#but i was like come on lad you can sit in the front next to me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ewanmitchellcrumbs · 4 months

Note

Ever since that running aemond pic came out I've been thinking non stop about his thighs so... would you like to write something involving riding aemond's thigh? I have no other wishes and I totally get it if you think that's not enough of a prompt. You can ignore this if you want but I'd love to see what you can come up with!

You asked for this back in June, I'm so sorry for how long this has taken me. I am a shambles of a human being, truly. I hope you've stuck around long enough to see this!

Warnings: Thigh riding, smut, me playing fast and loose with canon. Word count: ~1.3k

The candle that rests beside her on the reading table burns low as she sits in her and Aemond’s marital chambers. The book that is spread out in front of her, Coming of the Andals, lays unread; her fingers tap anxiously against its pages, as her eyes remain fixed upon the door.

Aemond had been called to a meeting of the Small Council. They both knew why, it has been a long time coming. The injuries that Aegon sustained during the battle of Rook’s Rest have left him bedridden, he is no longer fit to rule, and their grandsire’s capacity for what he can do in his stead has reached its limit. Westeros needs a Targaryen upon the throne, and Aemond is next in line. It is a position she knows that her husband is all too eager to fill.

He ought to be back by now though, it has been hours. The evening grows late, and she has long since sent away her chambermaids, refusing to be readied for bed. She has no desire to sleep until Aemond returns, so she forgoes the comfort of her nightgown, despite longing to unlace the meticulously fastened ribbons that hold her bodice tightly in place against her ribcage.

Tiredness and impatience pluck at her nerves, making her shift irritably in her chair. She startles at a polite rap at the door, if it was Aemond then he would simply walk in, he would not bother to knock. Her brow furrows in confusion as she rises, walking towards the door to open it.

She looks down into the wide eyed anticipation of one of the Keep’s page boys. He clears his throat before speaking.

“Apologies for the disturbance at such a late hour, Princess, Prince Aemond has requested your presence in the throne room.”

She sighs, nodding and bidding the young lad goodnight, before snuffing out the candle and making her way through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast towards the Great Hall. The walk is long, and she is grateful she has not yet changed into her nightclothes, as the gown she wears does little to keep the chill of the castle air from nipping at her skin. She would feel annoyed at Aemond insisting she come all this way, were it not for the mixture of curiosity and excitement that flutters lightly in her chest.

Pushing open the great oak and bronze doors, her eyes scan the long carpet that stretches the length of the room, up to the high, narrow steps that lead to the raised iron dais. Aemond sits upon the throne. She stands silently as she regards him. His arms rest on either side of the asymmetrical tangle of jagged and twisted blades, long fingers curled around the makeshift armrests.

He is dressed as he was when he had left her earlier that evening; black, leather tunic, black breeches and leather boots, except this time the Conqueror’s crown sits atop his snowy head of hair, the Valyrian steel and rubies gleaming iridescent in the moonlight. He cuts quite the imposing figure as his single eye stares at her impassively.

Slowly, she descends the steps into the Hall, making her way along the carpet, maintaining eye contact with her husband the entire time. His lips quirk, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at their corners as he observes the unhurried pace with which she moves. It is not until she stands before the throne that he bothers to speak.

“It is not polite to keep your King waiting,” he utters quietly.

“Prince Regent,” she corrects him. “And it is not becoming of a King to rouse ladies from their slumber in the middle of the night.”

He huffs through his nose, smirking at her as he leans forward slightly. “You do not appear to be dressed for sleep. I must say, I am disappointed.”

“It is improper for a lady to greet the King in such a state of undress, or is that how you will have all the ladies of the court attend to you?”

“Hmmm. I have not yet decided how I would like you to attend to me. Will you curtsy to me?”

“Never,” she whispers with a playful giggle.

“Such insolence must be met with the King’s justice.”

She takes his hand as he offers it out, gasping as he tugs her forcefully up to him, her knees landing either side of one of his, as she sits against his thigh. Even through her skirts she can feel the unyielding sharpness of the throne beneath them. She steadies herself, placing her hands upon the smooth suppleness of the leather that covers his shoulders.

Aemond grasps her waist with one hand, the other moving to weave itself into her hair, as his eye drinks her in. She allows her gaze to wander to the crown, taking in the way it sinks into the thick silkiness of his hair.

“It suits you,” she says quietly.

“It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“And is this what has kept you from our bed?”

“I wanted you to see.”

He flexes his thigh, raising his leg to brush against her clothed core and she sucks in a shaky breath, the sensation causing a jolt that makes her throb with want.

“I would have seen…” she retorts with a slight whine, as the hand holding her waist moves to her hip, gripping it tightly and encouraging her to grind against him.

“Not like this,” he hisses, tugging her head back by her hair and mouthing hotly at her neck.

She moans, her nails digging into his shoulders to ground herself, as she fucks herself against his thigh, aided by the occasional bounce and flex of the muscle from Aemond. The ache between her legs is almost unbearable, the gusset of her smallclothes growing sticky with arousal, as the sensation of his lips upon her flesh makes her shudder.

“This moment is just for us,” he mutters, pushing and pulling her more forcefully against him, encouraging her to move faster. “But we shall have many more like it.”

“Gods, Aemond, please,” she whimpers, insides clenching around nothing as the friction against her aching pearl grows more intense.

“I will fuck a babe into you upon this throne,” he snarls, shifting his hand from her hair to pluck harshly at the lacings of her gown, before tugging down her bodice and wrapping his lips around the peak of her breast.

Arching against him, she buries her hands in his hair, keeping him anchored to her chest. The warmth of his scalp and the softness of the tresses between her fingers are oddly juxtaposed with the hardened coolness of the Valyrian steel that crowns Aemond’s head, but she has little time to dwell upon it.

She cants wantonly against Aemond’s leg, the pressure in her lower belly increasing, aided by the swirl of his wet tongue against her sensitive nipple. When it finally yields, she collapses forward against him with a strangled cry of pleasure, a rush of wetness soaking her smallclothes and leaving a damp patch on the area of her husband’s trousers that she rests against. Warmth cascades over her body, making her feel boneless as she pants for breath and Aemond’s lips release her with a wet pop.

He holds her steady, leaning back to look at her, as a cat might regard a mouse it toys with. His hooded eye roves over her glassy eyes, her parted lips, her bare chest, before he lifts a hand to adjust his crown slightly. “Hmmm. Yes. It makes everything look better.”

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misshoneyimhome · 2 months

Note

Can you do willy x intern! Where maybe they fight and intern goes on vacay. Girls weekend Where she is bratty and posts a ton of thirst traps to her open insta.... ignoring willy..

Hot ass jealous sex... William riled up and furious. Maybe texting her.... "take that shit down.."

Oh, my love 🤍 Well, of course, I can - or at least I attempted 😉 I'm not the greatest at writing angsty fights 🙃 But it might have turned out alright -

Nevertheless, I still hope you find it enjoyable 🤍

Also, please see this request 🖋️🔥

[In case you don't know - "Nobody puts Baby in the corner." is from Dirty Dancing (only one of the greatest movies of all time) 🤍]

Warnings: curse words; semi-public dry-humping; penetrative sex (p in v); pinning; dom!Willy, i guess;

Word count; 6k

「Intern x Willy」 ;

・✶ ｡ﾟ

I see this life, like a swinging vine I William Nylander 🖋️⚡️ [intern x Willy]

Two days had passed since the gala, and the team was already on their way to their next away game in Winnipeg.

With their bags packed and the bus filled with players, coaches, and a small media team of three, they were all set to hit the road. And it was going to be a long journey.

Usually, the team would have opted for a two-hour flight, but since Project Planet Green had been a significant topic during the gala, someone in management thought it would be a good idea for the Leafs to set an example for the cause of the environment. Which meant enduring a 20-hour bus ride instead of flying to minimise carbon emissions.

Needless to say, nobody was enthusiastic about the idea. But since MLSE had made the decision, the team had to comply.

At the beginning of the journey, you had taken a seat next to Melanie at the front, with Jennifer sitting across the aisle. However, as the conversation gradually shifted from work to more personal topics, seating arrangements seemed to change, and Melanie ended up joining Jennifer instead, leaving you alone.

Which you didn't really mind. In fact, you just took the opportunity to relax and listen to the cheers and laughter coming from the boys in the rows behind you and the coaches.

And with nobody beside you, you could finally check the messages that William had been sending throughout the ride, teasing you intentionally since you couldn't read them in front of Melanie. And you were right; the cheeky lad back there seemed to have been texting a few ideas of what the two of you could do once you reached the hotel.

You bit your lip as you read his messages, thoughts forming in your mind and a smile creeping onto your lips. You were definitely looking forward to reaching your destination.

But then, just as your mind was preoccupied, Auston's voice suddenly echoed through the bus.

"Oh, hey y/n, come join the fun!"

You glanced back at the group, Auston's mischievous grin peeping through and meeting your gaze.

"Yeah, don't be such a downer," Mitch chimed in with a laugh, and you couldn't help but chuckle too.

"Alright."

With a small sigh, you decided to do just that and made your way down the aisle of the bus. However, as you approached the boys, it seemed there was no available seat for you. Looking around, perhaps a bit puzzled, Auston flashed another mischievous grin.

"You know, you can always sit on Willy's lap.”

You hesitated at first, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention from the coaches, but when you saw they were deeply engrossed in discussions about game strategies, you turned to face William. His handsome Swedish face bore a content smirk as he sat by the window next to Timothy.

"Well, why not?" you chuckled lightly, then made your way to sit in your boyfriend's lap. It was a slightly awkward position; you were half sitting close to his groin and half on one thigh.

"Comfortable?" he asked in a low voice behind you, his hands finding your hips for support.

"Mm," you nodded, ensuring you didn't accidentally kick or touch Timmy inappropriately.

And for a little while longer, you simply enjoyed William's subtle touches, along with the laughter, cheesy jokes, and stories coming from the players.

The team was rather excited about tomorrow's match, especially since they had just won against the Jets on home turf. However, as they hadn't been entirely satisfied with the result, they now saw an opportunity to do even better.

Then amidst the sounds of great excitement and anticipation, you suddenly felt the bus hit a few bumps on the road, causing you to bounce slightly in William's lap.

"Oops," you chuckled, feeling his grip on you tighten a bit.

"Easy, babe," he spoke softly, almost in a hushed whisper so no one could overhear. "Wouldn't want you to cause a scene."

You couldn't suppress a light smirk as his voice echoed in your ear. Yet you also recalled the last time you were on the plane, and he had been the one to stir up something naughty.

"Oh, you're one to talk, considering you wanted to join the mile high club last time," you turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and flashed him a small smirk.

"Well, that was different," he defended with a grin.

"How so?"

"That was my idea," his hand around your waist tightened just a little as you felt his chest against your back.

You simply laughed at his cheeky remark, though it did ignite a tiny devil within you. And as the bus ride continued and William seemed engrossed in the boyish chatter, you felt tempted to play with fire a little.

With Timothy’s attention turned toward the other lads, you gently and very subtly began grinding your buttocks against William's groin.

"What are you doing, baby?" His voice came out in a husky whisper.

"Hmm, don't know, maybe I'm just... getting comfortable," you spoke with a grin, not even looking at him. Instead, you focused on the ongoing conversation while letting your hips sway a little extra.

"I think you're doing just fine..."

"Hm, maybe."

You knew you were teasing him, just as he always teased you when you were around the team and had to maintain some distance. Just like he was with his suggestive messages.

William couldn't help but force a casual smile as his member slowly grew under your sensual motions. An increasing need for more than just light grinding began to form within him.

And you knew your plan was working when you heard his heavy breathing and subtle grunts escaping his lips. His fingers dug into your hips, and his bulge pressed against you.

"Not fair..." he murmured softly, his thigh muscles clenching underneath you as his member pressed against the fabric of his boxers and sweats.

"Well, maybe that's just payback for you sending me those messages..." you remarked flirtatiously, giving your hips a little extra sway as the bus picked up speed on the highway.

"Oh, those were just for when we get to the hotel, but it seems we need to change things up a bit now," he grinned against your ear, giving you a teasing hip thrust back.

"Bring it on, Nylander."

Despite both of you being worked up from the teasing - almost having to sneak off for a quickie during one of the pit stops - the little sleep you got on the bus didn’t leave you with much energy for a round of sex at the hotel.

And soon, you found yourselves preparing for the upcoming match for the night. Fortunately, this match held a little more excitement and goals this time. More importantly, the Leafs won 4-2.

However, just as you were finishing up after the match with David and Peter, Brad suddenly interrupted and pulled you aside. Surprised by his sudden action, you feared that he'd decided to report you and William, potentially putting your relationship in jeopardy.

But when he sat before you in the physio room, providing a bit of privacy, his message was different.

"Miss y/l/n," he said in a calm tone, which eased your nerves a bit, though you still couldn't entirely decipher his expression. "We've discussed matters within the management team, and considering the upcoming All-Star event next weekend, we think it might be beneficial for you to take a few days off before the big weekend."

You were baffled. You'd been working tirelessly for the past weeks for this event, and now they were suggesting days off? That was a little unlike them. But then he continued.

"We understand that you've played a significant role in the planning and coordination, which we greatly appreciate. That's precisely why we want to ensure you have all the energy you need for the event. Your presence will be crucial, and we're committed to taking care of our staff to prevent burnout. You've consistently shown dedication, even joining road trips without notice. It's only fair that you have proper rest."

Stunned by the suggestion, you were also extremely grateful. It was something you had needed for weeks, if not months. Especially considering the many invitations from your girlfriends that you had had to turn down, this would be an excellent opportunity to catch up with some of them.

"Oh, well, thank you! That's very much appreciated," you flashed Brad a grateful smile before wrapping up the conversation.

You couldn't wait to rush back to the hotel and tell William, however, when you finally finished up at the Bell MTS Place, he was already fast asleep in bed, not up for anything intimate.

At least not until you returned from the road trip. As soon as you were back in Toronto on Sunday, you couldn't keep your hands off each other the moment you entered William's condo. It was almost frantic, as if you couldn't strip down fast enough or touch each other enough. You wanted to feel every inch of skin, exploring each other fully, with your mouths connected at all times.

In the soft glow of the bedroom's dimmed lights, William made love to you. It wasn't the tender, gentle lovemaking, but rather passionate and intense. His movements were firm and determined, yet he ensured you reached climax at least twice before focusing on his own pleasure.

And it didn't take long for him to reach the brink of climax.

It was almost amusing how quickly William could reach his peak but considering the teasing and anticipation between you during the short trip, it was understandable.

And it was nothing short of perfect, and soon you found yourselves entwined in each other's arms, sharing heartfelt conversation as you enjoyed a post-sex bath. Completely relaxed and utterly satisfied, you leaned against his chest, your head resting slightly on him as he tenderly caressed your body beneath the warm water.

"Mmm, I love you," he mumbled into your damp hair, eliciting a smile from your lips.

"I love you too, Willy," you replied softly, attempting to turn in his embrace to meet his eyes. "I just can't believe I won't see you for a few days," you added with a crooked smile. However, William lifted an eyebrow at your remark.

"What do you mean? You know you can stay here even though you're off from work," he emphasised, his tone a bit firmer than you'd like.

"Yeah, I know, but I also feel like it's good to have time to catch up with my girls, so I'm not even sure if I'll be around much," you tried to explain, maintaining a soft tone. However, you were only met with a ‘hm’ and a huff from your boyfriend behind you as he finished the bath in silence.

And after getting dried up and dressed in an oversized t-shirt, you joined William in his kitchen where he was already searching for late-night snacks, clad in his boxers.

"Willy, what's wrong?" you inquired, sensing his mood shift from happy and calm to suddenly irritated.

"Nothing," he replied tersely, moving around the kitchen as if nothing was amiss. But he didn't have you convinced for a moment.

"Babe, clearly something's bothering you... and I want you to share it with me. You need to communicate your thoughts, otherwise, I can't do anything about it," your voice took on a sterner and more confident tone as you stood with crossed arms facing him. And finally, William turned to meet your gaze, letting out a deep sigh.

"I just don't understand why you suddenly have to go away," he admitted. "I mean, we finally have a few days off, so why can't you just stay here?"

His words surprised you slightly. Why was he suddenly so insistent on keeping you around?

"Because I spend literally every day with you," you tried to reason.

"Yeah, but that's with the team," William's voice suddenly rose in volume.

"Not always!" you defended. "When I'm not at work, I'm here, at YOUR place, together with YOU," you pointed out.

"For a few hours, maybe! But then either of us always has to work. We eat, sleep, fuck, and work. That's all we do."

"Because that's how our lives are! You chose your career, and I've chosen mine... We both knew this is how it would be, Willy..."

"Don't you think I know that?" he shouted.

"Then what's this about all of a sudden?"

You were baffled. Never before had you had an argument with Willy like this – perhaps only the time he got jealous when you dated someone else, but that was a long time ago, and now you were in a committed relationship.

"I just don't want you to go around and risk doing something stupid – if you haven't noticed, you've been getting quite a lot of attention lately!"

"So that's what this is all about?" you huffed sarcastically, amused. "Me getting attention? That's what you're so upset about."

"I'm not upset that you're getting attention, y/n!"

"Then what is your problem? I'm finally being recognised for being great at my job, and you're just being jealous instead of supportive!"

"I am supporting you! You just don't know how to handle the media. You're not trained for it."

"Oh, so now I'm NOT good at my job, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not... that's not what I'm saying!"

"Then what are you saying? That I'm just your stupid little girlfriend, who's not allowed to be out in public because YOU'RE too afraid that I'll get too much attention, huh?"

You felt the tears pressing on, and though you did everything to hold them back, you couldn't. You were too angry and frustrated by his sudden need to start a fight. An unnecessary fight, in your opinion.

"Well, yeah, maybe I am!" he spat. "Because if you're going to act like a wild child with your girlfriends, knowing that people are interested in you, then YES, you are stupid..."

"Oh, wow...wow, Willy, that's mature! Who even says I'm going to act out? And for the record, you shouldn't really be the one to act all smart and reasonable, since you're the one who's out partying every fucking off-season, sticking your cock into every pulsating vagina you can find!"

You knew it was a low blow as soon as you said it, but it wasn't entirely a lie. Yet your comment struck a sensitive nerve within William, a nerve he most likely didn't even know he had, and suddenly it was like his entire world collapsed.

"Fine! If that's what you want, then don't let me hold you back! Like I always fucking do, right? Go out and have fun with your fucking girlfriends. I don't even give a shit anymore!"

His hand slammed on the kitchen counter, his breaths heavy as he leaned over and didn't even bother to look you in the eyes.

You couldn't help but feel your heart break a little. His carelessness about your need for freedom and a little time away from the hectic life you had.

You felt as if you'd been beaten all over by William, as if your body was covered in invisible bruises. Your heart split in half and all senses of emotions torn apart, you let the tears stream freely down your cheeks.

"Fine..." you whispered dryly under your breath, not even trying to hold back the crying as you walked away from him, heading straight to the bedroom and bathroom to collect your belongings. Throwing your bag over your shoulder, you put on your coat and shoes, leaving William on his own.

As you waited for the lift, a small part of you hoped for him to come running and apologise for the fight. But as you heard the ding, signalling the lift's arrival, and you descended to the ground floor before exiting the apartment building, he never showed. He had let you leave in silence, not even trying to stop you. And now you were on your way back to your own place.

