishes, getting ready to cook dinner for the two of you.

Leon walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck and inhaling the scent of your shampoo. You swayed a little more dramatically as you felt his touch, humming along to the song that carried through the house as you spun around.

"Hey, baby," he said softly, "What's got you feelin' so good this afternoon?"

"Getting some new supplies in the mail," you reply. "Bought some stuff online from a small business that I've been waiting on for a while."

"What kind of supplies?" Leon asked, confused.

"You'll see." You giggled at his cluelessness. "I'll teach you everything you need to know once it's here."

"Aw, come on, babe you're killin' me," he groaned. "Just tell me."

"Nope." You stand firm as you finish washing the dishes from earlier that day, taking one of the pots and putting it on the stove for pasta. "You'll have to wait, baby."

He finally let it go and sat down at the dining table, watching as you worked your magic. You bent down into a lower cabinet, pulling out a mason jar full of water with writing scribbled on the lid, and poured it into the pot. Leon raised an eyebrow. Why would you need to jar water? Why was it labeled? Did it have something in it? How did he not see it in the cabinet before?

“Hey…What’s up with the jar?” He asked, curiosity ever-so-present in his voice.

“Oh, this?” You held up the now empty jar. “It’s a little bit of moon water I made last full moon.”

He let your explanation sit with him for a beat, but he was still confused.

“I-…Moon water?” You let out another giggle.

“Yeah, baby. Moon water. You put water in a clear container and let it sit outside at night during whatever moon phase you wanna make it in.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as you provided more information.

“And what’s that supposed to do?” He pressed further.

“Depends on the phase.” You answered nonchalantly, turning back around to salt the water in the pot before adding in the spaghetti noodles. Leon scoffed, giving a smirk and shaking his head even when you couldn’t see him. But you could hear it in his voice.

“I call bullshit.” He started. “You really expect me to believe that you think moonlight has some magical powers? Come on, babe.”

“I know it doesn’t…not in the way you’re thinking, at least,” you replied, now sounding almost sad. “I know, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

Leon immediately backtracked, taking note of how belittled you appeared to feel.

“Wait- no, I’m sorry, I…” He sighed, trying to find the words. “It’s just…an unfamiliar idea to me is all. I don’t mean to make you feel bad about it, hon.”

“Well…if you do it again I’m not gonna teach you,” you huffed, pulling cheese and a carton of heavy cream out of the fridge. You grabbed another pot, thought for a moment, and then put it back, deciding against making more dishes for yourself to clean. You turned to the windowsill, where the now spent incense lay in a pile of ash on its holder, next to the herbs you had in little flowerpots.

You plucked a few leaves of each. All for taste, as well as practising your craft. Rosemary, thyme and basil for love, oregano to strengthen the bond with your partner, garlic and parsley for protection, a little bit of onion powder for good health, salt and pepper to purify your energy, and a sprinkle of (common) sage to dispel negativity. You laid everything out on the nearby cutting board, wiping your hands and turning to the pot of noodles. The strainer was already in the sink, and you grabbed a measuring cup to fill it with some of the starchy water before dumping the rest down the drain, the noodles caught in the metal colander.

That same pot was used just moments later. You threw it back on the burner, quickly turning down the heat and throwing in just enough pasta water to cover the bottom. You were just about to pick up the block of cheese to grate it when Leon stood up from his chair, taking it from you and giving you a kiss on the cheek before grating it himself.

“Can’t have you doing everything by yourself, love.” It was your turn to scoff now.

“That was literally the only thing I had left,” you told him, eyebrows raised as you crossed your arms.

He shrugged.

“Just thought I should take care of the rest.”

“You’re an ass,” you playfully smacked his shoulder.

“You know you love me.” He looked up briefly from his task, grinning.

Soon enough, dinner was finished and the two of you curled up on the couch with full bellies, deciding to leave the dishes to be dealt with in the morning. The two of you took turns flicking through your usual channels, but nothing good was on tonight. You even flicked through some streaming networks, but to your dismay, still couldn’t find anything you hadn’t already finished or were even interested in starting.

“Hey…How about I give you a reading?” You asked, clasping your hands together and raising them to your mouth as you smiled, waiting for his response.

“First moon water, now the…card…thing?” He answered your question with another before giving a sigh. “Sure, why not.”

As soon as he gave his seemingly reluctant approval, you hopped up off the couch and quickly walked to the altar in the corner of the room. You’d done most of the decorating, seeing as Leon rarely had time (even when he was home) to worry about the aesthetics of his living space. He’d wondered what was up with all of the suns, moons and stars, the occasional seashell here and there, and just chalked it up to you having an eccentric taste– which, to be honest, wasn’t that far off. The wall above the altar was full of dried flowers, some from bouquets that Leon bought you, others foraged. If he was being honest, at first he thought they looked kind of creepy, but over time he learned to like it. He thought it was cute that you kept the flowers he bought you, figuring you putting them on display was your way of showing appreciation for his affection. Small animal bones and crystals were arranged carefully on the altar, along with candles of varying sizes and colors– some burned down a bit more than others– and little trinkets he’d brought home from missions as well.

Leon watched as you opened the drawer and pulled out a deck of tarot cards, taking in your excitement. He loved making you happy, even if it meant doing something he was a little skeptical about. He couldn’t help but crack a smile as he saw your own, affection filling his gaze as you plopped back down on the couch.

You pulled out the deck of cards and a notepad from its box, set the notebook down, and began to shuffle.

“Wait…Tarot readings tell you your past, present, and future, right?” Leon asked, bows furrowing quizzically.

“Not necessarily,” you explained. “Most readings will give you advice about a current situation. It might tell you what will happen if you don’t take that advice, though,”

“So…you’re giving me life advice…with cards?” He shot out another question. “Am I getting that right?”

“Well…yeah, pretty much.” You shrugged. “There’s different kind of readings, too. Financial readings, love readings, career readings…”

“Let’s just start with a general one, yeah?” Leon suggested, a bit nervous about being able to retain all that information.

“Alright…I’ll shuffle, you tell me when to stop, and I’ll pull a card. We’ll do that for a basic three card spread.” You picked up the pace, shuffling only a few cards around when Leon told you to pull the first card. You pulled it away from the deck and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. You shuffled again, a bit longer this time, rinse and repeat.

One by one, you turn the cards over.

“Wait, this one’s upside down…” Leon reached over to turn the card around, but you gently pushed his hand away.

“It’s supposed to be, babe. It has a meaning that way, too.” You turned the rest of the cards over. “King of Swords in reverse…Three of Cups…and Strength.”

“King of swords, and strength, huh? I must be a pretty macho man.” He chuckled.

“Well…The King of Swords in reverse can mean that you’re…impulsive or manipulative, kind of just…irrational,” you corrected him, treading lightly on your words and trying not to upset him.

“Irrational? Manipulative? When have I ever been manipulative?” his tone was defensive.

“Shush, don’t take it so personally, babe. They’re just cards.”

“Okay…what about the other two?” Leon huffed.

“Three of Cups represents happiness or overcoming some kind of hardship,” you turn to him, awaiting another response.

“Definitely have had a few of those,” he chuckled, calming down. “Alright, and the last one?”

“Strength represents…well, strength of course, and that you’re compassionate, patient, and that you can keep a cool head under pressure. Well, most of the time, seeing as you have the King of Swords in reverse as well.”

“Huh…well I guess that’s pretty accurate,” he said with a click of his tongue. “Can…I do one for you?”

“Of course!” You answered. “I can teach you how to read them, it’ll be fun!”

“Sure, okay. What’s next, you teach me spells?” He asked jokingly.

“I can!” Leon laughed briefly at your answer, before realizing you were serious.

You pulled up a website with a list of the meanings for the cards, and shoved the three cards from the previous reading back into the deck. You then handed the deck to Leon, having seen him shuffle cards before and knowing he was fairly good at it. He made a show of it, knowing you liked to watch as his skilled fingers cut the deck and shuffled effortlessly.

“How you want me to deal ‘em, pretty girl?” He smirked, finishing up when the first card fell out of the deck.

“You can do it however you feel is best, Leon,” you said. Leon nodded, opting to just pull the next two cards from the top. “I was thinking of asking about how things would work out between us, though.”

“Do you really need cards to tell you that?” Leon asked. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Let’s see…”

He flipped the first card over.

“The moon…What’s the moon gotta do with us?”

“Ooh…The Moon…” you repeat, your tone seeming to imply to him that the meaning was a bad one. “Complicated romance, uncertainty about love.”

Leon’s face dropped before he frantically turned over the next two cards,

“High priestess and queen of wands…”

“Keep patient, calm exterior with inner passion, intimacy…And for the Queen of Wands…an independent, cheerful and confident lover and… openness in the relationship.”

“And…What would that mean altogether?” Leon tilted is head with curiosity, his pretty blue eyes full of worry.

“Well, to me, it means that what we have is a bit hard to figure out at first, but if we stay patient with each other and communicate calmly, we’ll be okay.” You tilt your head back at him mockingly before continuing. “What’s the matter, mister? I thought you didn’t believe in this kind of stuff?”

“Pssh, I don’t” Leon scoffs. “Just…wanted to quiz you.”

“Mhm…sure, let’s go with that, love.” You shove the cards back into the deck and give him a kiss on the cheek before standing up to put the cards back on your altar. Leon goes through the collection of dvds on the shelf underneath the tv, and eventually pulls out something that looks like a shitty romcom. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“What? Don’t like it?” he asks.

“Never been a romcom kinda gal, you know that, Lee.” You reply.

“Fine, what do you wanna watch, then?”

“Let’s just play a game together or something.”

“Alright, but I’ll just watch you.”

Soon enough, after a couple hours of trying to figure out a puzzle, you finally got tired (and frustrated) enough to go to bed. You took a quick shower, changed into some pajamas, and climbed into bed next to Leon. He pulled you closer, noses brushing together as you tangled your legs with his own.

“I love you,” Leon whispered.

“Even if you think my witchy stuff is silly?” you asked, giving him puppy dog eyes.

“Of course, baby.” Leon kissed your forehead as the two of you closed your eyes and finally drifted off to sleep.

“I love you too Leon. So much."

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #fluff #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil x reader #resident evil #leon kennedy x y/n #fanfic #leon s kennedy #resident evil leon #fanfiction #x reader #reader insert

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

Text

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 6: Retribution (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your husband seeks justice.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04 for beta-ing! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, graphic violence, graphic depictions of blood and torture, graphic depictions of murder, erectile dysfunction.

He can hear you screaming the moment he alights upon the top of the stairs.

“Guards! Guards!” he roars, already running.

Bolting down the corridor, his mind whirls with terror. What will he find when he gets to your rooms? He braces himself, thoughts whirling uncontrollably. Thoughts of stained sheets and the scent of copper and death upon the air, your tear-stricken face wild and wretched with the anguish of being ripped apart by babes too small to survive, the still forms of infants in miniature, slick with blood and already greying upon the ground below you—

What he discovers is infinitely worse.

The Mallery knight is engaged in a tussle with an unknown assailant, the clash of steel ringing in his ears and reminding him of battles past. You lay on the stone floor beside a body, one of two, your face and hair and gown wet with gore. A man straddles your legs, brandishing a knife that inches its way toward your belly. Toward his heirs. You’re giving him a good showing, kicking your legs and shoving at his weight with all your might and shrieking—but you are not strong enough to sway the encroaching threat of the blade in his hand.

“Shut up, girl!” The malefactor grapples against your stubborn hands preventing the knife from reaching its target, holding it at bay. “Not ‘ere for you… just them babies in you. Hold still!”

“No!” you yell, spitting in his face. The man snarls, backhanding you. You yelp.

Daemon moves instantly, unsheathing Dark Sister and striding toward the fray with barely a second thought. The Valyrian steel slides through flesh like butter, piercing straight through the assailant’s back and up through his ribs while being careful to miss his heart.

Non-lethal, painful. I want him to feel this.

The man shouts, dropping the knife. He yanks the sword out and kicks him away from you, sneering as he watches his prey scramble through the ooze of his own life essence. He’s still alive. Daemon casts aside his sword and falls upon your attacker, taking up the other man’s blade and slicing cleanly across the jugular, just enough pressure to release a gruesome spray that wets his face and tunic. He wants this creature to die bloody.

“Daemon—”

He presses his thumbs into the cut, smiling darkly as the man thrashes and gurgles. Ichor stains his skin and fills his nostrils with the stink of metallic warmth, humanity reduced to its basest form and lashing about in its final throes—

“My Prince—ah!”

In his periphery, he catches a figure scrambling from the room through the narrow server’s passageway, Mallery falling to the ground and clutching his leg. The man below him is still twitching. He cannot let him go until he is certain he’s dead, until he has paid the price for daring to lay his hands on you.

The guards burst into the room from the main entrance, taking in the scene with shock. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck took you so long?” he growls, releasing his hold on the man below him. He’s dead. The knowledge that he has taken care of this immediate threat to your safety soothes him somewhat. And yet, not all have been vanquished. Jerking his head in the direction of the opening in the far wall, he says, “One of the attackers escaped. After them!”

They nod hastily, sprinting away with a clang. Daemon readies for the influx of more people; the Kingsguard, the servants, the nobles, his fucking brother—

“Daemon…”

Your weeping reaches his ears, little fingers brushing tentatively against his shoulder. The gentleness of the motion breaks him from his violent spiral. His gaze jerks to yours, the burning rage cooling to a simmering ember as he takes in your terrified demeanour: wide eyes and quivering lip and tears tracking through spattered crimson akin to grisly warpaint.

