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#your path of discovering who you are right now
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How lock-in hurts design
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Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!
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If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.
Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.
This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.
Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:
https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/
But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.
Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.
Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:
https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/
This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!
But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.
That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/
When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah
More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:
https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/
But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones
Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":
https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/
This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.
An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.
Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.
Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":
https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html
Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:
https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/
But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar
Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.
The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):
https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/
Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model
Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:
https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/
Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."
Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.
Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.
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I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited
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Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg
CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en
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liliacamethyst · 9 months
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Webs of Fate - Miguel O'Hara (Part II)
Sequel to Web of Secrets
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Miguel O'Hara x SpiderSun Reader
words: 5.2K
warnings: secret pregnancy trope, swearing, angst, heartbreak, grumpy/sunshine, smut, time jumps, not really comic accurate (canon events), semi public piv, 18+
Part I Part II Part III Part IV
You are all back at the Spider-Verse Headquarters and the atmosphere is tense. Everyone is still high on adrenaline from the mission. You’re nursing a deep gash on your arm but your spirit is far from broken.
Miguel, however, seems to be on the verge of an explosion.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT OUT THERE SPIDER SUN?” he bursts out, his voice echoing through the HQ.
You're taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“That reckless behavior! You could have been killed!” he roars. “Why didn’t you retreat when you were injured?!”
“Because there were lives at stake! I can handle myself, Miguel!” you shout back.
“You think this is a game?! You think being part of this team is just for kicks?” Miguel’s face is red, his voice strained.
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare question my dedication!” you yell, your own anger now matching his.
The team is watching, shifting uncomfortably. Gwen looks at Jess, who shakes her head. The room is thick with tension.
Alright, if you are being honest with yourself, your recent actions in the field could definitely be classified as reckless. Perhaps even bordering on idiotic - not that you’d ever confess that in front of Miguel. You didn’t know where your mind went. Wait, no, scratch that. You knew precisely where your thoughts were, every mission since you discovered your pregnancy has been like this; your spider senses dulled, focus scattered to the wind, and reflexes that would’ve made a sloth proud.
And then there was this mission – your first one in quite a while alongside Miguel. He was bound to notice.
So you were fighting an Electro variant from an alternate universe, alongside Jess, Gwen, Ben and Miguel. The electric villain was throwing bolts of energy left and right and everyone was giving their all. You noticed a civilian trapped under some debris. You made a beeline for them, not thinking about anything else.
As you lifted the debris, an energy bolt flew straight for you. Usually, your Spider-Senses would have alerted you but not today. It hit you square in the back and sent you flying.
You hit a wall but ignored the pain as you scrambled back to your feet. A sharp ache spread across your arm but you gritted your teeth and kept fighting.
Miguel yelled, “What the hell are you doing?! Fall back!”
But you didn’t, you kept pushing forward.
He landed next to you, his eyes filled with anger and something else, maybe a hint of worry. He grabbed your waist to pull you back. But as another energy bolt was coming your way, you shoved him out of the path, taking the hit for the second time. So yeah, you could say that this mission wasn't exactly the shining star in your superhero career.
“ESTÚPIDA! So damn stupid. I won’t fucking watch someone throw their life away recklessly!” Miguel was now yelling loudly in oyur face for everyone in the HQ to hear.
“Oh, please. What’s it to you? Since when do you care, Miguel?!” you shout back, finally having enough of his insufferable attitude. “All this time, you’ve treated me like I’m dispensable. Like I don't matter! Well, guess what? I can fight, I can make decisions, and I don’t need you to approve them!”
“Don’t!” Miguel's voice cracks, and for a brief second, there’s a look of hurt on his face that surprises you. But his rage quickly replaces it. “I cannot do this anymore with you, ¿me entiendes?” he yells.
The room falls silent. Everyone’s gazes dart between you and Miguel. You can feel Gwen’s worried eyes on you, and Ben Riley. looks like he wants to intervene, but this moment is too charged.
You take a deep breath, tears welling up. “I can't do this anymore either,” you whisper.
“What?” Miguel's voice is barely audible.
“I can't keep fighting for a team where I’m not respected or trusted. Where you treat me constantly like a liability, like I am worth nothing to you,” you say, your voice steadier now.
“You don’t know what you are saying,” Miguel says, his tone slightly softening.
You turn around, your eyes welling up once again and open a portal to your universe. “I do, I quit” you say, your voice breaking.
You reach into your pocket and pull out your transdimensional gizmo, the small device that every Spider-person uses to travel across the multiverse. It's an intricate piece of technology, a blend of science and magic that fits in the palm of your hand.
You toss the device on the table in front of Miguel. It skids across the surface before coming to a stop right in front of him. He looks from the gizmo to you, his expression unreadable.
"Take it. We don’t need it anymore." You say defiantly, meeting his gaze.
Everyone knows the implication of you returning the gizmo. Without it, you're effectively stranded in your universe, unable to return to the society. This isn't a decision made lightly, it's a point of no return.
As you step through the portal, you glance back one last time. You see Miguel’s face, contorted in pain, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak and he doesn't stop you.
Your heart is breaking, but you can’t stay here. Not when it’s this painful.
You turn away and head toward the portal room, with one hand lightly grazing your tummy. Gwen calls your name, but you don’t stop.
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In the dim light of the room, the world seems to fade away as you lie there with Miguel on top of you. You are under him, breathless, your fingers running through his hair. His body pins you down in a tender, electrifying way, and you can feel the rhythm of his heart beating against yours.
His fangs graze the curve of your neck lightly, eliciting a shiver that runs through you. In response, he nuzzles into you, his breath warm against your skin.
"Ever think about what we're doing?" he asks in a whisper that vibrates against your neck.
"Constantly," you respond, your fingers tracing the curve of his broad shoulders, "but I don’t regret it, not a moment.”
He lifts his head, his red orbs searching yours. “Neither do I,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. His hand reaches up to trace the contour of your face.
"You know," you whisper, your hands continuing caressing his back, "I always wondered what it was like in your universe, in your time."
He shifts a little, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down at you. His eyes, usually as unreadable, now seem to crack open; emotions swirl within them like stars.
"It was great, you know," his voice is gentle, each word enveloping you. "No, more than that – it was perfect," he corrects himself. His eyes never leave yours as he continues, "I had my Gabriella. Ah, you would have adored her." His voice softens to a mere whisper as if speaking her name too loudly might shatter the memory. "She was this incredible burst of life just like you. My own little sunshine. I didn’t know my heart could hold so much until she came into my life."
"The way she would throw her head back and laugh, it was like music. Her tiny hands – so soft and gentle. I remember how one of them always found mine, and the world felt... right." He continued, "I was never alone, never empty." He swallows hard, as if trying to keep the flood of emotions from washing over him.
You cup his cheek gently, smiling up at him. "You don't have to be alone, you know?"
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Sometimes it feels like there's no other option. It’s my fate."
“What scares you the most, Miguel?” you suddenly ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates. “To lose myself… to forget what it means to care for someone,” he finally confesses.
“You won’t,” you assure him, your thumb stroking his cheek. “Not if you don’t let yourself.”
“¿y tú?” His voice is husky. “What’s your biggest fear?”
“To be forgotten,” you whisper.
He lowers himself and presses his forehead against yours. “Imposible,” he breathes. “You’re the sun. No one forgets the sun.”  He pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until the world outside disappears.
Suddenly, his wrist console beeps, yanking him back to the present. "O’Hara, are you okay?" Lyla's voice echoes in the room, breaking the silence. He blinks, his gaze focusing on the holographic screen displaying the mission details in front of him. "Yeah, Lyla," he responds, his voice a bit hoarse. "Just remembered something," he murmurs, and refocuses on the screen before him.
Amidst the sea of codes and numbers, Miguel finds himself struggling to focus. His thoughts still are consumed by you, and a heavy realization crashes down upon him like a tidal wave - he’s lost you forever.
He always knew that this was how it was meant to be. This was the only logical conclusion, the inevitable outcome that he had tried so hard to deny. He was aware of the potential repercussions, the cosmic imbalance that could be brought about by your intertwining fates. 
Lyla had warned him multiple times, cautioned him against letting you close. But how could he have possibly resisted you? You, who shone brighter than the sun, who captured the hearts of everyone around with your aura and your kind soul. Your beauty was unparalleled, and your laughter had the power to fill a room, casting away shadows. He was a moth drawn to your flame, hopelessly captivated from the very first day he met you.
 But you were never meant to be his story, not the path his life was meant to tread. You belonged to another world, another universe.
"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Lyla breaks the silence with her smooth, computerized voice. “No,” he interrupts her sharply, his voice a little too forceful.
But Lyla isn't easily deterred. "You know it was dangerous from the beginning, Miguel," Lyla continues. "Engaging with her like that...it could have caused irreparable damage to the multiverse."
"I know," he replies curtly.
Unyielding, Lyla continues, "This was never supposed to be a canon event. Her universe is not meant to mix with yours. It's fortunate that she left when she did. The damage could've been—"
“I KNOW!” Miguel suddenly erupts, his voice thundering through the room. He screams, his frustration boiling over, "¡Ya lo sé, Lyla! ¡Basta ya!" ("I already know, Lyla! Enough already!") With a loud grunt, he sweeps his arm across his desk, sending his keyboard, mug, and various other items crashing to the ground.
There is a deafening silence as Miguel breathes heavily, his chest heaving. His eyes are wide, his face is flushed and his fangs are bared. He never loses control, not like this.
Lyla, for once, remains silent.
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3 months later…
Back in Nea Yorkey, Earth 586 , you are perched on the rooftop, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach. Time has passed since you left Nueva York and Miguel, but your feelings for him are still a tangled mess. Damn these pesky pregnancy hormones.
 For once, it’s pretty calm out there. No honking horns in traffic jams or the usual buzz of people everywhere. It’s like the city hit the pause button and honestly, it’s kind of nice. The streetlights are like tiny fairy lights all over, and the tall buildings around you feel like they’re keeping you company.
The cool breeze brushes against your face, and you can't help but be lost in your thoughts. Thoughts of him. The relentless flood of emotions is almost too much to handle.
The flashback hits you hard, placing you right back in Miguel's office late one evening. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your backside planted firmly on his desk amidst strewn cables and metallic pieces and half-empty coffee mugs.
"Miguel, someone will catch us," you had warned, your breath hitching as he nipped at your skin, his hands deftly moving to undo your skintight suit. His hair was a little longer then, the ends tickling your forehead as he kissed you.
He had just chuckled, the sound deep and throaty, making your heart flutter. "They know better than to disturb me," he'd responded confidently, his lips trailing fiery kisses along your jawline.
Usually, Miguel was cautious about showing any sign of affection when others might be around, even if 'around' meant anywhere in the sprawling headquarters of the Spider Society. Yet, that night, he seemed to throw caution to the wind.
In his enclosed office, late into the evening, he let his guard down - a rarity. His lips were insistent against your skin, his touch setting you alight. You remember how the soft glow of the desk lamp had caught in his eyes, making them appear even more mesmerizing.
As he was holding your ass up steady and pounding into you, in a pace and fervor you never experienced before, you hear his communicator ring vibrating. You instinctively attempt to pull away, assuming he would answer the call, but he holds you tighter, his lips never leaving your skin.
His free hand pulls up a holographic screen,which flickered to life above the desk, revealing a slightly pixelated image of Jess. You panic for a moment, worried that she might see you in this intimate moment with Miguel, but he just shook his head slightly, reassuring you that she can't. He must have filtered the video feed on his end.
“Yes, Jess?” Miguel’s voice was steady, but his breath ghosted your neck in short spurts. He continued with his action, his thrusts a little slower but deep, nevertheless. You clamp your teeth down onto Miguel's shoulder in a desperate attempt to stifle the moans escaping your throat, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. You can barely contain yourself. Miguel's soft, amused chuckle vibrate through you as he wraps his arms around you protectively. Asshole.
“We’ve got an anomaly on Earth-4067, seems like a temporal rift,” Jess's voice came through the hologram.
“Have you tried the Q-particle stabilizer?” Miguel asks, his voice so casual it's almost disarming. His eyes meet yours, a playful glint in them.
“Yeah, but it didn’t work. The rift is actually growing,” Jess responds, the worry in her voice increasing. “What do you think we should do?”
“Alright, I want you to reconfigure the dimensional frequency to match the rift. Then patch the satellite feed through the Alchemax algorithm, reverse the temporal frequency by 4.7 hertz and use the resonance pulse to stabilize the rift,” Miguel articulates with authority as he continues to pick up his pace. You’re close to the edge, with the euphoria threatening to make you cry out. The sheer pleasure is now tinged with a faint edge of pain, and a wave of panic crashes over you. The thought of Jess possibly hearing you is nerve-wracking, and you’re now fighting to suppress your screams.
Your breathing becomes erratic as you whisper in a hoarse, needy voice, “Miguel, ‘m close."
"I know, mami. Come for me," he whispers back, his voice filled with a playful mischief that seems to defy the gravity of the situation. His hot breath against your ear sends shivers down your spine and the wave of pleasure crushes down on you.
“Miguel, are you sure about this? I mean, if something goes wrong…” Jess hesitates.
“I’m sure, Jess.” Thrust. “Do.” Another hard thrust. “it.” Miguel’s voice turns forceful.
“Okay, I trust you. But... are you alright? You sound kinda breathless,” Jess's suspicion returns.
“Oh, just...uh...running some diagnostics. It’s a bit stuffy in here,” Miguel replies with a smirk on his face, his fingers now gently brushing against your bare heated skin.
The rooftop is silent again, and you're still rubbing your belly, where the life you and Miguel created is growing. A bittersweet tear rolls down your cheek as you wish, not for the first time, that things could have been different.
You don’t know how long you are sitting there, taking in the city scene. But it was getting dark, when a familiar figure swings onto the rooftop. It's Gwen, carrying a small package in her hand. “Gwen? What brings you to Nea Yorkey?”
She walks up to you with a soft smile, "Do I need a reason to visit my favourite Spider-Ma? I've got something for you."
You raise an eyebrow as she hands you the package. As you unwrap it, you find a tiny Spider-Man hat, similar to the one Mayday usually wears. And to your surprise, there’s a tiny anarchy pin, attached to it.
"From the group," she says softly. She adds, pointing at the pin, "This bit here, that’s from Hobie." Of course it is.
You’re moved to tears as you hug the hat close. It's a simple gift, yet it means so much. You feel a lump in your throat, and Gwen steps forward, wrapping you in a warm, comforting hug.
"I...I miss all of you so much," you manage to whisper, your voice choked with emotion.
"We miss you too," Gwen replies, her voice equally soft.
You pull back, wiping your eyes. Gwen tries to lighten the mood, "So, any guesses on the gender? I bet it’s a boy."
You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips, "I don't care what it's going to be. I just want them to be healthy."
Gwen grins, "Just remember, if it is a boy and he turns out to be a handful, you owe me a soda."
You both sit on the edge of the rooftop in a comfortable silence, legs swinging over the city, the conversation turns more serious.
"So," you venture, "how are things back at the Spider Society?"
Gwen’s expression turns contemplative. "It's been... strange since you left," she admits.
"Strange how?" you prod.
"Well, you know how Miguel was always a little on the, uh, grumpy side?" she says, making a grimace.
"You mean being a brooding fortress of doom and gloom?" you quip, and Gwen chuckles.
"Yeah, that. Well, he's gotten worse since you left. Like, way worse," Gwen's face turns somber as she continues. "He’s even more closed off than before. His temper’s shorter, he barely communicates, and he's been pushing everyone away. Miguel’s basically got everyone on lockdown. No unauthorized visits between universes. There’s this... I don’t know... this cloud hanging over him, you know?”
Your heart tightens as you take in her words. You had no idea that your departure had such an impact on him, or anyone for that matter.
“He doesn’t talk about it, but I think he misses you,” Gwen adds, looking directly into your eyes.
You are torn. Part of you wants to be angry at Miguel for how things went down, but another part aches for him.
Gwen nudges you. "Maybe he needs his sunshine back," she says with a gentle smile.
You sit in silence for a moment, the weight of Gwen’s words sinking in. “Don’t be silly. I was never his sunshine.”
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4 months later…
Beneath the pale glow of hospital lights, pain and joy mingle in the delivery room. The grip you have on the sheets gets tighter as you push to usher your baby into the world. Your hair is sticking to your forehead, your breath comes in heaving gasps, exhaustion painting dark circles under your eyes.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, a portal flickers to life outside your window, and Gwen, Peter B., and Hobie emerge.
“Make way! The party has arrived!” Peter B. exclaims loudly.
“I don’t believe in parties.” Hobie says as he struts in, clad in his Spider suit with a leather jacket over it, pins and patches proudly displayed.
Gwen knocks at your door. The midwife, busy with you in the labor, answers.
“Uh, who are you?” the midwife asks, slightly agitated.
“We’re friends of hers,” Peter gestures towards you, “is it a good time?”
You hear their voices, but you cant muster up a response all you can do is scream and push.
“Blimey, I didn’t think it’d be like somethin’ outta Alien! You alright there, love?” Hobie’s eyes go wide, as he enters the room.
You can't help but laugh through the pain, "Oh, just peachy, thanks for asking."
Gwen steps forward, immediately grabbing your hand, her voice soothing, “Hey, you’re doing great. Is there anything we can do?”
“You could get Hobie out of here,” you jest, rolling your eyes, but your smile betrays your appreciation. Another loud scream follows.
“You got this, luv!” Hobie shouts. “Just imagine the bloody contractions as guitar riffs! You’re about to release the raddest album in history!”
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the cries of your newborn baby.
“Congratulations, it's a boy!” the nurse announces, handing the baby to to you.
You can’t help but laugh. Gwen steps closer to the bed and takes a peek at the baby. Her eyes light up. “Told you, it’s a boy. He’s absolutely beautiful,” she whispers.
Hobie chimes in. “Alright, let’s get a proper look at the little bloke!” He leans in, and his face softens. "Oh, look at 'im!" Hobie exclaims in his thick British accent, peering at him. "Little blighter's a spitting image of 'is mum, ain't he?” No. You see it then, the dark eyes with a hint of red glow echo the intensity of his father's gaze, the dark chocolate hair and the sun kissed complexion. He looked undeniably just like Miguel. You cant help yourself but fall immediately in love with your and Miguel’s little boy.
As they prepare to leave, Gwen, Peter B., and Hobie each take turns holding Gabriel and whispering well-wishes to him. 
“I can’t thank you guys enough for being here,” you say, wiping away a tear.
Peter’s mask is off and he’s beaming. "We couldn't miss this for the multiverse!"
Gwen follows suit, "Yeah! Plus, Hobie wouldn't let us hear the end of it if we didn’t."
“We’re family,” Peter says firmly. “Across universes and timelines. We’re always here for each other.”
With that, the trio put on their masks and with another whoosh, they're gone.
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1 year later...
One year has passed like a whirlwind. You've established a balance in your life. By day, you are a doting mother, and your world revolves around a little ball of energy named Gabriel. His laugh is the music that fuels your day, and his tiny hands holding yours make everything seem alright.
At night, though, you become someone else. Clad in a white suit adorned with golden sun patterns, you swing through the skyscrapers of Nea Yorkey as the Sun Spider. Your heart swells with pride, knowing that you’re keeping the streets and your little boy safe.
Your neighbor, Melissa, sometimes babysits Gabriel. She is a cheerful, quirky 19-year-old neighbor who dreams of becoming an Instagram influencer. You trust her (her career choice not so much) and, most importantly, Gabriel adores her.
Up until today, you believed that he hadn't inherited any powers. However, today was the first time he climbed up a wall and spun a web, without the aid of a web-slinger. It was the first time you witnessed him display such powers, and naturally, you were impressed. However, you also realized that being a mom would now involve dealing with a whole new set of challenges and responsibilities, making everyday life more exhausting than before. But you are up for the challenge;
Meanwhile, in the Spider Society’s HQ in Nueva York, Lyla’s holographic screen blinks red as she detects an anomaly in Earth 586 - your universe. She reports it to Miguel, who is still his grumpy self, seemingly even more irritable with each day passing.
“There’s a presence in Earth 586 that does not belong,” Lyla reports in her emotionless tone.
Miguel, sitting at his desk, sighs deeply. “Assemble the team. Pavitr, Lego Spider-Man, and... let’s bring in the newbie, Miles.”
Minutes later, the trio is briefed about the anomaly – a two-year-old child. They are to extract the child and bring it back.
Back in your universe, you're facing off against a notorious villain – The Shocker, who is on a rampage downtown. His high-frequency shock waves shake the very foundations of the buildings around you.
“Not tonight, Shocker,” you quip as you dodge a blast. “I’ve got a bedtime story to read!”
You're agile and sharp, but you can’t wait to get back home to Gabriel.
In your apartment, Melissa is on the couch, engrossed in her phone. She doesn't notice Pavitr slyly slipping into Gabriel's room. He can’t help but feel conflicted, seeing the innocent child asleep.
“This is the target?” Pavitr speaks in a hushed tone into his communicator. His voice is laced with doubt.
“Yes, proceed,” responds Miguel firmly.
Pavitr gently picks up Gabriel, cradling him in his arms. “Sorry, little guy,” he whispers and slips out.
Outside, they gather near the portal. Miles, who is visibly excited to be on his first mission, can sense the tension among the group.
“That was… too easy,” Pavitr murmurs, still holding the sleeping child.
Through the swirling portal, they make their way back to Nueva York.
Meanwhile, you web up The Shocker and leave him hanging for the police.
Back in the Spider Society's HQ in Nueva York, the team stands in a specialized containment room with the toddler still peacefully sleeping nestled in a makeshift bed of spider-web, completely oblivious to the attention he's attracting. One by one, members of the Spider Society trickle into the room, drawn by curiosity and concern.
Miles, who is new to the Spider Society, looks at the child with confusion. "I don't get it, what's so dangerous about a kid?" he asks.
Pavitr looks conflicted, “We have to determine where he came from and why he is considered an anomaly.”
Lego Spider-Man remains silent, trying to analyze the situation. He finally speaks up. "We should be cautious. Just because it's a child doesn't mean it's not potentially hazardous to the multiverse."
Miguel enters the room, his face cold and emotionless. He glances at the sleeping child, then at his team. “It doesn’t matter what it is. Anomalies threaten the balance of the multiverse. Every anomaly has to be returned to its home universe. That’s the rule.” he says sternly.
"But he's not an anomaly, boss," Jess adds, gazing fondly at the child. "He's a little boy."
Miguel’s gaze is unwavering, ignoring Jess. “Lyla? Whats the status?” 
Lyla's holographic form flickers into the room. "This entity possesses unknown powers," she declares, her voice ringing out with clinical detachment. "And according to my scans, it doesn't belong to any known universe. Therefore, it cannot be returned. It must be... eliminated."
Miles' eyes widen. “Wait, you mean…?” he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
Pavitr steps forward, his fists clenched. “We can’t just... There must be another way.”
Back in your universe, you swing closer to your apartment, but your spider-sense starts are tingling with a ferocity you’ve never experienced before. Your heart races, and you quicken your pace. Bursting through the window, you find Melissa still sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
"Where is he? Where’s Gabriel?!" you shout, panic straining your voice.
Melissa's eyes go wide as she looks up from her phone. "What? He's in his room, sleeping," she says, but her voice falters when she sees the terror on your face.
You rush into Gabriel's room and find the crib empty. Your knees buckle, and a guttural scream escapes your lips. The room spins as you run back to the living room, grabbing Melissa by the shoulders.
"Did anyone come in? Did you see anything?!" you practically scream at her.
“I... I didn’t see anyone. I swear!” Melissa's voice shakes.
Your heart feels like it's tearing apart. You look around the room, desperate for any clue. You need to find your son, and something deep within you tells you that the Spider Society is where you need to go. You have to find a way to travel through the multiverse without a gizmo and the time is ticking. You have to find your son.
Back in the HQ in the midst of the tension-filled room, Gwen stands up, "Miguel, you can't be serious," she pleads, disbelief resonating in her voice. "We can't just... kill a baby.”
Miguel's eyes narrow. "Sometimes tough decisions have to be made for the greater good.”
Just then, little Gabriel wakes up. His big eyes wander curiously around the room, and he starts to make happy babbling sounds. Unfazed by his surroundings, he looks at each of the Spider-People with fascination.
As Peter B. is about to reach down to pick Gabriel up, the toddler crawls quickly over to Miguel. His little face lights up with the purest of smiles and he reaches his tiny arms towards Miguel as if trying to give him a hug.
The room seems to collectively hold its breath. Even Miguel seems taken aback.
Pavitr can't help it, “He seems to have taken a liking to you, boss.”
Gwen smiles, her eyes watering up. “See? Even this innocent soul can sense there’s still good in you.”
Tiny fingers grip at the fabric of Miguel's suit, baby Gabriel coos and giggles as he clambers up the towering figure. Planting tiny baby kisses on any part of Miguel he can reach, the toddler's joyous laughter rings in the silent room. "Vete, Vete." Miguel mutters. And despite Miguel's cold exterior, Gabriel is unphased, drawn to him as though an invisible bond exists between them.
Miguel looks frustrated and uncomfortable with the baby's affection. He awkwardly picks Gabriel up at arm’s length. But the little one is relentless, trying to cuddle into Miguel’s chest.
Annoyed, Miguel places Gabriel into a containment field made of energy beams, to keep him in place. The baby, though restrained, is still reaching out to Miguel with his tiny hands, cooing.
The room goes quiet again, and Gwen speaks, her voice soft.
“Look at him, Miguel. Please. You can’t tell me that this doesn’t affect you in any way.”
Miguel's face is tense, his jaw clenched. His eyes dart between Gwen and Gabriel. All eyes are directed towards Miguel. The room feels like it’s waiting for something to shatter.
“We do what needs to be done, no exceptions.”
Part III "Web of Shadow and Light"
a/n: Honestly, I can't begin to express how much your support and kind messages mean to me. I literally started crying when I saw how much love this story received. It means the world to me. Truly, thank you. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and if someone could give me a heads-up on whether the tag list functioned properly, that would be great. Also, apologies for any inconsistencies or logical errors regarding the multiverse or canon theory. I watched the movie but I'm not 100% sure of that's how it works.
Once again, I really do appreciate each and everyone of you. Please, don’t forget to take good care of yourselves and stay hydrated! ILYSM
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sweetbbarnes · 11 months
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Can't hurt me
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part II [coming soon]
Pairing: Neighbor!BuckyBarnes x Fem!Reader
Summary: You're the one that takes care of Bucky after missions, only this time he asks for a different kind of relief.
Warnings: descriptions of blood and injuries; Bucky being needy and begging; a tiiiiny bit of angst because Bucky doesn't really care about his wellbeing; SMUT, +18 ONLY, MINORS DNI; smut while injured; shower makeout; oral (m and f receiving); cum eating; handjob; fingering; a lot of feelings here; pls let me know if I forgot something
A/N: I'm really sorry about the shitty ending, it took me three days to think about it and I couldn't come up with anything so it is what it is, but I promise I'll make up for it in part two.
If you like this fic, please let me know :)
When the Winter Soldier himself, or the man formerly known as him, moved to the apartment across from yours, you were the only person in the whole building who didn’t ignore his presence. Of course, you and Bucky Barnes weren't best friends. During the first month of his moving in you would merely exchange polite greetings when you crossed paths in the hallway, but at least you didn’t immediately flinch and/or look away as soon as you saw him. Sometimes he even attempted some compliments, as he was still trying to rediscover the charming soldier he once was, but that was it.
At least until the day you came home to discover your supersoldier neighbor sitting in front of his door, drenched in blood and barely clinging to life.
As you approached your apartment door, your heart skipped a beat at the sight that unfolded before you. There, in front of his own door, sat Bucky, his figure hunched over, covered in a chilling crimson. Panic surged through your veins as you rushed to his side, dropping to your knees beside him.
"Hello? Hey, Bucky!" You snapped your fingers in front of his face, desperate to rouse him from his dazed state. But all you received was a feeble murmur in response. Panic washed over you. "Oh shit, you're... Oh, gosh. Fuck."
Frantically, you rummaged through your bag, searching for your phone to call an ambulance. Your trembling fingers made the task of finding it more difficult, but after a moment of frantic searching, you finally located the device. Your hands shook as you dialed the emergency number, your voice trembling with urgency.
"I'm calling an ambulance right now," you reassured Bucky, your voice laced with concern. "We'll get you to the hospital, and everything will be alright. Just hold on."
But you were about to hit the call button, you felt a firm grip on your wrist, cold vibranium fingers encircling you. Startled, you looked at Bucky, confusion etched on your face.
"No hospital," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
"Barnes, sir? Sergeant-" Unsure of what to call him in this moment, you cleared your throat, trying to find the right words. "You're... you're seriously injured. You need medical help. It's okay, they can-"
"I'm not dying," he interrupted, mustering a firmer tone. "No hospital."
You hesitated, torn between your instinct to seek professional medical assistance and Bucky's adamant refusal. With concern etched on your face, you watched as he took the phone from your hand and gently placed it back into your bag.
"So what do we do then?" you asked, a mix of worry and confusion in your voice. "Have you seen yourself? You're covered in blood-"
"The serum will help," he managed to say, his voice strained. "Just... just let me rest."
You vaguely remembered reading about the super soldier serum and how it enhances healing abilities. While unsure of the extent to which it applied in this situation, you decided to trust him, realizing that he probably knows more of his own condition than you do.
"Alright then," you relented, your voice still filled with concern. "But let's at least get you inside. We'll find a way to make you comfortable. Can you try to get up? I'll help you."
With a mix of determination and concern, you carefully offered Bucky your hand, guiding the barely alive man to your couch.
The next day, Bucky woke up feeling a lot better, and you were glad. After you made him coffee, Bucky addressed the blood-stained couch situation and as much as you assured him you could clean it, he didn’t leave your apartment until you agreed to let him take you to a store so he could buy you a new one. “It’s the least I can do, doll,” he said, and you chuckled at the unusual pet name. With the new couch in the living room, you pestered Bucky until he agreed to inaugurate the furniture with you. So on a Wednesday night, he brought some snacks and you two watched The Hobbit, then proceeded to stay up until early-hours talking because Bucky, as the huge nerd he is, had to point out every single difference he recalled from the book - which he proudly announced he’d read in 1937, when it first came out. You didn’t complain, though, it was kinda nice to see this side of the man you only knew through the news and people’s opinions.
Next you knew, you two were inseparable. You quickly learned that Bucky needs a routine, so Wednesday’s nights became movie nights, and Sunday afternoons became dedicated to reading sessions together, then Tuesday mornings were designated as "breakfast with Bucky" time. Soon, there wasn't a single day when Bucky didn't show up in your living room. Your apartment became his second home. You became his second home - though you didn’t know that.
But of course, Bucky’s life wasn’t simple like that, and as much as he cherished your friendship, there are some things that he can’t control. Oftentimes, Bucky would come home in the same state he was on that first day, and although the sight started to become strangely familiar, it never ceased to break your heart. That’s why every time he showed up battered and bruised, you’d take him in and patch him up. You both know you don’t have to, and Bucky tried to convince you countless times that he just needed to rest, that the serum would do all the work, but you didn’t listen. You clean his wounds and stitch him up because that’s the only way you found to tell him that you care, and Bucky willingly lets you do it because he knows it eases the concern you feel about his dangerous lifestyle. So you’re the one Bucky seeks right after week-long missions or brutal battles, if not to help patch him up then just to let you know that he’s okay.