Still frozen in his position, William let the situation replay in his mind. Was this it? Had he lost you? Just like he'd lost every girl who ever came near him. Yet a part of him wasn't entirely ready to let you go. His heart belonged to you; he couldn't deny that. And as he stood there in his kitchen, he couldn't help but feel a wave of regret wash over him.

But was it too late?

Two days later, you didn't feel much better.

Despite Clara's best efforts to cheer you up with a spontaneous girl spa trip, you couldn't fill the void the fight with William had left in your heart. Or at least where your heart used to be.

As you'd stormed away from his place, you immediately contacted Clara, one of your closest girlfriends. Clara was the one to turn to when you needed your mind distracted. Always the funny, spontaneous one, who often followed her intuition and never cared about what others thought of her.

You often admired her for it. The way she could act so freely and down-to-earth inspired you, especially considering your penchant for planning and organising. Which served you well in your job, but in your social life, it had always been a challenge, especially after starting the internship.

Clara had always been the one to invite you to various events – girls' night out, weekend trips, and more – and you'd often have to turn them down. So, when you were suddenly the one to reach out to her, she immediately dropped everything and quickly arranged this little spa trip with two other girls. That was just the way she was.

And it hadn't been a bad idea at all. In fact, you were quite enjoying yourself, far away from the hockey arena and the players. Yet, your mind couldn’t help but occasionally drift to William and the fight, something that still tied knots in your stomach.

"Hey," Clara spoke, snapping her fingers in front of your face as you lay by the indoor pool, enjoying the view of the breath-taking Canadian nature. "Whoever is on your mind, you need to forget about them."

"How did you-"

"Oh, I'm reading you like an open book, babe! Come on... I know you can't tell me who it is, but you've got to get over whatever happened," she said, sitting upright and turning to face you. "He might be amazing and great in bed, but you're an amazing woman too – and he does not get to tell you otherwise!"

Another thing about Clara: she didn't let any man control her life, maybe besides her father, but that was only because he had had the money until she got her own business up and running. But now, her face would be right next to the words "independent, strong woman" if you ever looked it up.

Letting out a sigh, you faced her as well. "I know, it's just... we had a fight, and... in a way, I feel guilty because I know I love him. I just – I need space sometimes. To be myself and not have to worry about what he thinks," you tried to explain, not wanting to come off too annoyed with William, even though he had pushed you over the edge.

"Well, then how about we show him exactly what he's missing?"

"Oh... you've got that look," you chuckled lightly, studying Clara's mischievous expression.

"What look?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"That look where you've got an idea, and I know it's trouble."

"Well, of course it's trouble! Have you met me? Come on, let's go have some fun."

With that, Clara grabbed your hand, and on the way to the hotel room, she ordered a bottle of Champagne. She turned on the speakers and put on a playlist filled with the greatest tunes from female artists throughout the centuries. Then dancing around in your bikinis, silky robes, clinging glasses, and pouring down the finest bubbles, you couldn't help but pose and strut as the girls snapped photos of each other.

It was a truly memorable time, just four girls hanging out, letting you completely recharge before the big All-Star weekend. And more importantly, not thinking about William.

Instead, you decided to dress up nicely, going all out on hair and makeup before a lovely dinner at the restaurant. And amidst girl talk and glamour, you couldn't resist taking a few more shots of how gorgeous you looked.

And tonight, you weren't working or surrounded by the hockey team. Tonight, you were y/n fucking y/l/n, and no one was going to keep you down.

After a couple more glasses of wine and an incredible four-course dinner, you felt a certain temptation to play a little with fire. Feeling a little too cocky, perhaps, and naturally encouraged by the girls, you decided to show your Instagram followers just how great you could look. In a bikini, in a towel, a tight dress – with the quote: "Nobody puts Baby in the corner." And as soon as you pressed post, the photos were out for the world to see.

Needless to say, it didn't take long before likes and comments flooded your Instagram: flirtatious messages, some even wanting to buy pictures from you, and more.

But what really stood out was the text you received from William about an hour later.

"Are you crazy? You can't post that, babe!"

Ah, so this was how you got his attention. He could ignore you after a fight, letting you walk away, but as soon as you showed a little skin on social media, he suddenly responded quickly. But you didn't feel like dealing with him right now. You were enjoying your time away, feeling satisfied with the pictures of yourself.

But William didn't let it go.

"Take that shit down! Now!" he persisted.

You tried your best to ignore him, focusing on your girls instead. But he wasn't having it.

"If this is just to get me mad and jealous, it's working, baby. OK!?"

You could feel a little smirk slowly creeping onto your lips, a sense of satisfaction at how you'd gotten him down on his knees. Yet a slight pang, just a small one, of regret also struck your heart.

You didn't truly want to upset William like that. All you wanted was for him to understand that you were your own person, not just an intern working tirelessly day and night to keep the hockey team and their managers happy.

And maybe, just maybe, it was also the fact that you had to keep your relationship a secret that challenged you both in many ways. But it was the relationship you both had chosen, and though it wasn't easy, you couldn't ignore the fact that you did love him.

Of course, you did. But for now, you were still mad at William and decided not to respond immediately. Instead, you ignored him, posted a few more photos of your girls' trip, before you turned your focus back to Toronto.

As soon as you were back in the city, you finally felt ready to reply to William's texts.

But not to apologise. Not yet, at least.

"Sorry babe, but you're not the boss of me."

You knew it was a risky message to send. For one, you didn’t know if William was still angry, and maybe this kind of text could push him to end things. And two, it could also push William to do something unexpected. Much like the time he fucked you against his window, or the time he got jealous because you went on a date with another guy, or on New Year's when he fucked you in the bathroom even though his team was around, or the latest incident at the MLSE Gala Event when he fucked you in the wardrobe. William definitely had the audacity to act impulsively.

"Get to my place when you're back. Need to talk to you."

And. you couldn't help but roll your eyes at the message.

"Only if you ask nicely," you simply replied.

"This is me asking nicely.”

"Well, that's not good enough."

Though you felt content about standing your ground and not letting him dictate what you should do, you couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of sadness. You truly didn't want things to end like this, but you were also convinced that you didn’t need to apologise for anything. You were a strong and independent woman, and he needed to realise that.

But as you were unpacking and tidying up your place to prepare for another hectic work week, you were suddenly interrupted by a forceful knock on your door.

Maybe Clara had forgotten to give you something?

But it wasn't Clara. As soon as you unlocked the door, it was forced open by none other than William. Without hesitation, he walked straight past you and into your living space. His tense body language exuded nothing but annoyance, and his facial expression lacked any hint of a smile.

"Willy! You can't just barge in here like that," you told him with as much confidence as you could muster, closing the door behind you. "I can't do this again right now."

"Well, you have to," he spoke back firmly, turning to face you. He wasn't exactly angry, he wasn't shouting, but he held a stern facial expression, and you knew you had to meet his strong composure. "Because I'm not okay with what you did on that trip."

"Well, I don't care. I did what I did, alright? Get over it!"

"You know I can't do that," he took a step closer to you, standing so close that you could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. "You did exactly what I said you would... something stupid. Don't you know that everyone can see what you posted? And how the media will react."

"Of course, I know that, Willy. I'm not an idiot!"

"Then why are you acting like one?"

"I don't know!" you suddenly heard yourself admit, completely out of breath. "Maybe I just felt like it – maybe I just wanted to show that I was more than just some stupid little intern that nobody takes seriously."

William's expression frowned a little, and then his voice rose. "You don't think anybody takes you seriously? y/n, you have the entire world in front of you, and you're ruining it for yourself. Everyone admires you, compliments your work every single day. You could go anywhere after this; do you even know that?"

"Oh no, don't you dare make this about me and my career, when we both know that you're just pissed because I posted those photos, and you got all jealous."

"Of course, I got jealous!"

"Then just fucking trust me!”

As if that was the last button you could press, William suddenly used his size to his leverage, guiding you to step backward until your back met the door. And then he clashed his lips onto yours, his hands holding your face as he pulled you close to him.

And though you tried to push him away, trying to catch your breath, William just pulled you back in again. Eager to have his tongue taste yours, he bit down on your lower lip and forced it to enter, past your lips and into your warmth.

It was sloppy and messy, yet passionate. You could feel how much he desired to have you close to him, and though you tried to convince your mind that you wanted him to let go, you failed. Instead, almost instinctively, you wrapped your hands around his neck, welcoming his embrace and the taste of his tongue on yours.

William's hands moved to support himself against the door, with a hand on either side of your head, as the intensity of the kiss increased. Air was stolen from your lungs, as his mouth hungrily exploring yours as if he had been starved for days.

And so had you. Though you had been angry with him, furious about the way he had acted, you immediately fell under his spell again. Feeling the warmth of him so near had you once more surrendering to his love.

Breaking the kiss, both of you breathed heavily, and William rested his forehead against yours. "So, you don’t think I’m the boss of you?" he inquired darkly, prompting you to look intensely up at him, biting your lip, and gently shake your head.

Flashbacks of your first night together at this place coursed through your mind as that had been another time when William had acted out of jealousy, and you were beyond intrigued to find out what he had in mind for you this time.

You couldn’t even think twice before he hoisted you into his arms and carried you to the bed, where he not so carefully dropped you. Clothes were quickly discarded from your body, as William had no intention of spending much time on that part, and shortly you found yourself fully naked in front of him.

His eyes stared intensely down at you as he stood before the bed, taking in every inch of you, only breaking his gaze when he pulled his shirt over his head. His baggy jeans followed suit, and you had to do your best to control your breath as you followed his every move.

You could see how his member must be throbbing, tucked away in his boxers as he knelt onto the mattress between your legs, leaning over and once again connecting your lips, pushing you down.

William asserted his dominance, pinning your hands firmly down beside your head as he pressed his hardness against your eager core.

"Fuck, baby," he murmured huskily in your ear. "I can feel how wet you are through my boxers."

"Yes, Willy," you moaned softly. "I'm dripping for you..."

Your voice, though strong, betrayed your neediness, signalling your readiness to be taken.

You were almost surprised by how quickly he had changed your mind, but not entirely. The moment his lips met yours again, you remembered exactly why you loved him, and you didn't care what anyone else thought anymore.

Then breaking the kiss, William left you breathless once more as he shed his last piece of clothing, returning to you in missionary position. He guided your hands above your head, intertwining your fingers as the tip of his cock teased your entrance.

"Say you're mine..."

"I'm all yours."

With one forceful thrust, William buried himself deep inside you, eliciting a loud moan from your lips. Pulling back almost entirely, he then plunged back in, creating a loud slap of skin meeting skin.

"Damn right," he muttered, picking up the pace, his hips rocking and driving into you with determination. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his hips, granting him better access.

You lost yourself in the intensity of his thrusts, your moans escaping you uncontrollably as he pounded into you with a rapid rhythm. It was both forceful and passionate, William showing you just how much he craved you, relishing in the sound of your incoherent cries. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, bringing you closer to the edge.

"Oh, Willy, fuck... feels so good," you moaned, feeling your orgasm building.

But then, he pulled back, releasing your hands and placing your calves on his shoulders before leaning over and driving back into you, hitting your deepest spots with precision. Your hands found his strong arms, gripping tightly as he continued his relentless assault, thrusting hard and fast, almost overstimulating you with pleasure as you cried out in ecstasy.

"Oh, Willy... I'm gonna come..." you practically screamed as he showed no signs of slowing down, your nails digging into his skin.

"Fuck, come for me, baby!" he urged, his words lost in the cacophony of skin slapping against skin.

And with his encouragement, you let out a loud cry, your head falling back into the pillow as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your screams filled the room as he ruthlessly fucked you through your intense orgasm, your juices soaking the sheets beneath you.

Then as he released your legs from his shoulders, he leaned down to your neck, his hand finding your throat to put a light pressure on. And his breath was hot against your skin as he murmured between moans. "That's it, baby..."

"Yes," you breathed out, feeling yourself surrendering completely to the moment of passionate rough sex. Sweat coated his skin as he continued his vigorous movements, lost in the heat of the moment.

"I want to tell the fucking world that you're mine, baby... only mine."

In the haze of pleasure, your overstimulated brain struggled to grasp every sensation as you were overwhelmed by yet another orgasm, and your lips moved instinctively to respond to William's words. "Yes, Willy... tell them."

Feeling the tightness of your muscles around him, William let out a deep grunt as he surrendered to his own climax. Without warning, he released his cum inside you, his hips rocking a few more times to ensure he emptied himself completely, before finally stilling.

For a moment, you both remained still, allowing yourselves to catch your breath and regain your strength. William could feel your cunt pulsating around his cock, your shared wetness between you a testament to the intensity of your encounter.

It was hot. Messy and hot.

The air felt heavy in the little space of your home, as you looked deeply into each other’s eyes and silently found comfort. You lingered with him inside you a little longer, running your fingers through his thick, sticky hair before offering a shy smile.

"I'm sorry," you managed to say, the words carrying more weight than you had anticipated. William's response was immediate.

"Me too, baby... I'm so sorry," he echoed, his sincerity evident in his voice.

It felt necessary for both of you to vocalise your regrets, acknowledging where you stood with each other. Yet, there was still a sense that more needed to be discussed.

After William withdrew from you slowly and you both quickly cleaned up, you returned to the bed and nestled under the duvet. Resting your head on his chest, you traced gentle patterns on his skin with your fingertips.

"I meant what I said," he suddenly spoke, breaking the silence. "I want to tell everyone."

You regarded him intensely, unsure of how to react as you processed his words. But before you could respond, he continued.

“I’m not sure I can do this, y/n… I hate myself for feeling this way, but all I want is to show how much I love you.”

His gaze drifted away from you as he spoke, his eyes fixating on the ceiling before returning to meet yours.

You stretched out your arms, observing the beautiful man beneath you. “I know you love me, Willy. You don’t have to shout it to the world for me to hear you,” you whispered softly.

His thumb traced gentle circles on your arm as he attempted to speak again, but then something unexpected happened. A solitary tear escaped from the corner of his eye. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

Though his voice remained steady, his eyes betrayed his vulnerability.

“You’ll never lose me, Willy,” you reassured him, leaning in to place a tender kiss on his lips. “Not to anyone. No matter what.”

He took a deep breath as he gazed into your eyes, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Seems like you were right…” he finally managed to form a light smile. “I’ll never be the boss of you, baby, because you’ll always have the power over me. Whether I like it or not.”

You couldn’t help but return his soft smile.

“Well, then I suppose I should use this power for good rather than evil,” you chuckled lightly. “I love you, Willy.”

It was the perfect ending to a situation you had hoped would never happen. Yet, in a way, it also felt as if it had brought you both much closer.

#intern x willy #18+#william nylander imagine #wn88 imagine #nhl hockey imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl smut #william nylander smut #william nylander fic

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 10 months

Text

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 4: Love

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

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

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Here be the fourth chapter of the rework - you’ll all recognise this one! There’s some minor changes made to flow on with the previous stuff, but beyond that, it’s the OG third chap. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs, my slap daddy lobster Ange, for reading through this chapter for me and making sure I’m not uploading total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, objectification of women, age gap.

Daemon supposes it is true what they say about Targaryens—that they are proud and violent and easy to incite to desire and madness. He lives up to the name, he supposes.

Now that his want has come to light, he cannot erase you from his mind. He withdraws to his chambers for the next few days, making his presence around the Keep as scarce as he can so that he might avoid you. The prospect of looking at you—your wide-eyed innocence, trusting open expression, still his littlest girl beneath all that ripening—and recalling the depths of his degeneracy each time he meets your eye seems an insurmountable task.

But a new issue arises. He finds he quite literally cannot rid the image of you from his musings, the enemy that is his own thoughts discovering some new wretched path to you in all he does to seek distraction. His books remind him of your love for old Valyrian histories and poetry, of sitting with him, a great tome spread out further than your little arms could extend and reciting the letters in a halting tongue. Training with the sword strikes memories of how you’d fiddle with the pommel of Dark Sister whenever you stood by him, alerting him to your presence far easier than his own eyes ever could. Attempting to govern a bout of cyvasse is utterly dull with only himself as an opponent, and—blast it all—prompts reminiscence of how you’d choose to sleep soundly in his lap as a tot, wet smacking mouth darkening the front of his doublet as he’d match minds against Viserys with only one hand free, the other keeping you chained to slumber with gentle pats to the bottom.

Resistance is fruitless. And so, he gives into the desire. For the first time in years, he unfastens his breeches and takes his cock out with the intention of spending in his own hand.

How mightily I have fallen, he thinks drolly, spitting in his palm, grasping his shaft and allowing his imagination to conjure the likeness of sweet eyes and full mouth and shapely breasts, a precious little gift just waiting for the right recipient to unwrap and play. He thinks of your soft little hands and soft little voice, how darling you would look with those same hands on his cock and your stare wide and trusting, whispering his name in naïve question as he coaxes you to his completion, gifting you a pretty pearl necklace for a pretty little girl—

“Fuck!” he moans, seed splattering over his fist.

It stains his breeches and drips over his boots, inspiring sudden gladness that he hadn’t thought to revisit Sirille’s whore or seek out another of his old haunts, for not bending some meaningless fuck over and exerting his lusts on a cunt worth mere coppers in coin. The speed of his release would have been thoroughly humiliating. Wiping his hand distastefully upon his shirt, he wonders at how best to resolve his growing problem.

It is a problem. How you have unmanned him! How insipid it is to long for a girl of seventeen as though he is some pockmarked, upstart lad of lesser standing! If he were dull-witted, his ire at himself might very well drive him to rail at you for the manner in which you’ve ensorcelled him. But doing so will not aid his particular malady.

The brothel…Perhaps the answer lies in the past. The instant he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t.

No. He shouldn’t ruin you. He will not ruin you. Besides, you had been deterred rather than encouraged by even his lightest provocations, his half-hearted flirtation failing utterly. In the face of his veiled innuendos and covetous stares, you had retreated into yourself, pulling away and levelling him with that soft, reproaching little mouse-glare of yours. Any other maiden and he would double down, pursue until he had overrun them and given them little choice but to lift their skirts and let him steal away their virtue. Yet, this brings him distinct discomfort. He cannot abide the notion of despoiling you so ignobly.

Daemon wonders at the hesitation, for it had brought him little pain to do the same to his eldest niece. He considers that because it had always been his intention to shore up his own succession—by either wedding Rhaenyra or destroying her reputation, getting her out of his way—the thought of doing the same to you had never crossed his mind.

Hm. What can he do, then? Wait for this—this feeling—to pass? He is the blood of the dragon, true; and, like the flame from which those winged beasts were born, he burns hot and bright and stinging—until the flame flickers away, doused by the merest brush of air or touch of water. In moments of want, it becomes a need, something he would kill and die to possess, and then another obsession takes hold. Men of passion—men like him—are so rarely faithful to their fancies.

Alas, you are no ordinary woman; it stands to reason that his lust is no ordinary yearning. You are everything he has ever envisioned in an ideal bride. The right bloodline. The right family name. The right temperament. These things alone…

It does not even take into consideration the simplest fact—that, though time and circumstance has changed so much, there is nothing that can destroy his deepest affection for you, his sweet little niece.