You swallow. “He—he—”

He is momentarily struck by fear. What if you’ve been wounded? What if your pains have started? That old urge to run at the first sign of strife rears its ugly head, but he tamps it down viciously. I am not that man anymore.

“Sh.” Pulling you bodily to him, he feels the weight of you solid in his arms and on his lap, a reminder that he has not yet lost what is most important to him.

She is safe. She is safe. The rest can wait.

He runs his bloodied hand along your jaw, down your spine, across your belly, cataloguing every iota of you as though it is the first time he has ever held you. It might have been the last. He cannot help that the movements are rougher than he’d like, frantic and desperate.

“Are you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to plunge you further into hysterics. “The babes?”

You nod shakily, tugging his hand back to your swollen middle. And oh, what a moment to feel the thudding motions of his children, the first time he has been able to lay a palm there and experience the sensation himself. They are active within your womb, small thumps and jabs that are more delicate than he had expected—but they are alive.

Tears burn in his eyes, angry, boiling things that he cannot, will not let loose. Not now.

He bands an arm beneath your knees and lifts you from the ground—the cold stone is no place for his little niece, his sweet baby wife—reassured by the heaviness of you and his heirs all. Conveying you swiftly to the bed with hardly a care given to the large stains smearing across the covers, he supposes you shall need an entirely new set of chambers, what with the mess soaking the stone ground.

Several arrivals occur in quick succession. Four of the Kingsguard enter and move immediately to secure the perimeter, one breaking off to aid Mallery across the room by tamping the ichor oozing steadily from his leg. Good man. He’d have hated to have to slay your sworn shield for incompetence, but his performance had been admirable in the face of the odds laid before him. It looks likely that he will not be able to use the limb again, though.

The healer woman is the next to toddle in, exclaiming in dismay at the sight. Your lady-in-waiting—and oh, fuck, the body that had been beside you is the other, he realises—follows swiftly on her heels, immediately bursting into tears when she absorbs the carnage.

Ūlla picks her way around the debris in a manner that is almost comical. “Princess! Princess! Are you safe?”

One of the Cargylls—he can never fucking tell them apart—steps before her, blade pointed in her direction.

She scoffs. “Move, boy! Pah—are you ‘Princess’, then? Go away!”

As much as he’d love to see the ensuing standoff, now is not the time. It’d be best to have the physician verify that you and his heirs are well. No doubt the shrew will bring you a measure of matronly comfort that he cannot.

“Let her through,” he commands.

The knight steps aside reluctantly, allowing her to proceed onwards. Daemon moves away for the woman to begin fussing over you, for your attendant to step into place so as to comfort you. He is wrenched by the sound of your plaintive whimper when he has gone too far for you to reach.

But needs must—this is not over.

He rolls over each of the attackers lying dead on the ground with a foot, examining them with pursed lips. There’s a blotch on each of their cheeks. At first, he assumes it is no more than a discolouration of the skin, perhaps a curious disease or a sign of familial relation—but leaning closer and wiping some of the blood away reveals that they are in fact identical stars carved and scarred over. Seven points.

Mellos makes his way inside, no doubt summoned for Mallery. It is a rare occasion indeed to see him act decisively; he dithers in overdramatic fright but for a moment before moving along to his task.

Lord Cunttower himself appears then, accompanied by his bitch of a daughter with the King in tow.

Daemon sees red.

“You,” he whispers, or maybe he shouts it. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears as he shoves his brother’s prized lackey against the wall, cursing his lack of a blade. “You’ll die for this.”

“Daemon!”

“Look at her!” he snarls.

Hands wrapped around the man’s throat, Daemon revels in the distressed gasps and choking gags as the lord’s face slowly turns purple. The snake tries to pull at his grip, but a pompous fuck from the Reach is no match for a seasoned Targaryen warrior. Viserys is at his back, pulling at his shoulder with his one remaining hand. No doubt that is the Hightower whore crying out from further away.

“Look at my fucking wife, Otto! Mark my words”—he hounds ever closer to see the panic and the fear in the eyes of a man so usually unshakeable—“if this is your doing, not even the King or the gods themselves will stop me from taking your head—”

“Guards!”

“Kepus!”

He is dragged back by the nearest of his brother’s soldiers, forced to release his punitive grip. Otto sags with a guttural heave, water streaming from his eyes and clutching at his neck. Alicent rushes to her sire, staring between him and Daemon with sheer distress painting her features. Her hands flutter uselessly over the bruise already blooming across the flesh, though her overtures are quickly batted away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys asks, even greyer as he looks about the scene of your attack; the blood, the bodies, your sworn shield emitting a muffled howl through a strap of leather between his teeth as the Grand Maester cauterises the wound. “What—”

“They ca—came for the babes.” Your speech is slack and monotone now that the shock has properly set in.

I can’t fucking do this, Daemon thinks.

He nudges the healer out of the way and ignores her grumble to sit beside you on the bed, to clutch at you once again and remind himself that you’re here. You grip his hand for support, heedless of the dried gore flaking off between joined palms.

“Three of them,” you say, numb. “They—oh, gods. They killed Miriam. They killed her.”

“Sh.” He presses his lips to your head, the smell of the rose oil apparent even through all the blood. She’s safe. She’s safe. He turns to your present company, to the figures of the King and Queen and Hand, arranged in various poses of horror. “This was not an accident. These—these scum knew what they were doing. They made their way into your Keep. They meant to slaughter your daughter’s babes, and in doing so, murder my wife. This is treason, Your Grace, of the highest order.”

Viserys looks as though his spirit is about to part from his body, pallid and desolate in the face of this hidden menace. “But why?” he asks, a child at prayer.

Daemon scoffs at the naivete. Is his failure to acknowledge the wound he has let fester for so long really so great? Of all the people in this room, the King ought to know best that all choices have consequences.

“My daughter’s never caused harm to a single man, woman or child,” the King continues. “Who would do this?”

“Ask him.” Daemon glowers at Hightower, who is still covering the line of his neck with his own hand.

The man makes a noise of incredulity. “I have been ever loyal to your King and your House these many years, Prince Daemon,” he says, or tries to. His voice is gravelly, raspy in the way that belies a considerable trauma inflicted upon the area. He affects a moue of outrage, though the alarm lingers. “To accuse me of such a—grievous crime—as to engineer the slaying of the Princess’s babes is simply preposterous!”

“And to what cause?” his daughter asks, forcing an aura of regality. It does not suit her. She’s far too common to view as anything more than a descendant of wildling savages. “Where is the benefit to doing such a thing?”

This time, Daemon cannot help but snort aloud. He stands, passing you back into the care of the healer, who has gathered a basin of water and some rags with which to start shedding you of the layers of congealed blood upon your face. You do not need to hear this part, and so he strides closer to the trespassing forms before him.

This time, he directs his poisonous inquiry to the Hightower woman, finally laying the truth of the matter bare.

“Have you yourself not openly alleged that the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, my Queen?” He keeps his tone deliberately light, though it is clear all can sense the danger lurking beneath each intonation. “It stands to reason that, to those who might be persuaded to believe such falsehoods, my wife would be her heir by right of precedence. And if my wife should bear a son? Well, that makes your son’s claim rather difficult to advance, doesn’t it?”

“How dare you accuse me—”

“Enough!” his brother say, hushing himself when he notices he has caught your attention across the room. His next words are spoken far softer. “Did I not say that such rumours would incur a stay in the Black Cells? I do not wish to hear speculation as to the legitimacy of my grandsons!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon genuflects.

His rage is a seething, smouldering thing, but he needs Viserys on side if he is to tear the capital apart to find this cunt and rend him into pieces. There are plenty who believe him to be an unreasonable beast when the fire burns through his veins, but he is more than just an unmoored conflagration; he’s a fucking Prince, and he knows how to play the game when the occasion calls for it.

Assuming a countenance as servile as he can manage, he appeals directly to his brother. “Close the city gates,” he begs quietly. “Give me the City Watch. Let me root out the last of these cu—these reprobates, street by street, door by door. Let me gift my wife the justice she is owed.” He steps aside so that Viserys can see straight to you, to the way you have begun to tremor despite the huddled warmth of the women who are tending to you, to your face streaked scarlet with the blood of others, to your hands clasped tightly against your belly in protection of your children. “Please. If not for me… then for her.”

Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls.

“This affront must not be allowed to go unpunished,” the King says, suddenly weary. “I give you leave to find this assassin, brother, so that we may learn who has placed a price on my daughter’s life.”

Daemon is one step closer to meting out punishment. He can already taste the death and destruction that awaits. Staring down the Hightowers, he says, “I will find the perpetrators, Your Grace. And there will be no mercy for those responsible.”

Let this be a warning to all who believe the Rogue Prince to be a tamed man. He is a fucking dragon, and this city will soon feel the flames of his wrath.

He gives Rollingford the orders to start the search without him.

“Thin build, dark hair, has a star cut into his right cheek. An old wound.” He rattles off all he has gleaned from his observations and yours and Mallery’s testimonies to the Commander of the gold cloaks. “Likely to be bleeding, probably limping on his left leg. I want him located. I want him surrounded until I arrive. No one is to touch him. This one is mine. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ser,” the solemn soldier says, snapping to attention jerkily before striding off with his captains in tow. He is already issuing directives as he rounds the corner.

Ser. It is easy to sink into the role of combatant, doing away with titles and courtesies to embrace the mortality and mayhem of battle—but he cannot allow the bloodlust to consume him just yet.

Though you insist in a small whisper that it is not necessary, he carries you from your (old, spoiled, defiled) chambers to the King’s rooms himself. It is a temporary respite for you and your staff until the final attacker has been caught. He chafes at relinquishing you to your father’s care—it tastes strangely of defeat—but even he cannot deny that these apartments are the safest in the city, if not the Realm.

There is a self-indulgent joy that seeps through the cracks of his fury at the sight of Viserys so flummoxed by your insistence that he remain as you are bathed and dressed in nightwear, finally free of the wash of thick crimson that had crusted in your silver hair and stained your blossom-soft skin. His brother’s own bed has been stripped and redressed for your use, a surprising concession—or perhaps not. You are one of two pieces left of Aemma, after all.

Daeron had been brought to you for comfort, and you hold him as tightly to you as you had held your dolls in gummy fists as a tot, meek and withdrawn. It makes his chest ache to see you so terrified.

He uses the very last of his patience to help the healer woman coax watered dreamwine to your lips, to bundle you in tight in the bed beside your brother, to stroke at your hair and your belly and hum some half-recollected lullaby from your childhood or his until your eyes droop, exhausted and overcome.

As he rises to depart from the room—to seek his retribution—he shares a glance with the King, one that is mayhaps a beat too long to lack meaning. In it, he tries to convey what he cannot say aloud. ‘Protect her for me. Keep her safe while I cannot. Do this for me, brother.’

It is the first time in many a year that he is united in common cause with this man. A single nod, and then he exits, the Kingsguard closing ranks and barring the door from all who may seek entry.

The air is sharp with the chill of night and the stifle of smoke wafting from lit torches, the dim orange smoulder a gloomy spotlight throwing the shadows of soldiers into stark relief. Daemon can hear the cries near and far of alarmed citizens and distressed patrons as the City Watch raids homes and taverns and storefronts. The sound is intoxicating, a pulse of vicious pleasure loosening the strain in his shoulders and the tightness of his breath.

This is what he does best—bringing chaos and cruelty to his enemies’ doorstep. It’s a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to cross the House of the Dragon. Until this man is found, the entire city is his enemy.

“My Prince.” Rollingford falls into step beside his horse as he crosses into the Great Square, seemingly appearing from the shadows. An impressive skill. He slides down from the saddle, absently patting the mount’s flank when he chuffs at the motion. With an arched brow, he wordlessly prompts the Commander to continue. “We have guards manning all seven gates, as well as postings along the Blackwater. The harbour has been closed and the ships at dock searched, and the men are working their way through the city.”

“Good. What of the High Septon? I want him questioned. Make use of Largent.”

“The—the High Septon?” Rollingford asks. He does his best to sound carefully blank, but Daemon can hear the underlying pitch of nervousness.

“Yes, the fucking High Septon,” he snaps. “He’s here, isn’t he? Some business with the King. Tell him that the Prince wants to know why three assassins bearing the Seven-Pointed Star attempted to murder my wife and heirs earlier tonight. If he resists—bring him to me. I care not for the wrath of his gods.”

“Ye—yes, Ser.”

He doesn’t actually believe the Faith to be responsible for the attack. Those petty worshippers have become unmanned since the days of Jaehaerys, and the High Septon is far too gutless a creature to conjure up such a scheme. He also doubts any of the man’s underlings have the capacity to act without first being thoroughly vetted by the circuitous bureaucracy of the Most Devout. But it will send a message that none are safe from his wrath, one he hopes will lure forth the real culprits.

It nears dawn when the search bears fruition. One of the soldiers—Cressey, he thinks, or perhaps Hayford—brings forth a location.

“We’ve got ‘im surrounded, milord,” he says, “so ‘e’s not likely to escape. But those nearabouts all say they saw a bloodied man with a star on ‘is cheek limp inside and not come out. That was some time ago.”

It might just be a form of irony that the answers I seek are to be found once more in the whorehouses of King’s Landing, he thinks to himself.