Tonight is one of those nights. When he knocked on your door at 3 am, the disheartening sight of Bucky, once again drenched in blood, almost made you collapse to your knees and plead for him to stay out of fights, to do something else, to stay in your living room and never leave again. But war is all Bucky knows, and as much as you recognize the unfortunate reality of the situation, you don't want to take away one of the few things that gives him a sense of familiarity in this modern world, so you swallowed the overwhelming urge, like you do every time, and helped him get to your bathroom.
The chamomilla scented steam invades your nostrils as you use the soap to gently wash all the blood away. You feel Bucky’s muscles slowly relaxing under the warm cascade of water, and he lets some relieved sounds escape through his lips. If someone had told you months ago that you would eventually find yourself in this very situation, you would have scoffed in disbelief, yet here you are now. You’re not really sure what you did to earn Bucky's trust to such an extent that he feels comfortable being so vulnerable with you, and the thought brings a dangerous warmth to your chest.
These showers are always innocent. You help Bucky clean the blood, leaving the intimate parts for him to clean, and then you take care of his wounds. It’s tender and respectful. But Bucky is not exactly the ugliest man you’ve seen and, well, you’re only human. Sometimes, it gets hard to ignore those not-so-innocent thoughts your brain insists on having. It makes you feel disgusted with yourself - the man is dripping blood on your bathroom floor and there you are, thinking all those nasty things, wanting to touch him in a way you’re not even sure he wants to be touched by you.
Little do you know, Bucky struggles just as much as you do in managing his own thoughts and feelings. Sometimes, he has to stop you from rubbing your hands too much around his torso, because he’s scared he’s not gonna be able to control himself if you keep going. It’s torture, but at the same time he can’t bring himself to stop coming here every time he gets injured. He could stop. He could stay away for a few more days after missions, just enough time for the serum to do its magic and he doesn’t have to go through this, but he can’t. Because everytime he gets injured, he finds himself looking forward to your touch. He barely cares about the pain anymore, because he knows he’ll get to feel your silky skin against his, even if it’s just for brief moments. So usually, he comes back and lets you do your thing while he makes a hell of an effort not to stare at your peaked nipples through your wet shirt - Bucky doesn’t know if he should be upset or glad that you don’t take your clothes off, because seeing you naked would probable make the task impossible, but it’s not like he doesn’t want to - and holds himself back from returning each and every touch you give him, in a very specific, very not-innocent way. 
Usually. But today is different.
Today, Bucky was reminded that his wounds go way beyond the ones on his skin. Today the soldier needs another kind of care, one that’s a little bit more effective for his pain than bandages and stitches. And, honestly, he’s a bit tired of holding himself back. That’s why, without warning, he wraps his arms around your waist, bringing you a little bit closer so he can rest his head on the top of your shoulder. You don’t move for some time, which makes him doubt his action, but soon he hears your gentle voice.
“We’re almost finished, and then you can rest.” You say, placing your hands and his back to hug him, but not applying pressure on the bruises.
“I need you.” He says, his mouth on your neck sending vibrations through the area and making a shudder travel down your body. “Need you to take care of me.”
“I am taking care of you, Buck.” You manage to say, fighting the urge to glue your body on his. He’s in pain, you have to remind yourself.
But he tilts his head back, cupping your face with his flesh hand so you don’t take your eyes off of him. “Not like this,” he whispers.
For a moment, you simply stay there, suspended in time, lost in the intensity of the moment. His proximity sends a shiver down your spine as you hear Bucky's heartbeat racing, and you're acutely aware of the weight of his gaze on your face. You can see the pain etched in his features, but there's something else there too, something that makes your heart skip a beat. It's a raw, unfiltered emotion that you can't quite put into words, but it's there, simmering just beneath the surface.
The more you look into his eyes, the more you understand. The person in front of you is a broken man, momentarily defeated by the demons that come to haunt him ever so often, and his eyes are begging you to make those demons go away. He’s asking you to give him the only thing that could possibly make him forget this pain that is so much worse than the bloody cuts, to fill his senses with the only sensation stronger than the fear that's been luring behind his eyes ever since he stepped foot in your apartment tonight.
You gently place a hand on his cheek. His body tenses at your touch, and for a moment, you think he might pull away. But then he relaxes, leaning into your hand as if you’re the only thing that can offer him solace right now.
"I don't want to make it worse," you whisper softly, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
"You can't," he whispers back. "Many things... and many people may hurt me, but not you. Never you."
Bucky's words hit you like a ton of bricks, the weight of his complete - almost blind - trust is overwhelming. He had been through so much, faced so many torture and pain, yet here he is, willing to give you all that’s left of his trust.
“Please,” is the only thing he whispers, but it’s enough. Slowly, you raise another hand to his face and bring your lips to his. The kiss is tender, carrying an air of uncertainty, as if exploring uncharted territory. It holds the unmistakable essence of something new and unfamiliar, yet it overflows with raw and intense emotion.
“We still have to finish cleaning you up.” You say, breaking the kiss, and Bucky attaches his mouth to your neck, giving you permission to continue doing your thing.
Bucky gives you small kisses as you continue to cleanse his torso with soap, trying to avoid applying pressure on his still open bruises. You focus on each area with care, gently wiping away any dirt or blood while checking to ensure that he is comfortable throughout the process. As you rub the soap all over his body, Bucky starts caressing your hips, slowly going up and exploring your body like he always wanted to do. He can feel your stomach trembling with his touches and kisses, and it almost makes him go feral.
“Do you like this shirt?” He whispers in your ear.
“Why-” but before you can even think about your question, impatient as always, Bucky tears your old shirt in half, ending the outrageous fabric that was separating him from his greatest desire. You don’t care, though, because Bucky’s clear desperation only turns you on more.
“I’ll buy you another one.” He mumbles, but you’re not sure he’s paying attention to his words.
Continuing your work, you pay special attention to the intricate details of his vibranium arm, taking your time to meticulously clean between the plates from his fingers all the way up to his shoulder - careful not to miss a single spot like you’ve seen him doing multiple times - while Bucky distributes lingered kisses along your jaw down to your neck, until your right nipple is inside his mouth, and you have to hold back a gasp of surprise - but, of course, Bucky’s not having that.
“Wanna hear your noises.” He whispers and lightly passes his teeth through your nipple, getting you to moan out loud this time.
Satisfied, Bucky licks his way back up until your mouth, biting your bottom lip almost too hard and then kissing you passionately soon after. His tongue invades your mouth as he swallows every single one of your breaths. Reluctantly, you break the kiss. You finish the vibranium and go back to the flesh, working on the scarred skin on his shoulder, gently rubbing the soap, then brushing your fingers, and then your lips. The blood is almost entirely gone, leaving behind only the ugly outline of his wounds, which you start kissing lightly, earning a guttural moan out of Bucky’s throat.
Slowly, you slide your soaped hand through his body until you reach his rock hard length, carefully circling your fingers around him. One pump is enough to make Bucky moan loudly.
“Fuck, doll-” but you shush him with a kiss, invading his mouth with your tongue as you pump his dick. Bucky grips your hips like his life depends on it to hold himself back from bending you over and fucking you senseless. No, he wants to enjoy the moment. He wants to learn what you like and let you take care of him how you want.
You continue kissing his cheeks, then his neck until you reach skin around his bruises and then lick the water drops down his torso until you’re on your knees in front of him, staring at his huge length in all its glory while he leans his back against the wall to remain standing.
“Well, I’m glad at least one part of your body was left untouched.” You joke, looking up at him with a playful smile.
Bucky can’t help but chuckle at that, and you notice it’s his first genuine laugh since he arrived home. Good. “Gotta protect what’s yours.”
“Mine?” You ask, just wanting to hear him say that again.
“All yours.” He smirks, completely aware of your intentions.
Before the conversation can go any further, you slide the tip of your tongue through a prominent vein along his cock, and Bucky’s words are lost in his breath. You circle your lips around his pink tip, sucking a little, and the noises he makes are like music to your years.  You proceed to slowly slide your entire tongue through his length one, two, three times, taking your sweet time while Bucky drops his head back and rolls his eyes. He raises his flesh hand to the back of your head and despite the context, his movements on your hair are gentle, like he’s somehow trying to thank you for everything, though he’s too busy moaning to say the words. You see that as an encouragement and take him deep inside your mouth, making up and down movements with your head and sucking as hard as you can while you massage his balls with your fingers. Involuntarily, he starts jerking his hips up into your throat.
“Babe, fuck-” he tries, but gets lost in the feeling when you fasten your movements.
It’s too much. The warmth, the feeling, the softness. Everything is too much, and Bucky is coming inside your mouth before he even realizes it.
“Oh, fuck- Shit, I’m sorry-” Bucky starts apologizing, but he immediately stops, watching in awe as you take a drop of cum that slipped off your mouth with your thumb and sucks it back into your mouth, swallowing everything he gave you.
Bucky helps you get up and kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. You’re a little surprised when he presses two vibranium fingers in your clit, starting tiny circles. Despite the electric jolt that it sends through your spine, you hold his wrist.
“Bucky, you don’t have to,” you whisper.
“You don’t like it?” He asks against your lips.
“No, I do. It’s just-”
“Then let me make you feel good.”
You moan loudly when he inserts his two fingers inside your aching cunt, the sensation better than anything you could have ever imagined.
“So wet, baby. Is it all for me? Did you like sucking my dick that much?”
You try to say “yes”, but it sounds more like a whimper since Bucky had just found your special spot. Realizing it, he rubs his fingertips over and over again against the spongy area, and your legs start to shake. But as you’re about to warn him that you’re close, he stops.
“Not yet,” he whispers before you can complain, “wanna taste you.”
And that’s how you end up in your bed, lying naked in soaked sheets with Bucky’s face between your thighs, almost screaming as he moves his vibranium fingers in and out while sucking and licking your bundle of nerves. Soon, you feel that familiar heat in your lower belly.
“Bucky, I’m gonna-” you’re interrupted by a moan escaping through your throat.
He only hums in response, sending vibrations through your whole body and bringing you closer and closer to the edge.
Your eyes roll back as the pleasure gets to its peak, and you feel like you’re floating while Bucky happily cleans you up, the sensation of his warm tongue touching every single part of your pussy, inside and out, riding you through your orgasm.
When you come back down from your high, Bucky’s hovering over you, a mixture of lust and gratitude taking his features. He gives you a long chaste kiss.
“Told you, you couldn’t hurt me.”
You smile at his words. “Will you let me stitch you up now?”
“What if we just…” he covers you both with your blanket and hugs you tight, “forget about the stitches?”
“Buck…”
“You know I don’t need ‘em, doll.”
“But-”
He interrupts you with a kiss. Then another. Then one more. “Just today.”
You sigh, defeated, but snuggle up inside his arms.
Bucky gives you a long kiss on the forehead, whispering a very low “thank you” before you both fall asleep.
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comradekatara · 7 days
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Your atla analysis is the best so I wanted to ask your opinion on something I've found the fandom fairly divided on - what did you think of Azula's ending within the show proper? Unnecessarily cruel or a necessary tragedy? Would you say that her mental breakdown was too conveniently brought about in order to 'nerf' her for the final agni kai? Also, do you think it was 'right' for Zuko to have fought with his sister at all or would it have been better for him to seek a more humane way to end the cycle of violence?
okay so im saying this as someone who loves azula to death like she has always been one of my absolute favorite characters ever since i was a kid and i’ve always vastly preferred her to zuko and found her to be extremely compelling and eminently sympathetic. i am saying this now before the azula stans come for me. i believe in their beliefs. but i also think her downfall is perfectly executed, and putting aside all the bullshit with the comics and whatever else, it’s a really powerful conclusion to her arc. obviously that isn’t to say that she wouldn’t continue to grow and develop in a postcanon scenario (i have a whole recovery arc for her mapped out in my head, like i do believe in her Healing Journey) but from a narrative perspective, her telos is in fact very thematically satisfying.
no, she wasn’t nerfed so that they could beat her in a fight. the fact that she falls apart is what makes them feel that they can confidently take her on (although i do think in a fair fight katara could win anyway), but the whole point is that it’s not about winning or losing in combat. the whole point is that zuko and azula being pitted against each other in this gratuitous ritual of violence as the culmination of their arcs is fundamentally tragic. yes it’s a bad decision to fight her, and zuko should have chosen another path, but the whole point is that he’s flawed and can only subscribe to the logic he has spent his whole life internalizing through violence and abuse.
that’s why aang’s fight against ozai, while tragic in its own way, is also a triumph for the way in which his ideals prevail in the face of genocide, while zuko and azula’s fight is very patently tragic. there is no moment of victory or triumph. even as zuko sacrifices himself in a beautiful mirroring of “the crossroads of destiny” and as katara uses the element of her people combined with techniques across other cultures to use azula’s hubris and ideology of domination against her, it’s presented as moments of personal growth occurring within a very tragic yet inevitable situation. it was inevitable because azula had always been positioned as an extension of her father, and thus to disempower ozai also means disempowering azula, his favorite site of projection, his favorite weapon.
yeah, it does rub me the wrong way when zuko asks katara whether she’d like to help him “put azula in her place.” it’s not a kind way to talk about your abused younger sister. but it’s also important to understand that zuko doesn’t really recognize his sister’s pain, despite the fact that they obviously share a father, because he’s always assumed that she was untouchable as their perfect golden child and thus never a victim. and he’s wrong. zuko and katara expect a battle of triumph and glory, noble heroes fighting valiantly so that good may prevail over evil. but as they discover here, even more so than their previous discovery two episodes prior, a battle is not a legendary event filled with bombast and beauty until after it has been historicized. often a war is simply fought between pathetic, desperate people who see no other option but to fight.
aang’s ultimate refusal to fight despite having all the power in the world is what makes him so important as the protagonist. but katara and zuko both share a more simplistic view of morality and what it means to be good. and zuko assumes that by fighting azula, he can only be punching up, because she has always been positioned as his superior, and she (in her own words!) is a “monster.” and then azula loses, and his entire worldview shatters. joking about putting her in her place makes way for the realization that behind all her posturing and lying (to herself more than anyone) and performance and cognitive dissonance, azula has always been broken, perhaps even more than he is.
azula says “im sorry it has to end this way, brother,” to which zuko replies “no you’re not.” but i think azula is truly sorry, because in her ideal world, she wouldn’t be fighting zuko. she doesn’t actually want to kill him, as much as she claims to. she’s already reached the conclusion that zuko will only truly reach once their fight is over. she lacks a support system, and she needs one, desperately. if she could somehow get her family back, do everything differently, less afraid of the consequences, she would. she’s smirking, she sounds almost facetious, but really, she is sorry. as of this moment, she really doesn’t want it to end this way. but zuko cannot accept that, because in his mind, azula is evil. azula has no soul nor feeling. azula always lies.
her breakdown doesn’t come out of nowhere, either. it’s precipitated by everyone she has ever cared about betraying her. first zuko betrays her, then mai, then ty lee, and then ozai — the person she has staked her entire identity to and to whom she has pledged her undying loyalty and obedience, become nothing more than a vessel for his whims — discards her because she had the audacity to care about someone other than him. what i don’t think zuko realizes, and perhaps will never realize, is that azula betrayed ozai by bringing zuko back home. he was not supposed to be brought back with honor and with glory. azula specifically orchestrated the fight in the catacombs to motivate him to join her, and it’s not because she’s some cruel sadistic monster who wanted to separate a poor innocent soft uwu bean from his loving uncle, it’s because she genuinely believes that she’s doing what’s best for him. she believes that their uncle is a traitor and a bad influence, and she believes that bringing zuko home with his honor “restored” is an act of love. to her it is.
yes, she claims that she was actually just manipulating him so that she wouldn’t have to take the fall if the avatar was actually alive, but also, she’s clearly just covering her own ass. she didn’t know about the spirit water, and only started improvising when zuko started showing hesitation. but even if she was only using zuko, then that was an insane risk to take, because either way she was lying directly to ozai’s face. and zuko admits it to ozai while simultaneously committing treason, so of course ozai would blame azula, his perfect golden child who tried to violate his decree by bringing zuko back home a prisoner at best and dead at worst, and instead found a way to restore his princehood with glory.
we only see ozai dismissing and discarding azula in the finale, but it’s clearly a tension that’s been bubbling since the day of black sun. and we know this because we do see azula falling apart before the finale. in “the boiling rock” she is betrayed by her only friends. in “the southern raiders” we see that this has taken a toll on her, that she is already somewhat unhinged. she and zuko tie in a one on one fight for the first time. and she takes down her hair as she uses her hairpin to secure herself against the edge of a cliff. unlike zuko, who is helped by his friends and allies, who has a support system. it’s a very precarious position; she’s literally on a cliff’s edge, alone, her hair down signifying her unraveling mental state. azula having her hair down signals to us an audience that she is in a position of vulnerability. she is able to mask this terrifying moment wherein she nearly plummets to her death with a triumphant smirk, but it should be evident to us all that her security is fragile here.
and the thing is, even though she’s always masked it with a smirk and perfect poise, her security has always been fragile. azula has never been safe. azula’s breakdown is simply the culmination of her realization that no matter how hard she tries, she will never be ozai’s perfect weapon, because she is a human being. she is a child, no less. and there is no one in her entire life who loves her for nothing. zuko has iroh, who affirms to him that he could never be angry with zuko, that all he wants is simply what is best for zuko. but azula doesn’t have unconditional support in her life. she doesn’t even have support.
everyone she ever thought she could trust has betrayed her, and so she yells that trust is for fools. because she feels like a fool. of course fear is the only way; it’s what kept her in line all these years. azula is someone who is ruled by fear, and who is broken by the recognition that fear isn’t enough. her downfall is necessarily tragic because her worldview is wrong. the imperialist logic of terror as a tool for domination is her own undoing, just as ozai’s undoing is losing the weapon he has staked his national identity to. it’s a battle of ideals. aang v ozai: pacifism v imperialism. katara and zuko v azula: love and support v fear and isolation.
zuko is unfair to azula, it’s true. he tries to fight her even as he can clearly recognize that “she’s slipping.” instead of trying to help his little sister, he uses that weakness to his advantage, tries to exploit her pain so that he can finally, for the first time ever, beat her in a fight. it’s cruel, but it’s also how siblings act. especially considering the conditions under which they were raised, and how zuko has always viewed her. and in zuko’s defense, she has tried to kill him multiple times lately, both in “the boiling rock” and in “the southern raiders.” zuko is someone who gets fixated on a goal and blocks out everything else, including recognition of his surroundings or empathy for others. so of course when he’s promised to put azula in her place he’s going to exploit her weaknesses to do so. after all, isn’t exploiting his weaknesses exactly what azula does best? so he allows himself to stoop to her level, and in fact only redeems himself through his sacrifice for katara. but it is when azula is chained to the grate and zuko and katara, leaning on each other, look down and observe the sheer extent on her pain, that zuko realizes that “putting azula in her place” isn’t actually a victory. it feels really, really bad, actually.
they’re in a similar position as they were when they faced yon rha. and now it is zuko’s turn to understand that he is not a storybook hero triumphing over evil, but rather a human being, facing another human being, in a conflict that is larger than themselves. to “put someone in their place” is to imply a logic of domination, of inherent superiority, that someone has stepped out of line and must be reordered neatly into the hierarchy. but aang disputes the notion, ozai’s notion, that humanity can be classified along these lines, that there exists an ontological superiority among some and not others. so operation: putting azula in her place was always going to be flawed, even if she was performing competency the way she always does, because they’re nonetheless subscribing to her logic.
of course they should be helping azula, of course they should be reaching out to abuse victims through support instead of more violence. but first they must recognize her victimhood. first they must come to understand that they didn’t get lucky, and they didn’t dominate her because they are more “powerful,” that they weren’t “putting her in her place.” they must understand that they are not heroes fighting villains in a glorious trial by combat. that the logic of the agni kai is flawed. that they are all victims. that they are all just scared, hurt children who are still grieving their mothers.
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sometimesanalice · 1 year
Text
What’s In a Name?
Summary: Bradley really loves the way you say his name. At the grocery store. At the bar. In his bed.
Warnings: fuff, and so much smut. Minors DNI
Length: 9K
Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X Female Reader
(This is a one-shot for my ‘Like I Can’ series. You don’t need to read it first, but you might want to. It’s pretty cute! You can check it out here!)
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Bradley loved hearing you say his name. 
He’d gone almost two years without hearing it. Back when he was ‘Rooster’ or ‘Bradshaw’ to you. Back when you weren’t sure how you would fit into the life he had built in San Diego when you had moved there for a promotion. Now he made it a priority to show you just how seamlessly your lives fit together, to remind you just how right you were for each other.
There were times when he still couldn’t believe that he was able to have you so entirely. You went from being just his closest childhood friend to being his everything. And now that he had you there was nothing he liked more than the sound of his name coming from your lips. 
He loved hearing it every chance he could. 
He’d never come so hard has he had the first time he’d heard you chanting his name over and over again as he’d fucked you in his bed. Your hair had been a riot on his pillow, your lips swollen from the attention he’d given them with his own. He’d just barely gotten you over the edge before he’d followed, so overwhelmed by your sweet voice so needy and breathy in his ear.
BradleyBradleyBradley
He had even changed his contact information in your phone from ‘Rooster’ to ‘Bradley’ one lazy Sunday afternoon when you had been dozing on his chest, adding a little sparkly heart next to it for good measure. In general, he wasn’t much of an emoji user, but he thought you might find it cute when you discovered it. He was very pleased with himself months later when he realized you’d never changed it back, pink sparkly heart and all.
He loved hearing you say his name at the grocery store. 
He had gone off to find his favorite brand of protein powder, the store had recently rearranged their health food section and he could never remember where it was stocked. He didn’t want to drag you around on the scavenger hunt, especially when he knew you’d rather be doing anything else than grocery shopping.
Once he had it, he’d tried a few different aisles before finding you standing near the baking things and spices, he would have recognized your curves in those jeans anywhere.
You were chatting away with an elderly woman like you were a pair of old friends. It didn’t surprise him, since you’d always been the type that strangers had gravitated towards, your warm energy apparent to who crossed paths with you.
Walking up to you, he put the powder in the cart with the items you had accumulated while he had been wandering the same three aisles over and over again before he found what he was looking for near the bottom shelf.
“Bradley!” you greeted turning towards him beaming, your smile pure sunshine, before cheerily spinning back to the older woman, “See, I knew he’d find us eventually.”
“And he’s just as handsome as you said,” your new friend replied, giving him the once over.
“Yes, he is. Very handsome and very tall,” you told her with a teasing lilt in your tone, glancing back over your shoulder to send him a wink.
He’d happily be objectified by anyone you wanted, including elderly women wearing fuzzy purple sweaters, just as long as it meant you were bragging about him to them. That they knew he was yours, and you were his.
“How can me and my six-foot-two-inch self be of assistance to you ladies?” he asked, putting on his most winning smile. It couldn’t be said that he wouldn’t commit to a bit when the opportunity was presented.
“Can you reach Ruth a couple of those containers of Hungarian paprika, please?” you asked him while pointing to the red and green tins on the top shelf.
He was glad you had waited for him. They were so pushed back that there’s no way you would have been able to reach them on your own without climbing on the bottom shelf for a boost. 
Safety first and all that, but also, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see the way your shirt would have ridden up your back. The dimples at the base of your spine were for his eyes only.
“Of course, I am at your service,” he pressed a quick kiss to your temple before stepping around the cart to grab the spice for the older woman. 
“Oh, and then maybe one for us too, Bradley. I’ve never tried making Hungarian Goulash before. You’ve made it sound so good, that now I think I have to.”
“If you want to make it, mine is the number one reviewed recipe for the dish on AllRecipes,” Ruth boasted, there was no hiding the pride in her voice. 
He hands Ruth the tins he had grabbed, and passes the other one to you to add to the collection in the shopping cart. 
“But what I left out is that I always use this specific brand of paprika, and that I make mine with half pork and half beef. I save that tidbit for friends and family, I couldn’t just give all of my secrets away to the internet people.” 
That had you laughing, “So sneaky, I love it! Thank you for sharing your secrets with us. Sounds like we know what we’re having for dinner tonight.” 
You were already opening pulling the recipe up on your phone for later. 
“I’m looking forward to it, especially since we know the tricks of the trade now.”
His eyes catch on the overflowing hand basket resting near the older woman’s worn Birkenstock mules. It looked heavy, almost like she didn’t originally plan on getting as many things as she ended up with.
“Can I carry that for you? Or if you have more shopping to do, I would be happy to go and get a cart for you,” he asks, gesturing to her overloaded basket.
“Oh no, those were the last things on my list,” Ruth replies, waving off his offer, “My youngest daughter is having her 50th birthday and the whole family is having a get together. I thought doubling my recipe would be fine, but I decided last minute to triple it.” 
She bends down to reach for it, but he beats her to it. His mom raised him right.
“No, ma’am, I insist.” He’s pretty sure he catches you checking out his ass when he stands back up, “I’ll be right back, sweet girl. Stay out of trouble.” 
He holds out his other arm for Ruth to take so he can escort her to the front of the store to pay.
“I don’t find trouble, it always seems to find me,” you joked.
“I believe that,” chimes Ruth.
He turns back to get a look at you, and sees you bringing your hand up to your forehead to mimic a full swoon.
He just smiles and shakes his head at you and your antics. Such a brat.
He helps Ruth at the check-out unloading the basket onto the conveyer belt, and then carries her packed grocery bags to her car getting them settled in her trunk. 
Once they’ve parted ways, he heads back inside to find you.
You’re standing in front of the cooler with all the dips and fresh salsas, your head cocked to the side as you deliberate your choices.
What he also notices as he makes his way to you is that you’ve caught the attention of another man, one who should be paying more attention to his bagged lettuce instead of eyeing his girlfriend. 
Sneaking up behind you, he wraps his arms around your middle lifting you up off the ground.
“Bradley! Oh my god, seriously?” He can’t help but laugh at how startled you are, he’s pretty sure if you were wearing pearls you’d be clutching them right now. 
“Here I thought you were a gentleman, helping sweet Ruth with her groceries. It’s rude to sneak up on innocent and unsuspecting women,” you protest trying to twist out of his arms once he has set you back down.
“Ah, don’t be like that,” he settles his hands on your hips pulling you back to his chest, letting his fingers slide through your belt loops, before lowering his voice, “Unsuspecting, maybe. But innocent? There wasn’t anything innocent the blowjob you gave me in the Bronco outside the Hard Deck last night.”
He knows the shiver that goes through your body isn’t from the cold case you are both standing in front of.
Looking over to his left, he sees the man who was checking you out putting down the bag of spinach in his hands. And he is hit with a feeling of smug satisfaction watching as the guy quickly wheels his empty cart out of the section completely.
“No getting handsy by the hummus, Bradley,” you tut, still set on giving him the cold shoulder, but the way you lean back against him gives you away, “Should we get that lemon beet kind again?” 
“Whatever you want, kid,” he murmured against your neck. “Plus, the word on the street is that you think I’m handsome, so that’s got to count for something.”
When you pull away from him this time, he lets you go. Getting a glimpse of the skin above the top of your jeans as you reach up to grab the square container of hummus.
You set it in the cart looking back at him as you toss your hair over your shoulder, before primly stating, “Oh, and Bradley, if you’re going to quote me I do believe I said you were very handsome.” 
And with that final word, you push off with the cart meandering to towards the fruit section, the sensual sway of your hips he knows is just for him.
He especially loved the way your voice sounded when you’d just woken up, when his name was one of the first words out of your mouth to start a new day.
There was nothing Bradley liked better than the nights you spent together in the same bed. It didn’t matter if it was his place or yours, just as long as he was able to wake up to find you warm and tucked away under his arm. 
“G’morning Bradley,” you’d whisper, voice soft and sleepy, a little raspy from disuse, as you turned to nestle closer burrowing your face in his neck.  He knew you liked a gentle wake up, and he was more than happy to trail his fingers along your back until you woke up a bit more. 
He was always up before you, his internal alarm clock permanently altered from his time in the Navy. For as much as you claimed to be a morning person, you were always the one snoozing yours in favor for spending a few more minutes in bed. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected to learn about you, and he liked being the one who got to share those intimately domestic moments with you.
The only surefire way to get you out of bed and moving on those mornings was the suggestion of hot coffee-- that or the promise of his mouth. 
He loved the way you said his name when you were surprised. 
When he’d gone to that furniture store you liked, his only plans were to find a new larger dresser for his bedroom. He had claimed he needed more space for his stuff, but really, he wanted there to be more room for you to keep your things at his place.
The home stylist at the store not only helped him pick out a new dresser he thought you’d approve of, but also convinced him to also purchase the matching king-sized canopy bed frame and set of nightstands. 
He was told the mood was “cozy mid-century chic”, whatever that meant.
Bradley knows he runs hot, you’ve told him enough times that he’s like a furnace. So when the stylist showed him the cloudlike and breathable comforter along with the 800-thread count white cotton sheets, he had them add that to his collection too.
You still wouldn’t move in with him, but he was working on it. He knew he’d reel you in soon enough. And if it took a payment plan, so be it. 
Although, he could only blame himself for the new lamps and giant rug he also purchased. He’d gotten a little swept up in the salesperson’s enthusiasm. 
Hopefully that guy got commission, he deserved every dollar. 
It had hurt a bit when he swiped his credit card, but it was worth it to hear the way you said his name when you saw it all for the first time after it had been delivered and assembled.
“Oh my god, Bradley!” you laughed, “I thought you said you were just getting a new dresser. Did you buy the whole store?” 
“What can I say? The salesperson was very good at his job, sweet girl,” he was trying to not let his leg bounce as he waited for you to say more. A little nervous now that he’d gone overboard and missed the mark, “Do you like it?”
“It’s absolutely perfect, Bradley,” you gushed as you slowly made your way around the room taking it all in. “It’s warm, it’s classic, it’s cozy. It feels like you. You’re going to have a hard time getting me to leave now, I love it in here.”
That was all he wanted.
He felt all the tension leave his body, grinning as he watched you sit down on the bed running your hand over the soft deep green duvet. It had become his favorite color the second he’d seen you in that green dress the night at the seaside restaurant when he’d told you how he felt about you.
“So, do you want to help me break it in?” he asked, pushing off from where he had been leaning against the doorframe and sauntered towards you. 
The way you slowly reclined back on the bed, your lips turned up in a mischievous smile was an answer in itself. 
He loved the sound of you saying his name at the Hard Deck.
Your voice was so familiar to him that he could pick it out anywhere. He was so attuned to the way you said his name that he could be in a conversation with someone in the noisy bar, but his ears would perk up if you said his name in a passing comment. 
It was like he was hearing his friends talk with one ear, while the other was always listening for you.
He could be with Mav catching up and chatting about the new plane he was working on, until:
“Yeah, I could use another one, let me see if Bradley needs one really quick and then I’ll go up with you.”
And then he would find himself standing next to you at the bar. 
He could be playing around of nine-ball with Hangman, until:
“No, you’re kidding me! There’s no way you caught Coyote doing that, has Bradley heard this one before? Oh my god, you have to tell him.”
And then he would find himself abandoning his cue on the pool table. 
“What the fuck, Bradshaw? You can’t just quit because I’m kicking your ass,” Jake would shout at him as he made his way towards you.
After all, you’d said his name and now he was curious.