No closer to devising his way forward, Daemon does what he can to evade encountering you. It is hardly an effort, for you seem to perpetually cycle between the same activities and yet, simultaneously, are nowhere to be found. He shuns the obvious places—the library, your Hightower siblings’ rooms, Rhaenyra’s solar, the courtyard, the garden—and even deigns to add the training yard and the kitchen to the list. Luckily, he seems to have either frightened you off or had simply chanced upon a rare occurrence in which you were discoverable.

After four more mornings, he is unsurprised to see you absent once more from your father's table to break your fast. You have missed the previous occasions, too. A sennight and a day had been more than enough time for him to decide that he detested these mealtimes. Quite obviously an attempt on his brother's part to foster unity between the squabbling factions in his family, he is usually faced with the choice of either indulging in the bickering of the children or pretending he gives a fuck about anything the Hightower woman has to say. Not that Her Grace has been particularly interested in engaging him in conversation. Instead, she carefully plays the part of ignorance, watching him from directly across the table with her beady little eyes each time he so much as moves. Loathsome bitch. She must have a magical cunt for Viserys to have managed to pump four of those wretched spawn into her.

This is why he is startled when Rhaenyra and Laenor enter with their two boys, followed swiftly by you and that idiot Cole. You have an air of irritation about you, as though you had been interrupted at your leisures when your elder sister had come to collect you for the first proper meal you would see in days.

The sight of Rhaenyra—as lovely a sight as it is—sends a weak thud of hurt through his chest. But it is the sight of you that inspires a far greater reaction.

You are no less striking in the morning light that streams in from the open balcony. Garbed in a short-sleeved gown of powdered blue and wild hair pulled back in a simple braid, the adjustments only serve to emphasise the parts of you that had changed in the ten years since he had last seen you. Half-convinced that his first meeting with you was an inexplicable fever-dream sent by the gods to taunt him, he is once more besieged by the sight of your rose-bloom lips, your bare throat—why the fuck do you not wear jewels to cover up all that exposed flesh, the sight is positively lewd—and charming little tits peaked in maiden's flirtation. The dress does little to hide your endowments from his rapacious gaze, for all its modest bodice and looser fit.

He does his best not to let his turmoil play out on his face as you move further into the room. Laenor drops into the empty seat beside him, narrowing his eyes in a manner that suggests he’s noticed where Daemon’s attention has been focused. The lad’s fair to suspect him—his exploits in the Stepstones hadn’t been limited to warfare, after all.

“Father, Daemon,” Rhaenyra greets, settling herself down next to her husband.

He finds the noted absence of greeting to the Hightower woman wildly entertaining. While it is not lost on her, the Queen has deigned to overlook the arrival of her once-best friend. Instead, she turns to survey her ailing King in an affectation of care. He decides it is only polite to return his eldest niece’s salutation. Rhaenyra smiles in response to his well-wishes, an acknowledgement of his words and nothing more.

"Good morrow, daughter!” Viserys says to his eldest, looking fondly down the table as his grandsons are settled in at their seats. His gaze moves to you. “Ah, child! We haven't seen you in an age!"

He has brightened in excitement at his first glance of you, and you smile sweetly at him as you pass by to press a kiss of greeting to your father's balding head.

"My apologies, Papa," you say to Viserys warmly. “I have been ever so preoccupied with my studies, you see. I did not wish to fall behind.”

“Studies, my girl? I had rather thought you were avoiding Lord Denys again!”

He has to grit his teeth at the mention of that idiot. What in the Seven hells is Viserys thinking, allowing a lackwit like the Rose of Highgarden anywhere near you? To think that he’d be willing to ship you off to so ordinary an existence as the Lady Tyrell. The blood of the Freehold, forced to mingle with farming stock. What dishonour!

At the mention of the lord, your earnest little stare transforms into a myriad of quick-vanishing demonstrations of your distaste for the man. Daemon is savagely glad to see it.

“That, too.” You beam when your father laughs. It is a most pleasing expression on your features, a guise that erases the lingering pensiveness clinging to you like a second skin—one that you should always bear.

Would that he could replace the gloom that reclaims you so soon after.

“Darling.”

Alicent frowns at him from her position at his brother’s side. She appears to have caught him looking, not that he cares overmuch for her judgement. It intrigues him that she appears to be addressing you. He had thought the family quite divided by old and new—and as Aemma’s last living child, that places you firmly in the former category.

She smiles up at you, gesturing you toward her. “Come sit by me.”

Clearly, his assumption is incorrect. You happily proceed around your father to sit in the empty seat beside the Queen, placing you next to the youngest one, Daeron. He can only remember the name due to its similarity to his own. You grin fondly down at the boy, and it is easy to imagine you doing the same one day with his own son. You ruffle his hair when he makes an exclamation of your name, disregarding the snide glances offered to you by the older two. Ah, that is more like it.

“What are you working on currently, sister?” Rhaenyra interrupts his musings from next to Laenor, wordlessly reminding young Lucerys to pause his chatter while eating.

His mouth upturns when he sees you brighten, stopping in the middle of selecting fruits and cheese and pastries to pile on your plate. The shame feels like a distant memory as he watches you, dish aloft in your hand while you enthusiastically turn to engage with your older sister.

“I have been consulting with Ser Lysan on writing a compendium of the Dothraki language,” you say excitedly.

Who the fuck is ‘Ser Lysan’? And what in the Seven hells is she doing learning Dothraki? Daemon’s brow raises sceptically as he mulls over the fact that you—a sweet little untouched princess—appear to have dealings with horse-fucking, barbarous brutes in the East.

“There is some debate as to how we will proceed,” you add, carefully side-eyeing the oldest of the Hightower boys as he snickers at your pronouncement, “as our letters do not correspond correctly with the phonetics of their speech. We will have to either take creative liberties or devise additional symbols to signify these sounds.”

Perhaps he has woefully underestimated you. You seem to possess an intellect that may well be formidable—at least when it comes to your philosophies and languages. A fascinating paradox of a girl, he thinks, to be so clever and unknowing all at once. For all your book learning, there is much about the world you lack understanding of. It is tempting to remedy this in the most depraved manner possible.

Not here. Not now.

“That sounds… interesting.”

Rhaenyra sounds anything but interested. Does anyone take interest in your pursuits? Anyone at all? Looking around the table at the uncertain faces of those you call family, it appears not. No wonder you seem so alone.

“Dothraki, of all the languages to learn?” he asks. “An interesting pursuit for a princess.”

You make direct eye contact with him, arranging your features into a facade of polite courtesy; it is closed off, withdrawn, and you return your plate to its place upon the table.

“I am learning, yes.” You absent-mindedly reach across the little one beside you to remove a silver-handled knife from the second-eldest boy—Aemon, is it not?—and place it out of his reach. It is a good call; he had been poking the surface before him with the tip, gouging small divots into the wood. You disregard his protestations, continuing your line of thought. “I would not claim to be proficient, however. It is a complex language, and I have not studied it for long enough to consider myself fluent.”

“It is a savage language.” The eldest of the Queen’s sons has an expression fixed in what Daemon can only assume is meant to be a look of disdain. As ugly as the boy is, the effect is rather lost on present company. “No wife of mine will occupy herself with such things.”

This one too? Unbelievable. It would make more sense to betroth you to your brother than to the Lord of Highgarden. If only the brother in question wasn’t so… pathetic. Pathetic now—but when he becomes a man, a true peril to any chance she may have at happiness.

He swallows back bile at the thought. However would you survive being bound to a sneering wretch who sought to stifle any joy you might experience, and all for the sake of control? It is too harsh a fate for someone so pure.

You frown softly, shoulders squaring off in your disapproval. “Just because their culture is different, Aegon”—ah, yes! No wonder he was such a disappointment with a name such as the Conqueror’s to try and fail to live up to—“does not mean they are savages.”

His nose flares with the necessity of suppressing his own amusement. Such guilelessness; such gullibility! You really are too sweet.

“They fuck their horses, don’t they?” Aegon asks disparagingly, echoing exactly what he had been thinking only moments prior.

The younger boy titters beside him. You open your mouth to respond, brow wrinkled in affront, when the Queen cuts across you.

“Aegon! That’s enough!” she says sharply, and the boy abruptly withdraws, tucking his head down and quietly resuming his meal with a muttered apology.

As a lull falls across the remaining occupants of the room, all that can be heard is the scraping of utensils over dishware and the hissing remonstrations of the Queen to her eldest, whispered reminders of how princes ought to treat those they are courting. Given that the recipient is three places down from her—and you are, in fact, between them—her words are neither quiet nor tactful. Your head bows, lower lip quivering only once, pretending not to hear as you pick apart the remnants of food on your plate.

“An intellectual, my daughter is.” Viserys breaks the stillness with forced joviality, engaging him in conversation once more.

He had paid little attention to the spat—no doubt avoiding his fatherly responsibilities as he has done since time immemorial, long since used to ignoring the conflict that sparks beneath his very nose. Daemon is simultaneously fond and contemptuous of his brother, the years having done little to change the spinelessness so central to his personality as man and monarch both.

“Always learning something new,” the man says merrily, “always needing books and tutors to satisfy that mind of hers. She would be a maester of the Citadel, methinks, had she been born a man.”

She would be Prince of Dragonstone if she had been born a man, Daemon snorts to himself, and I’d not need be sitting here with the Hightower bitch and her offspring.

“Papa!” A pretty flush reddens your exposed ears and the apples of your cheeks.

He trails the path of the blush as it spreads to your chest, most assuredly travelling down to kiss the shy swell of your breasts under that damned raised neckline. He has never hated an item of clothing quite so much as he does your gown.

“That Ser Lysan Marios of hers,” the King explains. “A man from the Free Cities, do you know? She was ever so delighted when I solicited his services.”

A tutor, then. But what is his place in your life? This is what Daemon wishes to know.

“He is a respectable gentleman,” Rhaenyra says, no doubt having witnessed his perplexity. “Though it’s quite amusing, really; for an old man like him, he is rather adept at making his way about the Keep unnoticed. You’d think someone with such poorly knees would be easier to find.”

He hadn’t truly believed your tutor to harbour untoward feelings for you, but relief suffuses him, nonetheless. An elderly man with weak joints could hardly muster the energy nor stamina to seduce his young charge—especially a burgeoning little nymphet like you, so reserved and restrained, desperate for release from the bonds of propriety. His gut tightens at the image he has conjured.

“We always leave a note, ’Nyra,” you say, your posy-petal lips frowning.

“And by the time I send someone to find you, you have moved off elsewhere.”

You hum an agreement, picking still at the remainder of your meal. Daemon spies the Hightower woman’s pointed glare over you, the quailing of the eldest boy. The lad clears his throat and turns to you.

“Sister. Would”—he pauses to clear his throat again—“would you… care to take a turn around the garden with me? At, er—the hour of the boar?”

How the fuck has he managed to make it worse?

Daemon almost preferred his snobbish spite over this pitiful attempt at flattery. If he’d been uncertain as to the boy’s success at winning you over, he’s not anymore. There’s scarce to be any maiden who would accept such a snivelling offer.

You appear rather baffled. “Oh. I appreciate the offer, Aegon… but I am afraid I have plans then.” A polite smile of contrition curves your lips.

Your brother does not like this. With a barely restrained sneer, he begins to respond. “But—”

“—I am intending to visit Athfiezar,” you cut across, placid as ever. “You are welcome to accompany me there, if you wish?”

The boy blanches. “No!” He says, shaking his head.

You make a soft noise of acknowledgement, allowing your focus to drift to the small one immediately beside you. And, with that, the conversation ceases entirely.

Rhaenyra was right in asserting her inability to pronounce the name of your feral mount. The guttural inflections in your honey-sweet voice speak to something wild and untamed, a spark of the magic that had brought his line to life so long ago.

“Interesting name.” Daemon is unable to help himself. You blink disconcertedly at him as he speaks. It is the second time in as many occurrences that he has seen your countenance alight with startlement at his address. A nervous little morsel, you are. “A Dothraki word, is it?”

He can only assume this. Based on his few dealings with the horde of savages during his time in Essos, the word sounds similar to the harsh utterings of the khalasar.

“Yes,” you say, a pleased look crossing your visage. “It means ‘love’.”

What a name for such a monstrous creature. A little girl christening her first barn cat, all soft skin and sweet smile and doe-eyed delight. You squint at Rhaenyra when she chuckles softly. It seems he isn’t the only one to have such a thought.

You turn back to him. “He does not take well to others, I fear.”

That is an understatement. From all his existing knowledge of the wild leviathan, from his experiences with the beast growing up, from tales he had gleaned from around the capital, from accounts of old acquaintances and the from gossip of his family, your dragon—the fucking Cannibal, and isn’t that a story he’d like to hear—was an utter lunatic, as unhinged and vicious as he always was. Except, it seems, with you.

“A right bastard, too,” Laenor murmurs under his breath, just within Daemon’s earshot. “Do you know how many Keepers we’ve had to replace since that thing came to King’s Landing?”

He can imagine. Dragon, livestock and human alike, the dragon had little care for what it slayed, seemingly fulfilling itself on the blood-and-gore high of butchery. The thought of laying eyes upon such a creature thrills him to the bone.

You levy him with an inquisitive look, head tilted slightly. “Would you like”—you hesitate—“would you like to meet him, Uncle?”

Only a fool could refuse a proposition like that. Not in the least because of the Cannibal—well, so few would ever have the opportunity to come close to the beast and live to tell the tale. Through you, it may well be possible that he would get that chance.

But, moreover, how can he say no to your timid, earnest entreaty, the proverbial hand of offering held out and just waiting for yet another rejection? Hope draws your brows in a pleading arch, lips wet and parted, and it calls to mind the face of a much younger you, far freer in begging for his attention. Who could possibly deny you?

His mouth settles the matter before his mind has decided.

“I’d be glad to,” he says, warmed by the sunny beam that stretches across your face, bringing bright light to your eyes and a merry flush to your skin.

It occurs to him then that he has just invited himself to an entire span of unaccompanied time alone with you. You—the object of his waking reveries, his darkest deliberations, his filthiest wants.

Perhaps this will be what finally drives him mad.

The wheelhouse ride is a revelation—and not quite for the reason he expected.

You are surprisingly easy to converse with; high praise, coming from him. He is not one to enjoy casual discussion, finding most people utterly insipid, especially those of suitable station. Princes and lords and magisters are always far too concerned with crowing of their riches to be of much interest—and the women are hardly worth engaging with unless it is to persuade them to drop their smallclothes and let him bend them over in some abandoned hall.

It might just be his fixation upon you that makes you so fascinating. He cares not for the reason. Instead, he chooses to enjoy the rarity of the moment, listening to you talk about the weather, the food, the changes made to the city since his departure.

“We have been getting an increase in grain from the Reach, I believe, in return for silks and spices from Driftmark,” you say, filling the transport with the dulcet tones of your pretty little voice.

He wonders at how you have come to know this information.

“Papa allows me to be his cupbearer during Small Council sometimes.” Pride overtakes your expression. “I am not present often, but it is nice when he asks.”

It is expected of Rhaenyra as the heir to attend in her youth, but no such presumption falls upon you. How interesting that Viserys has chosen to allow his second daughter to be involved in the running of the Realm, small a part as that may be! Daemon had not thought his brother observant of you in any capacity whatsoever. In this, he’s happy to be wrong.

When you arrive at the Dragonpit, your faithful guard-dog Cole is waiting for you, having ridden ahead to secure the location for his young charge. Daemon rolls his eyes as the knight offers you his arm, assisting you down the steps and to the ground. You gratefully thank the Kingsguard—he has to clench his jaw tightly to resist saying something snide at the look of slavish devotion on the whoreson’s face—and take out leather gloves of deep black, a stark contrast to the blood red of your riding habit. You wear the Targaryen colours exceedingly well.

“Now, Uncle,” you say seriously, turning to him. “I do not usually meet Athfiezar at the Pit, so it is imperative that you do as I say.”

It makes sense that the dragon seeks refuge outside of the Dragonpit. The beast did not seem one to willingly enshrine itself in chains. His brow quirks in entertainment at your command, a war general in the shape of a little girl with a woman’s body, but tips his head regardless.

“Of course.” He has no wish to die for the sake of pride.

The Dragonkeepers have already begun to shift nervously in the open, unprotected space. What follows illuminates him as to why. He is startled when you stop in the middle of putting your gloves on to place your fingers at your mouth and release a loud whistle. The sound echoes toward the cavernous entrance of the building before you and sets off a cacophony of ringing screeches and roars from within. He cringes as the blast of noise assaults his ears and wonders what in the hells you were intending by doing such a thing.

Suddenly, a low rumble resonates through the air. He casts around for the origin of the din, seeing nothing cresting the horizon. Out of nowhere, there is an unearthly shriek. A hulking black shape tumbles from the cover of cloud, rapidly gaining size as it approaches.

The Dragonkeepers bark panicked orders to each other, rushing to clear the space before his little niece. “Inkot selās! Inkot selās!” Move back! Move back!

Daemon wonders through a wave of sheer panic if he ought to follow the Keepers’ example and dive for shelter, dragging you with him. The dragon isn’t showing any signs of slowing down. It is now close enough for him to make out the grim scores of scars marking its head, the eerie verdigris orbs glowing ominously within its immense skull, the sheer musculature forming one of the largest specimens of Old Valyria alive today. The dragon is quite dissimilar to the other Targaryen specimens, he notes, stouter and stockier and yet more serpentine than the winged creatures the Conqueror had brought to Westeros some hundred years before. He wonders if it is true that this one is from a different lineage entirely. He had never gotten close enough to survey it before now.

The great lumbering thing alights upon the dome of the Dragonpit, crawling with surprising agility to the edge of the structure and peering down. It sends a clatter of rubble spilling from the sides of the great dome as it crackles under the weight of it. At the sight of the Keepers huddled behind dragonglass shields, curled to the ground in vain protection of themselves, the Cannibal opens its mouth and screams. It is a haunting, hair-raising resonation that sends chills down his spine and near freezes the blood in his veins.

“Athfiezar!”

His gaze, having been transfixed upon the most terrifying entity he had witnessed in years, shifts to you. You have stepped forward, seemingly without a care, arm outstretched and calling happily up to the reptilian brute. He is about to pull you back toward him when he observes what might be the most deranged, impossible scenario imaginable.

The dragon stops.

It stops.

“Kesīr māzīs, Athfiezar!” you call again, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet. Come here!

Emitting a deep keening, its eyes split to you, pausing its rampage as it takes in the sight of you below. Daemon huffs an exhilarated laugh as the winged serpent cocks its head, pauses, and then begins scaling its way down the stone formation. It is heedless of the damage it is doing to the establishment as it tears its way through rock like parchment, wiggling down to touch down upon the ground before the mouth of the Pit. The beast is surprisingly light upon its feet for its sheer size, second only to the great she-dragon, Vhagar.

He can only watch on in amazement as you stride forward to meet your mount. The famed Cannibal bends its massive frame down so that you may lay your hand upon its snout and coo something tender and indeterminable from a distance away. The wyrm growls softly, slowly pressing itself against you as you talk. The Dragonkeepers have not yet moved from their protective stances, spaced out around the yard and cowering behind obsidian safeguards.

What the fuck.

And then, you are walking back toward him, an air of contentment unlike any he had witnessed about you emanating from your person and echoed in the radiant joy upon your visage. With your giant beast as a formidable backdrop, you look every inch a Targaryen conqueror. It is a most unexpected evolution in the child that had preferred to entertain herself by reading than by journeying to the Pit to see Syrax or Caraxes. The sight makes him breathless.