He retraces the familiar route to the Street of Silk—straight down the Street of Sisters, left onto the Street of Flour, right along Copper Street—the sound of hoofbeats against cobblestone overloud in the early morning. It is easy to tell which of these establishments houses his quarry, the glimmer of the gold cloaks easily recognisable even in weak light.

The men part for him as he stalks along the way directly to the heavy oak door. Curious. Run-down, moth-eaten and hosting some of the most common girls in the Realm, this particular brothel had been one of the cheaper bastions of debauchery in his youth. A fuck was a fuck no matter which way it was dressed, though, so it is not as though he had refused their attempts to solicit his coin. A good Prince is a fair one, after all. The door is new, and already he can see signs of refurbishment in the scrubbed-clean stone and the pale thatching of the roof.

Daemon barges directly inside, immediately being struck by the thick clogging scent of incense and sweat and bodily fluids. Gone are the thready chaises and faded portraits and the half-destroyed staircase. Instead, the space is dark and richly furnished in deep reds and blacks, the walls inlaid with lacquered wood and gleaming with the flicker of burning braziers.

Several whores squeal at the suddenness of his importunity, turning wide kohl-lined eyes to his form from where they sit in the laps of strangers in various stages of undress about the open foyer. He scans each of the patrons critically, seeking out one who matches the description of his target.

Bald, pot-bellied, pockmarked, old, young, yellow hair, black hair… A veritable array of men soused on drink and desperation, and yet there is no sign of your assailant.

A woman moves from the shadows, her speech carrying above the sighs and moans despite the soft, lilting cadence. “Welcome to the Gilded Doll, good Ser. What pleasures do you seek this day?”

I know that voice.

“Mysaria.” His long-time paramour smiles teasingly at his shock, flicking her dark hair over her shoulders at the recognition. Little about her has changed since their separation. “I thought you’d be in Pentos.”

He had left her there in the Prince’s palace what seems like so long ago now. It is strange to think upon the version of himself who had been so afflicted by desire for Rhaenyra. Sometimes, he forgets you have only been wedded to him for a comparatively short period. There is a settled comfort in his life with you, a conviction and dependence that still surprises him. Peace is not a feeling he thought he’d ever find in marriage.

“My place is in Westeros, My Prince,” she says. She steps closer—too close. His tense demeanour does not go unnoticed, for she wisely elects to drop the carefully cultivated mask of temptation to speak honestly. “You are not the only one who has been called back to these shores by those in need.”

He scoffs. Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about her delusions of grandeur. “And you’re doing your great philanthropic work as the madam of a brothel? I suppose it’s not a terrible advancement for a common whore.”

“Not so common, perhaps.” Her crimson lips twist, the old insult stinging still. She will accept a great many indignities, but never has she abided being regarded as someone unexceptional. “My women are well-cared-for, which is more than I can say for most of the brothels along the Street of Silk.”

He rolls his eyes, already growing bored by the conversation. He’s not here for a reunion. “Such a noble cause. Effigies ought to be built for you, I’m sure.”

“What brings you here, Daemon?” she asks.

“A trio of assailants tried to murder my wife earlier this evening,” he says, afforded some measure of privacy by the collection of sounds filling the room. Though his blood is up by the promise of violence, there is none left to fill his cock—and truthfully, he does not know if the sight of whores’ tits or the wet squelch of overused cunts or the shrill performances echoing from the second floor are even enough to elicit such a reaction now. He’d much rather stare at your tits and hear your moans and fuck your cunt. “Two have been dispatched, and the last has been tracked to your establishment. You’d do well to tell me where he is.”

She stares up at him but for a moment, something unreadable in the set of her features.

“I have a great many customers walk through these doors, My Prince,” she says, brow arching challengingly. That veiled insolence had been what had drawn him to her in the first place, when she was just an exotic dancer from Lys baring her body for him and his lackeys in the Blue Pearl. So few dared to test his famed temper, fewer still who’d let him fuck them whichever way he pleased. It rings hollow now. He wonders if her defiance had always been so trite. “You will have to describe the man to me.”

He rattles off the description in a short tone, a warning that she ought not to tarry much longer lest his malice seek out the nearest recipient. Her answer is prompt, wary: “Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

He pulls Dark Sister from its sheath in a pre-emptive motion, again startling those nearby, and makes to climb the steps.

“Daemon.” She lays her hand on his arm, stopping him briefly. “Try not to destroy the furnishings. It costs a pretty coin to maintain such luxury.”

She knows me well. He nods, and then pulls away.

The surprise of Mysaria’s return is one he discards to the recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing the ire to scald in his veins as he trudges to the far quieter upper landing. The sounds of groaning and rustling are muted, almost far-off, a mere backdrop to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

So close. I’m so close.

The fourth door does not open on first attempt. He tries again. Locked. Once more. He takes a few steps back and slams his full weight into the barricade, bursting the wood clean off the hinges.

The whore inside screams in fright, clutching her shawl to her chest. ‘Tis strange to see a clothed whore in a private room, he thinks, surveying the mousy-haired woman and her dull brown eyes and too-thin lips. How drab. That she is still dressed is a promising sign, one that suggests that mayhaps she is not alone. He looks around the room for another; there is no evidence of any company.

Then, he spots the wardrobe ajar, a slight wobble to its frame—as though a heavy being has flung themselves inside. There.

“Get the fuck out,” he growls, levelling the whore with the most vicious look he can muster. She squeaks and darts out into the hallway, vanishing from sight.

His focus affixes itself once more to that sliver of darkness, within which he is certain his mark has tried to hide. He tarries, waiting to see if the other will make the first move; he cannot help the incredulity that arises when he encounters nothing but silence.

Does he honestly believe he has successfully concealed himself from retribution?

With a baring of teeth that is more a grimace than a smile, Daemon strikes, darting forward to fling the door wide and grasp onto whatever part of the man he can reach.

“Lemme go!” your assailant yells, crying out as he is dragged free from discarded gowns and thrust onto the floor.

How… disappointing. He’s already pissed himself, and Daemon hasn’t even had the opportunity to make him regret ever stepping foot in this world yet.

“I didn’ do nuffink, good ser—”

He cuffs the man across the face, a return upon the strike so callously landed across your sweet little face. It knocks more than one tooth loose, leaving him dazed and groaning on the ground, the fight abruptly beaten out of him.

“You were in the Red Keep earlier,” Daemon says, pulling the commoner upright by the hair and dealing another wallop to the nose. An audible crunch sounds out as the bone gives way beneath his knuckles, and the man moans weakly, stunned and bleeding from his leg and his face. “Your co-conspirators are dead. Tell me what I want to know, and your end will be quick.”

He matches your account exactly—dark hair, thin, and that fucking star emblazoned in scar tissue across his cheek. There is a curious pin on his lapel, an insect of some sort rendered in metal.

“I dunno what you mean,” the wretch moans, caterwauling when Daemon steps down on his fingers and grinds them into the ground. Each digit gives way with small pops, pulverising into jagged puzzle pieces no healer is skilled enough to patch together. “I wos here visitin’ my sister, and I ain’t done nuffink in no Keep, Ser!”

I’m almost glad for the resistance.

“A pity,” Daemon says. The man relaxes at the affected resignation in his tone. His mistake. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

He shoves the man against the wardrobe and drives Dark Sister cleanly through the meat of his shoulder, pinning him to its surface like a butterfly on canvas. His screams are piercing, surely disrupting the business taking place throughout the brothel. The scarred star stretches grotesquely as he vocalises his agony.

“Who sent you to murder the Princess? Who?!” Daemon snarls, twisting the blade for good measure. Scarlet trickles from the wound, blooming dark down the fabric of the man’s shirt. The howl that releases itself from his throat is nearly inhuman, a drawn-out choking heave that tingles in his extremities. “Talk!”

“I—I—I’m sorry, we wos offered coin—there ain’t none to be had wif the Order—”

Pathetic. Daemon had hardly needed to incentivise him overmuch and yet the scum is already spilling everything. No wonder he had run. Cowards never change their stripes, after all.

“A Poor Fellow, are you?” he asks, angling the blade up slightly and pushing in just a little further.

Daemon had suspected as much. The Seven-Pointed Star is a sure indicator that the attackers are sworn to the Faith Militant, though it is obvious that the evening’s trials had not been the work of those particular sycophants. It seems that an attempt has been made to lay the plot at the High Septon’s door—which means the architect is intelligent.

He continues his line of questioning, manipulating the hilt of his sword to widen the wound, each press shredding fresh slices into overwrought tissue. He basks in the squalling and weeping below him, the singular sound of flesh rending apart, the rich heady aroma of fear and gore. The desire to split open his guts and feed him his own entrails is tempting, but this is not the time. He needs information.

“What price was enough to make you abandon your precious Faith and risk eternal damnation, hm? Three stags? Four? A gold coin?”

The man gasps, spasming with each shift of the blade. “Three! Three, Ser—”

Three gold coins. A wealthy mastermind, then. It narrows the field considerably. Only the nobles at court would have that kind of coin to spend on a plot with a variable chance of success.

Daemon brings his foot down on the Fellow’s knee, crunching the joint beneath his steel-capped boot. With an almighty crack, the bone gives way, its owner leaning to the side to vomit. The acrid stench of sourness permeates the air, tangling with the scents of blood and piss.

He sneers, kicking the man’s leg for good measure. It splays at a misshapen angle, bent back upon itself on the ground. The jagged edge of his shinbone has pierced clean through the back of his knee, a macabre lance of pearl-white tearing through skin and muscle.

“A measly three coins to murder a girl heavy with child,” Daemon mocks. “A Princess. Your gods must be so proud.”

“Please!” The craven weeps, spitting blood and bile from his mouth. “Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“I—I—I dunno his name, Ser. He wears a hood. Calls himself the Firefly.”

Daemon nods absently in acknowledgement, his mind ruminating over this discovery. It is not an epithet he recognises. Firefly. He’ll have to conduct a careful search to find the owner of this sobriquet.

He refocuses his gaze upon the last of your assailants, the remaining member of the trio who had so callously threatened your life and the lives of his children. As pathetic as this creature is, he has been rather valuable in providing enough intelligence to further his own search. But the man has outlived his usefulness. Daemon cannot afford for his benefactor to learn of his loose tongue.

“In the name of the Princess, I—Daemon of House Targaryen—sentence you to die.”

In a single swift motion, he wrenches Dark Sister from the place where it is embedded and basks in the vile satisfaction of hearing the man release an unearthly squall. He swings the sword in a high arc, the momentum slicing cleanly through flesh and sinew and bone and cutting the shriek off at its full. Blood sprays over his armour and across his face, the wayward Fellow’s head rolling across the floor.

Daemon removes the pin from the man’s shirt and stows it away for later examination, using one of the whore’s ruined dresses to wipe his blade clean of gore. He surveys the scene. The door is splintered upon the ground, the wardrobe soiled and defiled, the room itself a painting of crimson upon lumber and metalwork, silks and leathers.

Fuck. He’s made rather a mess of things. Restitution will have to be made.

He leaves the body where it lay, having little care for the remains now he is dead. For now, the job is done. It is with a sense of relief that he retraces his steps back to the lower level of the brothel. The whores and patrons stare at him with mingled shock and fright, taking in his red-soaked armour and ichor-stained face. At the sight of him, the whore from earlier darts up the stairs. She will find her brother dead in her rooms, his life essence puddling out upon the floor and seeping into the wood.

He turns to Mysaria, fishing out a handful of coin and holding it out to her. She takes the proffered gold with an arched brow, surveying his dirtied form with an unimpressed expression.

“For the damage,” is his gruff explanation, tipping his head in the direction of the upper landing. “Unavoidable.”

The whore starts to wail her lamentations from above.

“I see.” Her feline eyes glitter dark and mysterious, lips tipped up ever-so-slightly. She had always found his aggression captivating, and it seems such a sentiment remains unchanged. He shifts in discomfort. She leans further into his space, laying a careful hand upon the line of his arm. “I hope you found the justice you had sought.”

He grunts, making no move to encourage her.

“It is good to see you again, Daemon,” she adds, looking up at him through sooty lashes. Her body presses closer, just shy of touching. He doesn’t know if she holds back to avoid sullying her gown or if she intends to tempt him into closing the space. “You would be welcome here if you should want the company of one of my girls. Or mine.”

Her breath, wine-tart and candied, puffs against his jaw.

“I don’t,” he says stiffly. He is poised, rigid, barely restraining himself from the urge to throw her bodily from him, to backhand her for daring to touch what is not hers by right. “Take your damn hands off me.”

She is as beautiful and sensuous as ever, but she does not arouse desire in him the way she had once done. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks.

Should a version of Daemon from his youth encounter him now, he would make of himself a laughingstock for the single-minded veracity of his ardour for his own niece, a girl half his age. But how could one return to consuming boiled mutton after partaking in roast venison for the first time? Mysaria had been a companion and nothing more. You are his—niece, confidant, wife, lover, mother to his heirs. There can be no other now. That she thinks she might persuade him to wet his cock in lesser cunt is insulting.

At once, her seduction ceases, the veil of allure dropping and resettling into feigned amiability. He has insulted her—but why should it matter? Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.

She smiles dryly, stepping aside to clear a path to the exit. “Then I wish you farewell,” she says.

There is nothing left for him here but the ghosts of a former life. It is easier than breathing to turn from her gaze, to cast her aside as a memory from long ago, to stride past her and leave her in the past where she belongs.

He departs the Gilded Doll without another word, mind already settling on returning to you.

You are still asleep when he enters his brother’s rooms.