He could be at the jukebox trying to find something better to put on than whatever terrible song Fanboy had picked, until:
“Oh! Bradley knows how to play that one, let’s see if we can bribe him to go perform it. I doubt we’ll have to try very hard, he’s such a little show off.”
And then he would find himself seated at the piano.
To everyone else he was ‘Rooster’, ‘Bradshaw’, ‘Lieutenant’, and soon to be ‘Lieutenant Commander’. 
To you he was Bradley. 
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Seeing Bradley seated at the piano was a normal sight for you.
Since being permanently stationed in San Diego, he’d had all of the things from his storage locker shipped over, including his Dad’s old upright. He liked to play in the evening to decompress after his day and you liked to watch.
There was something about the way his large fingers moved over the keys so gracefully that was always so mesmerizing to you.
You still remembered how embarrassed he would get all those times when your moms would beg him to put on an impromptu piano recital. Usually fueled by a couple too many glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, you realized later on. 
Your mom and Carole had definitely been the “Wine Moms” at the baseball and tennis games they’d sat through in support of you and Bradley.
He would get a little sulky in the way that all self-conscious teens got, but he could never hold out for very long before pulling out the wooden piano bench. Bradley wasn’t one to purposefully disappoint his mom, their relationship special in the way that only a single parent and an only child could understand.
Once he realized it was a good way to get noticed by the girls in high school, he’d been quick to change his tune. And now it was clear he reveled the attention it got him when he sat down and started tapping out a carefree riff before launching into a song, all preening posturing and smug smiles.
You were usually right next to Bradley when he put on a show, an arm wrapped around his shoulder, always one to want a front row seat to see him in action.
Tonight the bar was a bit more packed than usual. It took a little longer to move around, and a little longer for Penny to make your drink since you had opted for something slightly more complicated than a beer.
Slowly, but surely, you wove your way through the crowd. Careful to avoid any stray elbows to avoid jostling your full drink as you made your way back to your friends where they were gathered around the ancient upright. You were nearly there when a burly man stepped around you, giving you a clear view of Bradley playing. 
And you were stopped short by the picture in front of you.
The performance he was currently putting on at the Hard Deck was different than anything he did at his own home. His leg bouncing in tempo as he shimmied perched on the piano bench, like it’s a struggle for him to be contained to one spot.
He was captivating in the way that he commanded the room. 
Maybe it was the way the way the muscles of his forearms were flexing as his fingers were precisely flying over the discolored keys.
Maybe it was the way the light sheen of sweat was collecting in the hollow of his collarbone.
Or maybe it was the way the veins were standing out against his neck, the way the thick tendon that ran along his throat had you transfixed as he threw his head back to sing at the top of his lungs. 
His sunglasses were sliding down his nose as his head bobbed between glancing down at his hands and scanning the room. He smiled when his eyes found yours over the top of his aviators. Your hand tightened around the glass in your hand, the condensation dripping down your wrist as you stood there and watched. 
You weren’t sure if it was your imagination or the tequila you’d been sipping on all night, but it seemed like he was working the keys of the piano a little harder, a little faster as he held your gaze. 
And then his tongue was slipping out. Just a bit, and just for you.
Thankfully no one could hear the way your breath hitched in your throat over the sound of everyone in the bar singing along. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on. 
The intensity of Bradley’s heated gaze, the way his body was moving, the way you wanted to crawl in his lap and lick the taut line of his neck and taste the salt of his skin right there in front of everyone.
You probably looked as desperate as you were feeling, because his easygoing smile turned more knowing every second your eyes stayed locked.  
“I’ll be right back,” you said to no one in particular as you abandoned your spicy margarita on the nearest surface to make your escape.
You felt like you were about to vibrate out of your skin.
It was easier to slipping away to the bathroom than had been trying to reach Bradley in front of the stage, needing a moment to yourself out of his heady orbit.
Locking the door behind you, you lean against the worn wood that was littered with stickers that had been collected and brought back from around the world. You try breathing in and out a few times, the way you’ve learned to do at your expensive yoga classes, in an attempt to slow down the rapid pounding in your chest. Actively trying to not think about the way he looked at you.
There was no question in your mind that you suffered from an incurable Bradley kink. Now that you could let yourself revel in all sorts of unfriendly thoughts about him, everything he did was a turn on for you.
You had a sneaking suspicion that he might have one too. His eyes always a got a bit more heated, and his hands would grip you a little tighter when you said it. 
You knew that if you were to slip your fingers past the waistband of the dainty lace underwear you had just bought that you would find yourself wet. 
And for a moment, you’re tempted to do just that. To let your fingers skim up your thigh, along the scalloped edge of the panties you’d bought specifically with Bradley in mind, to think of him as you slide your fingers inside of yourself. 
You’re feeling so high-strung that you know it wouldn’t take long to come. It wouldn’t be the first time you would have used the bathroom at the Hard Deck to get off.
Your hand is halfway under your sundress, when you hear the chanting:
Roo-ster! Roo-ster! Roo-ster!
In your mind’s eye, you can picture him standing behind the piano doing his version of a touchdown dance. 
You’ve teased him about it before, calling him a “slutty little songbird”, which he didn’t deny. He thrives off the attention, and you can’t say you mind watching him do that sexy little shimmy he is so fond of. 
You also don’t mind helping him find other ways to work off the post-performance high.
Knowing that he will probably be looking for you now that he’s done, you smooth down the skirt of your dress with shaky hands and make your way to the sink.
Standing in front of the dingy mirror, you can see just how much a wreck your appearance actually is. Your cheeks look warm, your lips are slightly swollen from Penny’s special spicy margarita mix, and your eyes have that certain wild gleam in them that only Bradley brings out in you.
You turn the cold tap on, and stick your wrists under the running water. Hoping the cool water on your pulse points will help ease the heat that is spreading under your skin.
While the chanting has stopped now, you can still hear the lively sounds of the packed bar. Figuring it’s alright to leave the safe confines of the tiny bathroom, you turn off the water and dry your hands, determined to not let anyone see just how riled up you were.
You’re barely five steps outside of the bathroom, when a strong arm wraps around your waist.
“Hey, kid.”
And just like that your heart is racing out of control again. His woodsy smell paired with the faint hit of sweat has your brain going fuzzy. 
“You doin’ ok?” he rasps against the shell of your ear. He has you pulled against his warm, broad chest and you can feel the echoes of his question reverberate throughout your whole body.
You pull out of his grasp to turn and face him, taking a small step backwards towards the wall.
“Uh-huh, yeah. Everything is fine,” you ramble, nodding your head as you try to avoid looking in his honey brown eyes.
“You sure about that?” he asks taking a step towards you, which has you retreating another one back. “Thought I should check on you since you disappeared there for a bit.”
“Just you know,” you trail off briefly glancing at him and gesturing pathetically towards the bathroom like that explains your clearly unusual behavior. 
“Mm-hmm, sure,” he allows, his head tilting to the side as he observes you. 
You know the exact moment when he realizes what’s going on by the way his cheek twitches as he tries to control the wolfish smile he is fighting back. And you’re suddenly feeling very much like his prey when he presses forward again. This time when you step back you feel the wall against your back as he crowds into your space.
“We should probably go back,” you stutter out when he cages you in with one hand above your head.
“Maybe,” he muses, tracing his thumb along your lower lip, “You sure you don’t want to tell me what’s got you so ruffled?”
The way he is looking at you, the way he feels against you, it’s all too much.
“Bradley.” 
You don’t know what you were trying to sound like when you said his name, but there’s no missing the neediness in your voice.
“Yeah, I thought so,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. He takes your hand in his, guiding you to his zipper, letting you feel him through his jeans. “You got me all worked up too, sweet girl.” 
The sound you make is lands somewhere between a wheeze and a whimper.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before he has you leading the way up to the bar, using your body to hide his hard on as he pays. Not even bothering to wave goodbye to your group of friends as he hustles you to the Bronco. 
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He definitely broke the speed limit and a couple minor traffic laws on the drive back trying to get you home to his place.
You had looked so flushed when he had been pounding away at the keys of the upright at the Hard Deck, and you had dashed away abandoning your freshly made drink. He might have sped up the tempo to wrap it up faster so that he could check on you, worried for a moment that you might have caught a bug or food poisoning or something. 
That was until he caught you outside of the bathroom, and saw just how flustered you’d been and he knew.
It took everything in him not to push you back into the tiny bathroom and have his way with you right then and there. He was hit with an image bending you over the sink, and showing you just how good you looked coming around his cock.
However, a hot and dirty quickie at the Hard Deck wouldn’t have been enough for him.
He knew exactly how he wanted you: flustered, flushed, and thoroughly fucked.
So yeah, he floored the gas pedal needing to feel your body under his as soon as possible.  And it didn’t hurt that it probably cleared out some of the engine build up in the Bronco along the way either. 
He pressed you against the door the second you’d gotten inside, letting you rock your hips against his thigh as he sucked along the curve of your collarbone. Your hands coming up to tug at the curls at the top of his head.
“U-upstairs,” you gasp when he grazes his teeth along the swell of your breast.
You didn’t need to tell him twice. 
He lifts you up, and your legs wrap around him immediately. It had taken all of his will power not to slip his hands up your frilly dress at the Hard Deck. He loved any chance to he got to get his hands on your ass.
He almost misses the first step going up the stairs when you drag your hot mouth along his neck.
“Wait, wait,” you pant in his ear, “Put me down.” 
“It’s fine, I got you,” he promises as he tightens his grip on you.
You pull away and shake your head at him, “I don’t want either of us to end up in the Emergency Room for a sex related accident. Could you imagine? Jake would never let us live it down, and Nat would be worse.”
“It’d be worth it though,” he winks at you.
“You say that now, until you’re stuck in a neck brace unable to fly or have sex,” you admonish jokingly, stroking the side of his throat with the scars he earned from that night at Jason Cameron’s homecoming party.
“Yeah, but you could still ride me. The way I see it, it’s a win-win either way,” he chuckles at the exasperated way you roll your eyes.
“You’re handsome, but I don’t think even you could pull off the color of those hospital gowns,” you quip with a quick peck to his lips, “Now, hands off the goods.”
Giving your ass one more squeeze, he lets you slide down his body. He may not have his hands on you anymore, but it doesn’t stop him from admiring your figure as you bound up the stairs in front of him. 
He stops short at the threshold of his bedroom at the sight of you pulling your dress over your head. Of all your soft skin on display for him.
There were times he still couldn’t believe he got to have you like this.
How did he think it could have ever just been a friendship with you?
He liked how comfortable you were in this space with him, liked how perfectly your things fit in with his. 
He liked knowing that one of the pillows on the bed smelled like you.
He liked knowing that if he went in the bathroom he would find your expensive shampoo and conditioner in there next to his. 
He liked knowing that if he opened the drawer on one of the nightstands that he would find your lip balm, your lavender lotion, a vibrator from your place that had found a home here, and a notebook and pen in case you needed to remember to do something because you didn’t like having your phone in bed.
What he currently liked most about his bedroom was the way your dress was decorating the floor, and the way you were kneeling on his bed like a vision.
You were wearing a matching pale pink lace set he’d never seen before. Your skin was peeking through the floral embroidery of the sheer mesh in an all too enticing way.
You were his sweet girl.
“Come here,” you beckon, inching closer to the edge of the wooden canopy bed. 
He’s not one to deny you, he’d willingly go wherever you wanted. He saunters in towards you slowly, putting on a bit of a show for you as he comes to stand before you.
“I like this, it’s pretty,” he hums as he runs his knuckles slowly over the edge of the embroidered cups, enjoying the way you lean further into him. 
Cupping your jaw, he pulls you forward for a lingering kiss. Being this close to you, the smell of your musky floral perfume is intensifying thumping of his pulse. 
Your hands slide under his Hawaiian print shirt, helping to ease it off his body and then tossing it somewhere near your dress. You ruck the tank he has underneath up his chest and he reaches down to pull it over his head as your hands run over the ridges of his abs.
His body has been humming for yours since the bar. The hurried encounter at the door barely managed to take any of the edge off, and he was still just as starved for you as he had been when he saw you holding that drink looking at him like he was something to be devoured. 
His left hand moves from where it’s been settled on the flare of your hip and up your back to the clasp of your pretty bra.
He’s been letting you take the lead, but you’re not nearly naked enough for him. 
“Hands to yourself,” you mutter as you work to get his belt undone, “I’m trying to get you naked you here.”
Part of him wants to take his time with you, to take you apart slowly and see what new sounds he can uncover. The other part of him wants to have you holding onto that rich espresso colored headboard while he shows you just how much he appreciates you wearing this little set just for him.
“You like my hands,” he murmurs against your neck. He is quick to unhook the clasp of your bra with one hand, easing it down your arms and flinging it behind him.
Yet another offering to his bedroom floor. 
And then he is trailing his fingers down your soft stomach, dipping them under the band of your matching panties. 
He groans when he discovers you’re already wet for him. He finds your clit, and teases you there making gentle figure-eights with his finger, “Got yourself so worked up you couldn’t even stick around for the end of the damn song, huh?”
You’re quick to abandon your crusade against his favorite pair of jeans, leaving him unbuckled and half unzipped, as you circle your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you.
“God, your fingers feel so much better than mine,” you sigh against his mouth as he licks his lips before bringing them back to yours.
Your full lips soften under his demanding ones, the sensual slide of your lips against his has him desperate for more.
He slips his tongue in your mouth taking advantage of your gasp as his circles against you turn from teasing to purposeful. The kiss turning messy with need. With want. 
“I know another part of my body that you like just as much,” he murmurs, as he palms your ass.
Your hand starts moving down his chest, down his stomach. 
“Nuh-uh,” he tsks, catching your tricky hand before it has a chance to reach his cock, bringing it back up to rest on his shoulder. 
“I want to touch you,” you whisper against the spot below his ear that you know drives him wild. 
“I’m getting you off right now,” he says firmly as he speeds up his motions against your clit.
It doesn’t take long before he has you panting against his mouth, your hips rocking against his fingers. 
“That’s it,” he coaxes, “Let me give you what you want.” 
He knows from the sweet whimpers you’re making that you’re close, he breaks away from your kiss to hold your half-lidded gaze as you come for him.
He will never get tired of watching you fall apart. 
He will never get tired of seeing you satisfied and spread across his bed. 
Giving you a moment to catch your breath, he shucks off his jeans and his briefs, releasing a small groan as his cock springs free. He’s been hard for you since he cornered you by the bathroom at the bar. Sending you a lazy-half smile at the way your eyes take him in standing there above you as he slowly pumps himself. 
He knows he looks good, it’s literally his job to keep his body in peak condition. 
But you make him feel good.
No one knows him better than you, makes him laugh harder than you, makes him feel as important as you do. Your appreciative gaze of his body is just another bonus to the many ways you make him feel good about himself.
He climbs on the bed, settling between the cradle of your open thighs.
“You gonna tell me what got you so keyed up, sweet girl?” he asks in-between scattering kisses across your cheeks.
“That’s classified,” you retort breathlessly as you wrap your legs around him. 
“Is it now?” he grinned, kissing along the delicate line of your jaw. He’ll let you keep your secret for now, he had other more pressing questions he wanted answers to, “Did you touch yourself when you ran off to the bathroom?” 
“No,” you whine, as he pulls your nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue.
“Did you think about it? Think about me?” 
He wanted to know. He needed to know that he drove you just as crazy as you did him. 
“Yes,” you gasped out in confession when he moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention, “I’m always thinking about you.”
Good.
“Already know how you feel about my fingers,” he rasps as he kisses down your stomach, making sure to place one on the little tattoo near your hipbone. “Should I let you have my mouth too, sweet girl?”
“Yes,” you breathe working your hands into the curls at the top of his head, “Please.”
“Yeah, I think so too,” he agrees mouthing at the last little bit of lace still on your body.
He pulls off your pretty pink panties and throws them somewhere behind him, probably landing on that overpriced dresser he bought for you.
He loved that he was the one who got to see you like this. Your hair was a mess from his hands, you pupils were blown wide, and your flushed chest rising and falling with rapid shallow breaths.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says reverently before licking a firm stripe parting you open.
It’s not long before his mouth is meticulously working between your thighs, his tongue gliding over your clit, one of your legs thrown over his shoulder. 
He’s sliding his finger into you and then another, making room in your body, determined to pull a second orgasm from you.
You’re so wet for him, so soft for him, so sweet for him.
He knows what you like. He’s studied your body just as thoroughly he did the aircraft manuals he was given, if not more so.
“More,” you moan, your hips rolling from the stimulation, “I need more.”
Pulling away from you with one more broad lick of his tongue, he leans his head against the thigh that’s thrown over his shoulder, watching your face as he pushes another finger into you. The way you’re pressing your heel into the muscles of his back has him fighting the urge to grind himself into the bed. 
“You look so good like this,” he praises, taking in the way you writhe against the three fingers he has buried deep in you, as he squeezes you hip with his other hand.
He’s seen a lot of unforgettable sights from the cockpit of his plane, but nothing will ever compete with the way you look as you chase your release. Your eyes fighting to say open as you watch him watching you.
“Oh my god,” you exhale when he hits that spot inside of you, your leg starting to tremble with the need, “Please, I’m so close.” 
Using his fingers and mouth in tandem, he works you with same pressure, the same pace. He feels you clenching around his fingers a few moments later, your back arching in pleasure as you fly apart for him. 
Teasing his lips and mustache along the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh, as you come down from your high, before kissing his way back up your body. Your greedy hands reaching out for him, pulling him to your mouth. He feeds you his tongue, letting you taste yourself on him.
The way you’re whimpering beneath him is making him feel out of control.
“I want you inside me.”
Wrapping his large hand around his cock, he drags it through your folds few times before he finally lines himself up at your center. 
And then he’s finally pushing into you, savoring the way you cling to him as he gives you a moment to adjust to his size.
“Rooster,” you say with a sigh against his lips. 
He starts to move when your hips start to shift seeking more friction. And then he’s rocking into you with the smooth, deep strokes that never fail to make your toes curl. Once, twice, three times.
“What’d you say?” he asks, as he slows the pace down. 
Your hands are in his hair, and you tug on the strands when he pulls away to look at you. Your lips are swollen, but he knows that look in your eye.  He can already can guess what you’re going to respond with before your lips have even formed the word.
“R-ooster.” 
The word comes out a stutter, as he roughly thrusts into you again. 
He doesn’t know why he’s bothered asking, he should have known that you were going to make him work for the one thing he wants to hear.
“Say my name.”
He was so gone for you, he wants you riled up and feeling the same way as him. He wants his neighbors to hear you saying his name. Wants them to know that he’s the one making you feel so good.
“Lieutenant,” you taunt, not bother trying to hide the self-satisfied on your face.
If he wasn’t going to get what he wanted then neither were you. 
He pulls out of you completely, flipping you over on the forest green duvet. His hand coming down on your ass, a quick sharp slap.
The sting of it has you gasping into your forearms pillowed underneath your head, and your cunt fluttering around nothing.
Leaning forward, he kisses down the length of your spine admiring the way the goosebumps pebble on your skin now.
“Say my name,” he coaxes again.
He tugs your hips up and licks deeply into you once before pulling away. Watching smugly on his knees at the way your hips tilt up after him, your legs spreading further apart as you offer more of yourself to him.
“Bradshaw,” you counter.
Closer, but still not what he wants to hear. 
His open hand connects on the other side of your perfect ass, earning him a sweet moan from you.
Grasping his cock to slide it through your wetness, he stops just short of where he knows you want to feel it the most. 
He wants you dazed. He wants you desperate for him.
You’ve always been the type to take a mile when you’re given an inch. And he intends to only let you have exactly eight inches tonight.
“You want this cock?” he rasps.
He knows he’s got you where he wants you when you don’t reply with another bratty remark, only desperately nodding ‘yes’ into the mattress.
“Look at me,” he demands. 
You’re slow to lift your head up to look back at him, your eyes are a little glazed over as you take him in. You look as wrecked as he feels. He can only imagine what he looks like through your eyes. He can feel the sweat collecting at his temples, can feel the flush that’s working its way down his neck to his chest.
“You know what I wanna hear, kid.”
That makes you whine. 
“Oh, you wanna be my sweet girl now, huh?” he asks, squeezing your hips.
He wants to taste that lower lip, the one that’s pouting prettily at him as you nod for him again. Even now as you writhe against him you’re still trying to get your own way, still trying to get him to break first.
“Well, you know what to do,” he feels like barely hanging on now, “Say. My. Name.” 
He punctuates each word with the rock of his hips, his cock just grazing your clit. Enough to keep you on edge, but not enough to give you the stimulation that you want.
“Bradley!” you cry out.
He’s inside of you before you’ve even gotten the second syllable out. 
Groaning your name, he throws his head back at the sensation of finally being surrounded by you again.
“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he tries to ask teasingly, but it comes out more a rumble than anything else. “My sweet girl.”
Your pussy squeezes him harder at the praise as you roll your hips up more to better accept his body in yours. He loved the view he had, loved seeing how wet you were for him, loved seeing just how well he filled you, loved seeing you stretched around him.
He leaned forward a bit, brushing back your hair off your face to see you better. The change in angle making you gasp as you fisted the material beneath you.
“Say it again,” he prompts, smoothing a hand down your back, “I wanna hear you say it again.”
His name. 
The only thing he wanted running through your mind. 
His name. 
The only thing he wants coming from your mouth, other than the sweet whimpers and moans he is pulling from you. 
“Bradley,” you indulge, his name sounding something between a plead and a purr.
Without disrupting the pace he’s set, he nudges your knees further apart. Wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up against his chest, needing to be closer to you. 
“Go on, let them hear who is making you feel this good,” he grunts roughly in your ear.
“Brad-ley,” the staccato of his name punctuated by his steady thrusts against you. Your hand digging into his hip.
Interlocking his fingers with yours, he lifts your arm to hook it around the back of his neck, holding you to him there. Turning your head, you greedily mouth at the column of his throat, frenzied and wet.
You were it for him, there was no question about it. And he would happily prove to you in all the ways he could think of that he was it for you too. There’s nothing he wants more than to make you feel good. To please you. To give you the best you’ve ever had. 
His other hand slides up from where he had been squeezing your waist to get his hand on your breast. He loves how perfectly you fit in his hand.
He meets you for a kiss, sloppy and perfect, messy and deep. 
He can’t control the sounds of satisfaction escaping him as you move together, feeding off of your sighs and moans. Your hands are grabbing onto whatever part of him is in reach: his hair, his thigh, his arm. 
Enjoying the drag of his cock as he moves in you, he lets himself get lost in the sensation of being connected with you like this. The room filled with the sounds of labored breathing, of your bodies coming together, of you saying his name over and over again.
You’re starting to tremble in his arms, he’s pretty sure your legs would have given out by now if it were for the way he was holding you against him. Your nails biting into the back of his neck, as he slowly drags a hand down your body to where you’re connected.
“I love this,” you murmur into the base of this throat. 
He doesn’t know if you realized you said it out loud, doesn’t know if you meant to say it out loud, but he loves hearing it all the same.
“God, you feel so good,” he can feel the sensation building at the base of his spine, “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”
The way his circles his fingers against your clit has you gasping into his waiting mouth. 
“Bradley, please.” 
He’d give you anything. He’d give you everything.
“C’mon then,” he insisted hoarsely, pressing his forehead against the side of your temple, “Say it for me one more time, sweet girl.” 
He speeds up his fingers, set on ending you. Working your body with the precision that he handles his sixty-five million dollar aircraft. Determined to give you what you’re so sweetly asking for.
And it’s his name you gasp as you come undone.
Your is head thrown back against his shoulder as you spasm around his cock, your hips rolling as you are lost to the pleasure of your orgasm. He kisses your neck and lightens the pressure of his fingers on your clit, wanting to extend it out for you as much as possible, enjoying the tiny pulsing aftershocks he is drawing from you. 
It’s only when he feels you go boneless that he starts to lose his own composure. His breathing going completely ragged and hips snapping erratically against you as he chases his own climax.
A few more powerful strokes later he follows you coming hard with a groan, burying his face in your neck as he spills in you.
Somehow, he manages to get you both sprawled out horizontal on the bed without him completely crushing you.
“Holy shit,” he curses flinging an arm over his eyes, his other reaching out to touch whatever part of you he can find. There’s nothing but the sound of the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch his breath.
Time gets away from him as he runs his hand up and down your back. It could have been a few minutes or an hour when he feels the bed move, and you slipping out of his grasp as you get up to use the bathroom. 
“No, stay,” he attempts to pull you back to him, feeling the need to have you close again as he tries to settle back into his body. You’re seemingly recovering much quicker than he is at the moment.
“I won’t even be gone two minutes, you can time me.” He can hear the soft affection in your voice. 
“Don’t think I won’t,” he grouses halfheartedly lifting up the arm with his watch on. He manages to raise his head up in time to get a glimpse of your naked figure as you close the door behind you.
True to your word, you are back one minute and forty-seven seconds later. He opens his arms to you as you climb back on his bed and drape yourself half over him.
Much better.
He feels you shift yourself up a few moments later to press a kiss to the scar on his shoulder. 
“I just want to try something,” you murmur before making your way along the bend of his collarbone. 
Up the side of his neck.
He feels his pulse start to kick up again as you work your way up the line of his jaw. He tilts his head away to give you more access to his skin there, basking in the feel of your lips on his body.
“Bradley,” you whisper lightly against the shell of his ear.
The guttural groan that rips through him surprises him. He feels his cock twitch against his thigh, a visceral reaction to you.
And then you’re giggling.
“I knew it,” you get out between fits of laughter, “You’ve got a name kink.”
Your face pure joy at your discovery. He’ll happily let you tease him for the rest of his life as long as you keep looking at him like that.
“Nah, I got a you kink,” he says as he hauls you on top of him.
“I’m already planning on letting you have your way with me again tonight, Bradley,” you proudly declare, propping yourself up on his chest, smiling down at him. “You don’t have to try so hard, I’m a sure thing.” 
If he wasn’t already gone for you, the cheeky wink you sent him would have sealed the deal.
He feels himself already starting to get hard again, one of the perks of being a part of the 1%.
“Sweet girl, you’re gonna be the end of me,” he chuckles, running his hands up your back, “And I remember someone once telling me that they give as good as they get, so I won’t be dialing it in anytime soon.”
And then he is pulling you down for a kiss.
Later that night when you’re riding him so good, you get him chanting your name. 
Over, and over, and over again. 
A couple hours later, he watches you slip away into slumber, satisfied and spent beneath the fluffy comforter on the bed.  
His bed. Your bed. Their bed.
It was just as much yours as it was his, regardless of whether you were officially living together yet or not. He bought it for you, after all.
Even on the occasional nights you spent apart, you were still everywhere. 
He liked the plants you had picked to fill out the empty spaces in the room. He liked that the right side of the bed was your side of the bed. That those were your books on the nightstand, the bookmarks peeking out waiting for you to pick up where you left off. 
There was a trinket tray for your jewelry on top of the dresser right next to the to the leather watch display box that you had gotten him for his birthday. And the drawers of that well-made, but overpriced wooden dresser were filling up with more and more of your things, just like he had hoped for when he got it.
He smiled to himself as he gently stroked your hair. The last time he was at your place, he had accidentally seen the letter from your apartment’s leasing office confirming your decision to not renew your rental agreement and your move out date. He hadn’t told you he knew, he’d rather hear it from you anyways. 
You would always be worth the wait.
The packages that were delivered to the door?
His, for now, until you moved in a couple months from now.
The name signed on the lease for the condo? 
His, for now, until you were ready to ink yours down on a deed for a new home with him. 
The little velvet box tucked away in the back corner of his nightstand? 
His, for now, but always meant to be yours.
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You can thank @mak-32 and her photo set of Rooster at the piano for this fic!
Also, many many thanks to @gretagerwigsmuse​ for being my go-to gal! I wouldn’t have been brave enough to post the smut if she hadn’t given me the all-caps go ahead! 
Here’s Bradley’s bedroom, if you’re curious!
You can check my other fics out here!
Taglist:
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reiderwriter · 6 months
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Hating You Is The Easiest Thing I Can Do
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader
Summary: When your boss pulls your case out from under you and gives it right to the BAU, you're pissed. You're even more pissed when Doctor Spencer Reid suggests you can't do your job properly. After a week in his company, you decide to give him a piece of your mind
Warnings: Day One of Kinktober - Hate Sex, enemies to lovers, dom/sub, Mean!Dom!Spencer, Brat!Reader, spanking, degradation, spanking, spit kink, sir kink, vaginal fingering, slight creampie, Reader's boss is an asshole, typical office misogyny. Spencer is also an asshole, but that's just because he's a dumbass.
A/N: Special thank you to @reidmotif and @mrs-dr-reid for proofreading this one for me! I wrote this when on a major Pride and Prejudice moment, which is why there's a whole lot of plot before the sex. I hope you like the build-up just as much as the smut! <3 If you like it, don't forget to leave a like, reply, or reblog and tell me your thoughts! ((just as a reminder, apart for Sundays and Tuesdays, I'll be posting all the kinktober fics on AO3 exclusively, so check out my writing there - reiderwriter))
My requests are also back open now, so if you like my writing and have an idea, check out my request guidelines and drop me a message in my inbox! You can find the rest of my masterlist here :)
To say you were angry was an understatement. You were seething, the anger bubbling up inside of you and threatening to lash out at anyone who so much as crossed your path as you made your way down the crappy motel corridor. You'd only known Spencer Reid a week, but you could think of no one you despised more.
The FBI had always been a boys' club, you knew that. There were some goddamn strong women in your field office, of course, but you were outnumbered 10 to 1. Which was why you were so determined to do well on the first case assigned to you as lead Agent. The first week of the case, you'd made sure you were thorough. A body had been found in the park by a jogger, and you darted to the crime scene the moment you got the call. A woman in her early twenties, like you, had been raped, tortured, and then dumped here, her body posed in a demeaning way to make it seem as if she were performing a sexual act. Your entire body shuddered at the sight, but you couldn't let your coworkers see you weak so you powered through. Collecting evidence, getting an ID on the victim, interviewing potential witnesses, and yes, even breaking the news to the poor girl's family, you had been so attentive to every detail of the case and you felt you were making progress, your boss delivered a humbling blow.
"Another body has been discovered. I've invited the Behavioural Analysis Unit in from Quantico because you're in over your head." He'd told you, not even looking up at you from the file he was reading on his desk.
"What? I wasn't told about another body, why wasn't I notified?"
"I didn't think you needed to know, now that the BAU is coming in."
"So I'm off the case? That's it?"
"No, I want you to assist them in their investigation. Tell them everything you've gathered so far, get them situated in the office as best you can."
"Get them coffee when they want it? Rub their feet if they ask for it? This is bullshit, I was making progress, if you'd only have given me more time-"
"Agent, I suggest you walk out of this office right now and get your PMSing under control before I have to suspend you from fieldwork." You pressed your nails further into the beds on your palms then and bit back your tongue from replying, simply giving a terse nod and exiting the office.
It wasn't even an hour later before the new team arrived, and you offered a tense smile and welcome as you got them set up in their own office. The Unit Chief didn't seem too bad, but Aaron Hotchner couldn't exactly be described as the most welcoming of people, and you felt an instant camaraderie with JJ, the other agent who'd come into the office with him. There were more agents apparently, but they'd gone out into the field to check out the new victim and reinterview the family, something you weren't exactly happy about. But, if you were going to be their little bitch for the next week, you were at least thankful they were tolerable and polite.