You are glorious.

“Kepus,” you say, reaching out to him. He is somewhat amazed to see you are the same person, the same girl with the same charming eyes and delicate features and alluring form, that you have not somehow metamorphosed into a goddess from ancient Valyria. “Would you like to meet him?”

His answer is immediate, wordless. When he grasps onto your hand, he notes that your grip is much firmer, more solid and more real than it had been the week before. You are in your element here, at peace within yourself and with the dragon feared by the entire world. You pull him gently with you towards the creature, unfaltering even in the wake of the chitters and low hisses it emits when it observes a newcomer heading its way.

“He will not hurt you,” you say kindly. “You are with me.”

The affirmation warms him. When you are a small distance away, you release his hand, stepping in front of him to murmur softly to your mount once more.

“Ñuha kepa bisy issa, ñuhus taobus,” you call mellifluously, once more extending your palms to stroke along the dragon’s head. It nudges you lightly, and you laugh in response. “Ziry ōdrikō daor.” This is my uncle, my boy. Do not hurt him.

There is an absurdity in hearing you kindly entreat this monstrosity as though it were a prize hound, born and bred to spend its days on the lap of a noblewoman at high tea. What’s more is that the wyrm appears to enjoy it, nuzzling into your touch like a kitten.

Athfiezar growls in warning as Daemon approaches, soothed only by the quiet humming you are making and the light affirmations of peace you are whispering. Shifting its weight around, it grumbles in irritated obeisance as it allows him near. When he is close enough to hear the beat of its heart, feel the waft of its breath on his skin, smell the typical scent of dragon stink upon the air, he stops and takes in the view.

From this angle, he cannot see the beast’s hind legs, so vast is the length of its anatomy. The dragon’s powerful front legs and sinuous snake-like neck occupies his vision, the head bowed low to the ground in cooperation with its mistress’s will. Its sable scales ripple like onyx in the sun, flashing shades of coal and silver and gold as the light dapples upon their surfaces. The creature is maimed in several places, no doubt from its long history of aggression against its own kind, but the old injuries serve to heighten its aura of petrifaction.

It is a horrifying representative of its kind. It is everything he had ever adored stories about as a child. And it is yours.

“How is this possible?” he breathes, stepping closer to you. You glance back at him, mouth quirking gently at the expression of wonderment on his face.

You lightly entwine your fingers with his. When his eyes snap to yours, you tug him forward easily, placing his hand upon the Cannibal’s snout with your small hand laid on his own. He laughs quietly at the sensation of dragon-scale under his palm, a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief and sheer childish awe colouring his tone. For a man to lay his hand upon the Cannibal and live… It is the stuff of dreams.

“Raqnon jorrāeltas—hegnīr ūī zijot irughin. You stare wistfully at your mount. He needed love—so I gave it to him.

Though it is a relief to hear his ancestral tongue spill from your lips once more, a reminder that the years had not washed away all that is familiar, Daemon wonders if there is more to this unlikely pair than anyone had assumed. Both isolated, both starved for affection, both cleaving to each other for warmth and surety. The notion makes him unhappy.

My poor, lonely little girl… You never need be lonely again now that he had returned.

He looks back up at the beast, Athfiezar the Cannibal, this wretched saviour of desolate maidens and broken dreams. The creature snorts, a puff of smoke jettisoning out of its nostrils in a sneeze. He jumps out of the way, startled. You giggle, laying your head fondly against its snout.

“Kara iksā,” he says. You are magnificent.

You smile as you look up at your dragon, your hand lightly caressing its colossal jaw—but Daemon’s eyes remain firmly affixed on you.

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fandomwritingbit · 6 months

Text

👻Hallowe'en Special👻

Ghosting.

Michael Afton x fem!reader.

Synop: After being abandoned by a friend at a stellar Halloween party, reader hooks up with someone in a Ghostface costume... turns out to be Michael Afton. This is a very distant sequel to Hateful with both Mike and reader being arseholes with an enemies to lovers thing going on.

Warnings: drinking, swearing, horniness, smut, public sex.

You’ve been looking forward to tonight for months. A friend of a friend spread the word about their ‘killer halloween party’ almost as soon as August rolled around and rumours of fancy dress, live music and drinking games followed suit. It sounded like just what you needed to perk you up after weeks of studying.

And now, looking at your costume laid on your bed, you can’t help but grin, it’s cheesy and a little old-fashioned, but hey, if it ain’t broke…

You’ve spent much too long getting it just right, using several sharpies, glitter and lipstick to perfect the face on your blanket, huge eyelashes on top of your eye cut-outs and big pouting lips. A fucking perfect, tarted-up blanket ghost. You complete the set-up with a pair of fishnets and chunky heels, unable to hold in your giggles when you check out the outfit in your mirror.

“Oh my god, you look crazy.” Your friend Gemma laughs, looking at herself in the reflection next to you, her playboy bunny costume a much more basic choice than yours. One could argue a more sensible one too, because you'd had to layer up so all your secrets couldn't be exposed by one big gust of wind.

“Yeah, crazy hot.” You put your hands on your hips and pose, both of you tittering like schoolgirls. It is funny, but you’re aware that the pre-drinks you’ve had are probably making it seem funnier than it is.

Your friend grabs a jacket and slings it over her shoulders, gesturing with her head that it’s time to go. “Can you even see anything?” She asks as you join her outside, looking at you sceptically as you turn around to lock your apartment door, missing the keyhole on the first try.

If she could see your face, your eye rolling would be very evident. “Yeah. I know what I’m doing.” You bring your hands to the lips of the blanket, “I even cut a hole so I can stick a straw through.” Showing her by sticking your tongue through the gap, though quickly cringing at the feeling and taste of the fabric.

“Oooh, she’s prepared.” Gemma says sarcastically, before putting a hand on your shoulder and all but forcing you to get a move on, you don’t want to be more than fashionably late after all.

One giggly taxi ride later, you and her are struggling to get out of the car without flashing anyone. And then, you're heading up the front steps to the house, where the party is already in the swing of things. A werewolf sits next to an inflatable flamingo on the steps, one smoking, the other vaping, you’re admiring their costumes when you realise the wolf is a lad from your tutor, so you stop to tell him how amazing he looks.

“Come on, y/n.” Your friend again takes your arm, her voice faux-whining. “We haven’t even got drinks yet, you can mingle in a second.”

You let her guide you, though not without a sharp glare, quickly turning to the wolf before you go, “See you later, Joe!”

As you step away, she grins at you, almost knocking over a witch’s drink sitting beside her on the top step. “Really gushing over Hoe-seph, huh?” She wiggles her eyebrows, her tone a little condescending.

You can’t help but laugh, “Shut up, you knob.” you nudge her, making her wobble on her huge heels. “You’ve got to admit he looks great.”

She scoffs in response. “Sure, he does. But it’s fucking Joe! We can do better tonight.”

…

So much for that, you think to yourself as you sip probably the cheapest lager you’ve ever tried through a curly straw. Not even an hour after you and her had arrived, she’d found a group of people she knew from law studies and buggered off with them. Right now, you can see her bunny ears peeking over the crowd and swaying slightly to the music.

You probably should have anticipated being on your lonesome.

Though that doesn’t make it any less shit.

“You alright, y/n? You here all on your own?” Someone you recognise talks loudly over the music, pulling you out of your silent thought.

You sigh, though they probably can’t hear the extent of it. “Yeah… Gemma pulled her signature move and left me in the dust.” You try to explain, having to repeat the words twice before they understand. When they do, their expression shifts in pity and they put a hand on your shoulder.

“Awww, come drink with us then, screw her.” You pull a face as you consider, before nodding and following them over to the kitchen where they and six others stand around an island drinking. It’s much brighter in there with the big lights on and you blink after being so used to the muted multi-colour lights of the living room.

Your new buddy catches your reaction. “Hey, don’t let the light sober you up. What are you drinking?” They ask, and man, you really need to buck up and ask their name.

“Uhh… whatever this is.” You twist the bottle around so they can see the label and their expression instantly reveals disapproval. Which you completely understand.

“You want another one of them?” A bloke standing next to the fridge pipes up, who you'll come to learn is called Ash.

“...Not really.” You admit and they laugh.

“Vod and coke?” Your saviour prompts with a huge bottle of smirnoff in their hand and you beam under your costume.

“Now we’re talking.”

As enjoyable as the change in drink was, it didn’t take much for it to take effect and pretty soon you’re hanging off the arm of someone you've just formed a strong drunken friendship with, and singing along to someone’s halloween playlist.

The drunkenness itself wasn’t so bad, everyone else was too and surprisingly this group was an excellent match of personalities. The main problem was that drink makes you horny. Like seriously horny. Horny enough to scan these people for a viable and interested partner. But you swiftly realise the seven of you are made up of two couples, someone that doesn't date girls and that Ash guy.

You struggle to think of who around could be your hook up. Yes, you could go find your werewolf friend, or his flamingo buddy, but that doesn’t feel too appealing.

“I’m gonna go outside… I want to smoke.” You try not to slur your words, and pat the arm of the person that led you to this drunken safe haven as you walk, or rather stumble, past. The struggle is real, especially in these heels, but you manage it. Squeezing through masses of guests and trying not to get decked by tipsy people dancing, some of them shouted sorrys at you, others stared after your form like you were in the wrong.

The cool night air was pleasant and you soak it all in as you check faces around. You recognise lots of people even through costumes but you know them too well for a quick drunken hook up, and there's no need to make your social circles awkward. But, god, you’re thirsting.

Moving down the steps and being really careful not to slip, you pull a packet of cigarettes out from under your blanket, the box warm from being pressed against your skin for so long. Then you go down the side of the house, flinching when a motion-sensor light kicks into life and illuminates the path in a dingy yellow light. It’s like the party doesn’t exist back here, the noise completely dying when you turn the corner into the back garden.

And that’s when you see him. Some guy in a full Ghostface get-up, one glove pulled up to let him scroll through his Instagram feed. You can’t help but grin under your covering, you have a special place in your heart for Ghostface, the movie one of your favourites for many reasons. Not all of them wholesome.

Placing the cigarette through the slit in your costume, you light up. Taking yourself over to slasher and standing beside him.

“Uhh hey…” He turns to you tilting his head, no doubt trying to figure out who you were under your mask and failing. “That costume is-”

You smirk as you cut him off, “Amazing? I know. Proving to be a little inconvenient though.”

“Yeah I’ll bet. Do I know you?” You make a humming noise, trying to decide if you want to know who he is. There’s something really hot about the anonymity of it, hell you can play with the idea of a Matthew Lillard or Skeet Ulrich under there. And just the thought of that spurs you on immensely.

“I’m not sure. But there’s fun in that.” The guy nods, but you can imagine a look of confusion under that sexy mask. You’re not usually this bold, but liquid courage and boredom can make anyone risqué.

The two of you fall silent for a moment, before you break it teasingly, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me?”

Ghostface scoffs in hesitation before he bites the lure. “Ask you what?”

You dramatically place a hand on your chest as you pretend to gasp. “... The Question. From the movie, you know, the one Ghostface is famous for?”

“Ohh.” he laughs as he catches on. A hand digging in his robe for a small black device that looks like a radio. He holds it up to the mask and does as you ask, “... What’s your favourite scary movie?” The voice changer is scarily movie accurate, that iconic voice that is the perfect mixture of terrifying and ridiculously hot.

You gasp for real this time, losing yourself in giggles, “That is awesome, holy shit.” You move a little closer, deciding that yeah, you want to test the waters with this fella. “Scream…” You answer, “Because I think Ghostface is really hot.”

The flirtation in your tone isn’t hard to miss and although he’s surprised you just walked up to him and staked a claim, he certainly isn’t complaining. “Yeah?”

You nod, alcohol making you brave enough to lay all your cards on the table. You lift up the hem of your blanket slowly to show him how good your upper thighs look in these fishnets. “You interested?”

He laughs, “Hell yeah.”

Right there against the back of the house you pull the sheet up over your hips and your little shorts down, grinning in excitement as you watch him pull his gloves off and set about doing the same. He tries to help you take the fishnets down, but at this point you just hook your fingers into the holes and rip them enough to allow him access to your slick seam. “Fuck.” he breaths when his fingers come into contact with your wetness. How the hell has he gotten this lucky tonight?

The vodka in your veins doesn’t let you feel the cold, right now there’s nothing you want more than a good fuck and you hope that whoever is gripping your hips right now can do that for you. And judging by how quickly he finds your clit and begins to slowly rub circles, he absolutely can.

It’s clumsy, but exactly what you want and pretty soon you’re arching your back and pulling at the waistband of his boxers. You free his cock and he’s delightfully big and thick in your hands, so much so that you have to commend yourself, you really picked a good one here. Your hurried grabbing of his dick pushes him to press into you, hands cupping under your behind and lifting you to his perfect angle. It’s unexpected and you grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself, leaving him to slide his cock between your folds, coating himself in your slick, before pressing firmly inside you.

“Shit-” You hiss instantly, a buzz in your core becoming apparent at the gorgeous feeling of him filling you up. You move your hips against him as much as you can, spurring him on to a rough pace of fucking in and out of you. Neither of you consider that you’re completely exposed, lewdly hooking up outside next to someone’s house, anyone could come round the back and catch the two of you but that’s the furthest thing from your mind.

His grunts match the pace that’s quickly bringing both of you to your ends, gradually becoming whiny as he tries to make you come before finishing, but your tight walls are making that fairly difficult, as are the sweet sounds he’s pulling from you. He doesn’t realise how close you are and so the second he again starts to stroke your clit, the waves of your climax hit you hard. Your pussy sporadically tightens around him as you cum, your head tilting back against the wall and just like that he has to pull out, his release immediately hot and sticky on the top of your thighs. He thrusts into his hand as he finishes, groans dripping from his lips.

By now you’re recovered enough to be annoyed that he’s covered your lower body in cum and you push against him to get him off of you. He obeys and leans against the wall next to you, both of you staring forward for a moment of realisation. How the Hell are you supposed to go back in there with this costume fucking sticking to you? God, you probably should have discussed logistics beforehand but hindsight is 20/20, huh? Your still tipsy brain nearly laughs at the situation but stops when the bloke next to you starts shifting in his costume, grabbing at his mask in an almost panicky way.

He manages to pry it off and closes his eyes for a moment. The very moment he does you practically jump 30 feet in the air. A gross knowledge snapping through you so fast, you swear you touch all five bases on the grief scale. Your Ghostface was fucking Michael. Michael Pissing Afton. “Oh. Fucking Christ.” You snap out of nowhere, making Mike flinch.

“Woah, what? What’s wrong?” Your reaction is so strong he thinks you must be in pain of something and swiftly turns towards you, hands hovering over you like you were about to hit the deck.

You neglect to answer him, just angrily pulling the blanket up and tearing it off your form with an exasperated sigh. Only Michael Afton could make you completely sober in the span of two seconds.

He watches with wide eyes and almost winces when he reaches the same conclusion you did. “Y/n?” He laughs a little in surprise, still staring as you toss your costume on the floor and stand there in the tiniest shorts and top going. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

You scoff, “I didn’t fucking know, did I?” You say loudly, the silence following it deafening. Honest to God, how didn’t you realise sooner? You definitely should recognise him from your fling nearly a year ago- must be the alcohol, but still, if you’d have known you probably would have shopped around a bit before settling for Michael Fucking Afton.

A stupid smug smirk coats his lips, that pinch between your brows is just funny. He speaks through a chuckle, “I actually can’t believe it’s you… How’re you doing, it’s been a while?”

The sharp gaze you fix him with just makes him laugh harder. “Yeah, that was intentional.”

And there was that side of you that got on his last nerve, props to your attitude for being able to ruin a perfectly good shag. “Why are you pissed off? You came on to me.” He asks the questions incredulously, his tone irritating.

“Huh, bet that’s a first.” You retort, a condescending smile increasing tenfold when he scowls.

How in the name of all that is holy did this happen?

A/n: Hope you enjoyed, stay tuned for the next one xxx

#fnaf #michael afton #michael afton x reader #michael afton x you #michael afton smut #FWB's halloween event #fnaf smut

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daisyblog · 5 months

Text

To Be So Lonely

Our Story Masterlist Summary: How To Be So Lonely was made.

Warning: alcohol usage, talk about relationship, swearing

Harry didn’t understand how quickly things could change. He’s gone from feeling hopeful that things between him and YN were heading in the right direction, that there was a chance that they could work things out. But after their strained conversation last week over coffee at Beachwood, he started to lose hope.

Noticing how down Harry had been and how lost he seemed, especially after he had written the song ‘Falling’ a few days ago at the studio, Sarah and Mitch had invited him over for some dinner with them.

Sarah was in the kitchen prepping and cooking their dinner, and Mitch and Harry were lounging in the living room.

“Still haven’t heard anything from YN?”. Mitch asked, knowing how much this was affecting his best mate.

Harry shook his head, as he started to play with the loose cotton string on his dark jeans. “I did speak to Louis the other day after we met up…and he said she’s having a lot of panic attacks at the moment.” Harry felt so useless, knowing he couldn’t help her any more. “They started after her Mum passed.”

“It’s hard man.” Mitch sympathised, knowing it can’t be easy for YN either. Sarah had now joined them, sitting next to Mitch and naturally his hand found his way to her thigh. Harry feeling a tad a jealousy that he no longer had that type of relationship.

“I just don’t know why she thinks I’m interested in some other girl that Glenne was talking to the other day…I hate the media…they twist everything.” Harry frustratedly ranted, knowing how unfair it was that something so innocent had been made into him now getting close to another woman.

“It would be boring if they didn’t twist it.” Sarah added to their conversation. “Plus I don’t think the headline ‘Harry’s wandering hands’ helped you there.”.

Harry scoffed “Wandering…I didn’t even speak to the girl…I was too busy talking Jeff’s ear off about YN.”.

The sound of Harry’s phone ringing filled the room, and as he took it from his pocket he was surprised to see Louis name. “It’s Louis.”.

He pressed the green button, accepting the call quickly. “Hey Lou…everything okay mate?”.

“Sorry to bother you lad…it’s YN-“. Louis voice sounded defeated, almost like he’d ran out of options and Harry was his last hope.

“Is she okay?” Harry panicked, thinking something bad had happened.

“Yeh she’s fine…well she’s fookin’ wasted..and right now she’s lying on me floor just repeating your name.” Louis began to explain but soon YN’s voice could be heard faintly in the background.

“Harry…is that Harry?”. YN’s voice was slightly slurred.

“Do you want me to come over?” Harry asked, assuming that’s the reason Louis reached out to him.

“Do you mind H?” Louis hated to bother Harry, knowing that their relationship wasn’t great right now, but he was his last hope.

“Course not…I’ll be there in five.” Harry began to stand and gather his jacket ready to drive to Louis house.

After ending the call with Louis, Harry explained the situation to Mitch and Sarah and apologised for leaving so suddenly without having dinner. But Mitch and Sarah understood and just want YN and Harry to work things out.

Harry was feeling nervous as he drove towards Louis house. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He didn’t know if YN really wanted him there or if it was a case of she was that intoxicated that she forgot that they weren’t even a couple anymore.

Pulling up into Louis drive, Harry exited his car and jogged up the few steps as Louis opened the front door. “Come in man…I am really sorry to fookin’ bother you-“.