“Gods be good,” Viserys mutters, hobbling over from his chair as he takes in the sight of Daemon covered in blood. What did he expect, he thinks in irritation, that I would sit down for a civilised meal with her attacker? “I can only assume you found him.”

“The last one is dead,” he says, unbuckling his baldric and setting Dark Sister, scabbard and all, upon the table as quietly as he can. Through the gauzy drapes, he spies your still form ensconced in the bed. “I got the information I needed.”

“Must I ask for it, or shall you tell me?” the King asks.

Daemon glances over at him. Dark circles bloom purple-grey under his eyes, the contrast to his blemished skin so severe it is as though he is looking at a human skull instead of a living man.

“Not now.” He suppresses a shudder at the malformed creature his brother has become. “I’d like to get this shit off me.”

The bath is warm, but he takes no joy in it. Now that his enterprise is concluded, he is left with naught but his own thoughts. If I had been there, she wouldn’t have been risked so dearly. If I’d refused to leave, she’d be safe and happy instead of fearful and desolate.

He tries to tamp down the maelstrom, scrubbing vigorously at his flesh and his hair as though to physically force the notion from his mind. By the time he is done, the water is pink, flecks of dried blood forming a ghastly film upon the surface.

All he wishes to do now is sit by you. He bypasses Viserys, treading barefoot through the sheer curtains and settling himself gently upon the mattress beside you. In repose, your expression holds none of the fright or devastation that had marred it so many hours ago. You are young, sweet, mouth slack with sleep and cheeks plump and rosy from the heat of the coverings over you.

His eyes burn again. I’ve failed to protect her. Stroking your wild silver hair back from your temple, he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw, over the curve of your lower lip, your throat.

“She has not awakened,” the King says softly behind him. “The boy’s gone to his lessons, but—well, I thought it best not to rouse her.”

“Good,” he murmurs, hand wandering below the sheets to feel the swell of your belly. There is faint movement, and relief blooms anew at the liveliness of the babes within your womb. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a delusion conjured up in his maddened state. “She needs to rest.”

You stir faintly, and he brings his palm to your face once more. You lip insensately at his thumb, easing back down into unconsciousness. A creak to his left makes him think that Viserys has sunk into the chair beside the bed. He can feel the stare boring into him, though he has little desire to entertain whatever it is that has his brother so absorbed.

“When you sought my daughter’s hand,” the King begins, “I assumed the worst.” He knows that. “You are not the sort of man capable of providing the care she needs: patience, attentiveness, placidity… devotion. Someone who would regard her as the treasure she is. Yes, when you asked for her, I thought all manner of abhorrent things, even if you were the one she chose for herself. I was so certain you would destroy her.”

So little trust in me, as always. There is a point to this spiel, a mellow timbre that suggests the aim is not to remonstrate—but to hear how lowly his brother thinks of him is nonetheless cutting.

The King huffs a laugh. “Imagine my surprise, then, to see her so… happy with you.” Daemon stills for a moment, then carefully resumes caressing your cheek, smoothing over the contour of your chin. “She is a new person to me now, and I regret that I was not able to grant what it is she needed to best thrive. I have many regrets… but I do not regret conferring her upon you,” Viserys says. “I was wrong, Daemon. You make a fine husband to my girl. And I am glad she can give to you what I never did.”

Oh, brother.

There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to earn his brother’s approval; when the attainment of such was a far-off dream, one that would have required him to unmake and reforge himself anew so that he might finally earn what ought to have been his all along. The denial of it had made him bitter and angry, a hot-tempered rake of a being that had terrorised nobles and commoners alike with debauchery and hostility and brutality. It is ironic that having the man finally—finally—proclaim that longed-for praise carries none of the weight he once imagined it would have.

His worth is no longer shackled to the whims of an ailing King. Perhaps it is unhealthy or even unfair to place the care of it in your hands—but for all his poisonous ambition, he knows his is not a nature meant for standing alone. The second son of a second son, he has been bred and built to seek purpose from those designed for a higher calling than he. How he had railed against his fate, once! And how very poetic it is that he has found himself so beholden to you.

He does not need Viserys anymore. But he nods and thanks his brother nonetheless, pays little mind to him as he departs from the room, and waits for you to rouse.

It normally takes time for your faculties to return to you after your eyes first open, but it comes to no surprise that consciousness strikes you with full force after the evening’s events. Your eyes snap open and you jolt, casting about for a half-moment before alighting on the form of your husband. He adjusts himself so that he reclines against the headboard, allowing you to easily wiggle your way onto his lap.

Fretful and fragile, a baby princess seeking protection in the arms of her big, strong uncle. Moisture wets his clean shirt, your face buried against his chest and little fingers clutched to his sides like you are afraid he’ll vanish. He pets over your spine and breathes you in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, voiceless. He’ll not press you yet, not now—but there will come a time in the near future where you’ll have no choice but to recount the attack. He needs as much intelligence from as many involved as he can seek out if he is to determine the identity of the Firefly.

You are small and quiet and slow-moving as the day passes, wanting little else than to cling to him and doze. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you. He is helpless to conceive of a way to break you from this strange trance. Guilt and fury and exasperation mingle like noxious fumes inside his body, pressing against his chest cavity and constricting around the organ there like a bloodied fist. Each hushed whisper, each tenuous tremble, each lamenting little-girl rebuff of all save him only serves to spur the tumult within.

“Is… Are they all gone?”

You finally string more than two or three words together, sat upon the edge of the bed in your new chambers. They are nice enough, he supposes, though he’s not particularly enthused by the prospect of being so close to Viserys and the Hightowers. For a moment, he thinks you are speaking of the attendants that had flitted in and out of your presence throughout the afternoon, but the uncertainty of your countenance suggests otherwise. His stomach drops.

“Those—those men?” you clarify, voice cracking.

Daemon lays Dark Sister back upon the desk and tosses down the cloth he’d been using to work away at the stray crusts of ichor, returning to you.

“Yes,” he says, sinking down upon the mattress.

You lean into him, warm and real and alive. Alive. “I was so… frightened. I thought I was going to di—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. I cannot hear it, cannot abide even the thought of it. “Don’t say it.”

You pause, staring up at him, nodding when you take in whatever expression has affixed itself on the planes of his face. He jerks slightly when you push yourself up on your knees and bring your lips to his, hot and wet and sweet. It is ingrained into the foundations of his very self to press into the kiss, to cradle your jaw in his hand and feel the throb of your pulse feed into his skin, his cock twitching in his breeches. There is no pleasure to it, but instead a disconcerting agony that prickles along his shaft and cools the fire that ought to stoke itself.

He draws away, suppressing the tremor that threatens. “What are you doing?” It comes out more abrasive than he’d like.

“Please?” you ask, mouthing at his lower lip, desperate and frenzied. “I—I just want to feel something good again.”

He understands that need. Hells, it’s a feeling that has fuelled many of his own debauched eves across the brothels in King’s Landing and the Realm beyond. Though he cannot fault you for the urge to drive away the memory of those who had nearly carved your babes from your belly (I wasn’t there, why wasn’t I there), his body is refusing to heed your wishes and rise to the occasion.

It tears at him to tilt back into you, to crowd against you and take your mouth with his own, to press his tongue to yours and pull the hem of your shift up. He drives you down into the sheets, nipping at your throat and shoving a finger then two into your grasping cunt, feeling the way the silky walls catch and ripple eagerly as he hooks into the high soft sponge of you, listening to you gasp. You writhe and moan below him, tugging at his pants and taking hold of his cock, and it begins to burst to life in your capable hand. He looks down at you and his mind flashes to the way you’d looked beneath that man, red-stained and terrified and scrabbling to save your own life, and he cannot—

He lurches away from you, from the memory of what had nearly happened. I wasn’t there. You try to pull him back down, but he shakes off your touch. “No. Stop, sweetling.”

“Why?” You pout, reaching for his shaft and making a soft noise of confusion.

Oh. Whatever blood had fought to stiffen him up has dissipated, leaving him limp despite your best attempts to coax it to rise.

“I said—” He bats your hands away, suddenly wrathful. Stumbling off the bed, he stows himself away and fumbles with the laces, whirling on you. “You almost died, and you want to fuck?” he asks, grinding his teeth and snarling at you. “What in the hells is wrong with you?”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it—even more so when he sees the bewildered tears begin to collect along your lower lashes, lip quivering and looking so, so small. Why wasn’t I there to protect her, she could have di—

The room feels like a cage, like iron bars squeezing tight against his flesh, he has to get out, he has to get out—

“Daemon. Daemon!”

He flees the trappings of your apartments, past the Kingsguard manning the doors to the bedchamber, the hall, Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving you there upon the bed alone.

Scarcely even realising he’s left his blade behind, he moves with purpose throughout the Keep. He knows not where he’s headed, only that he must find a safe haven where he might begin to pull together the edges of himself that are fraying to bits, threatening to send him crumbling.

It hurts. It hurts unlike anything he’s ever felt. The anguish only serves to wind him tighter, a maimed creature lashing out at the world for its suffering.

His steps lead him aimlessly around his childhood home, and he indulges the wanderlust. He avoids the main thoroughfares, not wishing to encounter the absurdity of courtly gossip on his day. The journey takes him past the Great Hall and the Small Council chambers and through the servants’ passages, down to the scullery and the royal cellars. He pilfers a carafe of wine from the kitchens, imbibing periodically as he trudges through hallways and up flights of stairs. Eventually, he makes his way to an old sanctuary from his youth, a lone balcony in an abandoned portion of the Holdfast overlooking the courtyard and, beyond, the Dragonpit.

Daemon leans against the edge and stares blankly at the horizon, taking steady draughts from the jug and letting the drink numb the sharp stabbing pains of his thoughts. The wine loosens him, slows the racing of his heart, and time finally starts to run leisurely again.

She might have—She nearly—

“Princess said you ran from her.”

Fuck. He ignores the healer woman as she shuffles forward, joining him in the dimming light. Her eyes bore into his side profile, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

“Said you were angry,” she croaks.

It is the truth, but it is still unpleasant to hear.

“How is she?” he asks. It is relatively easy to assume she’s ventured forth in search of him after making her customary rounds to her sole charge.

He hopes she can hear the words he does not say. Are my children well? Will they survive this?

“Good. Babe both good, too.” He despises how unlike herself she is being, how gentle and kind her tone is. It is not the way she speaks to him usually, and he wants at least one thing to remain normal and logical and sane around here. “You are very, very lucky,” she adds.

He grunts. He doesn’t feel it.

She sighs, thumping him on the back. “You are rude boy. But you are good to her. She need you now—no more hiding.”

“How?” It takes him a moment to realise it is he who has spoken, a rustle upon the breeze. That damned wine. He can no longer control the torrent that he has kept tamped down and locked away, the dogged attempt of a man long accustomed to outrunning all weakness. “How can I just—pretend?”

“Pretend?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tries to put into words the venom that is eating away at his insides. “That I’m not fucking—terrified.” Daemon hisses the term as though it has personally offended him.

To finally say it aloud is both a bizarre release and an epiphany of sorts. He’s overcome with the curious urge to laugh at the realisation.

Fear. How common of him. But it rings true nonetheless, and the rightness of the admission settles in his bones. How can he not be afraid? There’s an ever-present threat to your life somewhere in this place, a place that should be safe and happy and home for you. Someone has marked his children for death before they are even allowed the chance to breathe air on their own, to open their eyes and see what exists outside the safety of their mother’s womb.

And you are a Targaryen woman. In any other context, this makes you superior, a diamond nestled in amongst the coal. But he cannot help but recall those names once more, the names of your forebears who had undergone the toilsome task of childbirth and met their end there.

Alyssa. Daella. Gael. Aemma. Laena.

He will not survive your death, should it come. With the ever-expanding heft of the babes inside you, the possibility that he might have to face such a dreaded reality looms closer by the day. There is not a fucking thing he can do about it, either. There’s no physician or liniment or spell or prayer that he can avail himself of to keep you alive, to keep you with him should your body fall to the conquering force of childbed.

The woman—Ūlla—hums consideringly. “Fear is… natural. Human,”

He finally turns to look at her. Her countenance is warm, sympathetic, a tilt to the head that belies something other than the deep-seated vexation he had been sure was all she’d felt for him. She takes his hand, and he lets her. All at once, he is a boy again, clutching onto his lady grandmother as his mother’s pyre burns gold in the morning light.

“We all fear something,” she says. “It is stupid to try and push it away like it never happen. Do not waste time to master your fear, or you will forget to live. To fear is to love, boy—and you love her, yes?”

He nods. Gods help him, he does.

She smiles, squeezing his grip. “Then the rest is for later. Go to her—love. And let yourself fear. It is okay.”

The sky is darkening to deep amber by the time he is ready to return to you. He takes the long route back to your new chambers, concealing himself from public view as much as he can, for he does not wish to incite the rumour mill of King’s Landing to pass judgement on his dishevelled state.

You are almost exactly where he left you, though you’ve settled back against the pillows with a book, appearing for all the world as though it is an evening like any other. It isn’t. When you see him standing at the door, he fully expects you to rail at him, perhaps to cry or even avoid him.

Instead, your lips twist compassionately, eyes impossibly soft, and you put the tome aside. “Come,” you say, patting the space beside him.

And how can he refuse?

Daemon clambers onto the mattress, shuffling into the open space of your arms and collapsing there in your embrace. The hard bulge of your belly pushes against his chest, a reminder of everything pure and real and necessary, everything he has fought for. What I would die for.