"So here's everything I've got so far. I've been pretty thorough in my interrogations of potential witnesses, and there are no CCTV cameras in the general vicinity of the dump sites, so I don't think you'll find anything else there that'll aid in your profile."
" If you'd have been thorough you'd have found this though, right?" A new voice popped up from the door, and you felt yourself tense up under the sudden accusation. Looking up you saw he was holding up his phone, a picture of a strange marking on a tree lighting up the screen.
"Excuse me?"
"This was left on a tree roughly thirty feet from the first dump site. I called Rossi and Morgan and they found a similar marking near the second victim. It's a Mesopotamian symbol relating to the worship of prostitutes and sex workers to promote fertility." He spoke plainly, but all you could hear was the condescension in his tone, and your blood boiled with rage.
" Agent Y/L/N, I'm sorry about him, this is Doctor Spencer Reid, he's another member of our team." JJ introduced the man, sending him a warning glance, as if letting him know that he hadn't just put his foot in his mouth directly.
You looked at the man then, really focusing on him now instead of the pictures, and almost cursed out loud again. He was a jerk, but fuck was he attractive. Tousled hair, dark eyes, and a perfectly sculpted jaw, it was as if he were sent from hell directly to piss you off and tempt you. You pushed the attraction aside for the minute then, choosing to be the bigger person and introduce yourself.
"I'm Agent Y/N Y/L/N. And I'm sorry that I'm not an expert on Mesopotamian prostitutes, but I guess that's probably your specialty, right, Doctor?" You held out your hand for him to shake, but he just looked down at it.
"If you're referring to my doctorate, I actually didn't study classic civilizations. I hold PhDs in Math, Chemistry, and Engineering and additional BAs in Psychology, Philosophy, and Sociology. And I don't do handshakes." He glanced straight past you after that, walking back over to Hotch and filling him in on other things you must've overlooked during your brief time working the case.
You glared at his back, finally letting your hand drop to your side again as you let out an angry chuckle.
"Don't take it personally, Spencer is just… He’s He's not great with people. He'll warm up to you." JJ put a reassuring arm on your shoulder and you nodded. But inside you knew there was not one thing the man could do to reverse the bad opinion of him you'd just gained.
–X–
After the initial anger of having the case seeped out from beneath you wore off, you actually began enjoying your time with the BAU. You hadn't put much thought into profiling before, it usually being so far off your radar while you were working in the field office but you were actually coming to enjoy how they worked, and you'd learned a lot.
Your relationship with Spencer, however, only degraded.
Your hatred had reignited the moment you'd been joined by the rest of the BAU Team. Your boss has finally come down to greet them, and, almost as if making you pay for your earlier comments, had genuinely sent you on a coffee run for them. You could deal with the fact that the man had the most annoyingly complicated coffee order you'd ever heard of in the Bureau, but what you couldn't forgive were the sly comments you walked in on when you returned.
"Come on, Reid. That Agent is easy on the eyes, you should talk to her, get you a slice of that." You'd been introduced to Derek Morgan earlier and you'd instantly pegged him as a flirt, so this wasn't exactly shocking to you. What was a bit surprising was the other man's reply.
"If she's attractive I hadn't noticed. I've been too busy trying to clear up her mess with this case."
You walked in the door then, coffees in hand, and slammed his drink down on the table for him. You handed Morgan to him, double-checking that you'd got both of their orders right before shooting another glare at the man and walking away to find the rest of the team.
But not before hearing Morgan chastise Reid in another whisper: "God man, you gotta be nicer to the kid…"
To say that your working relationship had soured totally after your two personal encounters with the man was simply an untruth. You didn't have a working relationship, you had a working rivalry.
From then on, you'd slyly interrupt the man when he was speaking, telling him to cut his genius rambles in half, that you didn't have all day to sit around and wait for him to stutter his way through his theory while there was a murderer on the loose.
He didn't hold back either, constantly asking you questions he knew you didn't know the answers to, just to smile slyly down at you and make you admit that you weren't as good as him. It was getting so detrimental to the office atmosphere that you had to be genuinely separated after only three days, Hotchner bringing you into the field with him on multiple occasions and forcing Reid to stay behind with JJ to work on a geographical profile.
You'd been with Hotchner at a family interview, working with him to gain details of the second victim's actions and whereabouts leading up to her murder to establish a timeline when you got a call.
Excusing yourself from the room, you quickly picked up the call.
"This is Agent Y/L/N."
"Hotch isn't picking up his phone." That was all the explanation you got from the man on the other side of the phone, his voice instantly grating.
"Yes, I'd assume he isn't, Doctor Reid, because we are currently interviewing a bereaved mother and father and he put his phone on silent. Is there something you need?"
"I need to talk to Hotch."
"Well, you called me. What do you need?" You heard him breathe out a frustrated sigh on the other side of the line, and you rolled your eyes, slightly enjoying being this stubborn and getting under his skin.
"Just tell him we're ready to give the profile, okay?" He hung on you after that and you cursed him down the line, receiving nothing back but the empty beeps of the dial tone.
–X–
It didn't take long after delivering the profile to get your guy, but as he hadn't been in the middle of committing any felonies when you picked him up, you'd had to spend a few days in the interrogation rooms.
Hotch had taken a crack at him and gotten nowhere, and so had Rossi and Emily and Morgan. JJ had been the one to make the arrest, so she went in last and still came out with nothing much. He hadn't layered up yet, as they'd suspected he wouldn't, too egotistical to allow anyone else into the room that he thought he was going to talk himself out of.
"We're getting nowhere with this, Hotch. I think I have an idea that could get him to start talking." Reid said as you all stared at the man through the one-way glass.
"What, you think you can charge in there and get him to talk?" It was petty, but it'd been a stressful week, and he was used to this flow of conversation between the two of you.
"No, you are. Hotch, she fits his type, she's attractive, same build and coloring as the previous two victims. I think it'd work." You scoffed at his suggestion.
"Oh so now you think I'm attractive? I thought you hadn't noticed because you were, what, too busy cleaning up my mess?" You crossed your arms as he gave you an incredulous look, and you realized that he didn't think you'd heard him.
"Spencer's right, Y/N." Hotch nodded, looking between the two of you to see if he needed to pull you apart to keep you from fighting or to keep you from jumping each other. You personally weren't sure which you'd like most at that point, cursing yourself as you let your eyes trail down his body.
"It's going to excite him having you so close, you should pop a few of those buttons, too," Reid suggested looking down at your chest as you scoffed and crossed your arms.
"Oh you'd really like that," you mumbled under your breath, but a swift look from Hotch had you shutting your mouth again as he began to brief you.
Going in you felt a surge of pettiness seep through you. You were going to nail this guy, get him to talk about every little nasty thing he did to those girls, and prove to your boss that you could do this when every member of the BAU had tried and failed. But a small, dim, and annoying reminder at the back of your head whispered in your ear that you'd be pleasing Spencer then as well. Proving him right. You weren't sure if you wanted to succeed to hear him or your boss say "good job" to you after you finally succeeded, but when you imagined it with him, he was a whole lot closer, right in your ear, body pressed against yours.
You focused on your anger over your attraction and pushed into the room, ready to stare down a monster and escape unharmed.
–X–
It had worked, of course. It had taken a few hours of building rapport but you'd done it. You'd had him eating out the palm of your hand while he confessed to the three murders you knew about and an extra four that you didn't.
A day of retrieving bodies later and by 10 pm, the case was finally closed.
"Well done, kid, you really got him in that interview. That was some great work." Morgan nudged your elbow as he grabbed his duffle, exiting the makeshift office.
"Don't forget we're getting drinks at the cocktail bar in half an hour. Shower off that mud and change into a hot dress, Agent, and I'll buy you your first shot." Emily called back to you from the exit too, leaving you in a fit of giggles as you promised her you would.
Once they'd all gone, you started packing up your things ready to leave yourself when there was another knock at the door.
" Hey, I need to grab my bag." Reid stood in the door awkwardly, and your smile dropped into a politely neutral face as you nodded to him.
"Don't let me stop you, Doc."
"Spencer."He said, stepping a bit closer to you.
"What?"
"I want you to call me Spencer. You keep calling me Doctor or Doc, I want you to call me Spencer."
"No. Doctor Reid is just fine for me."
"And what if I want more?" He grabbed your wrist as you turned to go, using a bit too much force and leaving you stumbling into him, hitting his chest as you looked up at him, your noses almost touching with the proximity.
"Let me go," you growled, but his grip loosened and you didn't move an inch.
"What if I want more?" He asked again, a little more insistent this time, his eyes dark in the dim room, expression unreadable.
"Why should I care what you want, Doctor Reid?"
"Because I think you want it, too. Because I think that despite all the odds, you want me just as much as I want you."
Your anger burst out of you in a sarcastic laugh then at his presumptuous words.
"Despite all the odds? What odds are those Spencer? You treat me like shit, ignoring me, refusing to even shake my hand, and downplaying the hard fucking work I put in before you got here? God, you are so fucking narcissistic." You finally stepped away from him then, turning away to regain your composure.
"Me? I'm not the one who missed some vital fucking evidence in a murder investigation, Y/N, so I'm sorry I wasn't the most welcoming person, but God if we're talking egos, you should probably check yourself."
"Forget it, you're impossible. I really tried to be nice to you, but more fool me for making messes you had to clean up."
"Are you still stuck on that? Y/N, I'm sorry, but Derek just has a way of-" He stepped closer to you again and you could feel the oxygen being sucked from your lungs.
"Don't you dare blame this on Morgan. You're attracted to me and you fucking despise that, and it's none of Morgan’s fault. Now please, just get out of this fucking office and go back to your motel room." You practically hissed those last words at him, holding back the urge to scream in frustration. Your lips were so close now, as his chest heaved, hands clenched by his sides as he resisted the urge to grab you.
"Forgive me… for suggesting something so obviously repulsive to you." With that, he brushed past you and walked out, leaving you reeling at his almost confession, head light from the lack of air. He'd taken your breath with him as he left the room.
–X–
The promise of free shots had convinced you to get back out to the bar as promised, not letting Reid and his fickle moods control when and where you'd be enjoying yourself.
You finally showed up at the bar and were greeted by hugs from JJ and Emily, already one drink in as they immediately handed you a shot from the bar. Guiding you back to the table, you paused as you saw him there.
Morgan was sat at the table, happily chatting away with Reid, who'd since grown quiet, eyes meeting yours before leaving to rake down your frame. You resisted the urge to cover yourself, confidently standing tall as he devoured you with his eyes. Changing out of your work clothes, you'd decided that you needed some fun tonight, donning a short red dress, barely hitting the tops of your thighs, hugging your curves tightly, and pushing your chest up so it nearly spilled out completely. You'd completed the look with thigh-high black boots and a red lip, looking the absolute image of lust - or anger - personified.
"Whew mama, you look good, Y/N." Morgan greeted you, standing up to give you a kiss on the cheek. Reid still said nothing but kept his eyes trained on you as he took another sip of his drink.
"I was promised shots and dancing, I think I'm dressed pretty appropriately don't you think?" You smiled and giggled up at Morgan, letting your touch linger on him a little longer to see if it would spur Reid into action.
"Have I ever told you about my very good friend Penelope Garcia? I think you two would get along just fine."
The rest of the night continued in a similar vein. You'd stepped out onto the dance floor with Emily and JJ, letting whatever man wanted to sidle up close, begging one of them to be a distraction from the man whose eyes were boring into you from the other side of the room. It didn't work. Their hands were on your hips, guiding you to the sound of the music but in your head, all you saw was him, doing the same.
It didn't help that he was getting hit on constantly from his perch beside Morgan, and you watched with a bitter feeling at the bottom of your stomach as women tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to pay attention to them. After another frustrating invitation for a tryst with a local man, you excused yourself from the dance floor, finding Morgan in the bar, letting him know that you were calling it a night.
"Where's Reid?" You asked, trying and failing to sound casual as you glanced around the now crowded bar for signs of him.
"He left like ten minutes ago. Said he was tired and went back to the motel."
"Was he…" You didn't want to finish the question, not knowing which answer you'd prefer, but Morgan filled in the gaps himself with a wide grin.
"Alone? Yes, kid. Here, it's the address of the motel we're staying at and his room number." You hesitated before grabbing the paper and grabbing your stuff, practically running from the bar and hopping in the nearest taxi.
–X–
That's how you found yourself stomping down the corridor of the motel, pounding on his door at 1 a.m., unashamed in your brazen actions. He opened the door, slightly shocked to see you there, and you pushed your way inside and turned on him as you shut the door.
"What the fuck was all of that?" You demanded as soon as he turned back to you. His shirt was open now, jacket and tie discarded on the floor somewhere deeper into the room, but you forced yourself to look up into his eyes, away from the pale plains of his skin.
"What was what, Y/N?"
"You, staring at me like that the whole night and then just leaving."
"Did you want me to stay?"
"I want you to stop answering my questions with questions, Reid. This is bullshit, you can't act like a dick to me all week and then look at me like I'm a piece of meat you want to rip apart, for fucks sake."
"You made it very clear earlier tonight that you wanted no part of this, Y/N. Are you saying I should've done something else?"
"That's another fucking question, Spencer! If you don't start actually talking to me, I swear to god, I'll-" You ran a hand through your hair, and when you looked up again, he was closer than ever. You backed up into the wall, but he followed you, pressing a leg between your own. Slowly and with that condescending grin plastered across his face, he drawled out his next words.
"You'll what?"
Your lips crashed against his with the fury of your frustrations, a mess of teeth and tongue and biting anger as you surged forward into him.
With a rough push of your hips, he slammed you back into the wall, taking charge of the situation, coaxing his tongue into your mouth, battling you for control, and winning. Grabbing you by the neck he slowly pulled his lips away from yours, leaving you gasping for breath.
"Don't be such a brat, Y/N. When I ask you questions, it's because I want answers." You moaned as you tried to regain his lips, but he chuckled and kept you pinned.
"Tell me, baby, what should I have done earlier instead? Got down on my knees to beg your forgiveness, or thrown you over that desk and used you like a cheap little whore? I think I know which one you prefer."
You moaned at his words, but kept your mouth twisted in a grimace, choosing not to answer. He got tired of waiting, and, with a swiftness you didn't know he possessed, twisted you around so your hands were planted against the wall, your chest pushing against it too as he pulled your hips up and out, effectively baring your pantie-clad pussy to him as your dress pushed up and over your ass all by itself.
"So fucking slutty. You let all those men in that club touch you while you stared at me the entire time." He ran his hands across your ass massaging you underneath your underwear before pulling his hands away again and grabbing your hips. He pushed his clothed cock against you from behind and you moaned at how hard and big he felt already.
"Was this what you wanted, brat?"
"Go fuck yourself."
"I think you'd much prefer it if I fucked you, don't you think?" He turned you around again, lifting one of your legs up to wrap around him, the new angle pressing your core further into his cock.
"Open your mouth, now." Against your better judgment, your body reacted to him quickly, your tongue dropping out of your mouth as he ground his cock into your core, effectively dry-humping you. With a swift motion, he spat in your mouth, your eyes going wide as you instinctively shut your mouth and swallowed.
"Good girl," he stroked your hair, lifting you up and carrying you to the bed. His lips locked with yours as you tasted his spit on your lips, letting him take control and move you in any way he pleased.
"But you've been a brat," he said pulling away. "And brats need to be punished."
With that he forced you over his knee, pulling your panties down as he positioned your hips higher, your ass raised. He fisted one hand into your hair and began softly stroking your ass with the other.
"You're going to count for me, baby. If you lose count, we'll start again. With each number, I'll tell you what you did wrong, okay?"
"Fuck, yes, yes sir." With another soft touch, he pulled his hand up and bought it back again down sharply, letting it cup your ass as you hissed from the sting.
"O-One."
"That was for being a brat in the office. Being so confident you missed some vital evidence that was staring you right in the face."
He did it again, and you squirmed under his touch.
"Two."
"That was for teasing me in front of Hotch. Making me get hard right there in the office before you went to interrogate that creep."
"That made you hard?" You gasped out as he cracked out another slap to your ass. "Three."
"That was for talking. You need to stop fucking talking." He stroked your ass again, delivering a fourth, fifth, and sixth blow in quick succession as you felt yourself leak your arousal all over his lap.
"That was for dressing like a little whore tonight. That was for flirting with Morgan. That was for letting another man touch you. What do you have to say for yourself now, brat?" Your breaths stuttered out of you as you tried to compose yourself, confident that he'd finished your punishment now.
"G-Go…. FuckFuck yourself." He growled and threw you back on the bed, ripping your dress off over your head and letting his lips return to yours as he trailed his hand to between your legs, finally pushing two fingers inside of you as you moaned and writhed beneath him.
" I hate you," you moaned in his ear as his lips trailed down to your breasts.
"You have a funny way of showing it." Your orgasm was rapidly approaching, so close you could practically taste it. He sensed it as well, though, and pulled his fingers out of you before you could reach that bliss.
"You thought it would be that easy, brat?" he whispered in your ear with a low chuckle before flipping you over to your front and thrusting his fingers back into you from behind, causing another moan to rip from your throat, uncontrollably loud in the otherwise silence of the motel at night.
Unzipping his pants and freeing his cock, you felt the weight of it on your ass as he rubbed his precum against your now bright red asscheeks.
"You're going to look so pretty with my cum decorating your ass baby. It's going to make your ass feel better, too."
"You're disgusting," you spit at him, but your hips push harder into his dick, trying desperately to capture him inside of you and force him to use you.
"No more talking, bitch. Take my fingers." He pushed a hand into your mouth and you started twirling your tongue around them, using your distraction to finally violently thrust his dick all the way inside you. You screamed at the sudden filling, cumming around his cock in an instant, trying to milk him for all he was worth. But he clamped a hand down over your mouth so that all that fell from your face was escaped tears and muffled pleas for more.
"Gonna use you like this baby, gonna make you admit you love me."
His thrusts gained a steady pace as your brain emptied beneath him, desperate for more of the pleasure his body was supplying you with. He released your mouth then, content that all your energy seemed to be spent on pushing your ass back into his, listening to the wet, sloppy sounds of your activity.
"Do you like that, brat? You like me making you feel like this, huh?" He slapped your ass again as he thrust, and you moaned back with a nod.
"Yes, Spencer, don't stop… Don't stop." You moaned again, another orgasm rolling over your body, causing you to clench unconsciously around his cock.
"So good baby, you're responding so well to my cock." He trailed a hand underneath you to your clit and started rubbing it in time to his thrusts.
"One more for me. One more and I'll pull out, okay? Just one more."
"I can't, Spencer I can't do it.." You whined underneath him, face fully buried in the motel pillows. You were surprised he even heard you through the tears as the material.
"Yes you can, baby, look you're so close already, just do one more."
"I hate you," you moaned again, feeling your third and final orgasm wash over you, your eyes rolling back in your head as your body started twitching and didn't stop. You felt a small twitch from him too, as he finished thrusting inside of you, letting a little bit of his cum escape into you before pulling out and decorating your ass with his ejaculation.
He fell by the side of you and gasped desperately for a few minutes, before grabbing a hot wet towel from the bathroom and cleaning your ass off.
"Spencer…" you croak out eventually, regaining some clarity, but still not moving much from your spot in his bed.
"Spencer, I don't hate you."
"I know. I don't hate you either. Which is probably for the best."
"What? Why?"
"Hotch just requested your transfer to the Quantico Office so you could start training with the BAU. You did a good job this week, Y/N." Your eyes started watering again and you gently pushed away tears as he laughed at you, asking why you were crying.
"I'm not happy," you joked.
"I just realized that means I have to work with you more." You both laughed at that. You didn't hate each other exactly, but that didn't mean you could work together well either.
And you didn't want to if this was the outcome of your bickering and hatred.
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pucksandpower · 7 months
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Ties That Bind
Charles Leclerc x royal!Reader + Max Verstappen x sister!Reader
Summary: life as Princess of the Netherlands is pretty perfect but when health issues become a (literal) royal pain, you discover a familial connection that will change your life forever
Warnings: struggles with infertility, child abandonment, serious health issues, medical procedures and treatments
This is what happens when I’m insane enough to try juggling writing an 8k+ word fic with studying in medical school
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The night was a cascade of ethereal snowflakes, each one glistening under the pale moonlight, landing gracefully upon the earth. The silver car glided along the road, its headlights illuminating the path through the thick curtain of snow, like two piercing eyes navigating through sorrow.
Inside, Prince Frederik of the Netherlands drove in silent contemplation, the weight of the day’s news pressing heavily on his heart. Beside him, Princess Marianne stared out of the frosted window, her reflection capturing swollen eyes that glistened with fresh tears. Her fingers trembled slightly, crumpling yet another now irrelevant medical report indicating one more failed IVF attempt.
“I thought this time would be different,” Marianne whispered, her voice quivering. “I truly believed it.”
Frederik’s grip on the wheel tightened. He turned to his wife, pain evident in his eyes. “I know, my love. I know.”
As they drove, Frederik’s eyes caught a glimpse of something unusual by the side of the road. “What’s that?” He murmured, slowing the car.
Marianne followed his gaze. “It looks like a bundle ... stop the car!”
Frederik brought the vehicle to a halt. They both jumped out and hurried over to the mysterious object. As they approached, Marianne gasped. “Oh my God, Frederik ... it’s a baby!”
She quickly bent down to scoop the tiny, shivering form into her arms. The baby’s skin was cold, blue lips barely parting for shallow breaths as the thin pink blanket wrapped around it did little to fight the chill. “Who could do such a thing?” Marianne cried, holding the child close for warmth.
Frederik’s face hardened. “We need to get her to a hospital. Now.”
Back in the car, Marianne cradled the baby, trying to transfer her warmth. “Stay with us,” she murmured, tears spilling. “Please, stay with us.”
As they sped towards the hospital, Frederik reached over and held Marianne’s free hand. “It'’s a sign,” he whispered. “After everything we’ve been through today ... finding her like this ... it’s fate.”
Marianne looked down at the baby, her fingers gently brushing the soft wisps of hair on the child’s head. “Our little miracle in the snow,” she whispered back.
Frederik smiled faintly, squeezing Marianne's hand. “Yes, our snow angel. We’ll take care of her and she’ll take care of us.”
***
“You know, every time it snows, it feels like the world is celebrating the day we found you,” your father, now King Frederik, remarks, gazing out of the vast palace windows at the flurries descending from the sky.
You smile, reaching for a delicate pastry from the breakfast spread laid out before you. “And every snowflake reminds me of the warmth of this family that saved me from the cold.”
Your mother, Queen Marianne, hair now threaded with silver, gives you a loving glance. “Our snow angel, right when we needed you most.”
“Speaking of snow,” you muse, “I’m thinking of wearing the ice-blue gown for tonight’s gala. Thoughts?”
Your father raises an eyebrow, “For the Children’s Foundation event? Perfect choice. It complements the theme and matches the tiara your mother has picked for you to wear.”
You grin, “Who knew you had such a fashion sense?”
Your mother chuckles, “It’s a king thing. But he’s right. And with your sapphire necklace, you will be the talk of the gala.”
You take a sip of your tea, thinking of the evening ahead. “I want to ensure my speech captures the essence of our foundation’s work. It’s more than just another royal event, this is about making a real difference.”
Your father nods, “It always is for you. That genuine desire to impact lives, it’s how I know you will be a great Queen one day.”
You blush slightly, “I learned from the best.”
Your mother, with a hint of mischief, remarks, “And speaking of learning, have you decided on a dance partner for the first waltz? There’s quite a line-up available.”
You laugh, “Oh, Mom! Let’s not start matchmaking before breakfast is over.”
Your father joins in the mirth, “Give her a break, Marianne. Our snow angel must not melt.”
***
The regal hallways echo with the gentle patter of your heeled footsteps. Lately, the palace, your lifelong sanctuary, feels more like a maze. A sudden wave of dizziness makes you pause, leaning against a gilded wall for support.
“You okay there?” a soft voice calls. It’s your mother, her face etched with worry.
“Just a bit dizzy,” you mumble, attempting a reassuring smile.
She hurries over, her gown flowing. “You’ve been looking pale these past few days.”
Before you can reply, a sharp sensation pricks your nose. Touching it, you’re shocked to see blood on your fingertips. “Oh no,” you whisper, panic creeping into your voice.
Your mother’s eyes widen. “We need to see a doctor.”
“But the gala—”
“Forget the gala!” She interrupts. “Your health comes first.”
***
Inside the royal clinic, the room is a tense silence. Your father paces while your mother sits beside you, holding your hand tightly.
The family physician finally arrives, his expression somber. “Your Highness, Your Majesties,” he begins, “we’ve run several tests.”
“And?” Your father demands, halting his restless walk.
You take a deep, shaky breath, bracing yourself.
The doctor hesitates for a split second. “You have aplastic anemia.”
The room seems to close in. The words hang heavily, turning the opulent clinic cold.
Your mother’s voice trembles, “What does that mean?”
“It’s a condition where the bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells. This leads to fatigue, higher risk of infections, and uncontrolled bleeding,” the doctor explains.
Your mind races. The symptoms make sense now — the fatigue, dizziness, the nosebleed.
Your father’s face hardens, searching for hope. “What’s the treatment?”
The doctor looks grim, “The most effective treatment at this severity is a bone marrow transplant. We will need to find a matching donor.”
Your mother’s grip tightens on your hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll find one. We have to.”
Your father nods. “We will move mountains if we have to.”
You muster a small smile, drawing strength from your parents. “One snowstorm at a time.”
***
“How long does it usually take to find a match?” Youu inquire, voice trembling ever so slightly.
Dr. Van der Meer, the lead hematologist on your case, sighs, “It varies, Your Highness. Some find a match within their family, others from the global database. It can take days or even months.”
Your mother breaks in desperately, “But surely, with our resources, we can expedite the process?”
Your father adds, “Every avenue, every connection we have at our disposal is yours to use, Doctor.”
Dr. Van der Meer nods, “I understand the urgency, Your Majesties. We’ve already started to search within the national database. Meanwhile, we advise immediate family to get tested first.”
You interject, a sense of realization dawning, “But I’m adopted. Our genetic makeup differs.”
Your father and mother exchange a heavy look, the weight of your situation pressing down on them.
“We still have a vast network, a whole nation even,” your father muses. “Surely someone out there is a match.”
Dr. Van der Meer hesitates then says, “Actually, there has already been a hit from the database. A potential match.”
Your heart skips a beat. “Who?”
“We maintain confidentiality, Your Highness,” he replies. “But once we confirm the match and receive their consent, you will be informed.”
Your mother’s voice is tinged with hope. “So there’s a chance? A real chance?”
You lean forward eagerly. “When will we know more?”
Dr. Van der Meer offers a comforting smile. “Soon, Your Highness. For now, patience is our ally.”
***
“It’s been weeks, Doctor. Why haven’t we heard from the potential donor?” The frustration is clear in your mother’s voice.
Dr. Van der Meer looks up, choosing his words carefully. “The potential donor ... has some reservations.”
Your father’s brow furrows. “Reservations? Isn’t saving a life more important?”
The doctor clears his throat, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Your Majesty. The potential donor is someone you’re familiar with.”
You lean forward, your curiosity piqued. “Who is it?”
There’s a momentary pause, the silence thickening. “Max Verstappen.”
Shock ripples through the room. The name isn’t just any name. It’s a name known to every Dutch citizen, celebrated in every corner of the nation.
Your mother blinks in disbelief. “The Formula 1 racer? We’ve met him multiple times at the Grand Prix. But why would he have reservations?”
Dr. Van der Meer hesitates, “There’s more to it. We ran some further genetic tests, customary for close matches. The results were ... unexpected.”
Your father leans forward in anticipation. “Go on.”
The doctor takes a deep breath, “Max Verstappen is not just a match. He’s ... he’s your half-brother.”
The room goes still. The revelation hangs in the air, too staggering to fully comprehend.
You feel your world tilt. “That’s impossible.”
Your mother’s voice is a whisper, “How can that be?”
Dr. Van der Meer clears his throat. “The genetic markers were unmistakable. Given the rare degree of compatibility and the markers we found, there is no doubt.”
Your father runs a hand through his hair, trying to process the news. “So all these years, at every Grand Prix, we’ve been cheering for ... family?”
You chime in, a flurry of emotions whirling inside, “And he doesn’t know, does he?”
The doctor shakes his head, “No, not yet. That’s the reservation. Revealing this ... it changes everything for him too.”
Your mother is contemplative. “We’ve celebrated his victories, felt the pride of having him represent our country. And now, knowing he’s family ...”
You interject, “And now, we need him more than ever. Not as a driver, not as a national icon, but as family.”
Your father’s resolve strengthens. “We need to tell him. He deserves to know.”
***
“How do you even begin a conversation like this?” You wonder aloud, staring at the blank screen of your laptop.
Your father, deep in thought, answers, “Honestly, directly, and with sensitivity. It’s uncharted territory for all of us.”
Your mothers adds, “Perhaps start by expressing your genuine feelings, without the weight of our titles or his fame."
You nod slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Dear Max,” you repeat out loud as you begin typing, then pause. “Too formal?”
Your father shrugs, “It’s sincere. And that’s what matters.”
Taking a deep breath, you continue:
Dear Max,
This isn’t a typical letter and I struggle to find the right words. By now, you might have been informed by the medical team about our unexpected connection. I wanted to reach out personally, not as the Princess of Orange, but simply as ... family.
Your mother reads over your shoulder, “That’s a good start.”
I cannot imagine how jarring this news must be. It was for me too. All these years, our paths crossed, shared smiles exchanged, never knowing the deeper bond we shared.
“Maybe mention the Grand Prix, how it has been a tradition for us,” your father suggests.
Every year at the Dutch Grand Prix, my parents and I cheered for you, felt immense pride in your victories. The realization that those cheers were for family adds a layer of emotion I can’t quite put into words.
I understand if you need time to process this. But I want you to know that this revelation changes nothing about the respect and admiration I hold for you. However, it does add a depth of connection, a newfound kinship.
Your mother, her voice choked with emotion, suggests, “Maybe let him know why it’s important now, about your condition.”
The reason I am reaching out now is not just about our newfound connection but also because of a pressing health concern I am facing. I need a bone marrow transplant, and as it turns out, you are my best match.
“Reassure him,” your father adds. “It’s a big ask.”
I understand the weight of this request. There is no obligation, only hope. No matter your decision, I want you to know that discovering this bond, this link between us, is a gift in itself.
Please take all the time you need. Whatever you decide, I respect and cherish the connection we have discovered. Wishing you all the best on and off the track.
Sincerely,
Y/N
Your father, visibly moved, murmurs, “It’s perfect.”
Your mother nods in agreement, tears shimmering. “It’s from the heart. Now, we wait.”
***
The roaring engines on the racetrack outside fade as the door to the private lounge close behind you. Max Verstappen stands there, his usual confident demeanor replaced with apprehension. The weight of the recent revelations is thick in the air.
“You look different without the crown,” Max remarks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
You chuckle softly, “And you without the helmet.”
The initial ice broken, the two of you sit. A beat of silence passes. Then Max, eyes searching yours, asks, “Why now?”