“Lou…it’s alright mate.” Harry interrupted him, not wanting him to think he minded coming over. He’s always want to be there when YN needed him.

Louis walked Harry into his house, and showing him where YN was currently sprawled across his grey rug in the living room, attempting to sing ‘Somebody To Love’.

“Can anybody find me somebody to love.” YN sung badly, and Harry could only assume that was down to the alcohol roaming her body right now.

Usually Harry would laugh at YN in this mess because it would be entertaining, but it was clear to him that she had been drinking alone in the house and he felt guilty that it may have something to do with him.

“Hey Kiddo…if you’re done murdering that song…do you think you can get up from the floor?”. Louis walked further into the room, Harry a few steps behind him.

“Fook off…and leave me here to mope.”. YN slurs her words, as she childishly rolls on the rug beneath her.

Harry remained silent, not wanting to aggravate the situation any further. “Well the reason your moping is standing right here so…please get your arse up from my fookin’ rug and talk to him.”. Louis wasn’t being nasty, just using his assertive voice.

It was in that moment that YN noticed Harry standing next to her brother. “Hey bubs!” YN gave him a tipsy smile.

“C’mon bab-“ Harry had almost let the pet name slip out after hearing YN openly call him ‘bubs. “C’mon, let’s get you up from the floor.” Harry held his hands out, hoping YN would comply. But Harry knew how stubborn she was.

YN wore a cheeky smile, one that would appear whenever she was about to make a joke. “Did you just call me baby?”.

“It slipped out.” Harry confessed, but still confused why YN was teasing him when she had referred to him as his nickname first.

Just as quickly as YN teased, so her expression changed to a serious one, even her eyebrows frowned. “Don’t call me baby again!”. Harry was taken back, how someone’s mood could change so quickly.

He looked to Louis for help, but he shrugged his shoulders. “This is what I’ve been dealing with since I came home…good luck lad…I’m off for a smoke.” Louis announced as he grabbed the packet of cigarettes and lighter from the side and closed the living room door behind him.

Silence surrounded them for a short while, for a moment Harry wondered if YN had fallen asleep. But his question was answered when she stood up from her position, swaying slightly and Harry quickly stopped her from hitting the coffee table in front of her. “Hey! Friends don’t touch each other…remember you just want to be friends!” YN snapped.

“YN…I never said I wanted us to be just friends”. Harry bit back, frustrated at all the assumptions she was creating recently.

YN had now made herself comfortable on the grey L shaped sofa. Harry following and sat down on the opposite side, choosing to keep a safe distance.

“Do you still love me?” YN asked quietly, in between her tipsy hiccups.

Harry snapped his head up to look at her. How could she think any different? “I’ve never stopped loving you.”.

“It felt like it when you were on tour.” YN admitted and Harry wonders if this was the alcohol talking.

“I did act like a dickhead, I won’t deny that.” Harry couldn’t disagree, when he was on tour, he prioritised everything before his relationship.

“Hmm my words would be arrogant son of a bitch.” YN’s words stung, but Harry took it well.

“M’sorry!” Harry apologised. “I know it’s probably too late but I am.”.

When YN didn’t respond, Harry wondered if he should leave. Since he first arrived, she seemed to have sobered up a little, she was still hiccuping but she wasn’t slurring her words as much as she was when he first arrived.

“I think I’m gonna leave.” Harry stood from his seat, about to walk towards the living room door. But he stopped in his tracks at YN’s words.

“Please don’t leave me.” YN pleaded, Harry turned to look at her, tears were forming in her eyes. “I-I..don’t wanna b-be alone.”.

At the sign of weakness, Harry ran to her side. “Hey…it’s okay I’m here.”. Harry pulled her body closer to his, his arm wrapping around her and YN was quick to hold him tight. “You’re never alone.”.

“It’s so hard going home and being lonely.” Harry’s heart broke there and then. He hadn’t been back to their London home since they split. But he could only imagine how that must feel, walking into a house you once shared to find it dark and empty.

“M’sorry.” Harry left a soft peck to YN’s head. He was reluctant to ask but needed to know. “Is that why you’ve been having panic attacks?”. YN didn’t speak, just nodded her head. Harry held her tighter and ran his fingers through her hair.

After a while, Louis gently opened the door to find the reason it was so quiet in the house. YN was half lying on Harry, her leg over his and her tucked under his neck. He was glad to see that YN was back with her safe place.

---

It had been a few days since Harry was at Louis house. When Harry and YN woke the next morning, they were still snuggled up in each others arms but neither of them made an effort to move.

They had made breakfast together, but bath didn’t bring up the antics of the previous night. Silently telling each other that they needed to move forward. Harry had left before Louis had woken that morning, purposely because he didn’t want to give him the wrong impression that something more had happened between him and YN.

Harry had a studio session today with Mitch, Tyler and Kid. Mitch didn’t question Harry on what happened after he left their house that night. That’s one of the reasons Harry loved him so much, he was a good friend, he was a good listener but he never probed for information.

As Harry entered the studio, Mitch was already playing something on a new instrument in his hand. “Mitch…what’s that?”.

“It’s a Ukulele.” Mitch continued to strum on what Harry could see was a smaller version of a guitar. “I’ve got this melody that I just can’t see to stop playing.”.

“Show me.” Harry instructed as he took a seat on the stool, opposite his guitarist, folding his arms over his chest in concentration.

The minute Mitch began to play, Harry loved it. It had a unique sound and he instantly knew he needed to use it for a song. Harry signalled Mitch to keep playing, a rush of creativity coming over him.

Don't blame me for falling I was just a little boy Don't blame the drunk calling Wasn't ready for it all

Harry reflected on how young he and YN had fallen in love. They were young and innocent and had no idea what life was going to throw at them. The drunk calling referring back to the night a few days ago, it wasn’t Louis fault, he just didn’t what to do with his paralytic sister.

You can't blame me, darling Not even a little bit I was away And I'm just an arrogant son of a bitch Who can't admit when he's sorry

Thinking back to their conversation, Harry could resist using YN’s directness of calling him out on his shitty behaviour when he was on tour and confidently calling him an arrogant son of a bitch.

Don't call me baby again You got your reasons I know that you're tryna be friends I know you mean it Don't call me baby again It's hard for me to go home Be so lonely

YN’s words about her feeling alone and lonely will always haunt him. No matter what, nobody should have to feel like that.

I just hope you see me in a little better light Do you think it's easy being of the jealous kind? 'Cause I miss the shape of your lips You'll win, it's just a trick And this is it, so I'm sorry

Harry has always been a jealous lover and looking at all the happy couples around him only proves that. But it was true, he missed her, he missed everything about her and this was his way of saying “I’m sorry.”

As Harry finished, he and Mitch a look. “We make a good team!”.

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petcr3 · 7 months

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something to rely on | chapter one

series masterlist (coming soon!)

summary: despite being separated, bob floyd is there to support his wife and their son after she sustains some injuries in a car accident.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: separation/divorce, reader is frequently referred to by she/her pronouns, is called bob's wife/ex-wife, mrs. floyd, etc. bob and reader have a son, but i have tried to be as inclusive as possible with regards to appearance and the type of family! (meaning, if i've done my job correctly, charlie can have been adopted, not necessarily carried by the reader, etc.) non-graphic reference to a car accident, non-graphic description of injuries. chapter one is set entirely in a hospital. readers parents are present in the story, still married, and have a good relationship with reader because this is fantasy lol

a/n: lads, it's here. some of you have been hearing me blather about this story for fucking ages and chapter one is finally done. i'm proud of it, i think, but if nothing else i simply cannot keep sitting on it, so here it is! very excited for this story's future <3 i hope you love charlie as much as i do lol

It’s a rare occasion that one hears Bob Floyd before seeing him, but you suppose your getting into a car accident is a special enough occasion.

Things feel hazy–– with two broken wrists and a broken leg, you’ve been given quite the painkiller. You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake, exactly, but it can’t have been very long. There’s a digital clock on a small table next to your hospital bed, but your neck is too sore to turn far enough over to see it. A thick wooden door is shut against the buzz of the floor outside: the ringing of phones, the click of computer keys, and the clatter of patients being wheeled to and from scans and tests and specialists.

Even amidst all that, the sound of Bob’s words cuts through. He’s raising his voice, you realize. That’s not like him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse says on the other side of the door, “but outside of visiting hours I can only admit family, and––”

“I am family,” he says, impatient.

“I understand that, but when a patient is separated––”

“Separated,” Bob interrupts, “not divorced. That is my wife and the mother of my child, so will you please let me see her?” It sounds much more like a demand than a question. The nurse sighs, clearly frustrated.

“Let me go speak to her.” She steps out from behind the counter and cuts Bob a severe look. “If she is awake, I’ll let her know you’re here. But given that rest is one of the most crucial things for her right now, I will not be waking her up. You can wait.”

“Thank you,” comes his clipped reply. The nurse approaches your room, only a few steps away from the front desk–– Bob would have just gone straight in, had he known— and when the door creaks open, he can be seen standing over her shoulder–– a respectful distance behind, at least.

“Ma’am, there’s someone here to see you,” she says. You can tell it’s taking everything Bob has not to run to you, but he’s smart enough to know that showing this nurse any more disrespect isn’t wise. “He says he’s your husband,” she continues, “but if you don’t want to see him, I can tell him to leave.”

“No, that’s okay,” you say, “he can come in.” She turns around only to discover Bob right behind her. He squeezes quickly past, murmuring a hurried thank you before practically flying to your bedside. All his frustration quickly dissipates as he leans over you, a deep furrow in his brow. Over his shoulder, you see the nurse shake her head, exasperated, and leave, shutting the door behind her.

“Hey honey,” Bob says, hand lifting to brush across your cheek, as if it’s two years ago and nothing has changed. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m okay, Bobby,” you reply, tired. You surprise yourself, though, using his old nickname like that. Since you two broke up, you’ve only ever called him Bob. “Someone lost control of their car in the rain, apparently. You owe that nurse an apology.”

“And I’ll give her one later. First I need to know that you’re okay.”

“I just said that I’m okay,” you laugh softly. “Bob, I’m fine.” Reluctantly, he nods, leaning back to grab at a chair. He won’t even stand all the way up, refuses to take his eyes off you lest you run off somewhere else to nearly get yourself killed.

“How’s Charlie; is he with your parents?” You nod, heart clenching at the thought of your son, how distressed he must be right now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice getting a little watery. “Yeah, I got to talk to him a little while ago. He wants to come visit after my surgery tomorrow.” Bob’s brow furrows.

“Surgery?”

“Just my left wrist. The right one and the leg only need braces, but,” you sigh, “yeah, the left one took the door pretty hard, so.” He nods.

“How about your head? All okay up there, no bleeding?”

“I have a concussion, but that’s all. They know what they’re doing here, Bob. Don’t worry. I’m gonna be just fine.” He studies you for a moment, then sighs, nodding his head again. “Not so fun being on the other side of it, huh?” you say without thinking. It isn’t meant to be cutting, but blue eyes snap up to your face, a faint expression of shock on Bob’s features.

Still, you have a hard time feeling too guilty. How many times have the roles been reversed? How many times have you held your baby boy to your chest murmuring reassurances that you can’t promise are true? How many times has Bob been gone, unable to tell you he was okay or even alive? Or looked up at you under the harsh white light of a hospital room on base and told you there was nothing to worry about when you both knew that there was?

Bob schools his expression into something a little softer and gives a curt nod. You can’t decide if that was over the line. But that had always been the problem, hadn’t it?

Neither of you had known how easy it would be to push each other over their limits. You’d thought love and a thick skin would be enough to survive the looming fear of losing your husband. Bob had thought it would be easier to outrun the guilt he always felt leaving you behind, the way it weighed on his chest like an anvil. Eventually, your wounds were rubbed raw and his ribs began to crack beneath the pressure.

The times when he was home were supposed to be precious, but they had become tense, uncomfortable. It wasn’t good for either of you, and it certainly wasn’t good for three-year-old Charlie. Splitting up had been the best choice, even though it pained you both to admit it.

Bob had been adamant about a separation rather than a divorce. Ex-spouses of the military were still entitled to some benefits, but for Charlie’s sake and yours he wanted to remain legally married. You’d both agreed that if you met other people and got serious enough, a divorce would be back on the table. It hadn’t been the easiest decision, but now, laying in a hospital bed, you can’t help but feel grateful. And how many people can say their ex husband came rushing to their side in an emergency?

Regret is already creeping up across your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, reaching to touch the back of his hand. Your fingers brush awkwardly against his skin where they protrude from your brace, but you can see the gesture means something to him–– his eyes shine a little sadly when he looks at you. He gives a faint shake of his head.

“S’okay. Me too.”

Despite your best efforts to persuade him otherwise, Bob stays the night in your room, sleeping with his legs slung across a second chair the nurses had been kind enough to provide for him. (He’d apologized to the nurse he spoke to when he arrived, and she’d taken it rather graciously, all things considered. In her place, you’re pretty sure you would have had him thrown out.) You fall asleep fairly easily, exhaustion having taken its toll, but you wake up in the wee hours needing the bathroom. You press the call button, hoping it won’t wake your sleeping companion, but Bob rouses when Jermaine, one of the nurses, comes in. The whole bathroom song and dance is a process you certainly don’t enjoy, but you’ve gotten used to it over the past several hours.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” Jermaine quips, walking to your bedside.

“I keep guzzling water when he’s not looking,” you say, nodding towards a still groggy Bob. Jermaine only laughs and pulls back the covers.

“All right, ready?”

“Yep.” You grimace as he braces his hands beneath your armpits to help lift you up enough to get into your wheelchair. You sigh as Jermaine rolls you to the bathroom and braces an arm around your waist to help you onto the toilet. The door stands open, but you’re too drained to care–– besides, this isn’t anyone’s first rodeo.

You don’t see the way Bob’s eyes widen with worry. How he watches each maneuver carefully, filing it away in the back of his mind. The decision had been made before he walked through the door, really, but seeing you struggle only cements it. He doesn’t say anything as Jermaine helps you back to bed–– only a quiet thank you as the nurse leaves the room. He can talk to you about his plan tomorrow.

A low murmur of voices filters into your consciousness as you wake that morning, your eyes flickering open to see Bob standing with Dr. Alvarado, who will be performing your surgery. She notices you shifting in your bed and comes to your side, Bob following suit on the opposite, returning to his seat.

“Good morning, Mrs. Floyd,” she says warmly, “how are we feeling?” Your mouth is dry and you swallow thickly before responding.

“I’ve been better,” you rasp, wincing at the scrape of your voice. Bob is holding out a cup of water before you even have a moment to think, and you start to reach for it before faltering. In the fog of waking up, you’d almost forgotten.

“I’ve got it,” he says quietly, bringing it to your lips. You drink, far too worn out to protest.

“Your procedure is scheduled for 12:30 this afternoon. It’s about 8:15 right now. That’ll give you some time to rest before pre-op. I’ve also been told you have a special visitor, if you feel up for it.” Your heart lifts, and you can’t help but look expectantly up at Bob.

“Charlie?”

The hopeful lilt of your voice splinters something in his heart. He smiles, tight-lipped but genuine all the same, and nods.

“Uh-huh. I know you said the plan was post surgery, but your mom called saying they were up and ready to go. I figured you’d want to see him.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice high and thin, “yeah I’d like that.” Dr. Alvarado smiles.

“I’ll let them know. They’re all very anxious to see you.” You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. Ordinarily, you try not to let Charlie see you crying. With the separation, you’ve been doing everything you can to be his rock. You remember how scary it was when you were a child to see your parents upset, or worse, hurt. But today, you don’t know if you’ll quite be able to manage it. Gracelessly, you swipe at the tears on your cheeks, but before long, Bob is at the ready again, tissue box extended toward you. You nod your thanks and clasp one in between your fingers. Blotting is much easier.

You’ve just about gotten it together when the door opens again.

“Mommy?” Charlie calls, and you hate how you can hear the frightened tremble of his voice. He makes it a few steps over the door jamb when he sees Bob.

“Daddy!” For a heartbreaking moment, wide eyes dart between the both of you, unsure of where to run.

“Go say hi to Daddy, sweetheart,” you say, heart swelling to see the reunion. Charlie beams and runs directly into Bob’s arms.

“Hey, big man!” he says, scooping Charlie off the ground in a strong embrace. “I missed you so much, little bear.” He presses a big kiss to your son’s cheek and is rewarded with a delighted giggle that has you crying again. Hurriedly, you dab at your eyes once more.

Your parents enter the room behind Charlie, your mother’s smile wavering and your dad’s brow furrowed. The braces make hugs awkward, but your parents’ presence is an enormous comfort.

“Charlie’s been very brave,” your father informs you. “And we’re all very glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” you say wetly, wishing you could hold their hands. “I love you guys.”

You cast a glance over to your left, where Bob and Charlie are engaged in conversation, faces close together and voices hushed. Watching Bob parent has always made your heart ache, even now when things have fallen apart. He was meant to be a father, plain and simple. People who don’t know him might expect a Navy man to be gruff, tough on a child, especially a son. But Bob is all gentleness when it comes to your Charlie. He is patient and invested and even though you two aren’t together, it’s difficult to imagine parenting Charlie with anyone else.

You tear your gaze away to talk with your parents, explaining what happened and asking about how Charlie has been coping over the course of the last few hours.

A few feet away, Bob has his son cradled close in his arms.

“I was really scared,” Charlie confides in him, “but I gotta be brave for Momma.” Bob’s heart breaks just a little, and he smooths a hand over Charlie’s hair. Perhaps this instinct to protect is just built into the little boy– knowing you and Bob, that’s a distinct possibility. But Bob can’t help but worry it’s a result of the split.

“You don’t have to be brave for Momma, honey,” he says softly. “That’s our job. Parents get to be strong for their kids, not the other way around. It’s okay to be scared when someone is hurt. And it’s also okay to express that. Especially with me and Mommy. And being strong doesn’t mean you can’t feel your feelings. In fact, being able to feel your feelings is a part of what makes a person strong, because some feelings are really hard.” Charlie listens to his father with rapt attention–– he always has. “But it’s important not to ignore them. Does that make sense?” He nods sagely when Bob is done talking.

Bob can’t help but smile, heart swelling with affection. It’s moments like these when he thinks he could leave it all if it meant getting to spend every second of every day with his baby boy.

“Should we go say hi?” he asks, bouncing Charlie gently against his hip. Charlie nods, his gaze flickering over to you.

Though you’re talking with your parents, you can’t take your eyes off of your son. Call it selfish, but ever since you’d been able to think straight you’ve wanted nothing more than to see him. You’re reaching out for him the second Bob starts towards you, but he gives you a look.

“With your leg?” he asks quietly, even though Charlie is right there in his arms.

“I still got one good one,” you quip,” and I think a hug is gonna help me get better much quicker. Besides, all my problems are below the knee— I’ll be fine.”

Bob has always had trouble saying no to you.

“Be gentle, okay bud?” Charlie nods.

Carefully, he sets Charlie down in your lap, positioning him mostly on your uninjured right leg.

“Hi baby,” you beam, the pain you’re in practically forgotten. “I’m so happy to see you!” Charlie snuggles immediately into your chest, eyes impossibly big when they look up at you. Tucking him under your arm is awkward, but you do it anyway.

“Hi Mommy,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid talking too loudly will hurt you.