He cannot speak his apology aloud. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coagulating in the liminality between his body and the air. Cursing himself for his inability to perform something so simple, he buries his face into your breasts, breathing in the smell of you, the feel of you, safe and whole and alive. His eyes burn.

“It is alright, kepus. Sh.” Your palm strokes the back of his head, trailing between his shoulder blades and up again in soothing rhythm.

My darling, forgiving girl. You are everything to him, and you are here.

The tears finally fall.

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The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires.

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin.

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course.

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares.

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings.

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point.

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose.

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem.

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue.

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate.

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life.

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent.

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace.

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

#jonathan crane #the scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #the scarecrow x reader #fanfic #my writing

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princesssmars · 22 days

Note

i love your shiv nsfw fic!!! you're so good at writing them, could you write another shiv roy x female reader smut fic? it's so hard finding them these days

no strings

a shiv roy x reader.

you're time studying abroad is nearly over, and you luck out with a job working for a luxury boating service. this summer the billionaire roy family is vacationing, and the youngest daughter gives you an exciting proposal.

wc : 1.391

contains : fluff. semi angst. smut. talks of fxfxm threesome. exhibitionism : tom watches you and shiv go at it. oral and penetrative sex (receiving).

a/n : anon why did i literally have a dream with tom and shiv the night you sent this...and you are so right why is the shiv tag so dead omg i came a year after the show ended thinking i’d be fed 💔 also thanks for saying i’m good every time i write smut i laugh bc i’m a big baby.

when you signed up for a summer job, you sure as hell weren't expecting this.

at least you had the excuse of this not being a very croatian or italian custom. coming here to study was something you did on a whim, and wouldnt be the first time you made a crazy decision just because, you still had flashbacks to the time you skinny dipped with people who you had just met at a bar an hour earlier.

thankfully over the years your exploring ways had toned down to a reasonable amount. after all, you couldnt be a luxury stewardess who was always getting in to trouble. the clients did insane background checks, seriously, one old bastard asked what it was like going to such an average kindergarten.

but for now, it was fine. it paid well, you only had to serve rich pricks for a few days at a time, and it was helping pay off your student loans. plus if you bat your eyes at the right people you got a considerable tip.

your coworker and friend, petra, suggested you do a little more for some extra money, but you shrugged it off with a laugh each time. the last thing you wanted was to have some crazy millionaire getting too attached to you and causing trouble in your normal life.

but your final semester has ended, you’ve made plans to move back home to jersey at the end of the summer, and that only leaves you with a few more jobs until you’re done with this job. you tried, you really really tried to keep your wits about you, but one of the clients is contacting you before the family lands to the boat with an offer.

a threesome. with her and her husband. no strings attached.

the service you worked for normally declined telling you the names of who your team will be working for, even going as far as to lock your phones on the boats to make sure you weren’t posting them during their private time.

but even you, now living halfway across the world, knew about this family. the roys, owners of one of the biggest media conglomerates of the past era. it was hard not to see reports in the morning from atn news, or the insane amount of advertising you’d see about their international mediterranean cruises.

(well, after their recent scandal about sexual misconduct in the fucking senate, you had a feeling you wouldn’t be seeing too many ads anymore.)

you were sure it was the daughter of the family calling you, recognizing her voice over the phone and being confirmed when she met up with you before she got on the boat. she was gorgeous and a little scary, enjoying the scent of her perfume when she slides the nda over to you to sign.

it was exciting, working on the boat and seeing her eyes occasionally trailing your figure. maybe it would’ve been more enticing if every time her husband looked at you he didn’t look like one of those hanging cat posters. shame, he was cute.

you’re cleaning up one of the tables after the family had eaten a crazy short dinner. you’re still reeling after witnessing how dysfunctional these people were when your phone buzzes on your pocket, courtesy of shiv pulling a few strings. the text from her is just her cabin number and a time that’s ten minutes ahead. short and to the point.

when you knock on the door you can hear a conversation on the other side come to halt, fast footsteps coming to the door before yanking it open. you’d seen her earlier in the day but got did shiv look gorgeous, ginger hair framing her face as the soft lighting of the room illuminated her bare shoulders.

she’s smiling at you, all sickly sweet as she leads you into the room before locking the door behind you, telling you to just sit on the bed. the bed is large and soft, and your mind wanders about how these people can have whole hotel rooms on the ocean and still be so unhappy when a throat clearing knocks you out of your thoughts, the husband sitting in a chair across the bed to your left. he gives a little smile and a wave and you do it back.

“this is tom. he’s just gonna watch us for a while, ok?” she checks in with you, crossing her legs as she sits next to you, softly moving your hair behind your shoulder. you nod. “good. tel us if you don’t like something.”

you try to nod again but her palm is on your cheek and bringing your face to hers, soft lips kissing you like she’s starving. her tounge is in your mouth, and when you try to move your body to sit on her lap she’s pushing you back, resting your back on the bed. you can faintly hear the fabric of tom’s clothes as he moves on his seat.

she urges your pants down your legs, barely waiting for you to kick off your shoes before she’s rubbing you through your panties, biting and nipping at the skin of your neck as you left out small moans into the air.

“sure you don’t wanna touch her, tom? she’s so soft, so pretty.” she licks a line up your throat and to your mouth, swallowing your moan in her mouth. her husband doesn’t reply and you don’t dwell on it for long. you’ve heard of exhibitionists before, looks like her husband is one of them.

you bite her bottom lip and revel in the groan you feel in her mouth and chest, your own muffled noise escaping when she stuffs a finger inside you. she’s using her thumb to rub at your clip while she thrusts, pulling away from the kiss to look at your face.

it feels good but it’s not enough, which you make clear when you beg her under your breath to give you more of anything. thankfully she doesn’t seem to be in a teasing mood, not thanking any time to push her second finger inside of you.

“oh, fuck-“ your leg kicks out and you fist the sheets as you focus on the pleasure. it’s clear she’s done this before, skilled in the way she hits your g spot at just the right angle and rubs your clit. her head turns to likely look at her husband, while yours flops on the bedsheets.

you’re so distracted you don’t notice them having a small chat, mind on cloud nine. you do notice when she dips her head to kiss your chest that’s exposed after she unbuttoned your shirt, then dips lower, and lower, and lower-

when you feel her mouth circle your clit in your mouth you let out an airy moan, feeling the ball in the pit of your stomach grow. she eats you out just like she kisses you, sloppier than you expected for someone that’s looks as polished as she does. her hands are squishing the fat of your thighs, and when she shakes her head from side to side in your pussy you cum, trying to soundproof your moans into your arms as the other clutches at her head.

she helps ease you down from your high, placing kisses on your clit and your thighs and even cleaning you up with her mouth as you let out fast shaky breaths. you’re given maybe a few minutes of relaxation before she’s tugging your pants back up, buttoning up your shirt before giving a quick pat to the top of your thigh.

“that was fun, huh?”

you laugh, nodding your head since you can’t find the words. you push yourself up on your arms, staring up at the woman above you as she smiles down at you. your eyes drift to her husband who’s still sitting on the armchair, face flushed and taking in quick breaths like he’s the one who just got fucked instead of you.

“yeah, yeah it was fun.”

you collect yourself, fixing up your hair in the mirror on the wall as shiv leads you to the door.

“saw in your file you’re from jersey. maybe we’ll call you sometime once all this shit blows over, yeah?”

this summer couldn’t end fast enough.

#succession hbo #succession #succession x reader #shiv #shiv roy #siobhan roy #shiv roy x reader #siobhan roy x reader #tom wambsgans

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mandos-mind-trick · 10 months

Text

The Bandana

Summary: You’re their medic. It’s your job to understand the ins and outs of their abilities in order to best treat them when they’re injured. Of course, you can also use that knowledge in other ways.

Pairing: Hunter x reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, teasing, oral, edging, orgasm denial, kind of public sex (it's like half a second), inaccurate medical stuff, reader and her praise kink once more, Hunter's a bit of a dom, light bondage, use of Hunter's bandana.

A/N: It's gross. It's filthy. It's Hunter. None of the medic!reader fics are really related. I know that's kind of a theme lately and I wanted to throw that out there. It's just easiest making the reader a medic, and a couple of them are ideas from a scrapped Bad Batch x medic!reader fic I was working on for a minute. You can read them as being related if you'd like, but that's not really necessary. If you need me, I'll be back in horny jail.

MASTERLIST

Hunter’s abilities are fascinating.

Not that the others’ weren’t, but Hunter’s were the most interesting from a medic’s point of view. He could sense even the most subtle changes within the human body. He could sense a change in someone’s heart by feeling the change in electrical impulses that cause the heart to beat. Even more simply, he could hear someone’s heartbeat if they’re standing close enough. Not only that, the more time he spent around someone, he could smell even the simplest changes in their body. An infection, hormone fluctuations, any sort of dysfunction he could tell almost immediately.

It had been jarring at first, but he had assured you he didn’t purposefully try to listen in on certain things. He had gotten good at blocking most of it out. He’s very in tune with his squad, in tune enough he usually only notices when there’s something wrong. Not that there usually was, among the perfected specimens of the clones.

That’s what led you to developing this game.

You spend a lot of time alone on the Marauder while the boys are in the field. It was what led to you developing an experiment, which quickly became a game.

Just how crazy can you drive Hunter with your scent?

Your illicit relationship with the Sergeant hadn’t taken long to develop. After all, who were you to deny when such a fine specimen was offering? He had admitted to being able to smell your arousal, and as soon as your pants were around your ankles, he had buried his face in your pussy and inhaled like he’d been starved for oxygen.

He’d stolen your panties after that brief foray in the fresher.

That led you to this experiment.

You started simple. You’d let yourself get aroused, then you’d leave your panties somewhere only he’d find. Under his pillow in the barracks, in his knife stash, even once dropped into his helmet while he wasn’t wearing it.

Not long after he’d find them, you’d both disappear for a few minutes so he could fuck you into oblivion for teasing him.

Then you got bolder. You’d slip a hand into your pants while they were away, coating your fingers in your slick before touching areas of the ship you knew he frequented. Then you started touching things of his. Pieces of his armor, his spare blacks, the wall of his bunk in their barracks, the inside of his helmet, even once bravely letting your fingers brush the hilt of his knife.

It was less obvious than your panties, and most of the time he figured it out. It was hard on such a small ship to find ways to slip aside, to find a private moment to fuck each other’s brains out.

You took advantage of shore leave more than anything. The others know you don’t disappear together to do a medical exam. Of course, that was the excuse if anyone ever noticed outside of the squad. It was your job to be thorough, but you don’t think GAR officials or the Kaminoans would consider Hunter’s cock in your mouth a necessary medical test.

They would blanche at the things you do with the Bad Batch’s Sergeant behind closed doors.

You’re excited for this shore leave, already having planned your next move to tease your Sergeant. It’s risky, and going to require perfect timing, but you’re well prepared. You’ve thought all this through perfectly.

The barracks smell as they always do. Despite your best efforts to keep things clean, the stench still manages to linger. You wonder if all the barracks smell this bad, but you’re not about to take that chance. At least you had an excuse for being in the Batch’s barracks.

They all disperse, going about their normal routines. You settle yourself on the couch, your normal perching spot, and begin to enact your plan. You watch Hunter, the way his body moves, his muscles shifting under his blacks as he removes each piece of armor. Your eyes trail his form from those wide shoulders to his slim waist, then further down to his thick thighs. Heat begins to pool in your stomach as you think about him and just what that body is capable of.

You drop your gaze to your pack as he turns to look at you, obviously beginning to sense the change in your body. You’re starting to get wet, thighs pressing together for friction as you pretend to go through your med kit.

Hunter leaves to take a shower, and you make your move while the others are distracted. You slip your hand into your panties, gathering some slick on your fingers before grabbing one of Hunter’s spare bandanas. You make sure to rub your fingers all over it, trading it out for the old one sitting on his bunk. It’s not that unusual for you to grab their dirty clothes to add to your bag of things you need to wash.

None of them blink twice as you toss his old bandana onto the pile. You sink back onto the couch, continuing to go through your med kit like nothing had just happened.

“We’re gonna get some food, you coming?” Wrecker asks, breaking the comfortable quiet of the barracks.

“I’ll meet you there. I need to put in an order for some supplies.” You say, sending a wink his way.

“Right.” Crosshair drolls, lips lifting in a smirk. “Have fun with that.”

Wrecker looks between you utterly confused as Crosshair practically drags him from the barracks. Tech follows, electing to ignore your exchange with his face buried in his datapad.

You really do need to get some more supplies. You get up, moving to the crates stacked next to the big windows. It’s dark and raining outside, as it usually is on Kamino. It’s silent in the barracks, the unnerving quiet making the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight.

A body presses into you from behind, pinning you against the glass window. It hadn’t taken him long to discover your little gift.

“You’re playing a dangerous game mesh’la.” He growls in your ear, voice low and rough. You can feel the hard bulge of his cock against your ass.

“I don’t hear any complaining.” You gasp, his hands grabbing yours, tugging your wrists behind your back.

A smooth cord wraps around them, one of Tech’s spare cables he had lying around. You tug at the knot, secure but not too tight. He turns you around, pushing you towards the table. He bends you over it, pressing your top half flat against it. You bite your lip, anxious for what he’s going to do next.

He tugs your pants down around your ankles, exposing your underwear to him. He can see the wet spot, the fabric sticking to your pussy from how wet it is. He groans quietly, the scent of your arousal hitting him like a wall.