You take a deep breath. “I’ve always known I was adopted. Every snowy day, my parents would recount the tale of how they found their snow angel. I grew up surrounded by love and privilege, never lacking anything.” Your voice trembles slightly, “But there were nights ... nights I’d wonder about the person who left me there, in the snow. Why didn’t they want me? Why did they abandon me to the whims of a storm?”
Max’s expression softens, his own memories surfacing. “I grew up with my father’s strict guidance. Racing wasn’t just a passion, it was life. There was little room for anything else. I always thought I understood my family but this ...” He sighs, looking away. “It makes me question everything.”
You nod, shared uncertainty bringing you closer. “But through all this confusion, one thing is clear: we’re family. Blood, it seems, has a way of revealing itself.”
Max smiles ruefully, “You know, I have a sister, a full sister. Growing up, we were close but our paths divided. Racing consumed me. Now, discovering I have another sister, you, it’s ... overwhelming.”
You chuckle, “Two sisters. Lucky you.”
He grins, “Twice the protective instincts.”
The humor fades, replaced by raw emotion. “You know,” you whisper, tears brimming, “Despite everything, I’m grateful for our paths crossing like this. Even if it took a lifetime.”
Max reaches out, taking your hand. “Me too.”
The weight of the moment presses on both of you. You look at each other, eyes brimming with tears, souls bared.
In a sudden rush of emotion, you step forward, collapsing into Max’s embrace. He holds you tightly, as if trying to shield you from all the past hurts, regrets, and questions. The warmth of the hug contrasts sharply with the cold memory of that snowy night. In his embrace, the years of wondering, the pain of abandonment, seem to melt away.
Pulling back slightly, you look up into Max’s eyes. With a tearful smile, you whisper, “Brother.”
He grins back, “Sister. How would you feel about attending the next race, not as royalty but as my guest?”
You hesitate, the memories of previous races filled with formalities and protocols. “It will be different.”
Max wraps an arm around you shoulders, “Very. But I promise, you will see the world of racing like never before.”
***
The roar of the engines, the excitement of the crowd — it was all distantly familiar. Yet, standing beside Max, everything feels different.
As you walk through the paddock, Max’s pride is evident. “Guys,” he calls out to his mechanics, “Meet my sister.”
They look up, surprised, then smiles break out across their faces. “It’s an honor, Your Highness,” one of them greets.
Max nudges him, “Just call her by her name.”
You laugh in agreement, “It’s nice to meet you all without the formalities.”
Max continues his introductions, his enthusiasm infectious. When you reach Christian Horner, he looks pleasantly surprised. “It’s been a while,” he remarks, “Though our meetings were always, well, more formal.”
You nod, “It’s a different world from this side of the track.”
Max beams, “And she’s getting the full experience today.”
When the race starts, every moment feels magnified, more personal.
And then, the checkered flag waves for Max.
The Red Bull garage erupts in jubilation. During the celebration, Max, still in his car, locks eyes with you from across parc fermé. You can see the moisture, the emotion in his eyes. The moment he is out of his car, he races over, pulling you into a tight embrace.
“This win,” he whispers hoarsely, “it’s not just for me this time. It’s for us. For family.”
As the Dutch anthem plays during the podium ceremony, tears fill your eyes. The anthem, a proud symbol of your country and kingdom, now also symbolizes the new, ever-growing bond with your brother.
Max, standing tall on the podium, catches your eye and winks. And as the ceremony concludes, he suddenly turns, aiming his bottle of champagne right at you. The spray catches you off guard, laughter bubbling up as the cold liquid soaks you.
“You had to, didn’t you?” You laugh, wiping away the liquid before it can sting your eyes.
Max ruffles your hair, “It’s my new duty as your older brother!”
***
“Hey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Max says, pulling you towards the thrumming heart of the afterparty.
The vibrant lights and chatter fill the room but everything seems to slow as you’re introduced to a lean figure with tousled hair and hypnotizing eyes. “This is Charles Leclerc,” Max grins, “One of the toughest guys I’ve raced against.”
Charles offers a charming smile, “Pleasure to meet you. Max speaks highly of you.”
You raise your glass in a mock toast to your brother. “Glad to hear that my bribe has been paying off.”
Charles laughs, “Well, considering today’s win, you might just be his favorite person.”
The two of you share a laugh, an effortless ease settling between you as you barely notice Max walking off with a wink shot your way.
“You’ve been to several races, haven’t you?” Charles asks, sipping his drink.
“In a more official capacity, yes. But today was ... different.”
He nods, his gaze intense, “Being family changes the perspective.”
Charles leans in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now that you’ve seen me on the track maybe I should show you some of my other talents?”
You raise an eyebrow, the thrill of the night’s excitement mixing with his words. “Oh? What other hidden skills do you possess?”
His voice drops to a sultry murmur. “Well, I make a mean pasta carbonara. Maybe I’ll whip it up for you someday.”
You laugh, the warmth of the moment spreading through you. “I’ll definitely hold you to that.”
Max, watching from a distance, nudges Carlos, “Look at them. Told you they’d hit it off.”
“You know, I’ve always been curious about the life of a princess,” Charles muses, a playful glint in his eye. “Is it all tiaras and tea parties?”
You smirk. “It’s more boring than you would think. But for a driver like you, every day’s a thrill, right? Speeding cars, roaring crowds, adoring fans?”
He grins, leaning closer, the proximity making your heart race. “Most days. But some nights, the thrill is ... elsewhere,” his gaze deepening, locked onto yours.
The two of you are drawn into a world of your own, the party’s noise fading into the background.
He brushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer. “Have you ever considered doing a hot lap? It’s quite the rush.”
You laugh, feeling the warmth of his touch. “I don’t know about getting in a race car but I can think of something else I’d love to ride right now.”
As the club’s pulsating music envelops you, Charles leans in, his voice husky over the beat, “Care for a dance?”
You accept, and as you both move to the rhythm, the world around seems to disappear. The close proximity, the electric energy on the dance floor, and the feeling of his body moving against yours is intoxicating.
“Right now,” Charles murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear to be heard above the music, “I feel like the winner tonight.”
You smile, your gaze locked onto his, “The night is still young. Let’s see where it takes us.”
***
“I’ve noticed you’re attending more races lately,” Max comments, a teasing glint in his eyes as you both walk through the paddock.
You shrug, feigning innocence. “Well, I’ve developed quite an appreciation for the sport.”
Max chuckles, “Or for a certain Ferrari driver?”
Blushing, you retort, “Can’t it be both?”
Before Max can respond, Charles approaches, his smile brightening as he spots you. “Good to see you again,” he greets, though his eyes convey a warmth that words can’t.
“You too,” you reply in a voice softer than intended.
The three of you share some casual banter before Max excuses himself, leaving you alone with Charles.
“You know,” Charles starts, “it’s become the highlight of my race weekends, seeing you here.”
You smile, “I’ve come to realize that there’s more to F1 than just the thrill of the race. There are ... other attractions.”
Charles grins, “Is that so? Any attraction in particular?”
You playfully nudge him, “Don’t get too confident, Leclerc.”
Weekends spent at circuits become a regular fixture in your life. While you’re initially there for Max, the increasing time spent with Charles deepens your bond. The stolen glances during press conferences, the private moments away from the limelight, and the late-night conversations make the connection undeniable.
One evening, after a particularly intense race, Charles pulls you aside, his face flushed from the adrenaline. “Every time I cross the finish line and look towards the other garages, I hope to catch a glimpse of you.”
Your heart skips a beat. “And if you do?”
He smiles, “It either makes victory all the more sweet or the sting of defeat not quite as painful.”
***
“You’ve made the front page again,” Max remarks dryly, handing you a tabloid during breakfast.
You glance at the headline, The Princess and the Racer: F1’s Fairytale Romance accompanied by a candid shot of you and Charles out to dinner.
Charles groans, “They make it sound like a soap opera.”
You sigh, “It’s the price we pay, I guess.”
As weeks go by, the media scrutiny intensifies. Every public appearance and every minuscule gesture, is analyzed, often blown out of proportion. The weight of the world’s eyes strains the joy of your newfound relationship.
One evening, after a particularly invasive article speculating about a rushed engagement, Charles pulls you aside, his face drawn with concern. “I noticed you’ve been pale lately, more tired. Is it the stress from all this media attention?”
You hesitate, biting your lip. The truth is, it’s more than just the media. Your health has been deteriorating and you’ve been trying to hide it.
“It’s not just the media,” you admit.
His eyes are filled with worry. “What is it?”
Max, overhearing the conversation, interjects, “It’s her health. She didn't want to worry you.”
Charles looks at you in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You take a deep breath, “I didn’t want to add to the pressures of the season, to be another burden.”
He reaches out, holding you close, “You’re never a burden. We’re in this together.”
You take a shaky breath, drawing strength from his words. “I’ve been diagnosed with aplastic anemia. It’s a condition where my bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells.”
Charles pales, “That’s ... serious.”
You nod, “After this race, I’m starting chemotherapy to destroy the dysfunctional bone marrow in preparation for a transplant.”
Silence envelops the room. Charles processes the weight of the revelation, the enormity of the situation sinking in. “Why now?” He finally asks.
“Timing is crucial,” Max chimes in, “She’s been putting it off, not wanting to disrupt the season. But we can’t wait much longer.”
Charles runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just wish you had told me sooner.”
You reach out, touching his arm, “I didn’t know how. Everything was happening so fast — our relationship, the media attention. I didn’t want to add more stress.”
Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his voice choked with emotion. “Promise me, no more secrets.”
You nod, tears streaming down your face, “I promise.”
***
“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” You ask Charles as you both sit in the sterile hospital room, awaiting the doctor who would be overseeing your chemotherapy treatments.
Charles takes your hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Every step of the way.”
The door opens and the doctor walks in, a gentle but serious look on her face. “Before we begin, there’s something important we need to discuss. The chemotherapy might affect your fertility. It’s not certain but there is a significant risk.”
You freeze. You had expected side effects, the potential hair loss, the fatigue. But this? This was unanticipated. This ripped your heart out of your chest.
Charles tightens his grip on your hand, his face pale. “Is there ... any way to mitigate that risk?”
The doctor nods, “We can retrieve and store your eggs. It’s a procedure done before chemotherapy in some cases. You will need hormone injections for about 10 to 12 days to stimulate the ovaries.”
You look at Charles, your eyes filled with tears, “It’s another delay.”
Charles brushes a tear from your cheek, “We face this together. I am here for you no matter what you decide.”
The days that follow are a whirlwind. Charles is by your side every step of the way, providing both emotional support and administering the daily injections.
Each evening, he carefully prepares the hormone shot. “Ready?” He asks, looking into your eyes.
You nod, trying to put on a brave face. But the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the emotional toll. Still, with Charles by your side, each day becomes bearable.
One evening, as he administers the injection, he whispers, “I’m so proud of you. Your strength amazes me every day.”
Tears spring to your eyes. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you. “You’ll never have to.”
***
“Are you sure about this?” Charles asks, his fingers brushing yours as you lay on the hospital bed.
You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze. “I am. It’s a step towards preserving a potential future, one I hope to share with you.”
His eyes soften. “Every step, I’m here.”
The medical staff move around in the background, preparing for the procedure. The hum of machines and the sterile environment contrast starkly with the intimate bubble you and Charles share.
As the procedure begins, Charles holds your hand, his thumb drawing comforting circles on your skin. “Remember our trip to Monaco?” He murmurs, attempting to distract you. “The sea, the laughter, the little café by the pier?”
A smile tugs at your lips, even as you nod for the OBGYN to proceed. “The one with the overly sweet pastries?”
Charles chuckles, “That’s the one. Imagine us there, a decade from now, two kids in tow, arguing over whether chocolate or vanilla is better.”
The image he paints eases your tension, providing a temporary escape from the clinical room. The retrieval is swift but the emotional weight lingers.
“You did great,” Charles murmurs, brushing a stray hair away from your face.
You smile weakly, “One hurdle crossed.”
The next phase comes swiftly the following day: chemotherapy. The treatment center is full of artificial warmth — the walls painted a deep yellow and the heater working overtime to keep patients as comfortable as possible — but it does nothing to counteract the chill of fear that has taken over your body.
When the nurse enters with the IV bag for your chemotherapy, Charles stands up, his stance protective. “How does this work?”
She explains the process, her voice soft, “The medication will enter her bloodstream and target the rapidly growing cells. There might be some side effects but we will monitor her closely.”
You feel a pinch as the needle is inserted and soon the clear liquid starts making its way into your veins. You blink rapidly, willing the tears away before Charles can see them.
Attempting to lighten the mood, he starts recounting some of his funniest moments from racing. You chuckle at his anecdotes, grateful for the distraction.
Hours pass. The room is filled with a mix of medical beeps and Charles’ voice, offering a counterbalance of cold reality and warm comfort.
As the IV bag nears empty, you feel a wave of fatigue. Charles notices. “Rest,” he urges softly, his thumb caressing your hand.
You nod, closing your eyes, “Thank you for being my anchor.”
He leans in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Always, for every challenge, every step. Always.”
***
“I still can’t believe you made him go,” your mother murmurs from the chair next to you. The hum of machines and the sterile scent of the hospital room are in stark contrast to the roaring engines and burning rubber of the track that you can almost sense through the television screen.
You manage a weak smile. “He belongs on the track, Mom. This race is crucial for the championship.”
“He wanted to stay,” your father adds. “He’s racing with a heavy heart.”
“I know,” you whisper, a tear trickling down. “But he’s strong. And I want him to win, for both of us.”
The room falls silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the machines. You can feel the potent cocktail of drugs coursing through your veins, sapping your strength but a necessary step to fight the disease within.
The TV in the corner broadcasts the race. You hear the commentator’s voice, “... Charles Leclerc, giving it his all today. You have to wonder where he’s drawing this intensity from.”
You know the answer.
The laps go by. With each turn, each overtake Charles makes, you can sense his determination, his desire to win not just for the title but for something else … someone else.
“You should rest,” your father advises, noticing your drooping eyelids.
But you resist, wanting to witness Charles cross the finish line.
The final laps are intense. Charles battles fiercely, and as he takes the checkered flag, the room bursts into subdued cheers.
“He did it!” Your mother exclaims.
You feel a swell of pride. “For us,” you whisper, before fatigue takes over and you drift into a deep sleep.
As consciousness slowly returns not too long after, the first thing you notice is the gentle vibration of your phone on the bedside table. Groggily reaching for it, you see a new message notification from a group chat with Charles and Max.
It’s a photo of Charles and Max, still in their race suits, grinning ear to ear. Charles holds up his first-place trophy while Max proudly displays his second. They’re both covered in champagne, evidence of the post-race celebrations.
These are for you. For our champion.
With shaky fingers, you type back:
My heroes. Thank you for being my strength. So proud of you both. Can’t wait to see you again.
Your mother, noticing your reaction, peers over your shoulder. “Those boys,” she says with a fond smile, “they really adore you.”
You nod, wiping away a tear. “I’m so lucky.”
***
“Hey, sis,” Max’s voice is soft, tinged with a mix of worry and hope as he sits beside you in the pre-op room, “Ready to share a bit more than just DNA?”
You manage a small smile, despite the anxiety. “As long as you don’t start claiming we share driving skills.”
He chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Promise.”
The doctor enters, clipboard in hand. “Both of you understand the procedure, correct? Max, we will be extracting bone marrow from your pelvic bone. It’s a relatively straightforward process but you might feel some discomfort.”
Max nods resolutely. “Anything for her.”
You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “Thank you, Max. This ... it means everything.”
He looks at you, eyes filled with a brotherly love that’s grown exponentially over the past few months. “We’re family. We look out for each other.”
As Max is wheeled away for his extraction, he offers a brave smile. “See you on the other side.”
Hours later, as you sit by his bedside, watching him slowly come around post-procedure, you squeeze his hand. “You okay?”
He groans, “Feels like I’ve done a doubleheader race without any breaks. But it’s worth it.”
Then comes your turn. Max, despite his exhaustion, insists on being present. The stem cells he donated are infused into you through a central line. It’s a simple procedure but one filled with so much hope and emotion.
Max watches closely, gripping your hand. “You got this,” he murmurs as the life-saving cells flow into your body.
You try to show a convincing smile before closing your eyes and praying to whoever’s listening that this works.
***
The pale blue walls of the hospital room have become all too familiar, the rhythmic beep of machines a constant in the background. You’re reclined on the bed, an IV line dripping nutrients and much-needed blood transfusions into your system. As your body adjusts to the new bone marrow, these are crucial.
Max is seated beside you, a crossword puzzle in hand. The chairs aren’t particularly comfortable but he’s still rarely left your side.
Max taps his pen against the paper thoughtfully. “Alright, here’s one for you. Seven letters: someone who is always there, no matter what.”
You raise an eyebrow, pondering. “Is it brother?”
He grins, “You’re getting good at this.”
You chuckle, “Well, I can’t help it when the answer is so obvious …”
He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I snuck in some of those chocolates you like from that little shop in town.”
Your eyes widen in mock horror. “You rebel. We’ll be banished from the kingdom.”
He winks, producing a small box from his bag. “Worth it.”
As you both indulge in the illicit treat, you realize just how much these little moments, these shared smiles and inside jokes, make the ordeal bearable.
Max notices your contemplative expression. “Hey, what’s on your mind?”
“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have a brother who sneaks chocolates into a hospital for me.”
He extends his pinky towards you, “Always. Until the end of the race.”
You intertwine your own pinky with his to immortalize the promise, “And beyond.”
Just as the two of you are finishing the last of the chocolates, the door swings open quietly. Charles steps in, his eyes immediately seeking you out. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand, their vibrant colors standing out against the sterile environment.
“You two conspiring without me?” Charles teases, setting the flowers on the bedside table.
Max smirks, “Just ensuring she gets her daily dose of chocolate, doctor’s orders.”
Charles moves to your side and presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better now that my two favorite racers are here,” you reply with a smile.
Charles laughs, “I see. Well, the doctor outside told me your blood counts are improving. Seems the new bone marrow is getting to work.”
You nod hopefully. “One day at a time.”
Charles moves closer, taking your free hand. “Every day is a step closer to getting you out of here.”
Max, sensing the intimate moment, stands up, stretching. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. Need to grab a coffee and give that crossword another go.”
Charles smiles gratefully at him, and as Max exits the room, you’re left in a bubble of comfort and warmth with your boyfriend.
***
“Grant our daughter strength and good news,” your mother’s prayer weaves through the tense atmosphere of the room.
Charles’ grip on your hand tightens and he whispers, “Whatever the news, we face it together.”
“Guide the hands of the doctors, let their knowledge lead to healing.”
Max, on your other side, offers a comforting squeeze, his face betraying his own anxiety. “You’ve come so far already.”
“And bless our family with your grace and protection.”
The prayer lingers in the air just as the door opens.
“Grant her the strength, the health, the life she deserves ...”
The doctor steps in, a manila envelope in hand. Everyone’s gaze immediately fixes on him, the room heavy with bated breath.
He looks around the room, making eye contact with each one of you, then finally says, “The results are in.”
You feel Charles’ hand tremble slightly … Max’s grip tighten … your father barely breathing behind you … a silent prayer still on your mother’s lips.
“The bone marrow has taken exceptionally well. All indicators and markers are positive.” The doctor smiles. “You’re officially in remission. You’re cured.”
A tidal wave of emotion crashes over the room. Tears immediately spring to your eyes, happiness and relief mingling in each drop.
Your mother’s whispered prayer crescendos into a heartfelt “thank you,” choked with emotion.
Your father, the ever-composed king, has moisture in his eyes as he holds you close, “Our snow angel, our miracle.”
Charles pulls you into a tight embrace next, his voice a shaky whisper, “You did it.”
Max is grinning from ear to ear. “Told you, sis. Until the end of the race and beyond.”
***
“Look at them,” Max says, nudging you as the camera pans over the pit crews, each member prominently sporting a bright red ribbon. “All in solidarity.”
Charles beams, joining the conversation. “It was Max’s idea. The ribbons. Both teams were eager to join in.”
You’re touched, tears threatening to spill. “It’s incredible. Both of you, your teams ... I’m speechless.”
The commentator on the screen picks up on the theme. “For those just tuning in, both the Ferrari and Red Bull teams are wearing red ribbons today in support of aplastic anemia awareness, a personal cause for them given the recent battle of the Princess of Orange with the condition.”
Mid-race, Max’s voice crackles over the team radio, “This one’s for you, sis.”
Charles, not to be outdone, pushes his car to the limit, the red ribbon painted on his helmet clearly visible every time the camera focuses on him.
Later, as you walk back out through the paddock, fans approach, many sporting red ribbons of their own. One young girl looks at you with stars in her eyes, “I wear this for my mom. She’s fighting too, just like you did.”
You pull her into a gentle hug. “She’s got this. I know she does.”
***
As soon as the statement goes live on the official website of the Netherlands Royal Family, the internet erupts.
The Royal House of the Netherlands is pleased to announce that Her Royal Highness, Y/N the Princess of Orange, and Mr. Charles Leclerc are officially courting.
Your phone buzzes incessantly with notifications. Charles, seated beside you, chuckles, “Well, there’s no going back now.”
Your father enters the room, a smile playing on his lips. “The people seem to be taking the news ... enthusiastically.”
Your mother, scrolling through her own device, adds, “And overwhelmingly positively. Listen to this: We’ve seen them together. Their chemistry is undeniable. Wishing them all the best!”
You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. “I was so nervous about the reaction.”
Charles brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, “We’re in this together, remember?”
Max bursts into the room with his usual energy, “You two are trending. The fans are loving it!”
Screens across the nation flash images of you and Charles — at the racetrack, during hospital visits, candid moments captured by keen-eyed photographers. Talk shows and news channels dive deep into analyzing your relationship, piecing together any crumbs of insight they might have.
A popular racing pundit remarks on a live broadcast, “Their bond is evident, both on and off the track. Charles’ performance has been exceptional since they've been together. It’s clear that they draw strength from each other.”
The public’s fascination is insatiable. Magazines are splashed with titles like Love in the Fast Lane. But despite the media frenzy, what touches you most are the personal messages. Fans share artwork, write songs, and pen heartfelt letters, celebrating love and the winding path that brought you both to this moment.
One evening, as you and Charles sit on the palace balcony overlooking the city, he turns to you, “They’re acting like we’re some sort of fairytale.”
You lean into him, “Maybe we are. It’s our story and I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
***
“You know,” your father begins, a playful glint in his eye as he slices into his steak, “I had an amusing conversation with Prince Albert the other day.”
Charles, taking a sip of his wine, raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Your father chuckles, “He said Monaco might need to extend an invitation for our next state visit given that we seem to have shared interests now.”
The table erupts in laughter. Your mother adds, teasingly, “And here I thought we were simply bonding over diplomatic ties.”
“So,” Max leans forward eagerly. “Any embarrassing stories about Y/N? I have to make up for all of the childhood adventures I’ve missed.”
“Oh, there are plenty! Remember the time she tried to drive a lawnmower and ended up in the rose bushes?” Your father says, trying to look serious.
Marianne chuckles, “Don’t remind me! Those were my favorite roses.”
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I was eight! And I thought it was a car!”
Charles grins, squeezing your hand under the table. “I can only imagine a mini version of you so determined behind the wheel.”
“And at her sixth birthday party,” your father recounts with a smirk, “she declared that she’d be ruling the kingdom by sundown and tried to hold a mock council meeting with her stuffed toys.”
Charles nudges you playfully, “Planning coups at six? Should I be worried?”
You swat him lightly, “It was a phase.”
As dessert is served, your mother turns contemplative. “You know, I’ve always believed in destiny. And seeing all of you here, witnessing the bonds and the love, it reaffirms that belief.”
Charles nods his agreement, “Life has a way of bringing the right people together.”
Your father raises his glass, “To family, in all its forms. To the journeys we embark on and the memories we create.”
The clinking of glasses has never sounded sweeter.
***
Charles, his face flushed with the victory of the 2025 World Championship, stands on the podium, trophy in hand. The cheering of the crowd is deafening but as he signals for a microphone, a hush descends.
“I’ve never done this before,” he starts emotionally, “naming my car, I mean. I watched Seb do it year after year and I always wondered what that felt like, to have such a connection.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze scanning the audience until it lands on you. “This season, I finally understood. My car, the one that just secured this championship, I named it after the most important person in my life.”
The crowd waits with bated breath.
“I named it,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly as he keeps his eyes locked on yours, “after you. After the woman who has been my anchor, my strength.”
You feel tears prickling your eyes as the sheer intensity of his words hits you.
Charles signals and you’re gently nudged forward, guided up to the podium. The world seems to blur, the noise, the people, everything fading until it’s just you and him.
“Every race, every lap, I had two goals: to win for the team and to make you proud,” he confesses, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are my world. And today, in front of everyone here, in front of the world, I want to ask you one thing.”
He gets down on one knee and your hands move of their own volition to cover your mouth. Producing a gorgeous ring, Charles looks up at you, his eyes shimmering. “Will you marry me?”
The world stops.
The deafening cheers of the crowd seem quiet compared to the beating of your heart.
Tears stream down your face as you nod. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
No sooner have the words left your mouth than Max and Lando, the other two podium finishers, gleefully seize the moment. With mischievous grins, they uncork their champagne bottles, dousing both you and Charles in a bubbly shower. The liquid gold sparkles in the sunlight, adding to the magic of the moment.
Charles pulls you close, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as you both get soaked.
***
The grand cathedral, bathed in the soft glow of a thousand candles, echoes with the hushed whispers of eagerly waiting guests. Roses, lilies, and orchids cascade down the pillars, their fragrance mingling with the scent of incense.
Behind the doors of the bridal suite, Max stands beside you, dressed impeccably in a classic tux. There’s a brotherly tenderness in his eyes as he reaches out, smoothing the delicate lace of your dress to ensure that every detail is perfect.
“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, the emotion of the day making his voice waver.
“You clean up pretty well yourself, Man of Honor,” you reply, squeezing his hand.
As the first strains of the bridal march begin, the doors open, revealing the grand aisle, lined with well-wishers from all corners of the globe. Your father steps up and offers you his arm, his eyes glassy with pride and a hint of melancholy. “Ready, my snow angel?”
You nod, tears of happiness already blurring your vision. The world narrows down to the altar, where Charles stands, back straight in his crisp full dress uniform. As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes lock with his and the universe contracts to that singular point of connection.
Charles’ normally composed features give way as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes, also glistening with tears, convey a depth of feeling that words could never capture. Love, gratitude, wonder — all interwoven in that magnetic gaze.
His voice breaks as he whispers just for you, “You are my dream, my reality, my forever.”
Your own voice is thick with emotion, “And you are my heart, my soul, my love.”
As vows are exchanged and promises made, the world bears witness to a love that defied odds, overcame challenges, and brought together not just two souls but two worlds.
And as you both seal your commitment with a kiss, there is not a single dry eye in the cathedral. Because love, true love, is a force to be reckoned with, and today, it reigns supreme.
***
The soft whimpers of a newborn fill the air of the private birthing suite. Nestled in your arms, wrapped in a royal blue blanket, the baby prince stirs, his tiny fingers curling around one of yours.
Charles, sitting beside you, gazes down at your son with sheer wonder. “He’s perfect,” he says in a teary whisper.
You nod, tears streaming down your face. “Our little miracle.” The journey, the IVF treatments with your frozen eggs , the hope, the fear — everything culminated in this singular, beautiful moment.
The door opens gently, revealing Max, his eyes wide as they take in the sight before him, and your parents, their faces a canvas of joy and pride.
Max approaches tentatively, his usual confidence replaced by an awe-inspired reverence. “May I?” He asks softly.
You nod, handing over the precious bundle. As Max holds the baby, a bond forms instantly. “Hey there, little one,” he coos, “Your godfather is here.”
Your mother, tears in her eyes, leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your son’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, our precious grandchild.”
Your father, hoarse with emotion, simply murmurs, “An angel for our snow angel.”
And you know what? You decide that the fans were right. Your life really is a fairytale.
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marvelsmylife · 20 days
Text
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back
Pairing: Azriel x reader
Plot: After the events at your dance recital, Azriel will stop at nothing until you forgive him. Even if it means begging on his knees.
Warning: more and more angst, begging, Cassian having to step in to get his brother under control
A/n this is part two to Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don’t. I really leaned on the trope where the male fae spirals while the female fae heal and thrive without their mate. Since it’s me though, this does have a happy ending for the reader and the shadowsinger. Also, there will be one more part to this.
Part One Part Three Bonus Scene
ACOTAR Masterlist
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What was meant to be a few days apart turned into two years. No matter how much you wanted to forgive Azriel for what he did, you couldn’t get past the fact he thought you were cheating on him. You tried explaining that to him, but he didn’t want to hear it. He justified his actions by saying if you would have been home more, he wouldn’t have thought those things.
That, in turn, caused you to make the heartbreaking decision to move out of the home you shared with Azriel. Azriel desperately tried to backpedal and apologize, but it was too late. 
You packed your stuff and moved out within three days. With the help of Rhysand, you moved into a highly secure apartment. In Rhysand’s words: “You need to be in a highly secured building. Even if you are no longer with Azriel, you are still his mate, and unfortunately, that means you have a target on your back.”
The others in the inner circle were trying to convince you to move in with them. They knew you were in a vulnerable state mentally and didn’t want to leave you alone. You ultimately told them you needed to live on your own for a while but that they were more than welcome to visit you in your new apartment. 
You didn’t dare visit them at their homes though. Some of them begged you to visit and even offered to ban Azriel from their home but you refused. You told them that it wouldn’t be right, seeing as Azriel was friends with them way before you came into their lives.
Because of that, Everyone in the inner circle gave Azriel the cold shoulder for a few weeks. They were livid when they discovered what happened between you and Azriel.
Even Elain, who didn’t have a mean bone in her, scolded Azriel for his actions: “How could you do that to y/n! She’s been nothing but kind and loving towards you. You're lucky I'm not your mate. I would never forgive you,” Elain told Azriel in an angry tone. She despised Azriel the most out of everyone for what he did to you. You were the one Elain spent the most time with, and she really loved your company. Now that you asked for space and stopped visiting them, she started spending time with Cerridwen and Nuala. Which wasn’t a bad thing, she loved them dearly as well, but she missed your little chats about your day: “Let’s hope your mate is more forgiven than me.”
While Azriel was suffering without you in his life, you were living your best life without him.
With the help of Rhysand, you decided to open your own dance studio and started teaching children who couldn’t afford to attend your old dance instructor classes for free. 
It was hard at first, but with help from your dance friends and even your old instructor, who eventually apologized for banning you because of Azriel’s actions. He was so happy when he learned you were opening a dance studio for children who couldn’t afford it and even offered to come by every few weeks to teach at your studio. “You are an angel for teaching these kids for free,” your old instructor commented after finishing his class in your studio.
Every now and then, though, you would cross paths with Azriel when you would leave your dance studio, and every time he, would make a scene while he pleaded for you to forgive him.
“I told you not to make a scene in public, especially in front of my studio. You’re making my student uncomfortable,” you tried not to show you were furious at him for his action.
Before Azriel had the opportunity to reply, Cassian and Feyre made their way through the crowd that was now formed around you. “I’m sorry about my brother. I’ll try harder to keep him from coming over here,” Cassian apologized while peeling his brother off of you. Feyre stayed back for a few minutes to make sure you were ok and even offered to walk you back to your apartment, but you reassured her that you were ok.