“Hi,” you say again, matching his hushed voice, smile wider than it’s been for the duration of your stay. Bob stands slightly off to the side, feeling a little bit like an intruder. Still, he can’t help but watch the way your eyes sparkle when you look at your son. He’s never seen anything like it.

A gentle hand on his shoulder catches his attention, and he turns to see your mother, her expression warm. He counts himself incredibly lucky that your parents don’t hate him. Sometimes he hates himself for what happened, and yet they still treat him like one of their own. The three of them exchange hushed greetings, each thanking one another for taking care of the two of you.

Over in your hospital bed, you’re playing with the ends of Charlie’s hair. He’s been telling you about everything that happened between yesterday afternoon and now, cheerily informing you of how much he cried and how he got to choose what he and your parents had for dinner last night. You drink in every detail with enthusiasm, grateful as ever for his enormous heart and his resilience.

“I was really scared,” he says softly after a moment. You nod.

“I bet. I was scared too.”

“Daddy says it’s okay to be scared.”

“Daddy’s right, baby. It’s more than okay to be scared. It’s important— it’s how our brains keep us safe.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. You know how I’m scared of snakes?” Charlie nods. “Well, not every single snake is dangerous, right? But there are some that are. And because my brain remembers that some snakes are dangerous, I get a little scared when I see them. That fear is my brain telling me to be careful and stay safe.”

“So I was scared because it’d be dangerous if you got hurt?”

“Kind of! It can also be scary to not know what’s happening, right? Because if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s hard to get ready to deal with it. And it can be scary to know that something sad might happen, because it’s hard to feel sad.”

“I don’t like feeling sad,” Charlie says, nodding his understanding.

“Me neither, baby bear. But today I’m not even sad, because you’re here.” Your son’s cheeks turn pink and he hides your face in his chest. Heart swelling with fondness, you cross your arms over his back in an awkward embrace and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Is it okay if I’m a little sad?” he asks, voice muffled by your hospital gown.

“Of course it is, sweetheart. You gotta feel your feelings. And feelings don’t last forever; they change all the time, right?”

“Right.”

Out of sight, Bob swipes a few tears from his eyes. He’s always proud of Charlie, but he’s proud of you, too–– with three limbs freshly out of working order, you would be well within your rights to be out of sorts, but there you sit, still parenting admirably. Beautifully, even. Your father squeezes Bob’s shoulder and he looks up, almost a little startled. Your father smiles and the two men exchange a nod.

Your mother steps over to your bed and pets a hand over Charlie’s hair.

“I think me and Grandpa are gonna go home for a little while, honey,” she says to him before looking at you and resting a hand on your shoulder. “Someone gave us a good scare yesterday and I don’t think either of us slept very well. We’re both a little worn out.” Suddenly, she seems to catch herself. “Unless you want us to stick around and––”

You shake your head and reach out an appreciative hand to cover hers.

“Go get some rest, Ma.” She nods.

“We will. But we’ll be back when you come out of surgery. Bobby told us he’d keep us updated.” Too tired to even think that far ahead, you nod.

“Thanks for looking after Charlie,” you say, tangling your fingertips with hers.

“Well, that’s my pleasure,” she says, pressing a loud kiss to her grandson’s cheek. “And we can figure out next steps, we’ll find someone—“

“Mom,” you say softly, “let's just— can we take things one step at a time for now?” She nods–– the anxiety of it all reads clear on your face.

“You know, you’re right. Let’s get you through surgery first.” You nod, grateful. “We’ll see you soon, then.” Your mother smiles and turns to get her bag. Charlie giggles as his grandfather comes over to playfully jostle his shoulders.

“Be good for your mom and dad, okay kiddo?” Charlie nods eagerly.

“That’s my guy,” your dad says fondly, giving your son a hug before turning his attention to you. “You give ‘em hell in there.”

“What,” you laugh, “in surgery? Dad, it’s just my wrist; I’m gonna be fine.” He shrugs.

“Can’t hurt though, right?” he says lightly, but you can see a glimmer of anxiety in his eyes. He leans down to kiss your cheek and you return the gesture.

“Right,” you affirm, softening. “I love you, Dad. I’m gonna be okay.” Your dad gives a final nod and links arms with your mother as they leave the room.

It’s so easy to forget that to him— to both your parents— you are still a child. Charlie is still so young, it feels impossible that he’ll ever be as old as you are now. Of course, you still marvel at the fact that he’s as big as he is; that he can walk and talk and do math equations and paint pictures. But it’s easier to manage how much he’s grown because you can still bundle him up in your arms and count on one hand how many birthdays he’s had. Maybe if you were having less of an emotional day, you’d be able to imagine what it’ll be like when he’s grown up, but you can feel tears welling up in your eyes again so you push the thought out of your mind.

“Mommy?” Charlie asks, bringing your attention back into the present.

“Mm?”

“Did Grandpa use a bad word because he’s very stressed?” Laughter sputters out of you before you can help it, and Bob raises an amused eyebrow.

“Yeah, baby,” you say, “I don’t think he was thinking very hard about which words he was choosing. He just meant that he wants my surgery to go well, that’s all.”

“It’s like telling someone to give it their all,” Bob explains, coming to sit down at your bedside again.

“It’s what Daddy does when he’s on a deployment,” you offer, curling your arm into something akin to a flexed muscle, “he gives ‘em heck.”

“And that’s what Momma’s body is gonna do when she’s in surgery. It’s gonna do everything it needs to do to keep her safe while she’s asleep.” Charlie looks between you two, worry creeping back into his features at the mention of the surgery.

“Hey,” you murmur, “I’m going to be okay, Charlie-bear. I promise. Sometimes things can go wrong during a surgery, but the likelihood of anything bad happening is very, very low.” Charlie nods, wide-eyed. “So there isn’t anything to worry about sweetheart. But it’s still okay to be scared, right?”

“Right,” comes his hushed reply. Your heart aches not to be able to soothe his anxiety, but you know there’s no sense in trying to talk him out of it–– especially in the wake of what you’ve been trying to teach him. Still, it seems to you that the rules shouldn’t apply to Charlie, with his delicate soul and enormous heart.

Bob lays a comforting hand on your son’s back and his little form immediately relaxes into the touch. The three of you sit in comfortable silence for a little while, but soon the door creaks open and Jermaine enters with a wheelchair.

“Is this Charlie?” he asks brightly.

“It is!” you chirp. The boy in question looks up shyly. “Charlie, this is my friend Jermaine. He’s been helping me since I got to the hospital.”

“Your mom is a tough lady,” Jermaine says warmly, squatting to be closer to Charlie’s eye level. “I promise we’re gonna take very good care of her.” Charlie nods.

“Pinkie promise?” he asks, heartbreakingly earnest. Jermaine smiles.

“You got yourself a deal.” He locks his pinkie with Charlie’s and stands up. “I’ve gotta take Mom for a couple of tests before her procedure, and then we’re gonna take her off to surgery. But you’ll get to see her in a few hours when she wakes up, okay champ?” Charlie holds on to you a little tighter and peers up at his dad, who nods encouragingly.

“Okay.”

“Mom is very lucky to have people that care about her so much,” Jermaine says. “You should be proud.” A little divot of determination forms between Charlie’s brows and he nods. Bob starts to stand and Charlie clambers around to give you one last hug.

“I love you Mommy,” he says. You squeeze him as tightly as you can and press a big kiss to his cheek.

“I love you too, baby bear. I’m gonna see you so soon, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, a heartbreaking waver in his voice. You give him another kiss before Bob scoops him up again, and before you know it, Jermaine is wheeling you off into the hospital halls.

Back in your room, Bob has Charlie wrapped up in a tight embrace.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby bear,” he coos, “everything’s gonna be okay.”

#something to rely on #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fic #top gun fanfiction #top gun reader insert #bob floyd reader insert #bob floyd x you #quinn writes #petcr3 writes #my writing #bruh im sweating #lewis pullman x reader #robert floyd x reader #ok fuck it we ball

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saintmagx · 11 days

Text

Chamber of Horrors 😈

Grayson Waller x reader

an: just came across Grayson Waller on Chamber of Horrors with Scarlett and Shotzi and it gave me some inspo 👻 IF YOU HAVENT WATCHED IT, YOU SHOULD! He is literally polite, respectful, funny and hella scared. This story doesn’t follow the video exactly because my memory is bad and I started writing this so long ago I forgot so much stuff, plus trying to rewrite a video is kinda hard 🫣

‼️ Warning: swearing, bad story telling, cringe writing, not proof read, just rambles no actual good storyline‼️

“Our final guest of the night is the current WWE Woman’s Champion y/n!” Kayla says excitedly.

Walking out into the cozy studio my nerves settle slightly, I’ve never been on the bump before, nor had any kind of chat show interview before, so I’m a little overwhelmed. I make my way over to the other guests Scarlett and Shotzi and sit down next to them.

“So welcome to your first ever bump appearance, how has it taken us this long to get you here?” Kayla asks.

“Honestl-”

Cut off before I could even answer, a strong accent fills the studio, Grayson who was also a guest - who was joining us via video chat - had to pipe up - it’s what he does best.

“Let me answer that.”

“You see, yn wouldn’t come on the show unless yours truly was also a guest. I mean can you blame her, who wouldn’t want to be on the same show as the Aussie icon.”

“Ah yes Grayson of course, every time they asked me to come on the show I would say unless you have thee Grayson Waller on your show, I ain’t interested.”

He smiles and slightly chuckles, unable to retaliate.

We continue to hype up the next PLE. Shotzi and Scarlett then go onto speak about the release of more episodes of Chamber of Horrors.

“Yn we would love to have you as a guest on the next season! It would be so fun.” Scarlett suggests.

“Absolutely not.” I say - little too quickly.

“I might come across as someone who is tough but deep down I’m scared of most things. And being in an area that is high on the paranormal activity is a definite no for me.”

“We would be there, nothing would happen to you. It’s completely safe.” Shotzi tries her best to convince me to appear in the show, but her words fill me with little confidence.

“I’ll go on if you do yn.” Grayson declares.

“What?”

“If you do the show, I’ll do it with you. Moral support and all that. Plus if you get too scared you can always hold my hand.” His signature smirk creeping onto his face.

Feeling like my back was against the wall I agree to appear and anyway they might not ask me to be on it for a long time and we might not even go to somewhere that is extremely haunted. I was unfortunately wrong on both fronts.

The call to appear on an episode of Chamber of Horrors came all too quickly. It was decided that we would go and see Bloody Mary in New Orleans, which involved a seance and an independent ghost hunt around the haunted house.

Sitting around the table in a circle, Bloody Mary describes how the evening will go and says a few incantations to start of the seance.

“First we will go around the table and introduce ourselves to the spirits. Squeezing from left to right on our hands.” She tells the table.

She introduces herself then squeezes my left hand. My turn I guess

“My name is yn.” I then squeeze Grayson hand for him to start

“My name is Grayson Waller, Maddison square garden main eventer.”

“I’m Shotzi”

“I’m Scarlett”

We continue to hold hands until Bloody Mary continues. She introduces us to a doll named Henry. Scarlett picks him up and places him onto a clearly uncomfortable Graysons lap.

“He likes the ladies, he’s a bit of a flirt.” Bloody Mary explains to us.

“Aw yes lad! We could be brothers.” Grayson says, “however I have to move you closer to Shotzi and Scarlett, can’t have you making moves on people you shouldn’t be.”

I look at Grayson confused, why would he say that?

“So is it true someone at this table hasn’t seen a horror film.” Bloody Mary questions. Looking around the table I find it hard to believe. Shotzi and Scarlett are literally horror queens and I’ve dabbled in horror movies myself, like who hasn’t. That only leaves Grayson…

“You haven’t seen a single horror movie? Like ever?” I quiz Grayson.

“Nope, I just like laughing. Why would I watch something that would make me scared?”

Stunned.

“The fact you haven’t seen the all time classics, I’m shocked. We have to change that.”

With a playful glint in his eyes he reply’s “are you asking me on a date? I mean I suppose if you were there to hold my hand I wouldn’t mind watching a scary film.”

And that right there is the famous Grayson Waller charm. I roll my eyes and laugh off his flirtation.

“I’ll ask theory to show you some of the classics. It’s gonna change your life.”

“I’d rather you show me them. I think I’d appreciate them more with you.”

He smiles slightly and shifts his attention back to Bloody Mary. Not noticing how his response had affected me.

The part I had been least looking forward to, the ghost hunt. We had been given free rein around the house to look and interact with any spirits we may encounter.

There had been a few words here and there but nothing that was concrete evidence that the spirts were among us. It could all be explained or passed off as a coincidence until I heard Scarlett and Grayson in the bathroom.

“Shotzi, yn come here quick.”

We entered the bathroom and were met with both Scarlett and Graysom standing in the bathtub. We join them without question and wait.

“Can you tell us your name” Scarlett asks the spirits

“Zach”

“Zach is there anyone else here with you?” She continues

“No”

“Killed her.”

“Sorry”

Scared, I find myself gravitating towards Grayson who instinctively grabs my hand. I’m not sure if he sensed my fear or if he too was scared however in that moment we were a comfort for each other.

“Killed who?” Shotzi asks this time. However there is no reply.

“Hey Zach can you say hello to Grayson?” She continues

In a mimicking tone

“Hi Grayson”

The mood is slightly lifted and I can’t help but chuckle this spirit has went from confessing to horrific crimes to making fun of Grayson and I’m here for it.

Unamused Grayson replies “oh, you think you’re funny do you?” The spirit did indeed think it was funny.

We move to a different room due to the activity in the bathroom dying down. The room we enter is a playroom, legend says that the small cupboard is where a small child still plays. We decide to have a game of rock paper scissors to see who will go in the cupboard. Shotzi is our first, then Scarlett.

“Can’t you just go in the cupboard? I think I would die of fear if I had to go in.” I say pleading with Grayson.

“Sorry love, fairs fair. Ready?” He replies.

Rock, paper, scissors shoot. I went with paper and Grayson well he went with rock. With a smug look I go stand next to Scarlett and Shotzi awaiting for Grayson to climb into the small cupboard.

“I’m literally in skinny jeans, I can’t do this.” He complains while backing into the small enclosed space. Not even a minute later he is screaming and scrambling to get out of the cupboard.

“Something touched me. Something touched my leg.”

“What?” We all ask.

“When I was in there I felt something grab and pull my leg.” He reiterates.

Finding his way next to me, he slides his hand into mine, again to find comfort. I squeeze his hand as a reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Looking down at me I can see the appreciation in his eyes.

Scarlett sits on the floor and asks the spirits some final questions - much to our dislike.

“Do you like Grayson?”

“No”

Grayson on hearing this throws a little tantrum

“I’m here, I’m trying to learn, I’m being respectful” before he can continue the spirt cuts him off

“Nerd”

The mood once again has been lifted at the expense of Grayson.

Shotzi continues to question the spirit.

“What about yn? Do you like her?”

“Yes”

“Pretty”

“You’re damn right she’s pretty. But ima have you ask you to back off mr ghost, she’s off limits.” Grayson replies

Shotzi and Scarlett share a knowing glance while i remain calm and composed- on the outside that is. On the inside im screaming.

That has got to be the most frightening experience of my life. The cameras have stopped rolling and we are standing in front of the Bloody Mary’s ready to part ways.

“Okay, I’ll admit it was kinda fun, however under no circumstances will I ever come back on your show.” I tell them.

They both laugh and tell me I’m a baby.

“I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight.”

Grayson jumps in “oh I don’t mind helping you out there. I can think of a few ways to help you sleep.”

Scarlett and Shotzi dismiss themselves sensing we need some time alone.

“What’s with the heavy flirting? You’ve been at it all night?” I question.

“Well what normally happens when a guy flirts with a girl?.”

“You’re not just any guy though, you’re Grayson Waller. Serial romancer.”

Slight offended he replies “I thought my actions would have been louder than my words? I like you yn, I like you a whole fucking lot. My mind, body and soul is captivated only by you.”

Silenced by his confession in struggle to think of the right words to say. I want to tell him I feel the same. I want to tell him how my every fibre and being yearns for him. Slowly I see the hope in his eyes fade as I’m taking too long to reply.

“Listen if you don’t feel the same way just say it I need to”

Before he could finish his sentence my lips meet his. He returns my kiss with a need and passion I’d only ever read in books. This is what he needed, this is what we both needed. Each other. Pulling away our foreheads rest on each other while catching our breath.

“How about a nightmare on elm street? A classic franchise to break that horror movie virginity of yours.”

He chuckles “as long as you’ll be there, I’ll watch anything.”

I honestly dunno what this turned into but here we are…….if you would like tagged in any of my stories let me know and I’ll add you to the list.

Tagged:

@jeysbae

@blueflowermentality

@co-sharkie

#wwe fanfiction #wwe x reader #wweedit #grayson waller x yn #grayson waller smut #grayson waller x reader #grayson waller imagine #grayson waller #grayson waller fan fiction #grayson waller x you #wwe x you #wwe imagine #wwe smut #wwe

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southparkxreader · 1 year

Text

pairings: post covid ! kyle broflovski, kenny mccormick, stan marsh x reader. trigger warnings : age gaps . reader is in her middle twenties , everyone else is forty nine . specific uses of she/her pronouns , uses of y/n + l/n ( get that interactive fic extension loaded , lads ) . disclaimer : i haven’t written anything like this in a long time . only interact with this post if you are 18 or above , minors are not welcomed on my blog . small intro of a future series im going to start in a fic form , putting this out there to see if anyone is interested and to get a taste for how alive the fandom is .

stay with me ... fanfic series being kenny’s assistant.

kenny has a nasty habit of losing track - it can range from his paper work , to notes when he’s going on one of his tangents and just needing to let it all out before it fleets from mind, to as simple as forgetting what day of the week it is : forgetting dates, scheduled events, that sort of thing. he really cannot coordinate his own life if it meant saving it, he’s just got too much going on, ten fold when it comes to his work -

it was kyle’s idea, actually - listening to kenny apologize yet again for forgetting one of the days they were supposed to meet up on. he sighs, exasperated, annoyed, any rational person would be when plans kept going haywire because someone couldn’t even bother to turn up “have you thought about a personal assistant ?” leaning on his kitchen counter, watching the new snow fall as he leaned into the phone “it’ll help. if it doesn’t, i’m just going to stop making plans with you.”

is he being serious ? no, but still - he’s on thin ice.

kenny starts interviewing a week later, because it really isn’t a bad idea - he’s ashamed that he never thought of it sooner. the applications come flooding through, who wouldn’t want a front row seat to a genius like him ? the things they’d get to witness first hand, new discoveries, seeing his mind in person and with a front row seat. it was too good to be true, nobody in their right mind would pass up the opportunity to put their application through.

after about a dozen interviews, he’s just about ready to give up.

then,,,, you come in - it was like he took a shot of vodka with how you snapped him awake - his eyes trail over you for a moment, he could see straight away how nervous you were - despite how much you were trying to hide it. cheeks were clearly flushed, fidgeting with your fingers before you held out a hand towards the man, smile shaky but bright as you did your best to put on a brave face, a little tremble in your hand as anxiety shot through you didn’t go missed, either “its a pleasure to meet you, mr mccormick, truly, it’s an honour. ”

well, right then and there, kenny thought you were just the sweetest little thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. he had his mind made up before your hands locked together, his large palm swallowing yours so easily as he sent you a dazzling smile, if any of his friends were in the room they’d make faces, sending him an accusing glare , they know the look too well and it’s anything but innocent “it’s a pleasure meet you too, mrs. l/n. you flatter me too much, please, sit - let’s begin, it says here that you - “

he has to at least pretend to be professional.

you got the phone call later that night with confirmation that you got the job. did you dance around your apartment, scream the minute the phone call ended ? absolutely you did. now you have a chance to actually enjoy work, to do something with your life rather than dragging yourself through it, to work along side the brightest mind of their generation.

he called kyle up the minute things were confirmed. telling him it was the best and only good idea he'll ever have again. to which he responds with a "fuck you... wait, what are you talking about ... why do you sound like that?" kyle knows, he knows kenny too well not to know.

when stan, kyle and kenny next have a meet up, it’s an annoying shocked and open surprise that kenny graced them with his presence, for having the ability to turn up on time. after a lot of shit talking, kenny finally falls into speaking about you, a little too much, stan and kyle have no choice but to want to meet you.

when they do ... ?

oh... oh they get it .