He presses his nose against your underwear, breathing in the scent of your arousal. “So sweet.” He groans, lapping at the fabric.

You moan, more and more arousal pooling in your stomach, soaking your panties. He nips at you through the fabric, drawing a louder moan from your lips.

“Quiet.” He commands. “We don’t want anyone to hear you.”

You bite your lip harder, trying to keep the volume down as he moves your panties to the side, dragging his nose through your folds. His tongue follows, tracing a line from your clit to your hole. You let out another moan, hips jerking at the feel of his warm tongue on you.

He tsks, standing back up. “Can’t do what you’re told? Here, let me help you.”

He grabs your jaw, prying your mouth open. He balls up a familiar red fabric in his hands before stuffing it in your mouth. You let out a quiet sound, muffled by the fabric of his bandana.

“Maybe that will help you be quiet.” He says, kneeling back down between your legs.

He slips his fingers under the gusset of your panties, pulling them taught against your pussy. He drags them through your wetness a couple times before tugging them down your legs. He tosses them towards his bunk, the sound of them hitting the floor audible in the quiet barracks. Your cheeks heat up at the knowledge that you’re that turned on by him.

And he’s barely touched you.

His hands grip your thighs, tugging your legs apart until you’re on your toes to keep steady. His hands move to your ass, using his thumbs to part your lips. You can feel his gaze on your dripping pussy, your hips shifting in his hold in anticipation.

His tongue is warm as it prods at your hole, ignoring your clit entirely. You whine in betrayal, pulling at your restraints as he presses his tongue into your pussy. You moan at the feeling of him, his tongue tasting you directly from the source. He moans against your pussy, slurping at your wetness as it spills from you onto his tongue.

You can’t cum like this alone. You know it and he knows it. He’s doing it on purpose, revenge for all of the times you’ve teased him in the worst way possible. You whine, trying to press your hips back against his face but he holds you still. He’s not going to relent, not until you’re desperate.

You whine his name from behind the bandana, inaudible from the fabric. He ignores you, continuing to eat your pussy like a man starved. You squeeze around his tongue, trying to seek any extra sensation you can. You’re so close. One tiny touch to your clit would send you over the edge, but he’s not going to give you that.

Not yet.

He pulls away from your pussy, licking his lips. He stands up, pressing his hips against your ass. His blacks are rough against your skin, and you can feel how hard he is through the fabric. He leans his body over yours, dragging his hips against your pussy.

“Think you can tease me like that?” He growls in your ear. “Spreading your scent over everything. Drives me crazy.”

You sob behind his bandana, trying to grind against him, against the table, anything for some relief, but he’s keeping you pinned with his body.

“Desperate little thing, aren’t you. You want to cum, huh?” He moves his head so he can see your face. “Do you think you deserve to cum?”

You nod, trying to plead with him, but only muffled sounds come out.

“What’s that?” He tilts his head. “I can’t seem to understand you. Guess you don’t think you deserve it.”

You let out a cry as he moves off of you, kneeling back between your thighs. Tears gather in your eyes as he swirls his tongue around your pussy before slipping it back inside. You clamp down desperately against his tongue, seeking out any sort of relief for the ache in your pussy.

You’re soaked, coating his face as he continues to fuck you with his tongue. Your legs are shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, tears sliding down your cheeks as you moan and cry through the bandana.

Hunter pulls away from your pussy, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re a good girl. Always such a good girl for me, even if you are a tease.”

You make a quiet noise, the table starting to get wet under your face from sweat and your tears.

“That was a good one, spreading your scent on my bandana. I’m going to remember that.” He kisses closer to your pussy. “You’re such a smart little thing. Always so good for me. I’ll let you cum, just for that.”

You practically sob with relief, his tongue pushing into your pussy once more. The rough pad of his thumb brushes your clit, sending you hurtling over the edge. Your legs shake, back arching into him as you soak his face, his tongue lapping up every last bit of your cum. He works you through your orgasm, licking up every last bit of your cum.

He releases the cord around your wrists with a flick of his fingers as he stands to remove his bandana from your mouth. He eases you onto your back, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Always so good for me.” He says, stroking your face lovingly.

You practically purr under his touch, leaning into his hands. “Only for you.”

His eyes darken a bit, the very obvious bulge in his pants pressed up against your pussy. “Think you can take me before the others get back?”

You nod, using every bit of energy you have to lift your feet onto the edge of the table, spreading yourself out for him. “Easily, Sergeant.”

You only hope the others take their time getting their dinner.

Taglist:

@kaminocasey, @rosechi, @mxkyrie, @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013, @padawancat97, @bamfahsoka, @rain-on-kamino, @annoyinglylegendarygoose

#star wars #star wars fic #the bad batch #the bad batch fic #tbb hunter x reader #bad batch hunter x reader #the dark side fic #x reader

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writing-the-stars · 1 year

Text

Little Piece of Heaven

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x GN!Reader

Summary: You are Elijah Mikaelson’s anchor in the sea of dysfunction brought on by his maladjusted family

Warnings: In Theory Really Fluffy and Cute, But I Feel I Could Say Angst (Very Minor If So), No Use of Pronouns. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this short little imagine I conjured up. I felt so comforted writing this and I hope it does the same for you. I hope everyone’s new year is going well so far! As always, thank you guys so much for reading!!! Please feel free to leave a comment or send in an ask. I love interacting with you all. Have a wonderful day!!!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

Elijah was exhausted. The weight of being his brother’s keeper was settling heavily into his bones. It was becoming too much for him– this endless pursuit of the hybrid’s redemption. He wasn’t ready to admit it, but he was beginning to think that maybe there was no hope of saving his younger brother after all. Despite his best efforts, it seemed that Klaus always found a way to undo the substantial progress Elijah had helped him make. But it was that progress, however little it lasted, that kept Elijah coming back to his brother’s side because as long as Klaus displayed a potential for goodness, Elijah was committed to helping him fulfill it.

Tonight, however, the hybrid went too far and Elijah reached his breaking point. He needed a recess– a weekend perhaps where he could escape the city. Go to the mountains and retreat into a cabin where he could indulge in nothingness.

As tempting as this fantasy of Elijah’s appeared, the Original knew it was just that– an impossible dream. He could never leave the city, not while his brother inhabited it. The guilt would gnaw at him, rob him of any semblance of peace he could hope to gain till he was driven back to the city regardless. Yes, the Mikaelson was bound to the city, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Not when he had something better than his asinine daydream. You.

Despite the lateness of the evening, he knew you would be up, waiting for him to get back. He was certain he would find you lounging on your sofa– a book in hand– pretending your interest in the novel is why you are up so late and not your worry for him.

You always fretted so much over him. Scared that one day he would become too caught up in his brother’s dealings and become severely injured. Or worse, end up lying daggered in a box for the rest of your life rather than lying next to you where he should be. The Mikaelson assured you he would always make his way home to you, but that never seemed to ease your worries.

He could see your lip tugged between your teeth as the minutes ticked by, waiting anxiously for the sound of his keys jiggling the lock of your apartment door. Your body, undoubtedly wrapped inside the wool blanket he gifted you for Christmas, sits perched on your chaise sofa draped in one of his shirts because the scent of him helps to bring you some comfort as you wait for the genuine article.

He smiles at the thought of you jumping into his arms as soon as the door closes behind him, relieved by his presence filling up the space of your apartment once again. The overwhelming sensation of serenity he will feel as soon as he holds you in his arms again. You are his anchor in the sea of dysfunction brought on by his maladjusted family. You are his inner peace, his little piece of heaven.

Despite his gifted amplified speed, Elijah felt like his feet could not get him to you fast enough as he climbed the flights to your floor, eager to lie with you. As soon as the key enters the lock, he hears your breath hitch– the rate of your heart increasing as you anticipate his entrance. The pages of your book ruffle as you shut the novel, tossing it on the small coffee table. Just as the vampire imagined, he finds you curled up on the couch dawning his shirt as you shrug the wooly blanket off you, readying to launch into his arms.

A sigh of relief escapes the Original’s lips as you crash into him– legs wrapping around his torso– immediately finding tranquility in your embrace. You press the Mikaelson further into you as if trying to meld your two bodies together and leave a series of kisses trailing from his neck to his face. Elijah hums contentedly as he walks you over to the sofa, settling you down into his lap and finally allowing himself ataraxy.

“I missed you,” you breathe into his neck, finally able to feel at ease knowing he has made it back to you another night. The tension from both of your bodies melting away under the steady, reassuring touch of the other, knowing that as long as you were in each other’s arms, nothing could harm you.

“I missed you too, darling,” Elijah exhales, placing a kiss on the top of your head– your scent fresh and hair damp from the shower you took earlier. There was absolutely nothing that could compare to this feeling, in this millennium or the next– Elijah was sure of it.

“Tell me about your day,” the Mikaelson requests of you.

You shift in his lap, pulling back to fully take him in for the first time since his arrival. He had a hard day, you could tell. Though incapable of ever appearing physically fatigued, the shallow look in his coffee eyes was enough of an indicator of his exhaustion. While you greatly admire his selflessness and devotion to his family, you will never understand why he goes to the lengths of repeatedly sacrificing himself for them when they would hardly do the same in return.

But rather than starting that futile conversation with him again, you fulfill the vampire’s request to hear about your practically uneventful day, detailing as much as possible all the moments you could remember. The Original smiles up at you as you ramble, admiring the way in which you narrate your activities. The recount of your day brings a therapeutic distraction from the numerous problems his day had brought and he finds himself thoroughly invested in the story you craft, making him feel as if he was there with you all along.

Your hand subconsciously toys with the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling the Mikaelson into a deeper state of repose. His eyes fall shut in absolute bliss. Elijah could stay like this forever– you and him in this little piece of heaven.

You were halfway through informing the vampire about your attempt at a new recipe you found when you notice his eyes had closed– a contented smile dressing his features. It was a state you didn’t get to see him in often as his mind was always working out how to bring his family out of the calamity they had incited. You take the opportunity to study him, wanting to commit this beatific version of him to memory. Your eyes trail the contours of his angular features– his high cheekbones and strong, clean shaved jawline– somehow softer than usual. He was the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes on and by some miracle he belonged to you.

“Why did you stop?” Elijah interrupts your surveillance– eyes fluttering open at the halt of your voice. The action surprises you, having assumed he had succumbed to his exhaustion while you spoke. He was waiting to hear what you did next, eager to know if the dish came out like you wanted, and was confused when you suddenly got quiet.

“I want to hear how the recipe turned out.”

“I thought I bored you to sleep,” you joke with the brunet, only making his furrowed brows deepen. He was appalled that a thought like that could ever cross your mind.

“Never. I could never grow tired of listening to you speak.”

A warmth pools in you at the sincerity reflected in his coffee eyes and, though incredibly trivial, you have never felt more loved than in this moment with this man. This perfect man who was too good for his own benefit.

You smile at him, pecking his lips before returning to your story and finishing out the narrative of your day.

“How do you do it?” Elijah asks you, enclosing the entirety of your hand into his large grasp.

“Do what?” you ask curiously, watching him bring the back of your hand to his lips.

“Manage to make my world so perfect.”

A blush clamors at your cheeks as his words suddenly make you shy, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. Even after two years the Mikaelson still manages to astound you.

Elijah chuckles at your bashfulness, kissing the skin of your neck as he brings you in closer to him.

“I love you, darling. Thank you for everything.”

“I love you too, Elijah.”

Taglist: @catmikaelson20 @jennyamanda8 @tsukilover11

If you want to be a part of my taglist, please submit an ask and I will happily add you!

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fortheloveofwonderland · 6 months

Text

Rusty | Chapter 6 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - Spencer struggles with thoughts of his assault before giving you your first riding lesson. Just as things seem to be going well, you’re shocked to find Spencer in the midst of a dissociative break.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - mentions of sexual assault and use of “rape” several times, talk of therapy and a deep dive into Spencer’s therapy journey, stress inoculation therapy, prolonged exposure therapy, erectile dysfunction, graysexuality and demisexuality, mentions of male masturbation, blood, dissociation, self-harm.

WC - 6.3k

Chapter 6 - Tumbling Tumbleweeds

Spencer didn’t not wake with a start, nor did he wake slowly. His mind undulated long before he opened his eyes, ebb and flow, ebb and flow.

The thoughts were undiluted and raw, building worlds behind his eyelids whilst he was still barely semi-conscious.

He was cognisant of the hard shell beneath his back, pressing, prodding his aching spine. The lingering chlorine scent of bleach was attacking his nasal cavities, tickling, scratching.

He was aware yet he was not. He was asleep yet he was alert. Conscious sleep. It was a self preservation tactic he’d taught himself after his first sexual assault.

The ability to be aware of the self, but not of the body or surroundings during non-dream sleep. It was a form of deep meditation, requiring him to distance himself from his physical nature.

The hardest part was getting rid of the mental blockage clouding his mind to achieve such a state. It was the very psychological clutter he had to banish which was the cause for needing this coping mechanism in the first place.

It was a way to help him rest enough to replenish his energy supply but would keep him responsive enough to perceive a threat.

It hadn’t come easy to him at first but once he’d mastered it he often found himself falling into this state without meaning to.

He knew the signs upon awakening, how he would never feel quite as rested as if he’d slept properly, how he could recall various movements and noises during the night.

And this was how he found himself this morning, not quite asleep, yet not awake. He knew it for what it was and it would be easy for him to rouse himself completely. But once he allowed himself to reach that fully conscious state he would have to face reality and for that he wasn’t quite ready.