You managed to avoid him for a week before you came face to face with him again during Elains dinner party, where she and Lucien introduced everyone to their twins.
Elain sent you an apologetic look when you realized Azriel was at the dinner party. You smiled weakly at the new mother before you took your seat between Amren and Cassian and across from Mor.
You felt Azriel’s gaze on you the entire dinner. He looked like utter shit, but he didn’t care, not when it’s been a week since he tried to speak to you again.
You tried your hardest to ignore his stare, but you also couldn’t help but glance at him and really took in his disheveled state. His usually clean-shaven face had stubble with dark circles under his eyes. It took every once in you not to rush over to him and wrap your arms around your mate. The only thing stopping you was the flashback of him accusing you of cheating on him.
After dinner, everyone sat around to pass the twins around. Halfway through the night, you decided to step out and get some fresh air. Unfortunately for you, Azriel took it upon himself to sneak out with you when no one noticed. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts about how awkward you felt being around Azriel that you didn’t realize Azriel decided to hug you from behind. “What the fuck! !” you shouted and broke out of the hug: “Azriel, what are you doing out here!”
Azriel dropped to his knees and hugged your legs out of desperation: “My love, please forgive me. I miss you so much. I can’t function without you in my life.”
“Get up. Everyone is staring at us,” you gritted through your teeth when you looked up and noticed everyone staring at the two of you from inside the house.
“I don’t care,” Azriel argued back: “All I care about is you forgive me.”
Rhysand, Cassian, and Lucien looked like they were about to walk over and pull your mate off you, but you signaled them to not intervene. Instead, you knelt down and cupped Azriel’s face: “Azriel,” you felt yourself tearing up: “You have to stop this.”
“I can’t,” Azriel placed his hands on top of yours: “I can’t function without you. I finally understand where I went wrong, and I’m so sorry I’ve caused you so much distress.”
“I’m so happy you realized it,” you replied, resting your forehead against his: “I just need you to give me time and space. Every time you show up and make a scene outside my studio, you reset my progress of forgiving you. Can you please just give me a few more days? Please.”
“I can do that,” Azriel whispered. “Do you think we’ll ever get back to how we used to be?” Azriel asked hopeful.
“Eventually,” you replied honestly. And that was enough for him to keep going, knowing that you will eventually be a family again. 
@byyalady @sheblogs @janebirkln @starsinyourseyes @cumuluscranium @honeybee54321 @pussyistasty-blog @azriels-shadowsinger @anuttellaa @pussyistasty-blog @fightmedraco @aunicornmademedoit @esposadomd @thelov3lybookworm @harrystylesfan2686 @sarawritestories @fxckmiup @sleepylunarwolf @mochibabycakes @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @stargirl1714 @tenshis-cake @tele86 @63angel @sagskylar01 @i-am-infinite @kristin813 @one-big-fangirl
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slu7formen · 30 days
Text
Luke will find any excuse to be next to you, even if it’s risky for your secret situation.
slu7formen’s masterlist | luke castellan masterlist
The sun beat down on Camp Half-Blood with the fury of a thousand fires, turning the asphalt paths into giant grills for slow feet and baking the cabins insides like ovens. Chiron, being the smart centaur he is and reading the campers tired and sweaty faces like a book, declared a day off. Now the beach, usually a chill place to be at, was now a scene of joyous chaos. Laughter and shrieks echoed through the air as campers splashed, sunbathed, and competed on swimming races.
Luke, however, walked in much later, his usual smirk plastered on his face. As he approached his spot that he shared with his friends at the top of a large rock, he found his friends sprawled like a pack of sardines, their bodies glistening with water and their eyes glued to the opposite side.
“What´s so interesting over there?” he asked as he placed his own towel and belongings on his spot, right at the edge of the rock.
"Interesting?" Travis Stoll drawled, his voice breaking. "That´s not-, that doesn´t even cover it. It's like the goddess of beauty herself decided to show us how perfect her daughters are"
"Goddesses, Luke" Connor Stoll sighed dramatically, almost drooling as he didn´t even turned his head towards his friend. "Actual goddesses descended from Olympus”
Luke followed their gazes, his smirk widening as he saw the object of their collective obsession. Across the shimmering expanse of the water, a group of Aphrodite's daughters had claimed their own little oasis down on the sand. They lay draped on plush towels like exotic flowers basking in the sun, their designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh glare.
Pink bikinis, strategically revealing hidden curves and glimpses of sun-kissed skin that whispered tan lines just waiting to be discovered. Satisfied sighs escaped their lips as they surrendered to the heat, their bodies molding to the soft embrace of the towels like warm clay. Their laughter, light and airy, drifted across the water, punctuated by the clinking of ice against glass as they sipped chilled fruit juice. Perfect, rounded cherry red lips, glossed with a hint of shimmering pink, seemed to hum a silent song of invitation to those who stared too long. Lips that begged to be kissed, to taste the sweetness of a handsome camper.
Soft pop music, like a flirty summer breeze, carried the melody of carefree days and endless possibilities. The air crackled with a tension as subtle as the scent of sunscreen and coconut oil that easily reached the boys´s nostrils.
"Pink" Travis groaned, his voice thick with mock despair. "Why is everything so pink?"
Chris Rodriguez, his eyes glued to the scene across the beach, barely registered his friend's complaint. "Shh, dude, you´re interrupting"
Luke, however, couldn't help but chuckle at his friend´s dramatic comments. He scanned the scene for a second before taking a seat on his towel – the plush towels, the designer sunglasses, the perfectly manicured nails, the hair shimmering with highlights. It was a picture straight out of a beauty magazine, for sure, but it was starting to feel suffocating.
"Do you think they ever breathe?" Connor whispered.
"Doubt it" Travis chimed in, finally blinking after what felt like hours. "They probably absorb sunlight and flower perfume through their skin"
Chris snorted. "They're daughters of the goddess of beauty and love, what can you expect? They're-…"
He cut himself off, his gaze landing on one figure in particular. A girl with hair the color of spun sunshine and eyes that sparkled like the Mediterranean Sea.
“…Gods, look at that hair”
"Guys, calm down" Luke said, despite the grin threatening to split his face. "They're just girls.” He pointed out. He would´ve stopped the conversation there if it wasn´t for his friends´s stares right after he stopped talking, all of them sharing that ´Are you kidding?´ look. “Well, okay, maybe incredibly beautiful, impossibly glamorous girls, but still just girls."
"Just girls, huh?" Travis scoffed. "Those are your average looking campers? They look like they bathe in rosewater"
Chris, still mesmerized by the girl with the sun-kissed hair, chimed in, "How do you even begin to approach something like that?"
Luke chuckled, watching their exaggerated reactions with amusement. "It's not that hard, you know," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Maybe if you guys spent less time staring and more time talking, you wouldn't be so intimidated."
The challenge hung in the air, a silent dare for them to prove him wrong. Connor, ever the instigator, jumped on the opportunity.
"Alright, Castellan, if it's so easy for you, do it" he smirked. "Go over there and talk to any one of them, impress them, make them laugh, do whatever you need to do to avoid getting your ass kicked”
His brother chuckled. "Let the man have his delusions, dude. He´s not-“ He stopped mid-sentence, jaw dropping open in a display of cartoonish shock.
Chris, following Travis's gaze, mirrored his friend's expression. They all stared at Luke, their eyes wide with disbelief, as he strolled down the rock towards the group of Aphrodite's daughters with a —questionable— confidence.
"What the hell are you doing?" Connor yelled, his voice squeaking.
Ignoring his friends' stunned shouts, Luke descended the rocky outcrop towards the sand. "Castellan, you madman!" Chris hollered, his voice a mix of shock and admiration. Luke wasn´t nervous, not exactly. More like a mix of excitement and the thrill of pushing boundaries. His gaze focused on the girl that was declared as his target. You.
With your hair long enough to be braided with endless flowers, and eyes that held the sparkle of the brightest diamond, were oblivious to his approach, your attention consumed by adjusting the straps of your pink bikini, a delicate task that showcased the smooth expanse of your shoulders and the tantalizing dip of your back.
He gently placed his hands on your shoulders, the heat radiating from your sun-kissed skin was intoxicating, the delicate scent of coconut oil amplifying his senses. His fingers, strong and calloused, squeezed gently, sending shivers down your spine.
"Hey, princess" he said, his voice low and playful.
You turned around, smile blooming like a summer flower as you met his gaze. "Luke" you greeted, your voice laced with a hint of surprise.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked with gentle charm.
"Of course" you replied, patting the space beside you on the towel. “Thought you were only gonna stare all day”
“Why?” he asked, not exactly trying to play dumb.
“Let´s just say that they´re a little too obvious” one of your sisters said, pointing with her chin towards the other side of the lake, where Travis, Connor and Chris, still stared at the scene with wide eyes and parted lips.
“Yeah, well” Luke started. “The scenery is definitely something" he admitted, his gaze lingering on yours for a beat too long. "But I´m the one interested in company, not just staring"
One of your sisters raised her view from the magazine she was reading, an approval head nod towards your direction.
"Smooth, Castellan" you cooed, unable to hide the pink blush on your cheeks. "Well done”
Your conversation flowed effortlessly, a mix of lighthearted banter and teasing remarks that only you two fully understood. You spoke of your day as your voices dropped to hushed tones when you exchanged details of your recent secret night encounters, and reminisced about stolen kisses exchanged in the quiet corners of the camp.
He then reached for a slice of pineapple.
"Care for some?" he offered, extending a piece of pineapple towards your mouth.
"Thank you" you said, gracefully taking the fruit between your lips, eyes on him the whole time, still shining even under your dark sunglasses. His thumb caught a bit of your lower lip, secretly wishing he could taste your lips right there and then.
You leaned back, savoring the sweetness of the pineapple and the stolen touch of Luke's finger on you. His gaze held yours, along with a red blush creeping up his neck.
Across the beach, right on the other corner over a hot rock, the Stoll brothers and Chris remained frozen in disbelief, practically jaw slacked.
"D-did he just-?" Travis stutered.
"Touch her?" Connor finished, his own voice thick with shock. "Like they´re friends?"
"Friends?" Chris scoffed. "Is that how you think that friends behave? As if they-"
His sentence was cut short as a giggle, light and mesmerizing, drifted across the water. Their eyes darted back to the scene, where Luke and yn were now engaged in what appeared to be a lively conversation. Luke, the now notorious ladies' man and best swordsman, was leaning in close, his hand resting casually on her lower back. yn, the living proof of cabin 10's grace and beauty, was radiating amusement as her fingers made its way to Luke´s curls.
“Well…” Chris began. “He actually doesn't look half bad talking to her."
"Yeah" Connor conceded, his brow furrowed in thought. "But how? Since when do they know each other and get so-, touchy?"
"Maybe they share some extra classes together" Travis offered, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Like... 'Advanced Flirting Techniques for Demigods' or something."
As the boys focused more about Luke´s flirting technique and less on the girls, your conversation with Luke kept going on and on, still fresh as the fruits you were enjoying, and as exciting as the hot sun crashing into your skin like golden liquid.
"You know," you said, leaving a piece of watermelon back on its place as you whispered, low enough for only you and Luke to hear. "you're not supposed to be here."
Luke tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"
"You're not supposed to be talking to me" you continued, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not after last night."
A slow grin spread across Luke's face, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Last night was quite a night, wasn´t it?" he admitted, his breath tickling your ear. "Could you make it better tonight?"
You looked at him with confused eyes. His thumb began to draw circles on your lower back. "Tonight?" you said, feigning innocence. "Do we have plans? I hadn't heard anything about it."
Luke's grin widened. "Well, it´s not like I planned it" he admitted, his voice becoming casual. You knew he has lying, of course he planned it. "But I was hoping you might be interested in meeting again"
"Another meeting, huh?" you repeated, your voice dripping with curiosity. "What kind of meeting are we talking about?"
Luke leaned in closer to your ear. "Does my cabin sound familiar to you?"
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a delicious mix of excitement and apprehension swirling within you. You both knew that sneaking out after curfew was risky, specially into someone else´s cabin, but the thought of spending another stolen night with Luke was simply irresistible.
“That could work” you managed to say. “What else?”
A playful and excited sparkle flickered in his eyes. "Bring something sweet" he whispered, a low rumble emanating from his chest. He momentarily eyed the untouched red strawberries. "Meet me by the west side after everyone's at the campfire. We can enjoy the view and then..." he trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken, his gaze dropping to your lips.
The heat of the sun seemed to intensify, mirroring the warmth rising in your cheeks. "And then?" you prompted, unable to resist teasing him a bit.
"And then," he leaned even closer, his voice barely a breath, "we can continue what we started last night."
Your breath hitched. The memory of his touch, his kisses, sent a wave of desire through you. You knew sneaking out was forbidden, a risk that could lead to serious consequences, but Gods, who cares?
"Alright, big boy" you whispered, a playful smile dancing on your lips before standing up, starting your way into the lake for your own heated situation. “See you later, then"
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auteurdelabre · 22 days
Text
As long as you want / Joel Miller x f!Reader
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As long as you want - Joel!Miller x f!Reader
Part two
words: 5.3k
Summary: When you're injured in the stables one morning your patrol partner and enemy Joel Miller is the only one there to help.
Tags:  Enemies to friends/lovers, Kissing, Mentions of Anxiety Attacks, Fluff, Mentions of Scars, Medication, Mentions of violence, Joel POV in parts, mentions of 'baby', Tooth-Rotting sweetness in parts, mutual pining. NO y/n.
a/n:  Originally gonna be part of my ‘So Much to Lose’ story, but the characterizations didn’t feel right for it, so I made a few tweaks and now this is a one-shot.
Dedicated to @katiexpunk because she took the time to send me the sweetest most encouraging message filled with lots of advice and just damn fine support for a woman who sometimes feels invisible on this platform.
-----------------------------
On mornings you wake up earlier than usual it's because of anxiety.
You never know when it's going to hit because it's never logical. Sometimes it's a day you have patrols, sometimes its days you have nothing at all.
You've been an inhabitant of Jackson city for almost fourteen months. That's plenty of time for your nervous system to adjust, to know that you're not being chased by the infected or fighting malnourished raiders. 
But your brain doesn't seem to grasp that yet. Every few months it wakes you before sunrise leaving you breathless and terrified until you adjust to your surroundings and remember that you are in your home. That you have a real home with a soft bed and easy access to food. 
And yet those days, like today, you can't go back to sleep. You can't force your body to relax again. You're all nervous energy and you need to calm down. 
Thankfully you've discovered one place that gives you that sense of calm; the stables with the horses used on patrols. 
You shower and pull on your clothes and are out the door quickly. It's so early that Jackson city is still slumbering and the sky is still dark and will be for a while longer. So it's just you and the dirt path that leads to the stables for company. 
You see your favorite dark brown horse Milly, the one you ride for patrols. The one who keeps you safe while you and your patrol partner survey the nearby areas. 
The patrol partner that apparently can't sleep either because as you approach Milly you see him inside the stables petting Glimmer gently behind the ears. 
Joel Miller. 
Of course he's here, the annoying man. Not one moment of peace is possible for you today.
The patrol partner you've been stuck with for the last year. The man who vacillates between mute and mocking when he's around you. 
You hold in a scowl as you view his shoulders flexing as he smoothes his large hand down her mane, murmuring in a low rasp.
He's an austere figure in Jackson. Aside from his brother, sister-in-law and Ellie you don't see him interact with many people. You don't even think he has a girlfriend. 
Not that you would care if he did. 
Not at all. 
Well, sure when you first met him on patrols in his form fitting jeans and shirt that positively strained over his broad shoulders you had been intrigued. And the face wasn’t half bad either - strong nose, captivating eyes and under his patchy beard…
Don't think about his mouth.
So you'd introduced yourself, citing that you were excited to be working with a man of his reputation. Because he was already a legend in Jackson City before you arrived - Joel Miller was ruthless, a crack shot, a prolific fighter. 
He'd blinked in reply at that before he'd opened his pouty mouth and all the burgeoning attraction that had been building came crashing down. 
"Don't know why they stuck me with a newbie."
It had only gotten worse from there: Cutting remarks about how you held a gun, sarcastic observations about your riding. By the end of your first patrol you'd officially decided you hated him.
Over your time together the animosity had morphed from all out mutual derision to a comfortable dislike between you two. An antagonistic relationship built on banter and irritation.
The only truly good thing about Joel is Ellie. She’s funny and brash and you love chatting with her. Plus when you see then together that dark countenance Joel maintains gives way to a soft kindness that radiates from him. 
But Ellie isn't here now in the stables. Only Joel with his salt and pepper curls and lean neck. 
"Hey Miller," you say with an exasperated sigh. He turns abruptly, his dark eyes narrowing on your face. 
"The fuck are you doin' here this early?"
"Could ask you the same," you mutter as you give Milly a pat. 
"Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither."
Joel hums a reply, turning around to fully face you before leaning back on the stable wall. He watches you petting the horse and takes in the dark circles under your normally expressive eyes. 
"You look like shit."
"How charming," you muse darkly. "It's a wonder you're still single."
Joel huffs a laugh, his mouth curling into a crooked grin. 
That fucking mouth. 
When it's not curled into a sneer or a smirk aimed in your direction you can't help but notice it's so soft looking. Plush, pink lips that don't fit the rest of his stern face. 
Stop. 
"I do just fine in that department don't you worry," Joel offers in that typical confident yet abrasive way of his. 
"In that case you should ask out Martha next," you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure she'd love some one-on-one time with Jackson city's most mysterious and handsome bachelor."
Martha is one of Jackson's kitchen workers. She's almost seventy and has a very obvious crush on Joel because she mentions how handsome he is at every opportunity. 
You smirk to yourself at the thought of him taking her to dinner. You don't even notice that he's drawn over to you petting Milly until you feel his breath on the back of your head. 
"So you think I'm handsome?"
It comes out of Joel in an exhale, raspy and amused when he sees you sputter. You glance at him over your shoulder, eyes wide. He's close, close enough to touch. 
"No. I-I mean, it's just that- that's what Martha says," you say, feeling your cheeks heating. "About you being handsome and stuff. Not me."
Joel rarely looks this amused in your presence, but right now he's grinning so broadly a dimple has appeared in his right cheek. He's so close you can feel the warmth of his body. 
"You sure, darlin'?" He teases his voice dropping to a purr. "You’re gettin' mighty flustered."
Darlin'. 
That's new.
You hate how your pulse hiccups at the sound of it. 
"Get over yourself, Miller," you manage in a shaky scoff before letting yourself into the pen with Milly, desperate to escape Joel's proximity.  
You feel his eyes on you and in a panic you move behind Milly to reach for the hairbrush propped on the fencing. 
"Watch it-" Joel starts. 
It's your own fault what happens next.
Milly makes a terrified whinny and kicks out her back legs. You feel a sharpness in your side that takes your breath away, knocking you into the side of the pen. Milly makes another jolting motion and you feel Joel's hand pulling you back sharply as you yelp, clutching at your ribs.
Joel guides you out of the pen with a hand on your shoulder, dark eyes peering into your face when you both exit.
"Why the fuck did you move behind her?"
"I wasn't thinking," you groan, doubling over and resting your head against the nearest wooden stall. "Fuck."
It's a miracle you weren't too close. If you'd felt the full weight of Milly's power you wouldn't still be standing, albeit curled. 
Joel stares at you, noting that you're white in the face, your spine bowed. You're clearly in a lot of pain. 
"C'mon," Joel says, tugging the loop of your jeans, trying to prompt you into continuing to walk. "S'go."
"Where?"
"The clinic," he answers gruffly. "Stop wastin' time. C'mon."
"I can't move," you tell him, tears of pain slipping down your nose as you double over. "It hurts too much."
Joel mutters something under his breath before he strides away from you and out of the stables. You wait a few moments and when he doesn't return you feel a shocked puff of air escape you.
He just left you. Abandoned you in some of the worst pain of your life. You knew Joel Miller was an asshole you just didn't realize how much. 
You fall to your knees, clutching at your side, the scent of hay and horse suffocating you. You wish you'd never come. Never tried to bond with another living creature.  
Your head moves up slowly when you hear voices and footsteps from outside approaching. To your shock Joel and a tall woman with silver hair are there and Joel is murmuring to her. 
"..n't sure if I should move her."
"Good you didn't," the woman assures him. "Could've done more damage."
The two of them move over to you and the woman urges you to breathe deeply after she introduces herself as Gemma the town nurse. You do, wincing loudly as a sharp pain nips your left right side. 
"Fuck!"
Joel is standing back by the stables, petting Glimmer absently. When he hears you cry out his brows rise. 
Gemma urges you to lift your shirt so she can see if there is swelling or bruising. You try but cry out in pain so she quickly lifts the hem of your shirt, tugging it up to just under your breasts. You panic when you realize you don't have a bra on.
"A bit of swelling," she tsks as her calloused hands sweep gently over your midsection. You whimper at the sensation, every swipe feels like agony. 
You flush when you realize Joel is staring over at you and his eyes linger along the bare skin of your abdomen on display. He catches your attention on him and quickly looks away, nonplussed. 
"Nothing's broken from what I can tell," Gemma hums thoughtfully.
"Doesn't feel like it from where I'm standing." 
Gemma smirks and you think you catch a hint of amusement cross Joel's features. 
"Likely a bruised rib," Gemma says with a concerned furrow of her brows. "You shouldn't be doing patrols. Not for a few weeks until this heals. You need plenty of rest, fluids and ice."
A strange feeling overtakes you then. Something between elation and disappointment at the thought you won't be going to do patrols for a bit. You don't understand why. You and Joel rarely get along, you should be thankful for the break. But you suppose you'll miss the consistent schedule. 
"I brought a few painkillers I could spare," Gemma offers, rummaging in her coat pocket. She opens the glass bottle to reveal less than a few dozen white pills that you don't recognize lining the bottom. 
"Is that all we have for painkillers?" You ask, concerned. "For the whole town?"
"For now these and a few dozen bottles of aspirin," Gemma nods. "When there's less snow we'll be able to scour around for more."
You look at the paltry selection and shake your head. "Nah, I'm okay. I'll just go home and rest."
"You'll take one right now," Gemma orders. "And you'll take a few more to get you through the night."
"I'll take two total," you negotiate, taking the first and swallowing it dry. The second goes into your jeans pocket. 
You wait a few moments until the pill begins to take effect. It could be psychological but you feel like it makes it manageable to start walking. 
"When you're getting up and down hug a pillow to your middle," she instructs. "Helps lessen the pain of the strain."
"Okay," you nod as you begin to shuffle. "Thanks a lot." 
"Joel," Gemma turns to the lurking figure at the end of the stall. "You'll walk her home?"
Joel nods just as you shake your head.
"That's not necessary."
Gemma fixes you with a look she must have given dozens of obstinate patients over the years. 
"Have you ever tried to climb stairs with a bruised rib?"
"No."
"Thought not. Let him walk you home and get you into bed."
You go to deny this but Joel is already herding you towards the path that leads to your neighborhood.
"S'go."
You walk slowly, shuffling down the street after Joel who walks at least three paces ahead of you. You don't mind, you don't really feel like chatting. 
"Why'd you try to turn down the painkillers?" He throws over his shoulder as if just to annoy you. 
"Because there weren't that many," you say grimacing. "And I'm not in that much pain."
He pauses, waiting for you to catch up. His dark eyes survey your hunched stance. 
"Liar."
You keep shuffling, trying to ignore the irritation you feel at his curious expression.
"Yeah it hurts a bit but it's nothing compared to Chester's broken leg from chopping wood last month is it?" You reason, starting to feel a bit spacey from the drugs. "And what if something like that happens to someone else and I took up all the supplies because of a bruised ribi brought upon myself? I'd feel terrible." 
"You shouldn't have been in the fucking stables to begin with," Joel says darkly. "Then you wouldn't have had to use any."
"I wanted to see the horses."
"They ain't pets."
"I’m aware," you throw back angrily. "But being with them in there makes me feel calm."
"Try meditatin' next time," Joel bites out. 
You've arrived at the bottom of your front porch steps and you're all out of patience for Joel Miller. 
"You can just leave me here. G'night." 
"I'm followin' the doctor’s orders," Joel snipes, taking you by the arm so you can lean against him as you walk. "S'go, I don't have all day." 
You grumble as you lean into his muscled arms, hating that you need to rely on him in any way. 
"Quit complainin'," Joel grits out. You wince in pain and embarrassment as he slips an arm around your waist, the other hand on your free forearm helping you up the stairs.  
"Slow," Joel murmurs. "Slowly now." 
His voice is low and rumbled. You feel his breath on your temple as you take each step, wincing at the pain.
"Yep, just like that," Joel continues, his fingers curling around your hip as you take another step slowly. "Good girl."
Good girl.
It's the same way he talks to the horses. That gentle, husky coo. You know he doesn't mean it sexually but that doesn't stop it from hitting you directly below the navel. 
You unlock the door, confused when Joel follows you inside. He scans the humble single story home, eyes falling on the paintings on the walls, the guitar by the fireplace. 
He didn't know you played guitar. Or painted. 
Joel knows you like to read, that you had a brother who died when he was young. He knows that your hair knots easily in the wind and that you hate the porridge in the dining hall. He's passively gathered information on you over the months patrolling together. But this? This is all new information to be stored.
He glances at you hobbling towards the bedroom and feels a mixture of irritation and pity go through him at the sight. He hates seeing you in pain and he feels a wave of protectiveness seep into his bones. 
"Don't go in the pens anymore," Joel instructs. "I'm serious. It's not safe."
You turn around just so you can glare at him properly. He's standing by your table, acting as if he belongs there. 
"You don't give me orders in my house, Miller," you say without thinking. "You're just mad I won't be around to deal with you on patrols and you'll have to do them alone because no one else in town can stand you."
The second it leaves your tongue Joel's face goes pinched and a cold. A cold, sticky sensation crawls along your insides at the sight of it.  
"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "Fuck. That was such a shitty thing to say. Especially since you went and got me help. I'm just tired and in pain."
Joel nods slowly, his face as always, unreadable.  
"Really, I didn't mean it,” you insist. “I'm sorry."
"I know you are," he huffs. 
"So you forgive me?"
"Nothin' to forgive," Joel offers in a tired rasp. He takes you by the waist again, shuffling you into the bedroom. "C'mon."
He eyes your bedroom as the two of you shuffle into it, taking in the dried flowers in the window, the scattered books on the end of your bed. He smiles to himself at the sight. 
"Couldn't decide what to read?"
"Read 'em all," you say walking slowly to the bed. "No new ones that interest me at the library so I was seeing which one I'd re-read."
You go to lower yourself onto the mattress but stop when Joel frowns at you and his hand taps your shoulder gently. 
"You're gonna sleep in your clothes?"
You shrug. "I'll manage."
"You're covered in mud and hay," he states flatly. 
You go to grumble that you don't particularly care when you feel Joel's large hands land on the buttons of your jacket. 
"What're you-"
"Hold still," he murmurs with his eyes on his fingers as he unbuttons all ten of the fasteners on your long jacket. You wince when he pulls it off of you, delicately. 
He's being gentle with you. 
Joel is never gentle with you. He’s caustic and points out when you fuck up. He makes you carry heavy lumber with him when repairs need to be done. But now he’s touching you as if you’re made of spun glass.
He drapes your jacket over the chair by the window before returning to see you fighting with your jeans button. It hurts to move your arms like that right now. Every inhale is like a stab. Frustrated tears are sliding down your cheeks. 
Joel doesn't like the sight of your tears. It makes him close the distance between the two of you quickly, chocolate eyes soft. 
"Let me," he says business-like. "We'll do this quick and you can get into bed."
You want to deny him but you know he's right. You don't want to wake up tomorrow even more stiff, wearing dirty clothes and unable to undress yourself enough to shower. His fingers are at the waistband of your jeans and you're impossibly thankful he doesn't make the fatal mistake of meeting your glassy eyes. 
Joel's fingers deftly pop your jean button then slowly lower the zipper. You hear him take a soft inhale before his thumbs curl at the waistband, dragging them over your hips and letting the denim fall to your knees. 
You look to his face and you see his eyes flit from yours back down to his boots. 
"Sleep clothes?"
"Dresser."
He nods, turning from you. Your cheeks burn, your heartbeat picking up the pace. Fuck, it must be the pill.  
He pulls out a cotton nightdress as you clumsily step out of your muddy jeans. You cover your front with your hands the best you can, feeling shy standing there without pants in front of Joel of all people. 
"Feels weird to be going to bed in the morning," you offer in the awkward silence. 
He's back, eyes on your t-shirt, trying not to notice the high cut of your panties or the fact that you look so fucking enticing standing there with your shapely legs on display.  
Joel is uncomfortably aware that he's not gonna be able to take off your t-shirt without getting hard and he doesn't want you feeling worse than you already are. He knows how much you despise him. 
"T-shirt is clean," he reasons. "Can probably sleep in that."
"Yeah totally," you agree quickly looking between Joel and the bed. 
You groan and blink a few times because a strange fuzz has started in your brain. 
"You should go," you swallow, trying to ignore the arousal building in your core. "I'll be fine."
"I'm makin' sure you get into bed alright."
"Then what? You gonna read me a story and tuck me in?" 
You're surprised when a soft giggle escapes from you.
"Stubborn brat," Joel mutters, even though his mouth is fighting against a grin. "Get in the fuckin' bed."
You feel oddly relaxed, even fond of the annoying man when you watch Joel pulling back the blankets of your bed for you. Regret and shame quickly follow when you recall your hard words from earlier. 
"I'm sorry about what I said," you tell him quietly.
“You already said that.”
"Lots of people like you in town."
"No they don't," Joel says with a shake of his head and a grim smile. "My brother and Ellie are about the only ones who like talkin' to me."
"And me," you add with a yawn. 
"Only cuz you got stuck doin' patrols with me. You gotta talk with me for those."
"I don't mind talking to you," you tell him honestly. "Sometimes I think you're funny."
Joel straightens, noticing the soft dreamy quality to your voice. He sees you swaying as you stand and he approaches you quickly. He peers into your face, seeing your pupils like large saucers and holds in a chuckle. 
The irritation you feel towards Joel has been replaced by a dizzying bliss that has you smiling dopily as he nears. 
"Drugs are workin' I see," Joel observes and his voice seems far away even though he's standing so close.  
"Mhmm," you purr, leaning back before wincing and grabbing your side. "Oh fuck."
"Take it easy," Joel grumbles and his dark eyes swim into view. Have his eyes always been so pretty? 
Joel I think..." you mumble something after that. You don't even know what you're saying. It's possible you're just making gibberish noises. 
He leans closer, eyes squinting as he tries to parse the unintelligible stream of random sounds. His mouth is so full, his lips so sweet looking. 
Something about his face so close and the lack of inhibitions from the medication has you feeling bold. 
You move your face towards his so quickly he doesn't have time to shift back. Your mouth crashes into Joel's, lips slotting between his. 
His lips are so soft. Full and soft and warm. You groan in delight as your hands go to his collar. You try to deepen the kiss, your tongue trying to slip between the seam of his lips but Joel is pulling back, his hands taking yours from his collar. 
"The fuck are you doin'?"
There's a part of you that knows what you've just done is insane. But that part is so quiet, so far away. All you can feel right now is contentment and you smile up at him with eyes almost closed. He drops your hands. 
"Mmm...Your lips are soft."
Joel is staring at you, mouth hanging open in slight surprise. You want to kiss him again but you're so fatigued from the medication you just give a yawn and feel your eyes shut firmly. 