#post covid ! kyle broflovski x reader #post covid ! kenny mccormick x reader #post covid ! stan marsh x reader #sp x reader #south park x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #kenny mccormick x reader #stan marsh x reader

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chxrrylime · 1 year

Note

could i maybe request ghost and m!reader go out for the night and reader sees someone flirting with ghost so they make him jealous by flirting w someone else 🧍🏽 and it ends w jealous and possessive ghost fucking male reader for flirting w the bartender? 🌝 thank 🧎🏽🙏🏽

It wasn't the bartender ♡ Price anon is next !!

Ghost x M!Reader ↪ 1800 words — 18+ / SMUT.

Content tags — cis male submissive reader, cis male dominant Ghost, spit as lube, unsafe sex, referenced/implied Ghost x Soap, intentionally making partner jealous, possessive behavior, dubious consent (Soap), borderline cheating, crying, rough sex, penetrative sex, anal sex, fingering, mild choking, semi-public sex, slapping, spanking.

You watch from the mouth of the hallway to the restrooms, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Hip jutted out. Glaring.

Ghost’s not paying you any attention, rapt on the girlie paying him some in turn. He’s on his fifth shot of whiskey—you’ve been counting. Always counting, so you know when it’s time to drag him to the bunk, and to know when he’ll get handsy, too.

He’s getting there.

Except this broad’s got his attention, and she’s got her dainty little hand on his arm, near the crook of his elbow, and he doesn’t move her off. She leans in real close and you know how Ghost is—you know he’s marveling over how small that hand looks on him. He’s got a real size thing, the freak.

One time he’d had his hands on your hips, fucking you from behind, and you could feel him stretching his fingers across your stomach, seeing how close he could get. It was a real thing for him.

Then you’re not looking anymore. You’re crossing the bar to where Gaz and Soap are sitting, footfall heavy but not audible over the combination of drunken conversations and rumbling music.

“Johnny!” You bark, and your tone’s got Soap startling before he’s turning his head over his shoulder to clock you.

“Aye, what’s—woah!”

You’re already on him, grabbing the back of his chair and swinging around to plant yourself in his lap, thick thighs dwarfing his own as you rest down a little hard, making him grunt.

You hear Gaz mutter a “Jesus Christ…” as he downs the rest of his drink, getting up to go find something else to do.

Soap’s hands are instinctively on your thighs, gripping tight. He’s wide-eyed—tries to shift to look past your shoulder at Ghost but you grab his face before he can, fingers pinching his cheeks as you turn him back to you.

“Lad,” he tries slowly, eyeing you warily, “I’d rather not end up on the sharp side of Ghost’s knife, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You won’t. Focus on me,” you trail your hands down to his chest, planting them there as you rock your hips forward, grinding down against Soap. You’ve never heard the Scotsman take in such a sharp breath, his whole body jolting like he’s trying to rock you off of him. Your thighs squeeze tighter against him. You didn’t get the goddamn record on that mechanical bull for nothing.

He’s got his hands up to the side now, in the air like he’s trying to surrender. You cackle, grabbing his wrists to settle them back onto your hips.

“Make it convincing.”

Over all the noise you hear the sound of a glass slam down on the bar, hard. You’re surprised you didn’t hear it shatter, too.

“He’s coming over,” Soap chokes, staring doe-eyed over your shoulder.

“Good.”

You elegantly swing your leg to stand, spinning in the process, literal inches from Ghost’s heaving chest. You look up with a sharp smile, meeting his dark eyes without hesitation.

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

He doesn’t respond—grabs the back of your neck to drag you out the door like a misbehaved puppy. It’s got your cock stirring in your pants.

He pulls you into an alley, slams you into the wall. His hands are on the front of your throat now, and it squeezes in a question. You squeeze his hips in a silent response. He growls low in his throat.

“What the hell was that?”

“Mm, I could ask the same thing, Lieutenant.”

“Drop the rank. I was having a damned conversation, not riding Johnny’s cock—”

“Fuck, I’d pay to see—” his hand leaves your throat to slap you, your jaw aching as you flex it, feeling the ache.

You laugh and Ghost grips your hair hard, wrenching your head to the side.

“Teach you a fuckin’ lesson,” he hisses.

“What? Wouldn’t wanna watch, good ol’ boy? You know he’d let—” you gasp as Ghost bites down on your neck hard, having pulled his balaclava up over the tip of his nose. You groan, “fuckkk…”

His leg slots between your own, pressing up to grind against your bulge. You grasp at his hoodie, feeling how he moves further up your neck to suck a mark where you can’t hide it.

“Your mouth gets you into trouble,” he says lowly, voice scratching.

Your eyes are half-lidded, mouth hanging open.

“And out of it,” you breathe. He moves away from your neck to death glare at you. It doesn’t make you shrink away—never does. You smile instead, deciding to play along, “then shut me up, Lieutenant.”

He grabs your waist and suddenly spins you around hard. His hands are on your wrists before you can react, pulling them taut at the small of your back and holding them there with only one of his big hands. The other reaches up, entwining in your hair again to yank your head back.

He grazes his nose along your throat, breathing you in, scraping his teeth along your pulse point. You groan.

“Make you scream, instead,” he mutters, licking a line across your lips but moving away before you can kiss him, letting go of your hair so that your head falls forward, hung low.

He pushes your pants down just enough to get at your ass. You hear him spit and you shimmy in place, trying to entice him. He slaps your ass instead, the cracking sound wet with his saliva, before pressing a slick finger to tease at your hole.

His fingers are big compared to the average, but not thick compared to his body. Instead they’re long, a bit bony. The jutting knuckles rub against all the right places, fingers crooking to rub at your prostate, loosening you up quicker.

He fucks like he kills: quick and efficient.

He’s at least careful enough to keep you slick, spitting down onto your hole over and over—making you shiver. By the time he’s got you fucking back onto three of his fingers you’re nearly crying, jaw slack as you make desperate little noises into the night air.

“Lieutenant,” you gasp out, back arched so prettily for him. He can’t take his eyes off the sweat that drips down your spine, or how your slick little hole sucks in his fingers, “fuck, please.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, pressing his fingers into the hilt before twisting them, making your legs quiver, “you gonna be good for me now? Learned your lesson?”

You don’t respond for a long moment, focusing on the overwhelming pressure in your abdomen as he rolls the pads of his fingers over your prostate. You press your forehead to the cool brick wall and smile—a sharp thing he can’t quite see.

“Never.”

He growls, pulling his fingers free, and you shake—partly in silent laughter and mostly in anticipation for what’s to come. You don’t think Ghost’s ever gotten his cock out so fast, suddenly the leaking tip pressing hard against your fluttering hole. You moan loud and long as he slides into you, the slight burn from the improvised lube quickly giving way to pleasure as he fills you so full.

You think you can feel him in your stomach when he finally halts, his hips pressed flush to your ass. You squeeze around him, body trying to accommodate, and he groans weak and quiet against your throat, his face pressed there as he gives you time to adjust.

It takes you a full minute before you start to gently rock your hips, giving him the silent go ‘head. He nips at your neck in affirmation before drawing back, feeling how he slides through your tight walls till just the tip remains, before slamming back in hard.

You immediately sob out, voice echoing off of the brick walls, and Ghost claps a hand over your mouth, his pace never faltering as he grips your hips bruisingly tight.

“Johnny…” Ghost says, groans, and for half a second you think he’s moaned the wrong name, but then, “Johnny could never fuck you like this. Couldn’t split you open—make you fuckin’ scream and cry like I can.”

You pant against his palm, eyes rolling back as you nod your head. He licks over your face, collecting salty sweat on his tongue—makes you feel used in ways you can’t describe.

You love it.

You’ll have to go back to base after this lest the whole task force sees what a fucking wreck Ghost made of you, covered in bruises and bites and saliva, hair mussed and eyes glazed.

“He couldn’t make you cum like I can, not on his cock like I can. That’s what you’re gonna do, huh? Cream your fuckin’ jeans like some horny teenager. Just feels too good, doesn’t it, love?”

His voice is so deep, gravelly and clearly straining as he speaks right against your ear, exhaling hot puffs of breath. You furiously nod in response. You hadn’t even noticed it until he said something either, how close you are, your cock leaking and hard still trapped in your jeans.

Ghost’s cock rails your prostate over and over, that deep pressure settling in your tummy as heat floods your system. You try to warn him, so he can stop cause you know you’re not supposed to come first and you don’t want to be bad and—

“Cum for me,” he growls, and you do.

Your whole body shakes, like a seismic wave starting from your toes and ending at your neck, a full body shudder. Hot spurts of cum decorate the inside of your jeans, sticky and wet. Ghost fucks you through it—doesn’t stop fucking you. You’re so sensitive and he keeps pounding into you, pushing harder and harder against your tight, clenching hole trying to keep him out.

You’re actually crying now, wet sobs against his hand as he slides two fingers to press flat onto your tongue. You mindlessly begin to suck the digits and Ghost moans, hips stuttering a few times before he buries into the hilt.

His prick pulses and twitches as it fills you, spongy head pushing hard against your limit as he cums, his spend pushing out and dripping around his cock already. Too much to keep in.

Your cock sits limp and sad and a bit cold from the drying cum as you come down from your high, Ghost’s arms now tight around you, holding you against his chest. You try to get your footing, realizing how much weight you're putting on him. Your legs shake.

When he finally slips free you hiss, cold air brushing against your bare hole. He kisses your neck gently and pulls your pants back up. They’re dark enough to hide any stains.

“Let me drive you home,” he murmurs.

#modern warefare 2 #modern warfare #ghost x male reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #mine #smut

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ufcconor · 29 days

Text

Come on, baby

Knox x F!Reader

(Y/n) Brandt has a history with her fathers most trustworthy hit man

SMUT SMUT SMUT

Getting the call from Gerald Brandt was a surprise to say the least. “Knox, I need you!” “What do you need?” Gerald screams into the phone, “Knox, my Idiot son is fucking things up!” “I’ll leave right away.” “And Knox, look after (y/n).” Knox pauses, excitement brewing in him. “You know I will.”

I see a man walking down the dock to the shitty houseboat named so cleverly “The Boat”. I sit up from my chair, holding onto my hat in the low wind as the boat rocks in the water. “That’s the new bouncer at the roadhouse Ben keeps going on about?” The smirk grows on my lips. My friend meets my gaze, staring at the man as he steps onto the boat and shamelessly begins to work out in the sun. “He’s hot.” I lean on the railing.

I wave my hand towards him as my boat sails by. “Looking good over there!” He stops mid-sit up and waves with a small smile before continuing his set. My friend scoffed with a smile. “I'm assuming you’re taking a trip down to the bar tonight.” I shrug sitting back in my hair and sipping my margarita. “Might be.”

I walk into the bar and scan the scene. The music is upbeat, and the people seem to be calm… for now at least. I allow my eyes to scan the entire place until I see him. Sitting at the bar, and quietly observing. I walk to him and take the seat directly beside him. I smile at the bartender, “Rum and coke please.”

The man beside me smirks as I mindlessly pat my fingers on the bar looking around. I meet his eyes and drop my jaw dramatically. “Well, what are the chances? Hey there handsome.” “My name’s Dalton.” I shake his hand, “(y/n). Nice to see you again. Shirt on this time, but we can work on that.”

Night after night I’d go to the roadhouse and sit with Dalton. Flirting and talking, were all fun. When there was an issue he’d get up, handle it with some sarcastic banter and strong punches, and then he’d be back beside me with a cheeky smile as if nothing happened. I like a man who can handle himself. He was a sweet guy to top it off. He definitely shouldn’t be the one to be here taking care of this matter. He shouldn’t have to be the one to deal with my idiot brother and his schemes.

I put six sandwiches on a plate and exit the home to the back patio. “Sandwiches are on the bar!” I yell to the boys as I sit down in a chair, opening my book. Not long after I gained inner peace, a loud collision struck right in front of the house. I tear my shades off as a figure enters. “Who the fuck put those bikes in my way?” I watch as Knox strolls in. “Who the fuck are you?” Clyde asks. Knox raises his hand to his face, “Shh.”

He walks to the bar and praises the leftover sandwiches. “Thank you, God. Sandwiches. I’m fucking famished.” He bites into the bread with a growl.

This can not be happening. I was set on the fact that I would not have to see this asshole ever again. The memories flash so quickly. A day full of shopping. The 4 bottles of wine at the most expensive restaurant in Rome. Romantic walks down the streets. Long nights full of him showering me with endless pleasure.

Moe bursts in quickly, “He knocked all the fucking bikes over!” I roll my eyes going back to my book. I’d rather not be involved in whatever the hell he’s doing. I turn the page in my book trying to focus on the words cascading down the page but I can feel his eyes burning onto my frame. Clyde towers over him. “Now you got a big ass problem, bucko.”

Knox nods, mouth full, “No shit! First off, I’m going to need more than 3 sandwiches.”

“I wasn’t done talking.” Clyde cuts Knox off.

Knox glares at Clyde, meeting his gaze with power. “Actually, that’s where you’re wrong, lad.” He pushes past Clyde and nears my chair. He stands next to me, looking down at me. I put my book down with a huff. Knox smiles, “What darlin’? Not a word for me? Thought you’d be happy to see me.” I stand up, bumping his arm as I walk past him.

Knox plops down in my seat, lounging back. “Aye, baby. Are you going to make me some more sandwiches or what?” I flip him off as I slam the door shut. “Stupid mother fucking Irish asshole.”

I tear my bathing suit off in a rush. Why the fuck has he come here? Something to do with my father no doubt. I step into the shower trying to calm my nerves, trying to burn out the heat that ignites in my core. He always had this effect on me. I can't help but remember the night.

I lay back on the couch, my dress hugged my body tightly. Knox saunters over with another glass of wine for me. “Mhh thank you,” I mumble out. He takes a seat next to me. I lay my legs over his thighs, beginning to look over his entire frame. He was big (no doubt everywhere). I run my foot over his crotch. He narrows his gaze at me. “Nah, lassie. That’s not in the cards for you.” He grabs my ankles putting my motions to a stop. I sigh before standing, rolling the wine into my glass. “I thought you were fun.” I lean down to my phone, putting some music on. I sway my hips, my back facing Knox. I down my glass of wine, turning around and arching my back on the wall. His eyes glued to my frame, his orbs burning into mine. I take a step forward, lowering the zipper of my dress with each step. I stand in front of him, zipper completely down, the dress hanging loosely. I lean down, my hands on his shoulders. “Still not in the cards? Even for me?” Knox chuckles, forcing his eye contact to the wall. “You father would have my ass, baby.”

I stand straight again. “Hm, that’s a shame.” I let the straps of the dress off my shoulders, it cascades down to the marble floor delicately. Only clad in my panties and expensive heels I turn away from him, leaving the dress at his feet.

“Fuckin hell.” He mumbles.

Before I know it I’m tossed onto the bed and Knox is kissing up my body and pampering my exposed breast with kisses and bites.

Soon his fingers pumping deliciously in and out of my heat. I arch up with a loud cry as an orgasm races through me. “There's a good girl."

I splash water onto my face. I can’t allow myself to get tangled in with him again. There’s nothing there but an empty promise. I know the bed will be cold by morning.

I step out of the shower and dry my body with the towel before hanging said towel up on the door. I bent over, flipping my head over to start drying my wet hair.

“I always did adore this side of you, love.”

I shoot up and turn around. “What the fuck!” I snatch my towel off the door and hold it up in front of me. “Get out!” He doesn’t. Instead, he walks closer causing me to back up until I hit the countertop. He places his arms on either side of me, making a chance for an easy escape difficult.

He bites his lip looking at my poorly hidden body. He catches the hem of the towel in his fingers. “Why don’t we catch up?” I look at him with wide eyes and anger boiling in my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Knox sucks in a breath. “Now listen, I know how it looked back then.” I scoff and push him away. He doesn’t fight me and allows me to pass. “Hate to see you go, but I love seeing you walk away, baby.” I enter my bedroom and with one last glance at Knox, I slam the door shut.

Ben walks into the back patio and sees Knox sitting in a tanning chair, eating a plate of sandwiches. “I’m sorry, who the fuck are you?” Knox nods, “Hey. I got a message for you. From your father.” He stands facing Ben.

Bem furrows his brow, “A message? My father? And what… What is this “message”?” Knox pops Ben in the nose quickly before tossing his arm over his shoulders. “You’re Ben, right? Jerry’s son?” He chuckles removing himself. Knox admires the house. He points to the pool shed. “This is where I’ll store my stuff. And that master bedroom up there is mine. Move your sister's shit in with mine. You can take her room.” Ben shakes his head, confusion clouds his mind. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

Knox grabs a golf club. “Your dad says you’ve been fucking things up.” He turns to Ben, who backs away. “He asked me to lend a hand.”

Ben scoffs, “How would my father know? He’s in a prison, rotting in a cell.” “Don’t be silly. Your father has spies everywhere.”

“Well, you can tell my father…” Ben starts but gets cut off by his sister (y/n) coming out. “Where are you going?” She rolls her eyes. “Why do you care?” She takes a step and Ben grabs her arm. Knox straightens up, anger brewing within him. No one gets to touch her.

“Is it the road house? To see your little boyfriend?” (Y/n) rips his arm off, “Believe it or not but I’m actually likable unlike you.” She walks off. “Don’t go to that fucking bar, (y/n)!” She turns around with a smirk. “Or what?” Knox watches her such as predator watches their prey. Fire brewed within his chest at the thought of some other man touching her, touching what he had claimed.

Ben runs his fingers through his hair, frustration existing on his face. “She’s such a pain in my ass.” He turns back to Knox. “I don’t need your fuckin’ help. I have it all under control.”

“No, you don’t.” Knox swings the club, making Ben back away again. “Yes, I have people out there right now… cleaning up this final issue, and that’s all…” Knox ignored Ben’s confident plan. “So, where’s this bouncer asshole?”

I enter the road house and move to the corner expecting to see Dalton but to my surprise, he’s nowhere in sight. Laura slides my drink over. “He’s late.” I furrow my brow. “That’s a first.”

An hour later Dalton comes in looking a little disheveled. He sits beside me taking a breath. “Hey.” “Hey, what’s going on?” He shakes his head. “Had a little mix-up with the sheriff.” I cringe internally, “A mix-up?” My brothers doing. Laura leans over conserved. “What are we talkin’ about?”