But it was inevitable. The bleach was starting to burn his nose, causing his stomach to turn violently. He knew it was unlikely he had anything left in him to vomit after last night but it didn’t stop him feeling nauseous.

His fingers of his right hand twitched against the floorboards, his mind starting to flicker, reality just within his grasp.

He was in an incredible amount of pain. He had pushed himself way too hard since his accident and every part of his body from the top of his head down to his toes growled in agony.

He didn’t wait to let himself adjust to the wakefulness, he forced himself to his feet before the pain grew any worse. He tried to ignore it and went to the bathroom for some Tylenol and his paroxetine.

He knew what needed to be done. Maybe it would be easier while his mind wasn’t yet fully with it.

Shuffling back to his bedroom he opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out a manilla folder and a few other items which he set in his lap.

His good hand trembled as his fingers brushed over them and he hoped to keep his brain in this foggy just woken state for a little while longer so he might be able to do this.

When he’d moved to Bandera he’d gone through two separate courses of therapy to try and help him process what he’d been through.

The first was Stress Inoculation Therapy, a psychotherapy technique intended to help patients prepare themselves in advance to handle stressful events successfully with minimal upset.

SIT was broken down into three stages - education, skill building and application. His manilla file was full of papers regarding the first two stages.

His therapist had given him information and encouraged him to do his own research on rape and sexual assault factors. Spencer didn’t need to do his own research as it was all already in his head.

It was supposed to teach cues that triggered the trauma within him but again, it wasn’t hard for him to understand what those were. Sexual contact. Alpha males. Loss of control.

During the skill building his therapist had tried to help control his fear reaction. He had been encouraged to use mental rehearsal and guided self talk. He opened the folder and flicked through the pages to find the small scrap of paper with his own scrawly handwriting on.

I was sexually assaulted, but I am not a victim. I was coerced but I am not weak. I am in control of my own body, of my own mind. I will not let them win, I will not let them ruin my life.

I didn’t deserve what happened to me. I am a good person. I am a strong person. I will move past this. I won't let them break me. I am still worthy of love and affection. I am still whole.

I am still whole.

He gripped the paper, his nails digging into the flimsy material as he read his own words over in his head. His chest heaved and he clenched his jaw tightly.

It was supposed to serve as a reminder to himself that this wasn’t the be all and end all of his life. He’d suffered something exponentially cruel, for which he didn’t deserve but it wasn’t the end of his life.

He was still whole, whether he believed that or not. This self penned affirmation was supposed to help him remember that.

He tucked the paper back between some other sheets so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be the end of his life but it damn near felt like it.

The application stage of SIT was the biggest bump in the road. His therapist encouraged him to use his new skills to engage in the fearful behaviour which in his case was sexual contact.

It had taken him weeks to even attempt this part. He’d told his therapist of a man named Grant who owned a nearby ranch and worked part time at a local BBQ joint. He was around Spencer’s age and undeniably handsome.

He’d caught Grant’s eye on occasion in town. The two often exchanged smiles in the general store or whilst passing on their respective steeds. Spencer knew well enough that Grant was interested in him.

At his therapist's encouragement, after weeks of her trying to prod him to take this next step, eventually Spencer had asked Grant to join him for a drink. Grant had readily accepted.

Spencer had been more nervous than he ever remembered being as he got ready for his date and rode Willow down to the 11th Street Bar.

But he never made it inside. And after standing Grant up, the man never even so much as made eye contact with him again.

His therapist explained, although Spencer already understood this, that due to the nature of his assault being carried out by men, it might be easier for him to ease himself back into the engagement of this behaviour with a woman.

Spencer shut this idea down. He’d always been slightly more interested in men, in the few sexual encounters he’d experienced with either gender, he always found being with men more fulfilling.

And thus she had suggested another form of therapy when he couldn’t move past the second stage. This time was Prolonged Exposure Therapy.

This somehow was more gruelling than SIT. It involved him having to recount, in intricate detail, his rape over and over again.

He had to recall the sounds, the smells, the feelings. He had to dive deep into what he experienced before, during and in the aftermath.

Again and again. Over and over. It was only on approximately the fiftieth recitation that he’d let slip that he’d gotten erect during the act.

It was a piece of information he’d decided early on into his therapy he was going to keep undisclosed. Obviously it was incredibly pertinent, but Spencer already felt vulnerable enough and didn’t want to admit this facet to his therapist or even himself truly.

His therapist had cut him off with a simple, “ah”. She went on to explain that this was a salient part of why he may not be able to let himself move past his assault and lightly chided him for not being more forthcoming with this earlier.

He’d reluctantly then had to explain in great detail his apparent erectile dysfunction and the guilt he suffered over getting aroused while they assaulted him. This had then led her to ask about his sexual history.

He’d been adverse at first, not thinking his past could bear any weight on what he was currently experiencing. But even geniuses were wrong sometimes.

He gave a brief rundown on his limited past experiences including - much to his embarrassment - his feelings towards self stimulation.

After going into too much detail for his liking, his therapist had offered him an explanation, able to give a name to what he was experiencing.

In her opinion, it sounded like graysexuality. People who identify as graysexual feel infrequent sexual attraction, less desire to engage in sexual activity. That’s not to say he never did, but his impulses were few and far between, even before his ordeal in prison.

It was on the same spectrum as asexuality, and stems from the idea that sexuality isn’t black or white and there is a gray area that many people fall into.

She didn’t believe it was anything to with libido after he’d reluctantly spoken in depth of his and Luke’s sex life. Prior to prison, they could barely keep their hands off of each other, often spending entire days off together in the throes of passion.

When she’d told him her understanding of the term, graysexuals don’t see sex as important, not in the way some others do. They do feel sexual attraction but not very often and only in certain circumstances.

She also believed he may fall somewhere on the demisexual spectrum as his most intense physical relationship had been Luke, someone he had a prior emotional bond with.

When Spencer had grown confused and questioned how he could be both she’d simply told him that orientation was constantly switching, sexuality was a spectrum and we are consistently roving up and down the scale.

Years later he would be sitting on his porch with you, a woman he barely knew and explaining his sexuality in much the same manner as his therapist had explained to him.

It made sense to him, he understood and it made him feel a little better to know that there were words that existed to describe what he was feeling. He made him feel less alone, knowing that he wasn’t the only person that was going through these things.

As was par for the course with Prolonged Exposure Therapy, his recital of his abuse was recorded. One of the items in his lap was the cassette tape of his own full admission of what he’d gone through at Milburn.

He’d never listened to it, he couldn’t bring himself to, no matter how much his therapist tried to encourage him to do so. It was supposed to help distance himself from it, listen to the confession from the sidelines as though he were a bystander.

“Doctor Reid, as an agent with the BAU I can only imagine how many times you had to listen to people recount the horrible things they’d gone through. Hearing your own retelling might allow you to be objective the way you might be with a victim interview.”

She was right and he knew it. But he couldn’t listen to it. He knew he never would.

Exhausting most of her options on a patient who often seemed as though he didn’t want to get better, her final instruction before Spencer stopped seeing her was for him to at the very least make a concerted effort to try masturbating more frequently.

After she’d dropped that frankly horrifying piece of advice, Spencer had never returned to her office.

He stuffed the folder and cassette away again, shaking his head at his own intrusive train of thoughts. Revisiting this was not going to make things better, he had to power on, accept the things he couldn’t change as his former drug rehabilitation taught him.

If only it were that easy.

He forced himself to shower despite the pain he was in, before dressing and eating a bowl of cereal in a thinly veiled attempt to energise himself for the day ahead.

***

When a gentle knock sounded at the door of the lodge you were sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel wrapped around you after your shower.

You scrambled to quickly throw some clothes on but by the time you made it to the door, swinging it open, no one was there.

Brows furrowing you looked around and caught a glimpse of Spencer’s retreating form as he limped in the direction of the stables. He’d barely given you time to answer, what had he even bothered knocking for?

Shaking your head you went to recede back inside but noticed something on the floor in front of the door.

A red tray, the likes of which reminded you of high school, lay on the porch with an array of items on top.

You bent down and lifted the tray, careful not to drop anything while you stepped back in the cabin and nudged the door closed with your hip. You cautiously carried it to the kitchen counter and set it down.

A large mug in the shape of an octopus had steam rising from it and after a cursory sniff you knew it to be honey and lemon tea. Next to it, a small glass containing thick, pulpy orange juice.

The bowl in the centre of the tray housed cereal and there was another small glass filled with milk presumably to pour on it.

Wedged under the spoon was a small scrap of paper with almost completely illegible writing scrawled on it. It took several minutes to ascertain what it said.

I’m sorry about last night, I hope that things can remain amicable between us. I’ll be at the stable if you feel like joining me. I’d understand if you didn’t.

Spencer

A smile crept to your lips and you pocketed the paper. You downed the orange juice in one before pouring the milk upon the cereal and taking the bowl and mug of tea over to the couch.

It was almost impossible not to feel slightly scorned by his sudden change of demeanour last night. The way he’d changed so dramatically, like a light switch had been flicked had hurt and there was no other way around it.

But that’s not to say you didn’t understand.

It was startlingly apparent to you that Spencer had suffered some kind of psychological trauma, possibly even physical trauma. You wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’d endured some kind of sexual assault judging by the way he panicked at the simple act of your hand palming him through his slacks.

Or were you just drawing connections where there weren’t any? He’d said himself his sexuality wavered across the spectrum, perhaps when it came down to it, the possibility of being with a woman hadn’t appealed to him and he’d overreacted.

You didn’t intend to bring it up either way so you supposed you could either bother yourself worrying about it or just let it go.

You chose the latter.

You ate your cereal and drank the tea before brushing your teeth. You went to slip your sneakers on but before you reached the door, you had a change of heart.

***

“I only called because…no, no…you have to stop - please. No…I said…please just listen to me for a moment? Yes, I know…I get it I do. I-I…you’re not letting me speak. You have to…it’s been two years I…no. Please? I just want…need…to heal. Yes. No. Please can you…yes, yes I know. I need…space…more space. In time I might…I don’t kn - no, no. Okay. Thank you…I’ll try…you too.”

You told yourself you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop again on Spencer’s phone conversation. When you’d approached the stable you’d heard his voice and at first assumed he was talking to his horses.

But his feverish tone and staggered breaths gave you pause. You didn’t want to interrupt or interfere so you’d hung back.

When he hung up the phone you could only assume by his fractured expression and slightly trembling hand that he’d been talking to his ex - Luke you reminded yourself - the strangely familiar Luke.

He was sitting on a wooden chest in the far corner of the stable, opposite Willow’s paddock. He slotted the phone into his pocket and leaned forward, his casted arm cradled against his stomach while his other elbow rested on his thigh.

His hand scored up and down his face, kneading between his brows, pinching his nose, rubbing his scratchy facial hair, back up to the nose, the brows and so on.

You waited a little while longer to enter for two reasons. One, if you strolled in now he’d know you’d heard something and two, he clearly needed a moment.

You leaned against the side of the stable and counted slowly to one hundred in your head before you moved back toward the door and opened it.

The creaking of the hinges alerted Spencer to your presence and he immediately looked up, plastering a smile on his face you knew wasn’t genuine.

“Oh, uh, hi.” He cautiously pushed himself up, groaning a little as he did so. “I, uh…wasn’t sure you’d be…here.”

You offered him a smile in return, taking a few steps into the stable, trying to ignore the watchful eyes of the large black horse.

You felt an uneasy pang in your chest as you took him in. He wore a pair of black jeans which fit him so well it should have been illegal, paired with a dark green button up flannel shirt. His black stetson had been replaced by a beige one with a large brim.

His hair seemed to be perfectly curled beneath the hat as though he’d spent hours on it. The few days worth of stubble growth on his face made him appear rugged.

He looked delectable and it didn’t seem fair.

“Thanks for breakfast.” You spoke as you got a little closer.

“Oh it’s no problem, I uh…” his eyes wandered, downwards to the floor and he trailed off as he noticed the fire engine red boots on your feet. His eyes snapped back up to your face. “You’re wearing the riding boots.”

“I am.” You nodded. “You’re astute.”

“You’re willing to learn how to ride?” He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“I don’t feel as though I have a lot of choice in the matter, seeing as you can barely walk.” You chuckled lightly.

“Full disclosure, I have never taught someone to ride a horse before.”

“This is going to be fun then.” You started towards Willow’s paddock, placing your hands on the gate keeping her enclosed.

“Oh, uh, you won’t be riding her just yet.” Spencer’s voice stopped you before you could open it.

You looked at him over your shoulder with confusion.

“Why?”

“She’s more of a handful. You need to be a lot more experienced before you can handle her. But Franklin is a great horse for novices.” He moved down towards the black horse which was still giving you a stern look.

“Him? No way. He hates me.” You shook your head.

“He does not.” Spencer scoffed, unlatching the end gate.

“He looks at me funny.” You grumbled.

“Did you try giving him attention?” Spencer swung open the gate and stepped inside.

Franklin shuffled closer to him and bowed his head until it was resting on Spencer’s shoulder. In turn Spencer stroked his mane and cooed in his ear.

“He doesn’t like to be ignored.” Spencer cradled the stallion's head while you took a few cautious steps closer.

“He’s a horse.” You clucked somewhat indignantly.

“A horse with feelings and a personality.” Spencer laughed, fingers brushing to and fro in his mane. “Frank is sensitive. Willow gets most of the attention around here and he feels that deeply. Wilbur is aloof, doesn’t need the same level of attention. As long as he’s being fed and groomed he’s pretty content.