"M'tired."
"C'mon now sleepin' beauty," Joel chides, guiding you by the small of your back to the bed. He sits you on the edge of the mattress before placing a pillow into your arms. 
"Squeeze it as you lay back."
"M'kay," you say doing as he asks, your eyes still closed. 
He watches you, grimacing himself when you let out a soft yelp as you lay back on the bed. He waits for you to unclench before taking the pillow from your arms and tugging the blanket up to your chest. 
"Lips are so soft," you say again as his face hovers above you. "How are they so fucking soft?"
Joel tries to hide the amused grin on his face. You're so loopy it's quite endearing. He can't wait to tease you about this when you're back at patrols. He can picture your scowl now, the flush that rises on your neck first and then your cheeks when you're embarrassed.
"Are my lips soft?" you ask in a concerned voice. 
Joel licks his lips subconsciously, replaying your mouth on his. A sensation he's trying not to fixate on. 
"Yeah," he finally relents in a husky whisper. "Real soft." 
Plump and soft and sweet and everything he's been imagining they would be. 
Without thinking he reaches over and brushes the hair from your eyes, taken by surprise when your hand weakly takes his wrist. 
"Kiss me again, Miller."
"I can't."
"Please," you beg, your eyes cracking open. You start to whine and shift towards him in the bed before the pain hits you sharply and you wince. 
"Fine, just lay back," Joel grumbles even as his heart picks up its pace in his chest. You do as he asks, sleepy eyes glancing up at him. 
He leans forward and gives your cheek a chaste kiss before pulling back. He has to hide the amused chuckle when he sees your grumpy face. 
"I wanted a real kiss."
"That was a real kiss."
"I meant on the lips."
"Tell you what," Joel says, greatly amused. "If you can look me in the eyes tomorrow when you're med free and ask me to kiss you, I will."
"Promise?"
"Yep and I'll make it a good one." 
"Okay," your medicated self agrees quickly. "I'll ask tomorrow."
He knows you won't. You won't remember anything. He takes a seat at the edge of your bed, watching you slip into slumber. 
Joel knows that he doesn't have to sit here any longer. He's got you in bed, you're drifting off, his job is done. And yet he lingers, watching your face go placid before you seem to wake yourself up.  
"I've wanted to kiss you for so long, Miller."
"Uh huh," Joel says with disbelief clear in his voice as he plumps the pillow next to your head in case you need it. "I'm sure."
"You don't believe me?" 
"Go to sleep."
"Member that day we went on patrols by Westons?" You slur eyes half closed. "And there weren't enough horses and we had to share one?"
Joel is surprised that you remember that. It was almost eight months ago.
"Uh huh," Joel nods, leaning back from where he sits at the edge of the bed. "Yeah, I remember."
"And we got to that clearing and you helped me down so we could do a perimeter check?"
"Yup."
"Yup."
"I wanted to kiss you then," you share. "When your hands were on my waist and you were smiling ... down at me. I thought... You were... so ... Handsome and... You smelled so good... Like leather n'..."
Joel sucks in a lungful of air slowly as he watches you fall back into a light doze. Your hand on your abdomen rises and falls as you begin to snore lightly. 
Joel remembers that day at Westons. He remembers the way your arms felt wrapped around his middle, your body tight against his back as he rode with you on the horse.
He remembers that his horse was taller than you were used to riding. How you'd hesitated asking for his help to get down because he knew how prideful you were. 
He had rolled his eyes, holding out his arms to you before you'd even had to ask him. 
"C'mon now. Stop wastin' time."
You'd said something scathing back to him before allowing him to pull you into his arms. 
He remembers the sound of your breath in his ear and the way your sweet scent enveloped him. You'd clung to him, slowly sliding down the length of his broad body before standing on the ground. His hands had lingered on your waist, smiling down at you in amusement at your discomfiture. 
But then the gaze had lasted a little too long when he realized at this proximity he could see so many details in your face. The length of your lashes, the deep color of your eyes, the beckoning curve of your lips. 
He'd always thought you were pretty. From day one he'd been enraptured by your smile. An attraction he hadn't felt since Sarah's mom. A frightening feeling that had him scowling at you and turning from you. 
He remembers how he went home that night drunk on the memory of your soft body against his. He remembers how he fell asleep aching at the memory of your lips and eyes.
He remembers how ever since that day he's tried to convince himself he isn't attracted to you. That he isn't excited every day he has patrols with you because he gets hours of you to himself. 
It's the reason he was at the stables so early this morning. Knowing he'd be on patrols with you tomorrow had him keyed up. 
Joel doesn't like people getting close. It's easier to have most everyone hate him. And even as the months went on and your wit and humor broke through his outer wall, he still worked to keep you out. 
But now you've all but admitted how you feel about him. And even if you forget it all tomorrow, he heard it tonight. The truth revealed. It makes his legs feel weak to know that the attraction exists on both sides. 
"Joel?"
Your voice is soft but he sees the furrow of your brow. You're awake and anxiously looking for him in the darkness. Something about that small action makes his breath unsteady. 
"I'm here, baby."
The soft smile you shoot his way makes Joel's insides turn to jelly. He doesn't even cringe when he belatedly realizes the pet name. You won't remember it.
When your eyes find his silhouette in the fading darkness he sees you visibly relax. 
"I was worried you were gone."
"Nope. Been here the whole time."
"Good," you breathe before yawning so widely your jaw cracks. Joel sidles closer to you on the bed, his dark eyes scanning your face. 
"You feeling okay? Any pain?"
"No pain," you say dreamily. "Just sleepy." 
"Go to sleep then," Joel soothes, unable to keep the affection from his voice. "Doctor’s orders." 
You nod and he thinks you're nodding off when your hand reaches for him. 
"Come lay next to me," you say with a cracked voice. "Please?"
Joel hesitates before he sees you trying to sit up to convince him. You're gonna be in worse pain tomorrow if you keep that up. 
"Fine fine. Just stop squirmin'."
He toes off his boots and slips off his jacket, placing it over the chair holding yours. After a moment of hesitation he lowers himself onto the mattress next to you, overtop the blanket. He hears your soft sigh as your head tilts towards him. 
He rolls onto his side so he can face you, seeing your eyes closed languidly. 
Your sweet face is highlighted in the dawning sun coming in from the window and Joel feels his heart throb at the sight. He sees you fighting sleep, eyelids fluttering. 
"Go to sleep, baby," he murmurs. His fingers rise between the two of you coming to trace along your cheek. "Just go to sleep."
You give a soft exhale. 
"Feels good having you here, Joel."
Joel feels himself melt at those words, his long fingers finding yours on the bed. He takes your smaller hand in his, rubbing your knuckles with his calloused thumb gently. 
"Will you stay for a while?" You whisper, your eyelids growing still as your body goes sluggish.
He smiles over at your placid face and answers you even though he's fairly certain you've fallen back asleep. 
"I'll stay as long as you want." 
718 notes · View notes
harmoonix · 2 months
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☘️𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄 (𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂/𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓) ☘️
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☘️ Reading Note: So here on tumblr we always discussed about the planet with the lowest degree in our sidereal/vedic charts having an important meaning, now is time to switch and to change it to the planet with the HIGHEST degree in your sidereal or vedic chart because that's the one who indicates your soul purpose in this life
☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️
☘️ The planet with the highest degree in your sideral or vedic chart is noted as "AK" - (AatmaKaaraka) - (Yourself)
As an example, my AK planet is Venus being the highest in the chart right down below! ⬇️⬇️⬇️ (site: astro seek sidereal chart)
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☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️
☘️ Here are some examples if you have other planets as your AK planet ☘️!
Sun AK => Focusing on yourself, this placement makes you a strong individual, confident, respectsd and overall growing your personality, your soul purpose can be to make others see themselves in a good light and to enjoy every single thing in your life
Moon AK => This placement makes you compassionate and caring, this placement indicates a nurturing life path and life lessons overall nurturing yourself and taking care of you! Also you mother can play a big role in this (for some)
Venus AK => I know we talked a bit about this a bit in the past, but here are some adds, to experience beauty, harmony, relationships, discover yourself while using art as a tool, their soul purpose can be to experience or give/share love and to feel it
Mercury AK => This placement is blessed with the communication skills, a very empathic placement, the soul purpose can be to use your voice for your own good, also experiencing a lot of new things using communication and your open mind
Mars AK => This combination gives the native a good physical power and mind/strong soul and devotion, physical sports like karate can be a good hobby for them tho, their soul purpose can be to not always use the anger, also to not let the fear to overtake you
Jupiter AK=> Blessed with spirituality, they are always seeking for something higher/bigger from this world, the soul purpose it can be either spiritual or religious, maybe even occult, is vital for life to have a special faith within your heart, the luck is around the corner
Saturn AK=> Strong sense of discipline in life, perseverance and highly envision, these natives can embody the "old soul" stereotype but in a good way because they are wise and intelligent, their soul purpose for them it can be to learn as many things as they can from this life, to learn good and bad things. Saturn Atmakaraka brings profund things into natives life
☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️
(𝐒𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐍𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞, 𝐔𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 "𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝" 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬) 𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝟕 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐬 only!!
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☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️
As an additional info, the sign of your AK planet will influence your soul and life as much as this energy does, aspects, and houses matter too but overall the Planet with the Highest degree is on top for this and these will come right after!!!
☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️°☘️
Nurture your soul, Harmoonix ☘️
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757 notes · View notes
scwheeler · 3 months
Text
— illicit affairs
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luke castellan x fem!reader
warnings: potential toxic!luke, secret relationship, doubting relationship
summary: you agreed to date privately since it tended to help avoid the typical issues in relationships and made things extra special between you two, but you didn’t agree to secretly.
a/n: #ilovetoxic!lukesorrynotsorry
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make sure nobody sees you leave
in hermes cabin, it was monthly game night, a tradition that luke and a few of his half-siblings created once newbies felt out of place when first arriving to camp half-blood. tonight, cabin eleven was full of laughter and shouts over games like monopoly, charades, and various card games.
hood over your head, keep your eyes down
while the stoll twins were distracting everyone with a big argument over who gets to purchase new york city, luke saw it as the perfect opportunity to slip out of the room for a moment.
tell your friends you're out for a run
grabbing one of his dark jackets, he sneaked out the back door with the hood covering his figure. spotting the bright campfire in the center of campus, he walked towards the woods.
you’ll be flushed when you return
anyone would be scared shitless to enter the inky forest in the middle of the night, especially alone. but this wasn’t luke’s first rodeo. the scarce dirt path that was the only source of navigation through the deep canopy of trees was created by luke’s worn out sneakers for god’s sake.
take the road less traveled by
with the amount of times he had quietly crept out of a large group to escape into the mysterious woods, he knew the way like the back of his hand. thus, here he was, careful to not make a sound yet slightly rushing in order to not be late.
tell yourself you can always stop
once he saw a blinking gleam flashing in front of him, a smile slid across his face. his pace quicken, leaving his worries of being discovered in the unlit caves of trees behind him. your figure becoming clearer in his eyesight was enough for him to instantly wrap his arms around you, lifting your feet from the ground.
what started in beautiful rooms
his immediate grasp resulted you in dropping the flashlight in your right hand, now replacing the object with a hold around his neck. he spun you around before placing you back on the ground to see your face.
ends with meetings in parking lots
“i missed you.” you spoke first, a hand cupping his cheek and admiring his moonlit features.
he kissed your hand, the taste of blood seeping through his pink lips. he winced at the sour taste, ceasing him from continuing. he took your hand until he noticed the peeled spot of your right thumb.
and that's the thing about illicit affairs
“wha—i thought i told you to stop doing this.” his tone was soft, implying his care for your well-being.
“i am…this was from training earlier.” you lied.
believing it and without another word, his longing stare was followed by his lips coming down on yours. the collision held a sense of yearning for each other after a missed amount of time together. even though you had seen each other just this morning in the mess hall for breakfast.
and clandestine meetings and longing stares
but you were sat with cabin six and him at cabin eleven, just a few tables over but it seemed like the gap lengthened every time someone would block his view from you and yours from him.
it’s born from just one single glance
when opportunities arrived for you to sneak a look at him, your heart would skip a beat whenever it was returned. there were moments when the chances were aligned and you both would get to look at each other.
but it dies, and it dies, and it dies
a million little times
just long enough for a share of a small grin or little laugh until, someone would call your name or he would be whisked off into his head counselor duties. one would hold their doting gaze on the other as they walked out of the room, not before they turned and glanced back at them.
leave the perfume on the shelf
the longer this little secret went on, the harder it became. at least for you. you would stand outside your cabin after dismissing your sisters to go to the campfire on their own. leaving you behind, they would reluctantly run to the blazing campfire surrounding music and sweet conversation.
that you picked out just for him
biting your lip anxiously, you stood watching the woods in front of you. hesitate to enter them and hesitate to give up waiting to go enjoy the night with the rest of camp, you continued to fidget your fingers.
so you leave no trace behind
like you don't even exist
occasionally picking at them, they reached their breaking point, suddenly blood sliding down your hand. out of fear, you wiped it off on your pants until there was rustling amongst the dark trees.
take the words for what they are
on instinct, you turned on the flashlight and off repeatedly as a signal, luke had created when your little rendezvous began.
the moon hung low in the sky, casting a soft, silver glow over everything in sight. a figure emerged from the darkness, his sharp features highlighted by the gentle light that hushed the rest of the world.
you no longer cared for the hollers and shouts of happiness far at the campfire. your focus was only on the boy approaching you with such haste.
a dwindling, mercurial high
a drug that only worked
your heart fluttered at the warm, beaming smile that reached your eyes. one look at your previous thoughts of debating were gone. now only fixated on the sweet, affectionate boy who opened his arms at the sight of you.
going to bed with your head in the clouds was an understatement. a grin plastered on your face, you rolled up your covers before laying your head on the soft pillow. you had to stay quiet, the rest of your cabin already fast asleep with how late you came back.
the first few hundred times
the doubt surrounding your relationship with luke vanished every night you had spent with him. his reassuring words that he loved you and his lingering touches that sent chills throughout your entire body were things that all the girls in the cabin would fawn over but you kept your mouth shut.
and that's the thing about illicit affairs
luke made you swear that your meetups and kisses would only be behind the scenes. at first, it was mysterious in a romantic film way but whenever you would see couples together, hand holding and demonstrating pda around camp, your heart would ping in jealously.
and clandestine meetings and stolen stares
luke had taken you to the river to stargaze and catch up about each other’s days. straying away from the loudness of the camp, you laid your safety with luke as he led you through the forest, one of your biggest fears.
but with luke, you were calm and felt nothing besides the fluttery feeling he gives you whenever he as much spare you a glance. your hand in his was everything you needed to go wherever, no matter how dangerous or scary because he would protect you. right?
they show their truth one single time
the next afternoon was friday. which meant capture the flag, and with the ‘best swordsman in camp’ hermes’ cabin always won. but for you, it wasn’t because he could have you on the ground with his sword in a second but rather with his charming look or tender words that wrapped you in a warm embrace every time.
but they lie, and they lie, and they lie
a million little times
in the midst of battle, you had held your own pretty well with the help of your half-siblings. as the daughter of athena, you were known to be good with a sword or any weapon for that matter. therefore, your cabin agreed it would be best for you to keep guard of your flag.
and you wanna scream
one of the apollo kids lunged at you with full strength, but you dodged and used it against him, successfully defeating him. with the sound of branches crunching, you whipped around to the culprit with sword in hand. but once you made eye contact, your arm faltered almost surrendering immediately.
it was none other than luke castellan.
your outstretched arm restricted him from getting any closer but he knew your guard was down. easily, he used his mastered swordsman skills to deflect your sword and push you up against one of the trees.
don’t call me "kid"
with his sword against your throat, a grin spread across his face as the familiarity of your beloved boy returned, resting the fear sitting deep down your stomach.
you struggling against his strong grip as chris ran in from the forest and grabbed your flag. defenseless, you sighed in defeat when chris disappeared as fast as he came.
don’t call me "baby"
“thanks baby.” he whispered, his lips almost kissing your ear before pulling away and following chris. moments after he left, the horn was heard throughout the camp and you knew that you were the reason they won, and why you lost.
later that night, you waited for him again in the chilly summer air. the mountains sometimes made the weather alter and tonight was one of those nights.
look at this godforsaken mess that you made me
rocking on the balls of your feet, you gripped the flashlight tight and crossed your arms. looking down at your watch, the minute hand now hit the forty-three of the one.
what were you doing?
standing in the middle of the night, distancing yourself from your own siblings and friends just to get a couple of hours with luke before having to part and wait once again. he never specified a time of when he would come, just after twelve when he could make it.
you showed me colors
so the minute the clock in your cabin would hit that hour, you would grab your flashlight and a small cardigan. at first, he would be more no later than a few minutes late and by the looks of him being out of breath, you knew he meant to be earlier.
he would profusely apologize when he was even just ten minutes late, saying that no lady should wait for their prince charming especially this close to the forest at night. thus, twice a week he would help you train, seeing who would last in a duel longer. but these meetups would usually end in him on top of you, now trying to see who would hold their breath longer.
you know I can't see with anyone else
but now, you were waiting like a child for their parent to pick them up from camp, even when the child knows deep down that they aren’t coming. eventually, you woke up to sunlight and a younger camper shaking you awake.
you looked down at your watch to see it was already seven in the morning, meaning you had been waiting there the entire night and he had not come at all.
don’t call me "kid"
later in the mess hall during lunch, you sat poking at your lunch with no luke in sight. maybe he wasn’t feeling well or in the nurses’ office you thought. you hoped. but unfortunately, he came barging in with the rest of hermes cabin, trophy in hand and shouts galore.
luke was none other than in the front, getting handshakes and slaps on the shoulders. he was getting compliments left and right, more than anyone else from the cabin.
don’t call me "baby"
cheers were spread amongst the tables like wildfire and they soon begun chanting, “luke.” he was on top of the shoulders of two campers and given praise from everyone he passed. the guys hollered in excitement and the girls swooned at his existence.
look at this idiotic fool that you made me
the stoll twins stood on the hermes table and shouted, “this man…this man right here, he is the best swordsman in camp! he was the one who defeated everyone and won cabin eleven the capture the flag trophy!”
you taught me a secret language
you frowned at the twins’ words and caught luke’s eyes. he was soaking in his glory with a bright smile that you had once admired so much. his expression immediately softened was he spotted you but you got up and walked out of the hall, too upset to even look back.
luke’s eyes followed your figure and tapped the campers to let him down. he quickly ran out the way he came in, allowing the twins to go on and yap about luke’s greatness and how the win was achieved.
i can't speak with anyone else
you were walked towards your cabin until a hand grabbed your shoulder and spun you around. you glared at him once your eyes met and he was unhanded you in response.
“what’s going on? why are you so upset?” he asked and took one of your hands in his.
you pulled away and crossed your arms in defense, “hm maybe because i didn’t get any sleep last night from waiting for you all night!”
and you know damn well
with that you turned around and went to open the front door of your cabin but luke yet again grabbed your arm this time and made you face him. his grasp was harsh, stronger than he ever had done to you. shocked, you froze half in fear and surprise.
“no…no i’m sorry, my cabin wanted to celebrate the win and they got carried away and i couldn’t get out of it—you saw how loud and crazy they were back there.” he continued and stared down at you with his delicate and soft set eyes that welcomed you back to him.
for you, i would ruin myself
your restraint got weaker as you gradually closed the gap between you two until he pulled you in for a hug completely. with his chin on your head, he whispered “i’m sorry baby, i’ll make it up to you tonight, okay?”
you didn’t respond but kept your face hidden in his chest which was enough of an answer for him.
a million little times
accordingly, you were standing in front of the eerie forest only with a flashlight in hand, awaiting for your prince charming to whisk you away. however, you too knew at the bottom of your heart that he was never coming.
“hey, kid.”
974 notes · View notes
hamsterclaw · 3 months
Text
Black Ice
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Bangtan Christmas drabble 7 - read the rest here.
Min Yoongi only cares about three things. The thrill of drifting, his friends, and cars, in that order. Somehow, you've got under his skin. Part of the Drift Kings AU.
Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader
Rating: 18+
Genre: Street racer/mechanic! Yoongi, smut
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: Sex, swearing
Min Yoongi knows loneliness. He knows the unrelenting ache of it, the way it permeates every aspect of one’s psyche.
He knows what it feels like to look for a connection that isn’t there.
When he was ten his father took him into work for the first time, and it was then, amongst the smells of engine oil and new paint and pinewood air freshener, that Yoongi discovered his first true love.
He pored over engine diagrams, admired the easy simplicity of every tool falling into its destined purpose, got used to his clothes being stained from tuning up cars all day long.
He’d loved every minute of it, and the truth is, he still does.
Then his cousin Yijin had given him a lift down Mount Samo one day, and 14 year old Yoongi had learned that there was more than one way to soar.
He learned to drive navigating the hairpin bends of Mount Samo, and although he’s perfected the art of drifting up and down it, could do it blindfolded a hundred times over, the thrill of it has never really faded.
He’s picked up a collection of friends over the years, all of whom love the adrenaline of street racing – not knowing what’s round the corner, trusting your own reflexes and instincts to save you when you can barely see for the blood rushing in your veins. 
Kim Seokjin, his oldest and closest friend, the chaebol prince who can put together a Supra’s turbo-2JZ engine almost as quickly as Yoongi himself. His sister, a corporate princess who makes Yoongi’s heart soften and the opposite happen to his cock. They’re the two people Yoongi would do anything for, not that he’d ever tell them that. 
Jung Hoseok, the gifted mechanic with a heart of gold and the sunniest demeanour Yoongi’s ever been able to tolerate, creature of the night that he is. 
Jeon Jungkook, the baby fuckboi of the group, a man with the looks of a god and the persona of a baby deer. Yoongi finds it hard to be anything but endeared by his earnest good nature and anything but amused by his swaggering. Maybe one day the kid will grow into the bad man he so badly wants to be, but Yoongi hopes not. He’s great the way he is. 
It’s been a while since Yoongi felt lonely, in fact his life’s pretty good right about now. 
And at this exact moment? It’s perfect. 
Yoongi’s senses are on overdrive as he swings into a hairpin bend on Mount Samo, tires gripping tarmac sideways. His foot taps the throttle, his hand on the handbrake just in case but he doesn’t need it, he knows the terrain so well his body’s reacting on instinct. 
Sideways on he can see Seokjin to his right, composed, barely breaking a sweat as his rear wheels scrape the very edge of the path, inches from the steep drop. 
Yoongi catches sight of himself in his own rearview mirror, teeth bared in a feral grin as he shoots out onto the final stretch, so fast there’s nothing to see but black. 
He’d normally stop, celebrate his win with a cigarette, but he’s got somewhere to be tonight. 
Behind him now, Seokjin’s headlamps flicker in lieu of a goodbye. 
Yoongi depresses the horn, a sharp short blast, and then he’s gone. 
***
Kang Yubin’s been supplying Yoongi’s father’s garage for years, and Yoongi’s been going to him for car parts since before he knew a spark plug from a catalytic converter. 
The Kang warehouse has an unassuming front in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Seoul. Yoongi parks outside the familiar glass door, can see the dim lighting filtering through the tinted glass as he approaches. 
He pushes open the door, stops, nonplussed. 
Instead of Kang Yubin’s steel-rimmed glasses and grey hair, he’s greeted by you. 
Half your face is obscured by a black face mask, your hair up under a baseball cap, but you’re definitely not who he expected to see. 
He blinks. 
Your eyebrows rise. 
‘Are you lost?’ you inquire, an edge to your voice that pulls him out of his surprised reaction and reminds him why he’s here. 
‘I was expecting Mr Kang,’ Yoongi replies. 
Coming closer to the counter he picks up on a guardedness to your posture, a weariness that you don’t bother to hide. 
‘I’m his granddaughter,’ you say, brief. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t just come here to stare at me, what do you want?’ 
‘Spark plugs – I have a —’ Yoongi breaks off as you get up. 
‘I know who you are, and I know what car you drive. Stay here and I’ll get you your stuff.’
You disappear behind a door, return in minutes with a cardboard box. 
You pull a box-cutter out of a desk drawer, slit the masking tape, pull the flaps up. 
‘Feel free to take a look,’ you say, looking at him. 
It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to verify that they’re what he needs. 
‘How do you know who I am?’ he asks, as he pays. 
There’s a faint spark in your eyes, a flicker so quick he wonders if he’s mis-read it. 
‘My grandfather said you were due around this time.’ 
You nudge your shoulder vaguely in the direction of the screen to your left, a view from the camera overlooking the front of the warehouse. ‘Not many people drive a car like that.’ 
You take his money, nudge the box in his direction. 
‘Pleasure doing business, Min Yoongi. I’ll give my grandfather your regards.’ 
You’re already looking back down at your phone like you’ve dismissed him. 
Yoongi picks up the box, casts another glance at you, and leaves. 
He’s still thinking about you when he reaches home. 
***
Yoongi’s concentrating so hard on the engine in front of him that he barely hears Seokjin approach. 
‘Dinner?’ asks Seokjin, eyes flicking over the V configuration of the 8 chrome cylinders in the custom Nissan with interest. 
Yoongi leans back, massages the crick in his neck from leaning over. 
‘Yeah. Quick though, the client wants a rush on this.’ 
They exchange a look. 
‘More money than sense,’ Seokjin says, critical. 
‘Pays the bills,’ Yoongi counters. 
They have similar opinions about rich clients who want their supercars tuned up. It’s rare that a client’s got the ability to do justice to the horsepower under the bonnet of the flashy exteriors. 
Yoongi shrugs, goes to wash his hands. 
‘Is your sister coming?’ he asks. 
Seokjin’s still admiring the engine. ‘Not tonight. Jimin’s in town,’ he says. ‘There’s a race later, if you change your mind. I’m meeting Jungkook after dinner.’ 
‘Is he still sulking over Mijin?’ Yoongi asks, falling into step beside Seokjin. 
There’s no need to confirm where they’re going, they always stop at a tiny restaurant run by an elderly woman who seems utterly unimpressed by their good manners but makes the best broth in town. 
Seokjin rolls his eyes, but his tone is sympathetic. ‘You know how it is. People never expect him to be as soft as he really is.’ 
Yoongi nods. ‘Tell him if she can’t appreciate him she’s the one missing out.’ 
Seokjin snorts. ‘Tell him yourself, he’ll love it. Are you coming to Seulgi’s party?’ 
It’s rare that Yoongi goes out at night, he’s busy and he does his best work at night time, both in the workshop and on the streets, but he’d promised Seokjin he’d go. 
‘Next week?’ he asks. 
Seokjin nods, pushes open the door to the restaurant. 
‘Yeah, don’t forget.’ 
***
Seulgi is a friend of Seokjin’s, they’d dated briefly, years back, but it hadn’t worked out. 
She greets Seokjin enthusiastically at the door, the pink flush on her cheeks deepening as Seokjin gives her an affectionate hug. 
She beams at Yoongi, and he smiles back because he’s not proof against her cheerful nature. 
It’s how he became friends with Hoseok, after all. 
‘Drinks, let me get you drinks,’ Seulgi cheers, leading them into her kitchen. 
Seokjin’s swept away by Seulgi and her friends, he’s always been a popular guy. He shoots Yoongi a look as he’s pulled into the lounge, which Yoongi pretends not to see. 
He lifts his cup to his lips, decides to go outside for a bit. 
The deck outside has a few scattered people, mostly couples, some groups. 
Yoongi leans against the wall, looks around idly. The throbbing bass of the music feels like a heartbeat. The night is cold and crisp, the skies clear, but there aren’t any stars visible in Seulgi’s backyard. 
He lets his mind wander to his next project, restoring a classic Toyota for a friend from the circuit. He’ll need parts. 
He wonders if you’ll be behind the counter when he next goes to the Kang warehouse. Then he’s straightening up, unsure if he’s manifested you into reality. 
He’s never seen your full face, but he’d know your eyes anywhere. 
You’re standing across the deck, looking straight at him, coat open over a dress that shows a hell of a lot more than the hoodie and sweats you had on the last time he saw you. 
For the first time tonight, Yoongi feels a prickle of interest. 
He’d known you’d be beautiful, there’d been something about the way you carried yourself.
You’re still looking at him. 
Yoongi walks over. 
‘Who’s manning the warehouse?’ he asks, when he gets close enough. 
You tilt your head. ‘Are you really so concerned about my family business, Min Yoongi?’ 
There’s a mocking note in your voice, Yoongi finds he likes it. 
‘You have the best quality parts,’ he says. 
Your smile blooms over your face, making your eyes bright. ‘I knew there was a reason my grandfather liked you.’ 
Yoongi nods to your dress. ‘You look pretty.’ 
‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘You look pretty too.’
Yoongi can feel his lips curving. Are you flirting with him? Seems like you are.
He’s all for it.
You’re raising your cup now, taking a sip.
In the night time lighting, your lips glisten with moisture and whatever lipstick you’ve got on, making him wonder what they’d look like around his cock.
You eye him like you know exactly what he’s thinking.
Yoongi says, ‘Do you like cars? Want to see mine?’
***
You’ve got your legs either side of his torso, your ass bouncing in his lap, and Yoongi’s front seat’s reclined all the way to make room for you to ride him.
The lines of your beautiful body are reminiscent of a triumph of masters of Italian design. Long smooth thighs, tightening around him with every rhythmic thrust. 
The curves of your breasts, bouncing right in his face.
The long line of your neck, head thrown back, the pulse in your throat fluttering as he holds your hips so he can fuck you back, fuck up into your sweet warmth.
His cock fits inside you like he was made for you, and god fucking damn, you feel so good around him he’s on a hair trigger.
Yoongi cups the back of your head, tugs you down so you’re close. Goosebumps prickle your flesh as he tells you how good you are.
Your eyes close as he kisses your bare neck, flicks his tongue against your skin.
You had been whimpering steadily as your arousal dripped down onto him, soaking his balls, pooling at the base of his cock, and as Yoongi picks up the pace he’s gratified by the hitch in your breathing.
Yoongi’s always been damn good at helping his partners find their pleasure, and he’s sure as hell not going to stop now.
Your breasts are still in his face, half out the low neck of your dress, chest heaving.
Yoongi rubs his thumb over the outline of your hardened nipple, and you cry out, muffled with your mouth against his skin but still loud enough to make his ears ring.
His balls tighten up even more as your walls flutter around him, and Yoongi would know you were coming even if you hadn’t gasped it.
God, you’re so sweet and sexy he’s lost.
He can feel your panting breaths against his neck, the weight of your warm body as it goes lax after your peak, the sweet grip of your cunt taking in everything he has to give you as he releases, a pulse of pleasure so intense it sends shockwaves through his skin.
Yoongi’s floating, and like reaching the summit of Mount Samo, he immediately wants to do it again.
You’re looking at him, lips still so swollen and pretty his spent cock gives a residual throb inside you.
‘Like my car?’ Yoongi asks. It’s stupid, but it makes you laugh and he’ll be as stupid as you like if it makes you sound like that.
Your chin lifts, and you say, ‘It’s all right.’
The flash of merriment in your eyes gives you away.
Yoongi laughs. ‘Maybe next time we can get the car started and I can actually take you somewhere.’
‘I don’t know,’ you tease. ‘Are you a good driver?’
Yoongi reaches out, tucks the lock of hair that’s fallen over your eye behind your ear.