“Willow is my main companion and she goes everywhere with me and it does grate on Frank. He gets jealous I suppose. He would have seen you bringing Willow home and thought there’s someone else who prefers her over me. I’d bet you didn’t even try to engage him?”

“He scared me, I guess, the way he was looking at me. I didn’t want to get my hand bitten off.”

To this, Spencer laughed again, edging himself away from Franklin and closer to you. He held out his good hand palm side up, fingers spread.

“Put your hand in mine, back of the hand to my palm.” He looked at you encouragingly.

You swallowed thickly, tentatively stepping inside Frank’s paddock. You did as Spencer instructed and cradled the back of your hand against his palm.

Spencer’s fingers thread through yours and moved both your entwined hands closer to the horse's head.

Spencer didn’t have to do all the work as Franklin met you halfway, practically forcing the side of his face into your palm.

He made a soft sound of content by way of air rushing out of his large nostrils as he nuzzled against you. Spencer wiggled his fingers, which moved yours too, so you were scratching the horse's coarse head.

“See?” Spencer smiled at you. “He likes you already. Try taking your other hand and brushing it through his mane, he likes that.”

Rolling your lip between your teeth, you raised your other hand towards his hair. You curled your fingers and brushed your knuckles through his thick, dark mane.

Once again Franklin huffed out a breath of thanks. A soft giggle left your lips at the sound he made and Spencer was smiling to himself, unable to stop watching you.

Even when you started moving your hand of your own accord, Spencer kept his fingers laced with yours, allowing you to move his too.

“Maybe he’s not so bad.” You agreed, making quiet clicking sounds with your tongue against your teeth which Franklin seemed receptive to.

“Trust me when I say he’s the horse you want to practise on. Wilbur’s all about speed, Willow is tempermental unless you know her like I do. But Frank is as laid back as they come.” Reluctantly, Spencer let his hand slip from yours but you continued stroking him.

“Okay, so how does one ride a horse?” You asked without looking at him.

“One must first learn how to properly saddle a horse.” He chuckled, limping back over towards the wall where the saddle equipment hung.

Spencer had already fitted Franklin’s bridle which was tied to the fence in his paddock in anticipation of this. He grabbed one of the brushes off the wall and limped back over to you.

“First we’re gonna need to groom him.” He sidled around you, side stepping you and trying to ignore the pulsing in his knee as he trod precariously.

You heard the overt puff of air leave his lips and glanced at him, at the reddening in his ears and cheeks, his stiff jaw.

“You okay?” You removed one hand from Franklin and reached for him but he brushed you off.

“Fine, fine.” He shook it off. “Just, keep doing what you’re doing.”

His jaw remained clenched while he went about brushing down Franklin’s back and you remained stroking his face. Spencer gave attention to the horse's sides, his belly and rear before running the brush through his tail and then passing it to you to do the same to his mane.

Keeping one hand on Franklin’s snout you used the other to brush his knotty locks and he huffed again in appreciation.

Spencer hobbled around you, back to the wall and then returned with something for which swapped with you for the brush.

“This is a saddle pad. It helps protect his back and keep the saddle in place.” He guided you without touching you to Franklin’s left side. “It wants to sit just below his mane.”

You draped the slightly squishy fabric over Frank’s back, as instructed, letting it rest just beneath the stallion's mane.

“Is that okay?” You looked back at Spencer who was nodding.

“Perfect. Can you…” he nodded towards the wall. “Grab the saddle closest to us?”

He was bent over a little, massaging his knee between his fingers. You understood that he was struggling with the simple back and forth.

You slid past him and unhooked the saddle from its wall mounted position and carried it back into Frank’s paddock.

“So this is the saddle horn,” he pointed to one end which protruded from the leather saddle, almost looking like the top of a stick shift. “You want this at the front. Place the saddle on his back just like with the pad…yep that’s it. Toss the stirrup and the cinches up so they are out of the way.”

You did as he said before turning to him with a flourish of your hands.

“I’m a natural.” You joked.

Spencer simply rolled his eyes.

“Give it a little rock back and forth to make sure it’s sitting comfortably. Great, looks good and make sure the centre of the saddle is lined up with his spine.” Spencer inspected it himself. “The stirrups should be even on both sides and the saddle should be just below his shoulder blades.”

You fidgeted with the saddle a little, ensuring it was in the correct position. Spencer shuffled it down slightly before giving a nod of approval.

“Okay now we need to secure the front cinch, this is really important. So you’re going to pull the cinch under his belly, towards you, and slip the latigo strap down through the cinch buckle. Pull it all the way through and make sure neither the cinch nor the latigo strap are twisted.” He pointed out each new thing he explained.

“Like this?” You worked on following his instruction.

“Perfect. Now lift the latigo and slip it through the saddle’s D-ring, from outside-in and leaving the ring angled towards the left. Make the cinch snug, but not overly so. Do the same again a few times if there’s still a lot of length left in the latigo strap. Yeah, that’s great.” He nodded.

Spencer continued to talk you through the process and you followed each step. When confused you asked questions and he was quick to explain himself.

You then moved onto securing the rear cinch. Franklin remained still throughout the whole thing, clearly used to this procedure.

“Great, that looks great. Now if you were on your own you’d untie his reins from the fence before mounting him but in the interest of everyone’s safety I can untie it after you’re up.” Spencer took a step back.

“Okay, how does this part work then?” You gulped, a sudden flood of nerves washing over you.

“You’ll be fine,” Spencer tried to sooth you, sensing your fears. “Step up on that mounting block for me.”

You turned around and spotted the little wooden steps you assumed he meant and climbed up them. Spencer meanwhile clicked his tongue at Franklin and with a series of hand gestures the horse was moving into place next to you.

“What are you, the horse whisperer?” You scoffed.

Spencer placed his hand on the side of Franklin’s neck to keep him still although Franklin could usually be trusted he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Okay use your left hand to grip the saddle horn and your left foot in the stirrup. That’s it. Rest your weight on the ball of your foot, shift your body weight onto your mounting foot and swing your other leg over the top of the horse. One swift move.”

You sucked in a breath and before you could let the nerves get the better of you, you took the leap. Using your left foot to take most of your weight, you swung your right leg up and over his body, plopping down into the saddle and making Franklin jolt a little.

“Oof, careful. Next time try to slowly lower yourself down.” Spencer chuckled, giving Frank a pat. “You alright boy?”

“Sorry,” you baulked.

“It’s okay, he’s tough, he can handle it. Get your right foot in that stirrup.” Spencer rounded the horse, making quick work of untying the reins from the fence. “Right I’ll keep hold of these while we head up to the field. Once we’re in there I’ll give them to you and give you some pointers. You good to go Frank?”

With a light tug on the reins, Frank neighed at his owner before he jolted forward. You wobbled in the saddle, your right hand joining your left on the horn and holding on for dear life.

Spencer used the reins to guide Franklin out of the stable and briefly let them go so he could latch the door closed behind you.

Moving again and you wobbled once more, the ground beneath you not entirely level and you felt yourself swaying side to side.

“You sure this is safe?” You whined a little.

“Very, Frank knows what he’s doing, trust me.” Spencer chuckled.

“I, uh…whoa, Jesus.” You groaned as you wobbled to the left. “This does not feel natural.”

“Tell you the truth, I hated horse riding when I first moved out here.” Spencer told you as he led the horse up towards the field.

It was a slight incline and you felt yourself slipping back a little, hitting the raised back of the saddle and whining a little.

“You? Mister big tough cowboy?” You clucked but your voice gave way to your nerves.

“Not always the case. I had these crises of faith where I just thought, what the hell have I done? I don’t even like horses!” He chuckled. As if he understood, Franklin made a noise of frustration. “Calm down Frank, that was a long time ago.”

“What was it about this place for you? You wanted to get away, to escape your city life, I get that. But why here specifically?” You tried to hide the tremor in your voice as Franklin dipped while he walked.

“I wanted a simple life I guess.” Spencer shrugged, looking a little wistful. “My whole life people have depended on me, ever since I was a little kid. I’d been in the same job since I was twenty two years old and although I loved it, it took a toll on me, both mentally and physically. I couldn’t keep up with the demands and I’d always appreciated the idea of living off the grid with nothing but land and animals to rely on me. It’s…I suppose it’s rewarding in its own way and I still needed something to occupy me so I figured why not this.”

You mused over his words, your eyebrows furrowed whilst trying to ignore the way you bucked as Franklin moved.

“Spencer, you weren’t a psychology professor, were you?” You dared ask.

His back straightened a little as you reached the brow of the hill and he continued down as you had to brace yourself on the horn.

“No, I wasn’t. I mean, yeah I was for a while. I lectured from time to time. But no, it wasn’t my main profession.” He confessed, swallowing thickly.

“What did you do?”

“If it’s okay with you, I don’t want to talk about it. I spent fifteen years of my life being defined by my job and part of the appeal of this place is that no one knows who I was in my former life. I might tell you, one day, but for now I’d rather not be that person anymore.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You also favoured not being defined by your past. It didn’t matter where he’d come from, what he’d done for a living, the same way it didn’t matter where you’d been. All that mattered was the two of you were here now.

“Understood. I don’t mean to pry.” You replied and Spencer offered you a small smile in return. Still holding onto the saddle horn for dear life, the path started to flatten out but was still bumpy under Franklin’s hooves.

Soon you came across a large fenced off area with a ravine babbling just behind it. Spencer had to briefly drop the reins so he could open the gate before leading Frank inside.

You watched Spencer inquisitively. You did understand not wanting to reveal too much of your personal life but it didn’t stop you wanting to know more about him.

He was a mystery, you couldn’t work him out. But you wanted to. You wanted to know everything about him. Maybe one day he’d feel comfortable opening up to you, and perhaps you’d even return the favour.

But for now he remained an enigma.

***

After a fairly rocky first horse riding lesson in which you were convinced you were going to die at the hands of this horse, you helped Spencer clean the stables and feed his animals.

He made sandwiches for lunch as well as honey and lemon tea. After lunch he’d introduced you to his cattle.

When he noticed you wincing as you walked he offered you some hydrocortisone ointment, telling you it was normal for your thighs to chafe when you were learning to ride.

The ointment helped and it was a good job too as you had to walk into town to collect your car. Spencer tried to insist he could cope with the walk but you’d seen the way he’d been grimacing all day and you insisted he stay behind.

You found an ice pack in his freezer and forced him to sit down and ice his knee. It didn’t take a lot of convincing.

He’d called in an order at Busbee’s BBQ which you would collect while you were in town for dinner.

It was little under a two mile walk which you didn’t remember being so long in your drunken state yesterday. The sun was setting and thankfully the heat and humidity had died down but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience.

You found the BBQ joint with relative ease, just a little way down the road from where you parked your car the previous day. A handsome man named Grant handed you your food with a dazzling smile. You tipped him generously.

You made quick work driving back to the ranch and carried the food up to Spencer’s lodge, your thighs rubbing from your walk and the horse. You headed up the stairs, the light from the living room illuminating your path.

Spencer wasn’t where you left him on the couch and the ice pack was discarded on the floor in a little puddle where it had started to melt. You weren’t sure why but the hairs on the back of your neck were standing to attention in an instant, your gut telling you something wasn’t right.

You put the bags of food on the kitchen counter and padded towards the closed bedroom door, taking quiet, even steps. You breathed silently, pressing your ear against the wood.

You didn’t hear much other than slightly ragged breaths, sharply inhaling and then exhaling with aggression. Your first thought was that Spencer was indulging in some alone time and you almost turned and left, not wanting to invade his privacy again.

But then you heard a sound which was more of a moan of pain than one of pleasure. He’d been struggling all day with his knee, that much was obvious. Maybe he needed some assistance.

You gently rapped on the door with your knuckles and called his name. No response. You tried again but still no reply.

You weighed up your options. On one hand you didn’t want to irritate him by just barging in, he might not be responding because he didn’t want to see you. But on the other hand he could be really hurt and would you be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t try to help?

You knocked again, spoke his name a little louder. You were met with no more than a grunt.

“Spencer?” You tried again, louder still. “Spencer, I’m going to need you to let me know you’re okay.”

Yet more silence.

“Spencer, if you don’t answer me I am going to come in. If you don’t want that then tell me now, otherwise I am opening this door.” You paused, held your breath. No answer. “Fine, I’m coming in.”

You gripped the handle, pushed open the door.

A cursory glance around the room and your heart tightened in your chest, your body momentarily going limp at the sight in front of you.

Spencer sat on the edge of his bed, naked from the waist up. At his feet on the floor were the smashed remains of his old cell phone. But that wasn’t what alarmed you.

In his limp right hand a silver piece of metal glistened as it caught the light. But it was his left bicep for which you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

His left bicep and the fresh open wound which was spitting with blood, caking his arm, dripping onto the bed sheets.

But the scariest part of all was how Spencer didn’t even seem to notice. He didn’t seem aware that you were even there.

His expressionless eyes were trained somewhere across the room, his chapped lips moving as though he were chanting.

“S-Spencer?” You croaked but he didn’t register you.

You swallowed, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cautiously approaching him. When you drew closer you could hear a haggard, monotone whisper of words leaving his lips.

You crouched in front of his eyeline to try and get his attention but even when he had nowhere else to look, his eyes bore through you like you weren’t even there.

And he continued to mutter under his breath, “I am still whole. I am still whole. I am still whole.”

@kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3

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