‘Let’s find out,’ he says. ‘Where do you want to go?’
***
Yoongi’s thinking about you the next morning when he wakes up. He’d ended up taking you back to your place, where you’d kissed him sweetly at the door and bid him goodbye like a promise to see him again. 
His phone rings and he’s still got you on his mind, so it takes a second for him to regroup. 
‘The maknae needs help,’ Seokjin says, no preamble. ‘I’m going to swing by yours, be there in ten.’ 
Yoongi hangs up, wonders what the hell Jungkook’s got himself into this time. 
By the time Seokjin arrives, Yoongi’s had time to bolt coffee and change, but Seokjin still raises a brow as he swings into the passenger seat. 
As always, Seokjin’s impeccably dressed, dark hair swept back from his forehead like he’s going to his own fucking wedding instead of about to deal with some shit that’s going down. 
Yoongi suppresses a yawn, tugs his beanie down over his brow. 
‘What’s going down with JK?’ he asks. 
Seokjin cuts off another car so smoothly they’re halfway down the intersection before the irritated horn blares. 
‘Remember that race the other day? Jungkook beat Seungho fair and square, I was there.’ 
Yoongi groans. ‘The fuck. I thought we weren’t going to race that fragile asshole anymore.’ 
Seokjin glances in the rearview. ‘The maknae was still hurting over Mijin, I thought an easy win might make him feel better.’ 
‘So what’s Seungho done?’ 
‘Brought in the big guns,’ Seokjin says grimly. ‘Called in some guys from Hongkong. JK’s with them now.’ 
Now Yoongi’s fully awake. ‘Should’ve taken my car instead of this piece of shit,’ he says. 
Seokjin just laughs. ‘Don’t worry about my car, Yoongi. Maybe think of a way to hide that big–ass hickey on your neck.’ 
‘Suck my dick,’ Yoongi says, like they’re 16 again. 
‘Looks like someone already did,’ Seokjin returns. 
***
Yoongi parks up outside the Kang warehouse, pushes open the door. 
You look up from your phone. Your face mask is off, so Yoongi has the privilege of seeing the way your lips curve in a smile. 
‘There’s been a shipment of fuel injectors,’ you say. ‘Want to take a look?’ 
Yoongi stops just in front of the wooden half-panel that separates you from him. 
He tilts his head. 
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Also, I took my friend’s Honda for a spin today, I’ve got a list.’ 
He smooths out the piece of paper he’s got folded in his pocket, places it on the counter. 
You pick it up, get up. ‘I’ve got you.’ 
Yoongi runs a hand over the hickey over his neck. ‘I’ve been taking shit all day, about this,’ he adds. 
‘Yeah?’ you ask, but you don’t seem the least bit contrite. ‘You did your share of marking, Min Yoongi.’ 
Yoongi asks, ‘What time do you get off?’ 
You’re about to answer when the door opens. 
Yoongi turns and tenses immediately. 
Fucking Shin Seungho. 
‘You following me?’ he asks mildly. 
Seungho scoffs, doesn’t deign to reply. 
‘I’m collecting an order,’ he says to you. 
Your face mask is back on, your face carefully blank. ‘Sure, what’s the name?’ 
When you go into the back to collect it Seungho turns to Yoongi. 
Yoongi concentrates on the silkscreen of a cat on the wall behind the counter. 
He can feel Seungho’s eyes on his face. 
Just try it, fucker. 
The fact was, he’d pushed Seokjin’s Honda to its limits beating Seungho’s friends today, and although the adrenaline’s ebbed, there’s a thin streak still running through his bloodstream, and he’s a spark away from igniting. 
Seungho takes a step closer, and Yoongi turns to face him like he’s got all the time in the world. 
You return just as Seungho opens his filthy mouth. 
‘Looks like you’ve paid,’ you say, passing the box across the counter to Seungho. 
You pull out the box cutter, slit the package, open it up for him to check, but don’t put it down. 
‘Am I going to have trouble here, boys?’ you ask. 
Seungho barely looks your way, Yoongi’s always known the man lacks vision. 
‘Nah,’ Seungho says finally. He picks up the box, sneers at Yoongi. 
Yoongi blanks his expression. There’s no way he’s going to start shit with Seungho in front of you. 
The asshole’s not worth it. 
As soon as the door closes behind Seungho you put down the box cutter. 
The next words out of your mouth surprise him. 
‘Shit, you’re hot when you’re mad, Yoongi.’ 
Yoongi stares at you, flummoxed, then he laughs. 
‘Just when I’m mad?’ he asks. 
You shrug. ‘Take me out on a date and I’ll tell you more.’ 
‘How about right now?’ Yoongi asks. 
‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘Let’s go.’ 
***
As your grip on his hair loosens, Yoongi lifts his mouth from your cunt, swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Helps you tug your panties back up, smooths your skirt back down over your thighs. 
He notices you’ve still got his cum in the corner of your lips. As he watches, you flick your tongue out, lick delicately. 
His cock stirs with interest, and you act like you know it. 
‘More later?’ you ask. 
‘Yeah. After I win.’ 
Yoongi reaches over to help you with your seatbelt, arranging it across your chest, between your breasts, securing it. 
You lean forward and kiss him as the belt clicks into place. 
Yoongi starts the engine, turns the heating back on because he’s noticed your hands get cold easily. 
‘I can drop you off at home before the race,’ he offers. ‘Come see you after.’ 
‘I want to see you drive,’ you say.
Yoongi wouldn’t say it, but he’s pleased. He knows he’ll keep you safe, it’s a circuit through the city outskirts he’s done a million times, and he’s looking forward to you meeting Seokjin and Hoseok and Jungkook. 
He flicks on the lights, rolls into oncoming traffic. Heads North. 
By the time he pulls up to the starting line there’s the usual crowd gathered. He parks up next to Seokjin and Hoseok.  
In his rearview he can see JK surrounded by people. He’s lost the sad puppy air he had for a few weeks whilst he was pining after Mijin. The kid’s going to be all right, not that Yoongi’s ever had any doubt about that. 
Engines all around him are starting up, a deafening series of rumbles. 
Beside him, Seokjin waves, and Hoseok smiles so brightly it’s blinding. 
The flag waves, and Yoongi accelerates. 
Checks on you in the rearview, and you’re as pretty as he remembers. 
Min Yoongi’s spent a lot of his life looking for connection, and by his reckoning, he’s doing pretty well right about now. 
Lights flash by in a blur. 
Yoongi drives. 
Author note: And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading, hope you've enjoyed, here's to a brighter 2024. This time last year we were saying goodbye to Kim Seokjin, I can't wait to start welcoming the boys back again. Happy holidays to you all!
©hamsterclaw 2023
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caelivir · 10 months
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rayne ames relationship hcs (part ii)
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— WARNING: creepy behavior from a guy but that’s it
— author’s note. i feel like the author’s note from when i posted this doesn’t apply anymore, but anyway, this is part two but isn’t actually because i lost the first part when i accidentally deleted my account… again im so sorry. ALSO!! the writing is a little different bc i’m cringing rereading my old stuff. (how did u guys let that slide)
— HUGE HUGE HUGE THANK YOU TO @mikadzukis FOR SAVING MY OLD HCS I AM INDEBTED TO U!!!!
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rayne ames loves dates with you. he loves them.
but he especially loves picnic dates
you introduced him to the idea on one of his days off
you promised it wasn’t going to be draining because you knew being a visionary is a taxing job
so he agreed
and he loved it
spread across the red and white checkered picnic blanket are plates of grapes, cheese, and sandwiches. two goblets of iced tea rest on top of a wooden board so they can remain balanced.
rayne’s large hands support his weight as he leans back onto the blanket. the half-blonde cranes his neck to stare up at the leaves. rays of sunlight peek through slivers of space between them. a butterfly flutters its wings above him.
“rayne!” you call for his attention.
your lover hums as a reply before directing his eyes toward you, offering his full attention.
“i made something for you.” you speak, grabbing for another basket on the blanket. you lift up the cover, reaching carefully inside it. you pull out a cake platter and set aside the lid that protected the dessert residing on it.
“it’s a cake!” you continue with a smile. “this is the first time you’ve been off in a while so i thought i could make a cake to celebrate! i even decorated it with some bunnies!”
a small grin grows on the visionary’s face. he pushes himself up. rayne takes the platter out of your hand and gently places it on a free board on the blanket. you’re caught in surprise as his arms wrap themselves around your waist. his head finds warmth in the crook of your neck.
“thank you.” he whispers.
rayne’s protective of you
he knows you’re capable of fighting your own battles, but there are certain situations where he just had to take care of it
if someone’s saying things about you or harassing you, he isn’t going to tolerate that
the entirety of easton knows not to mess with you, because messing with you means messing with rayne, and no one wants to put themselves through that
he’s already scary enough as is so all it takes is a couple of threats for the person to leave cowering in fear
you wait outside of the café as rayne uses the restroom. people of all ages each other as they navigate their ways theough marchétte street. one of them approaches you, but it’s not rayne.
“so what’s a fine thing like you doing alone here in the street.” a guy smirks, trailing his eyes up and down your body. you shift uncomfortably. he’s definitely a few years older than you and inches taller than rayne. a single line cuts through his right cheek, indicating his level of magic.
you swallow down an anxious gulp before speaking. “i’m with my boyfriend.”
“tell me gorgeous,” the man’s hand travels down the path of your jaw. you’re disgusted by his touch. “does your boyfriend like to share?”
“i really think you should go.” you respond firmly, shoving the grimy hand away from your face.
the guy chuckles, raising his hands in defense. “no need to get aggressive, sweetheart! i just want to know!”
“and who the hell are you?” a familiar deep voice says from behind you. you turn around to discover rayne, and your eyes light up at his appearance. you’re well acquainted with the detachment and chilling coldness of rayne’s gaze, but now, there’s a fire behind them.
rage.
he’s pissed.
recognition becomes evident in the man’s face, and it dawns on him that he just messed with a divine visionary’s lover, but before he can retreat, rayne steps in front of you. he yanks your harasser down to your level. you don’t know what the half-blonde says, but it’s clear that it sparks fear into the features of the other man. once rayne’s finishes with him, he apologizes profusely before running away in the opposite direction.
the anger behind rayne’s eyes fade; they soften when he finds your gaze. “are you okay.”
you grin. “yeah, now that you’re here.”
rayne lets you wear his robes
whenever you hang out in his dorm, your first instinct is to go through his closet and take them
when you first did it, he was going to protest
but you looked so cute i. them that he decided to let it slide
you especially like wearing them when you nap
though you wearing his robes does pose some problems for him from time to time
“you’re late,” orter points out from his seat at the table. his fingers slide the frame of his glasses up his nose. “and where’s your visionary robe?”
rayne strolls past the desert came, not bothering to answer for his actions. he didn’t want to admit—especially to orter of all people—the reason behind his missing robe.
this morning, just as he was almost ready to leave for the divine visionary meeting, rayne realized that he was missing his robe. the half-blonde searched ever crevice of his dorm but to no avail. rayne sighed, reaching the conclusion that you accidentally took it.
yesterday, he had to run a quick errand while you were napping. upon his return, rayne discovered that you had left. you scribbled a message on a notepad, explaining that you didn’t want to keep intruding. you were probably too tired to realize that you had his war robe in your possession.
rayne could waste any more time making a trip to your dorm. it was a bit of a distance from his. the best decision at the moment was to let you have it and attend the meeting without it.
that is how he ended up in this situation, late and stuck sitting next to ryoh.
“y/n has your robe, don’t they?” ryoh teases in a whisper. for some reason, ryoh had discovered rayne’s relationship with you. whenever the two visionaries crossed paths, his senior never fails to mention you.
the sword cane doesn’t respond. “that’s a yes, isn’t it?” ryoh continues with a shit-eating grin. he pokes the arm of the boy next to him
rayne inhales. gods, he was not going to hear the end of this.
whenever you and rayne are apart due to his job as divine visionary, you communicate through letters sent by owls
he talks about the places he’s at and shit talks the people he doesn’t like
you tell him about you classes and how things are back at the academy, especially things going on within the adler dorm
and you occasionally give him updates on finn because you know deep down rayne cares about him
an owl lands on the sill of the open window of rayne’s temporary room. the animal clamps down on an browned envelope placed in its beak. rayne approaches the bird, and it drops the letter into his hands before flying off.
the mattress of the bend sinks under rayne’s weight when he sits on it. he unfolds the piece of parchment in his hands unsealing the envelope. his eyes scan down the letter that reads:
dear rayne,
how’s your trip? i hope nothing’s gone bad. things back at easton have been the same as usual, but it’s not that fun without you here.
classes are boring, but that’s nothing new. i might rip my brain out. i’ve been baking to try and cope. by the way, when you get back, you have to try this cheese tart i made. i had your brother and a friend of his try them. they seemed to like it a lot. i don’t know the name of the kid yet, but he wants me to make cream puffs next time. he says they’re a lot better than cheese tarts so you’ll have to try those too.
speaking of finn, he’s doing extremely well. he’s making lots of friends which is really nice to see. he always seems nervous to talk to me though. am i intimidating or something. i don’t think i am. unless you’ve been saying some things about me then i think we’re gonna have a problem…
gods, i miss you so much. come back soon. i’ll be waiting for you always. take care of yourself and don’t stress too much. i love you.
- y/n
p.s. please get me a souvenir. thank you! i love you, again.
rayne stands up, finding a sheet of paper and a quill. he pulls out a chair by a table. a slight smile flashes on the visionary’s face as he writes back to you—his home.
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soapskneebrace · 1 year
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playing the quiet game
Pairing: Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: Dominant/submissive dynamics, established relationship, implied kink pre-negotiation, a LOT of fingering (f!receiving), a lil Price angst Tagging: @dilfconisuer who I teased with this a while back, and fellow Price simps @yeyinde @guyfieriii @alittleposhtoad Author’s Notes: I shit you not, the clock struck midnight January 1st and fireworks started going off in the middle of writing the orgasm. Happy new year! Enjoy the smut.
Now on AO3!
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The world is soft and cozy as you come back into it, a little fuzzy from over-washing and dyed in the cool tones of early morning. You’re in that delicious place at the edge of sleep, mind swaying between dreams and reality, body languid and draped on your side across the bed. Touch is the first sense that comes back to you—a warm weight at your back, hips flush with your rear and legs bent along the contours of your own. You shift a little, to give yourself an excuse to settle against it.
“Mm,” John murmurs as he notices you stir, mouth against your neck, nuzzling you slowly with the wiry brush of his facial hair. The hum of his voice is low enough to vibrate between your shoulder blades.
“Mm?” you respond, scent returning next. The new detergent he’s using, gentle and mildly floral, and the fresh pine of the shampoo he washed his hair with last night. The ever-present smokey molasses that’s permanently seeped into his skin. You keep your eyes closed, saving sight for later, imagining that as long as you see nothing, John and the sheets you’re both wrapped up in can be the only thing that exists.
His hand rests on your ribcage, and smooths its way down your hip and thigh. It travels back up again, then retreats—rhythmic, even, fingers dipping and spreading at the curves and valleys of your body. It’s at the same tempo as your breath, which is normalizing as more of your mind picks reality to set up in. You can feel him breathing, too, chest rising and falling against your back, warm exhales fanning across the bare expanse of skin he’s claimed with his mouth and mutton chops.
Down your ribcage, along your hip, and back up. His other arm, you discover as you shift again, is propping him up, forearm wormed into the wedge of empty space between your neck and shoulder and the bed. His knee nudges the back of your thigh.
He paints another soft, prickly kiss on your neck, and rubs his chin and cheek into your jaw. You don’t hide the moan it inspires.
“Keep it down,” he whispers. His hand splays on your thigh. “Thin walls, love.”
You make another noise, lower, somewhere in your throat. His hand is warm on your bare skin, soft and sturdy as it travels along your body, not quite kneading but giving enough pressure to sink in, to meld your flesh like clay with every pass.
“John,” you murmur. “Mm. John…”
“Shh,” he breathes into your ear.
You feel his lips on your neck again, feel his hand divert from its established path to smooth across your belly. The spread of his fingers is wide enough to graze the underside of one breast, and you can’t help the little inhale of anticipation you give. At the same, even rhythm, John drags the flat of his hand down your stomach to its lowest border, and you forget to breathe at all for that little minute before, once again, his touch retreats from whence it came.
His mouth parts on your neck. The hot graze of his tongue meets your skin before the press of his teeth claims the space, and his hand travels just a little lower with the next pass.
Some part of you wonders if you should figure out what John has in mind right now, compare it to what you actually have time for. Off-duty or not, you’re still on base. But then the top of his thigh aligns flush with the back of yours; and you realize, the thought settling into the soft place in your mind between sleep and waking, that he would be doing none of this if he had cause not to. He already knows that you love waking up like this. He knows what circumstances in which he should not wake you up like this. When it comes to you, John Price remains in comfortable, considerate control—and leaves you only with the task of saying yes, please or not now, thank you. He has never asked you to figure out the right place or the right time.
You don’t have to worry about anything. John has already worried about it for you. Your head feels light, airy; you’d think you were slipping back into sleep, if it didn’t suddenly feel like your skin was electrified. It’s a feeling that always comes with letting go and letting him be in charge.
“John,” you murmur again, the breath in your lungs escaping, the sigh mimicking the same one he always draws from you when you finally surrender.
The seal over your skin he has with his lips and teeth gives a sharp pull. “Someday I’ll figure out how to keep you quiet,” he says, low and amused as he disconnects.
The smile that rests against your skin sends sparks dancing across your scalp.
“Don’t stop,” you say, the quiet tone of your voice laced with a yearning you can’t conceal. “Please, John…”
His palm crests the jut of your hip and glides back inward, downward, fingertips skimming the crease of your thighs. The nerves there jump to meet him, buzzing suddenly with too much energy for your still half-asleep mind to moderate. He seals his mouth over a new spot on your neck, dragging the flat of his tongue, blistering hot, along your skin.
“You’re going to leave marks,” you breathe.
“The gear covers them up,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety purr. “Be good for me, love.”
Euphoria blooms hot across your face. “Yes, John.”
He growls a little, pleased with you, and his fingers dip into your panties and between your folds.
The jerk your leg gives is involuntary. John curls his leg further inward to meet it, to keep it pushed upward, as the heat of his broad hand cups your sex. You feel the tip of one finger trace along your perineum, and a whimper makes its way out of your throat before his other hand wraps around your jaw, tilts your head backward. His mouth finds your ear, the stubble pricking at delicate cartilage.
“Not going to tell you again,” he murmurs, just a little bit of the Captain leaking into his tone. “Quiet down. Aye?”
A shiver races down your spine, makes a home in your sacrum. You nod, as much as you can in his grip. You understand the shape of his control, the intention of it; he’s not looking for a verbal affirmation, and to give one would incur consequences. You’re not opposed to his consequences—often, they’re as sweet as his rewards. But right now you want to bask in this submission, want to earn what he’s already set on giving you.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, tracing your lips with his index finger. His other hand kneads your pussy, that same up-and-down motion that he woke you up with, and his mouth returns to your neck, teeth sinking into another sliver of unmarked skin.
You settle into him, push your pelvis forward just a little, hoping he sees it for the offer it is rather than the demand it could be mistaken for. He chuckles against you, and teases one finger between your labia, brushes your entrance before flicking upward to surprise your clit. It makes your leg jerk again, and John only takes the opportunity to wrap around you more tightly. You feel him then, against your ass, in the cleft of it—he’s hard as iron, and ramrod-erect.
You suck your lips between your teeth, swallow, exhale a shaky breath from your nose. Pleasure radiates from the tips of his fingers, from the flex of his palm, as he traces the outlines of your sex at a pace too leisurely for early-morning sensitivity to handle. But you won’t make a sound. You’re going to be good for him. The ache between your legs begins to throb, and John must feel it, because finally he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit.
Your hips jerk against him. Sound almost makes it out of you. A gasp, a sharp inhale, but you swallow it down, and John smiles against you. He releases his teeth from you, presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, and takes up the same rhythm he’s been maintaining this whole time, a slow, steady caress that you want to whine at. His hand slides down to your throat, dwarfing the breadth of your neck—not squeezing, but monitoring. He’ll be able to feel any noise you make.
“I didn’t say you had to be silent, love,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down from your clit to swirl around your entrance—and squelching loud enough to let you both know that you’re drenched. “You just need to remember who that noise belongs to.”
You gasp when he slides a thick finger into you with not a moment of warning. “You—ah—you have to be specific, John,” you whisper, hyper-aware of your walls fluttering around him as he languidly pumps in and out of you. “I can’t be good for you if I don’t know the rules—ohh.”
He pushes in to the knuckle, curls his finger against the spot that has black spots dancing across your vision. Before they can blend together, overtake you, he withdraws, pulls out to circle your clit again, and you only wonder for a moment if this is the new rhythm before he gives the bundle a hard tap before pushing back in again.
“You’re right,” he murmurs, mouth open on your jaw, slipping a second finger into you. You have to clench your teeth to keep your mewl from becoming a moan. “And I did just wake you up, didn’t I?”
The stretch, the burn of new fullness, steals your ability to respond. The slow thrust of his hand picks up just a little, as if he wants to make it even harder for you to reply, but you’re determined. “Mm, John,” you breathe, “Let me be good for you.”
He goes still for a moment, fingers halting inside you, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and then his hand suddenly tightens around your neck—not cutting off your air, but utterly possessive, and he hooks his knee under yours to spread your thigh outward. Immediately he’s pistoning his fingers into you alarmingly quickly, and you only remember to stifle yourself at the last moment, turning a surprised shriek into a series of quick, high-pitched mewls. He thrusts against you, grinds his cock against your ass.
“You’re always good for me,” he growls into your ear, shoving in to the knuckle, flicking wildly against your g-spot. “Even when you’re not. I don’t fuckin’ deserve you, love, not a single thing you do for me.”
You want to refute him—want to tell him everything you give him is just a return on what he’s given you. But you can’t, and the only reason you can’t is that he’s fucking the breath out of your lungs with nothing but his goddamn fingers, meanwhile his cock tucked against your ass is so hard you can practically feel the throb of blood running through it.
And anyway, he doesn’t want you to tell him. This is no morning confessional, no whispered prayer to absolve his greed for you. He isn’t saying this because he thinks he’s taking advantage of you—it’s just the naked truth of what John believes, laid bare as if in offering. It’s the best way he knows how to tell you he adores you.
He’s explained all of this. You’ve told him he needs therapy. He’s laughed, and he’s agreed.
“Just don’t stop taking any of it,” you whisper, turning your head, finally opening your eyes to see his face, to drink in the muss of warm brown hair and the fray of uncombed beard. A gentle blue gaze, incongruous with the furor of his hand between your legs, meets yours. “Just don’t stop taking me.”
Dark brows draw together, etching a crease into his forehead. That blue becomes electric. “Never,” he growls, and takes your mouth with his.
His hand leaves your throat to join the other, and a third finger enters you as he resumes the massage on your clit that he’d left off. His tongue sweeps along the ridge of your teeth, probes inward to dance along your own, and at the same time he spreads his fingers inside of you, stretching you so far that you don’t think there isn’t a place in you that he isn’t touching. You think he’s filled your entire body with just his fingers, because there isn’t room in you anymore for your lungs to expand beyond shallow, whining breath. Your legs are shaking of their own accord, muscles twitching every time his fingers brush just the right spot on your clit, and you know he’s realized what he’s found when the flicker of his touch does not leave that spot.
You moan, low and breathy, keeping the sound in the back of your throat. You feel nothing but John, know nothing but the warmth of his arms caging you against his body, the searing burn of his fingers stretching you almost as wide as his cock can. His body is moving with yours, his hips pressing yours forward, shoving you farther into his hands and onto his fingers. The sheets are a mess of wrinkles around your moving bodies, and you finally remember your own arms, your own hands as they’re gripping the fabric without your input.
When your touch finds his forearms, when your nails dig into the broad muscle of them, you feel it coming fast. It’s fluttering around his fingers, pulling tight against the muscles in your thighs. Foreshocks have your body undulating against his, and you know, when his fingers thrust deep and stay there, that he can feel it coming, too.
“That’s it love,” he growls into your lips, kissing you between words. Three fingers curl into you, and you wonder if your body can break apart from the pleasure of their simple pressure behind your clit. “You’re being fucking perfect—I can feel it, fuck—come on, you’ve more than earned it, come for me—”
And all it takes for you then is his words, the rasp of his breath against your mouth, for ecstasy to explode in you from the tips of his fingers, pleasure bursting outward in a shockwave that wracks your entire body. Your breath comes short and quick as it takes you, and you whimper John’s name until he kisses you again, saving you from having to control your own volume as you lose control over everything else. He keeps fucking you as you shudder against his body, keeps up the frantic pace of his thrusting hand and the vice-like pressure he has around your clit, sending aftershocks across your body that keep you shaking and near-sobbing against his mouth. He does not let you get away from it, does not let you escape his hands, and does not stop until you go limp and boneless in his arms.
You come back to yourself, eons later, still breathing hard, panting in sync with John. His hold on you has slackened, arms still around you but loose enough that it’s easy—if not prompt, as it still feels like your muscles are jelly—to turn over to face him. He’s gazing at you, as if he wants to drink you in with his eyes alone, and that gaze is heavy-lidded and content. Neither of his hands have gone southward, searching for his cock or his own release. This is not unusual. He’s told you before that he knows he’ll get his eventually. And you know by now, too, that sometimes John finds more satisfaction in your orgasm than his own.
Every sense has come back to you now. His facial hair is softer than it looks, as you cup the side of his face, and the smell of detergent and shampoo is mingled now with the humid weight of the perspiration you two have worked up. The taste of him—you realized belatedly that he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth before this, because it’s lightly minty—is still on your tongue. His breath is heavy, but even and quieter than yours, obscured somewhat by your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears.
But the best experience is the sight of him—painted in the warming tones of a day starting to get on, t-shirt tight across his chest, skin a little flushed and shimmery with moisture. He smiles at you, blue eyes liquid with open affection, as you stroke his mustache. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world.
“I can’t believe you did that with your fucking fingers,” you laugh.
The smile spreads, creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you let me.”
It’s a softness that he always expresses after he’s done anything to you. Whatever he thinks he deserves from you, he never hides his gratitude for what you give him.
When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a kiss that he lingers in, lips moving softly against yours as one hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Your elbows don’t want to prop you up for much longer, though, and you have to break away to lay your head back down.
“Good morning, John,” you say, smiling softly.
He shifts, moves closer, eyes tender as they remain settled on you. “Good morning, love.”
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tannieastrology · 22 days
Text
Solar Return Observations #2🌻💛
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🌼💛Just an update so far, I have a 5th house stellium in my chart this year and life has felt so carefree. Life made me get rid of my old crush and made me focus on myself for a while(Pluto) until just friday I met someone new unexpectedly(Vertex). I havent felt this feeling in almost 3 years its really exhilarating feeling like this and I actually have a good feeling about it. It felt like I was meant to cross paths with him at this point in my life right now because im actually focused on my higher self. I feel that Vertex along with other major planets like the Sun, Mars, Mercury, Pluto, and POF made meeting him feel fated because for one ever since Ive met him ive consequently crossed paths with him multiple times in just the span of 3 days. Its not a deep connection however(5th house) but I hope to beat the odds and make something out of it. So overall, Ive had lots of fun, peace, and new interests in love.
🌼💛So I recently just discovered this, but you can go and find your monthly/daily transit chart and overlap it to your natal or solar return chart to see how your school, career, family, or love life will be. I was wondering why was it that I never got the opportunity to meet someone in matters of romance but i did multiple times in friendships and then I saw that in my transit charts I never had Venus in the 7th house until last month. Venus had always been in like the 11th, the 10th, or the 3rd and school and friends was what was constant in my life. Sometimes even having Venus in the 8th can mean a change in your love life. I even looked all the way through 2022 and 2023 and all 12 months there was not one placement of Venus/Mars/Moon in the 5th or 7th until my transit chart of Febuary 29. Venus conjuncted Mars in the 8th and what happened? I saw the new guy who was exactly my type and I found interest in him. My next transit will be March 30 with Venus, Saturn, and Neptune in the 7th, and Mars conjunct the descendant. Im hoping that things will go well and I can get the courage to talk to him but we'll seeee.
🌼💛Having Jupiter in the 1st just means your whole year will be filled with luck youll just have things fall right into your hands.
🌼💛Uranus in the 9th house is lowkey feeling lost on what path you should take regarding school or just feeling disconnected from school in general. I have this right now and ive been having trouble locking in on my school work and i dont know how i want to plan my schedule for next year. Im just going with the flow atp.
🌼💛Venus in the 4th house means your family will spoil you and make you feel loved.
🌼💛Ok so im not really liking the attention ive been getting from having Lilith exactly conjunct the Ascendant. It feels like every where i go theres been men staring at me creepily and theres this guy on the track team who keeps touching me and crossing my boundries and personal space and it makes me so uncomfortable. Its so grimy and I hate it.
🌼💛Look at the dominant planet and see what house it falls in. Last year i had a dominant planet of moon and it fell in the 12th house conjunct mars. All imma say is that last year was one of the worse but strengthening years for me mentally.
🌼💛Venus in the 9th house means you’ll probably get a chance to travel. I had it in the 4th degree and i went to California from Texas because of a wedding on my moms side.
🌼💛Ive noticed that Vertex in the 5th doesnt always necessarily mean youll meet someone, it just means that youll get a lot of opportunities to go out and have fun.
🌼💛Saturn in the 6th/10th means standing on business.
🌼💛Chiron in the 5th may be a year where you feel burnt out. Make sure to take a break.
🌼💛Moon in libra will beautify a relationship depending on whatever house its in. Ex- first house: your appearance, 3rd: your relationship with siblings, 5th house: with your romantic partners or your inner self. It could also mean you feel romantic this year and could even have more opportunities given to you to express those feelings.
🌼💛7th house Neptune means having dreamy fantasies about people you wanna date. Could have your head in the clouds or you can just have high hopes regarding this area. Could be spiritually calming regarding partnerships but you can be manipulated and gaslighted too if your not careful.
🌼💛Venus in the 10th means being called beautiful all the time during that year. So many strangers used to stop me in the hallways to tell me I was pretty that year.
🌼💛Chiron and Neptune in the 1st means not being able to see your beauty.
🌼💛Venus or Jupiter in the 2nd means splurging on skincare, makeup, and clothes.
🌼💛Having Chiron in the 4th is not fun lol. Could mean family problems, struggling to feel at home when youre at home, and having trouble having a safe space.
🌼💛Leo Ascendant years will make you feel popular.
🌼💛Venus in the 6th could make you follow health, beauty, and workout routines or it could oppositely make you feel lazy and not wanna do anything. It also means feeling comfortable at work or find a interest at work.
🌼💛In 2020 when covid hit I had Saturn in the 5th house and it makes so much sense looking back. We were forced to be isolated and I couldnt go out because of the lockdown. Dont get me wrong though I still had alot of fun with my family but I feel like my middle school experience wouldve been alot different if that hadnt happened.
🌼💛Having a Cancer Ascendant back in 2015 was when my older cousin got married and that was a big event for our family that girl spent almost a 100k on her wedding. She was the first to get married out of the kids in the family. Even having Cancer degrees in the chart will mean change or some significant event in your family life.
Thats all for today hope yall enjoyed:)
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