A surprising guest speaks a few seats away. “Yeah, what are we talking about?” Ben walks over, taking the seat next to me. “Hey, sis. Thought I told you to stay home.” Ben averts his attention from me. “I’m curious to hear what you were gonna tell her, Dalton. I’m Ben Brandt. (Y/n)‘s brother.”

Dalton smirks, “Let me guess. It’s your turn now.” “My turn?” “You know, to threaten me. Tell me to get out of town. Like your buddy, Big Dick.” Ben chuckled. “No. No, I get the impression that you can’t be threatened.

I wish you could be, but… I’d even bribe you if I thought money would work.” Dalton nods, “Really? How much we talking?”

“Ben, can you just fuck off?” He turns to me, anger in his eyes. “(Y/n) doesn’t it make you curious what an outsider like him… thinks he’s doing here.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know, Ben. Nor do I care. Just get the fuck out of here.”

Ben ignores me again. “So, I guess my question is… Why? Right? It can’t be just some competitive thing, you…you’ve won the fight. You can back off now. But you… you don’t. You just keep… punching and punching and punching. So, why? Why don’t you just stop?” Dalton stays silent causing Ben to exit like a toddler, anger blowing from his ears.

Dalton raises a brow. “Your brother, huh?” “I like to think I’m adopted.” The door opens and Knox strolls in with the bikers behind him. I watch as Knox scans the room making eye contact with me.

Knox strolls around, picking at two separate tables. “Hey, fellas. Looks like you’re havin’ a smashing night!” He swings the golf club smashing every bottle and glass off their table. Knox successfully starts the bar fight and chaos consumes the entire building.

“Dalton! Dalton! Dalton!” Knox screams as he scans the room. I stand up and walk towards him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Knox chuckled, lowering his head, our noses brushing. “A lot of shit. You wanna try to fix me?” His smirk grows.

“Dalton! Dalton!” On-demand, Dalton yells from the top of the steps. “What?” Knox looks over him as if inspecting. He tosses his head back. “This is the guy?” He asks me, I can see jealousy glowing in his eyes. “Leave him alone, Knox.”

He points to Dalton. “You know, I got sent here special. Just for you.” Dalton stays calm, taking a glance around the chaotic scene. “And you brought all your friends with you?” “I thought you might miss havin’ an audience. I was trying to be thoughtful. Like on pay-per-view. 25 quid. Watch me pulp your face!” Panic pumps through my veins. “You can’t fucking do this, Knox.”

Dalton stands a few feet away now. “You know this guy too?” Knox smirks and looks at me, waiting for my answer. “He’s my father’s employee.” Knox places his hand on his chest, acting like his feelings are damaged. “Aww come on, baby. Don’t be like that.“ He takes my chin between his fingers, his face inches from mine. “How do I know that you squeal when having your pussy eaten just, hm? Right here.” Knox sticks his hand down to my clothed crotch and pats my pelvic bone lightly. I gasp and move away from him. The act so bold in a public setting had my cheeks glowing red and a pool between my legs.

Dalton grabs Knox and shoves it away. “Don’t touch her, man.” Knox smiles at Dalton. “Nah, mate. You don’t get to touch her! SHE’S MINE!” Knox swings his club at Dalton hitting him in the stomach, before punching him and starting a brawl between the two.

I follow some of the bikers outside as they file out. “What the fuck was that?” I scream at Dell. “Stop it, (y/n). You know Brandt wants the road house.” I roll my eyes, “a shitty bar? For real?” I turn on my heel to walk back into the bar, but Knox catches my upper arm and pulls me to his car. “Let go of me, Knox.” He opened the passenger door and oh so helpfully assisted me in. “You and me. We’re going to have a little chit-chat.” He fumes. He’s angry. He flies off, tearing up gravel as he speeds out of the lot. He maneuvers through traffic, passing cars at high speed. “If you slow down we won’t live long enough to talk,” Knox smirks at me. “Ah baby, I’ve missed that smart mouth of yours, truly.”

Knox drifts into a lonely dock and slams the door as he gets out. “Let’s go.” Knox strips his shirt and shoes. I step out and lean against the front of the car, the sand damp on my feet.

Knox shakes his finger at me. “This ain’t you. Where’d my girl go?” I glare at him, “Maybe she’s back in Rome where you ditched her two years ago.” Knox, only a couple feet away smiles again. “All that? Baby you know your father had me running around for him.” “You left me alone with no explanation. You dipped that morning and never spoke to me again.” Knox nods, “Yeah, I did. That’s what your father told me to do.” “Yeah, and you always do what he says huh? Like a dog.”

Knox drops his smile. “And what have you been doing? You used to listen like a good girl. Now look at ya. Fucking around with these assholes.”

“Better than you.”

Knox grabs my arm pulling me to him. “Aww, now I see it. You’ve not been fucked real good in a long time. That it?” I raise my hand and slap him across the face. He pauses for a moment before a dark smirk grows across his lips. “There’s my tiger.”

Fuck it. This is toxic as hell.

I wrap my arms around his broad body, attacking his mouth. He holds me up, holding our bodies as close as possible. Our tongues battling, the passion seeping from each other's mouths. The clawing and scratching of our hands. He kisses down my neck, running his tongue over my collarbones. The hot breeze sticks to the moist surface. He pushes me back onto the hood of the car. “I’m going to fuck the brat out of you, but first…” he flips the hem of my dress over my thighs, and separates them. “I need to taste ya.”

He kisses the soft skin of my inner thighs. A drunken state unraveled within me. Knox pulls my panties down, taking a look at my private. He nestled between my thighs, "Such a pretty cunt. How did I ever let you out of my sight?" The praises leaving his mouth caused me to gasp. I am unable to speak, unable to ask if he wanted to do this out here, on the beach, given any surprise visitor. All I could do was moan and arch my back onto the cold surface of the car. My heart was racing, blood rushing, toes being forced to curl.

His tongue brushed through my folds, collecting drops of the hot arousal. He moaned against my cunt, sucked on the pulsing bundle of nerves. “Knox," the call of his name made him chuckle against my skin. I had never known such pleasures besides him. I was already close to letting go, his mouth latching onto my clit, once again leaving me to arch her back off the hood. "Let go for me, darling."

With another breathy moan, I release, eyes rolling back into my head, fingernails about to claw stripes into the pain of the car. He lazily licked my slit for a few more seconds before he pulled away, moving up her body to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Knox, fuck me please," I whined, looking into his eyes, pleading. He smiled and followed my order within seconds.

My legs lay wide open for him to enter and while his hands hold my waist tightly. He shoved himself up my pussy with such an ease.

"You feel perfect, angel. Nothing changed." he moaned, his moves quickened fast. Noises of skin slapping against skin filled the area. "So fucking good" Knox panted in between harsh thrusts. My lower body just perfectly crashed together with his. I was in heaven as I felt myself coming closer and closer to my end. "I'm gonna cum." | whimpered so quietly that he could barely hear it. “You're the only man who can make me feel this good,” I whined, I was all his.

His movements grew slower, and he heavily breathed into my face. “You’re mine, (y/n).” I was so close, my body was burning. I nod breathlessly, “I’m all yours.” Waves of an orgasm beautifully crashed in, and it was only a matter of seconds before I would cum.

"Good girl." Knox panted and I knew he was about to cum. His hand wandered to my clit and circled it at a fast, pleasuring pace. That was it. I felt my orgasm finally coming in and I let out a loud moan. Knox growled into my neck and bit into my shoulder as he came right after me, releasing all of his warm cum inside me. He kept moaning and growling into my skin, both of us exhausted and in a blissful state. His body was limp on mine.

We laughed into each other's faces and after a moment of silence and just looked at each other. He moved over to his car, retrieving a blanket. “What are you doing?” I ask still lying in bliss. He spread the blanket on the sand. “A night under the stars. What do ya say, lass?” He picks me up and lays us down on the soft blanket. His hands went over my back, and it sent shivers down my spine. In this moment the world was perfect.

#conor mcgregor #ufc conor mcgregor #conor mcgregor x reader #road house #Knox road house #Knox x reader #roadhouse

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waffles-art-writing · 1 year

Text

Platonic!Task Force 141 X Medic!FtM!Reader

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Summary: You just wanted a quiet evening to fill out paper work, but you get a surprise visit by the team. They say you’re just like your brother, Price talks to you after you stitch up the boys.

Proofread: Yes when I was half asleep :) - so not really

Pairing: Platonic! Task Force 141 x Medic! FtM!Reader

WordCount: IDK

Age Rating: 15+ preferably

Codename: Stitch

KEY: Y/N - Your Name, L/N - Last Name.

Warning/Info: swearing, light description of injury, normal COD talk, banter, yelling, pissed off reader. Reader is Trans!

Request: YES! Thank you so much!

—————————

You tap your pen on your desk as you read over numerous files, all of them stating similar words to many questions. One of the younger medics is cleaning up the medical wing while you have locked yourself away in your office, shutting the world out as you pinch the bridge of your nose. You drop the pen on the dark oak desk, grabbing the files and storming out of the office, you are reading over a particular file in hand. Written in messy chicken scratch on the patient sheet is ‘Sergeant Mactavish’ and ‘Sergeant Garrick’ . You know them both, well. Too well in fact, yet they don’t know too much about you. You’ve patched them both and the rest of the 141 far too many times for you to count.

Price recruited you for your skills with field medicine, you weren’t always a medic. You were once in communication, but your brother convinced you to become a medic when he showed you some tips and tricks. Which you ate up like a starved animal. You never knew how much this would help further your career in the military, especially after witnessing the tragedy that has left a deep wound in your heart for the rest of your life.

You rip open the curtain that conceals a bed fromt he rest of the medical ward. Your hands clutch the papers in hand, arms crossing over your chest. “What the fuck did you do?” You sneer, your voice low as you eye the two sergeants, Ghost is watching from the side, Price next to him with a small smirk. “Oh hey doc!” Soap cheers, trying to keep you from blowing a fuse. Gaz is sitting there quietly, his hand clutching the side of his arm. “The first patient file I picked up is yours, Mactavish! And you have the heart to include Garrick on this horribly written excuse of a reason as to WHY! You both have either a bullet or knife in your arms!?” You yell, your voice cracking slightly as you growl at them both. Ghost is silently thanking whatever god is out there, that he’s not the one being scolded this time round.

“And YOU!” You spit, pointing at Price and Ghost with the papers, your hold on the flimsy sheets causing them to crumple. “You left them unsupervised?! How idiotic are you guys!?” You slap the papers down on the side table, grabbing some gloves out of their box from the wall. Pulling them on, you're seething. “I’m sorry Stitch… we didn’t mean to actually get hurt…” Gaz quietly mumbles as he looks at you from the other side of the Soap. They are both seated on the edge of the medical bed, Gaz by the foot do the bed, Soap up by the head of the bed.

You grit your teeth as you turn around. You’re slightly shorter than all the men in the room, not by much, but still shorter. Price can see how much like your twin brother you are, the same concern when it comes to caring for the team, the same rage that fuels you when someone has done something idiotic. “It’s fine… No, actually it's not! It’s not fine! You’re both grown men for Christ's sake, you both gotta learn how to stop being children.” You huff out as you stand in front of Gaz, he’s the one that got clipped by the bullet on his bicep. Your touch is soft when you work on cleaning the injury. “Look Lad, we didn’t mean to-” Soap goes quiet when you stare at him out of the corner of your eye. “You have the same look as your brother…” Soap states.

They all knew your brother, he was one of the field medics that helped them in the past on a few missions and especially when they got back. They always went to him for his help, but when the chopper got shot down that he was in, they couldn’t find anyone else they could trust to come on the missions. That is until they found out he had a twin, Price knew of you, he promised to your brother to help you through everything. He was one of the main supporters to help you through your transition, even teaching you how to shave. Which was an experience and half. Many small cuts on your jaw…

“Yeah well, I am his twin after all Mactavish” You huff, gently applying gauze to Gaz’s arm and wrapping it securely in a bandage. “Thank’s” Gaz states quietly, you nod as you change the gloves to a clean pair to start working on Soap. Price is talking to them both, Ghost adding a few things here and there while you just quietly work on stitching up the Scotsman’s arm. You securely stitch up the wound, giving Gaz his knife back after cleaning it. “Now, you two gotta stop doing stupid shit.” You growl as you finish wrapping Soap’s arm. He nods his thanks as he moves his arm around a little, a small wince forming.

“Take pain meds every four hours, on the hour… You don’t want to be chasing the pain like you always do…” you sigh, cleaning up the area. They all nod their thanks, taking the pain meds from you one their way out. Price stops just shy of the door. You turn to look at him, you notice he's staring at you. “Price?” Your voice is quiet, you feel like there's something on your face.

Price walks over, his hand coming up to your jaw. He’s noticed something, definitely. “Be more careful with that razor kid. Don’t wanna slice your neck open next time…” he sighs, his thumb running over the irritated wound on the underside of your jaw. How the hell did he notice that? You don’t have a clue, other than he just knows. “Yeah, I know… one of the rookies slammed open the bathroom door so I got spooked is all…” you chuckles lightly, shrugging as Price just smiles, shaking his head lightly. “You’ve done good kid… your brother would be proud.” He states, his hand squeezing your shoulder gently.

“Thanks… He would be happy to know I can still put the boys in their place even as a guy.” You laugh, Price chuckles along with you, he turns to leave. “You know where to find me if you need something, kid, see you at the debrief tomorrow at O-Six-Hundred.” He says over his shoulder, leaving you with a wave. You nod as you turn to walk back to your office, your hand subconsciously coming up to touch the small cut. You’re happy you have Price there for you, the team doesn’t seem to mind at all about your transition, if they even know anything about it that is.

Overall, working for the 141 has its highs and lows, but you still love them even if they drive you up the walls mad.

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star-rie · 1 month

Text

when your servant is a little shite

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Then Merlin looks at Gaius, who’s sitting there, eyeing him as if he knows what Merlin is going to do.

‘Merlin, no’

‘Merlin yes’

Merlin tests the limits of Arthur’s patience.

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alternatively, ao3 link

original prompt

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6 (you're here)

-----------------------

After the thing with Arthur’s crown and the princess, Merlin decides that enough is enough. He already tests his theories out with varying outcomes. There’s no need to further embarrass both Arthur and his own reputation.

He just doesn’t want to drag Arthur with him, he doesn’t really care if people think he’s mental.

It was another feast. Royals sure do love feasts, Merlin thought as he poured the wine into a noble’s goblet. Tonight, they’re celebrating Sir Alexander’s ascension to knighthood.

A bright young lad he is, aspiring to protect Camelot and King Arthur. Merlin likes him already. In fact, Merlin praises the knights. They’re very loyal to Arthur, even following him to death. The knights are the only nobles worthy of their title.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” Modred said beside him, He takes that back, he forgot this rotten thing is actually a knight.

Merlin immediately scowls, looking at the gremlin up and down. Mordred is probably already planning for Arthur’s next death trap.

"Yes,” Merlin said tightly, shifting away from him. Go away, please go away.

Mordred frowns, his face sad. “Do you still hate me?”

Merlin scoffs, “Why would I hate you?” he said as he aggressively takes Mordred’s goblet and pours him water. Obviously, Merlin is not giving alcohol to a child, but if he turns away for a second, maybe Merlin can–

“Merlin!” The sun of his morning sky himself comes to greet him, enthusiastically putting an arm over his shoulder.

“Is that for me?” He asks, taking the goblet from Merlin, Damnit, now he can’t poison the drink!

“That was Modred’s sire.” Maybe if he can get it out of Arthur’s grasp…

“‘Tis mine now! Sorry Mordred” Modred nods, pretending to be the good boy he is. Damn it, poison is out of the window then. Hmm, maybe if Merlin can somehow create a mass hysteria right now, then he can kill him.

Merlin stares at Arthur’s sexy throat, swallowing water like a sexy person. He feels warmth radiating from the arm draping over him.

Nah, not worth it.

“Go join the other knights, boy,” Arthur told him from his sexy lips.

"Okay,” Mordred said, joining the rest of the knights.

“So Arthur, you-OW!” Merlin cried when Arthur smacked him.

“You know, Merlin, your hostility for that boy is really getting abnormal,” Arthur said, gesturing to his empty goblet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Merlin said, pouring wine this time. Arthur sighs.

“Merlin, Mordred is a good boy; can’t you see how sweet he is?” Arthur directed his hand towards Modred and the knights, who were gaping over Percival’s muscly arm. But all Merlin saw was Mordred’s vile smirk and evil face, trying to craft a plan for Arthur’s demise.

“He’s clearly evil, sire. Look at his face!” Merlin gestures towards Mordred’s chubby features.

“You’re delusional”

“Am not!”

So Arthur and Merlin spend the next 10 minutes arguing about Modred’s chubby cheeks and how he’s secretly sorting out an evil plan behind that sweet smile. But then he saw it—the dagger coming at Arthur’s face. Behind him, the same mother from that trial a few days ago, Merlin, was sure she was executed, but she looks alive and well.

Merlin would move himself in front of Arthur. He really would, and he wouldn’t hesitate to shield him even if the dagger might pierce his heart. But he had no time, the blade was already an inch from Arthur’s face, one more second, it would be stuck to his head. Merlin’s heart beats frantically, he has no choice.

Focusing his energy on the dagger, he stopped it right as it touched Arthur’s head. He immediately turns the knife and redirects it to stab the woman at the end of the hall.

She cries painfully, her hand clutching her stomach. And then she falls, blood running from her body. The court is silent, saved for Merlin’s harsh breath.

He knows now, Arthur knows.

He slowly looks at him, frightened of what he will see. Arthur is staring, particularly at his eyes. Merlin presses the ring that was on his finger.

Please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, please–

“Magic is legal now." he meant to declare it to the court, but he ended up saying it to Merlin instead. The court was silent, it was Merlin instead who questioned him, “What...”

“Magic is legal now." Arthur repeats, staring at his eyes. Merlin shakes his head. “You can’t mean that; you’re supposed to hate me; magic is evil; it’s—”

“I mean it!” He shouts, silencing him. And he goes to grab Merlin’s hand, the one with the ring, raising it so the court can see.

“You see this?” He asks, pointing to the ring on Merlin’s hand, “This man has already become a part of Camelot’s royal house; he saves my life more than I can count, but most importantly, he always puts Camelot before himself; he stays as my servant even if magic is illegal. Believe me when I say we won’t stand if he’s not here.”

He said, before looking fondly at him, “We owe a great debt to you."

And then Arthur turns to address the court “I will write a decree tomorrow. Are there any objections?” He asks, and Gwaine starts very slowly, "Um, is it just me, or it’s very obvious that Merlin had magic since, like, I don’t know, before Uther?”

“I thought I was the only one.”

“Me too”

“No way”

"Wait, what do you mean? This is old news? this is new to me!”

And the court is now competing over which person discovers Merlin’s magic in the first place, which becomes very funny as the discussion gets more complex. Merlin looks at Gaius and Lancelot, who just shrugs. Merlin is perplexed.

“Wait..so you all knew that I–”

“I did say, Merlin, that you can’t keep a secret, even if your life depends on it.” Arthur cuts him off while Merlin is reeling over the fact that even Arthur knew.

…

ARTHUR KNEW HE HAD MAGIC!?

Arthur then smiles at the court and says, "Well, then continue on while me and my not-so-magical manservant—" Arthur held his hand tightens when he said that, which means that Merlin is in very serious trouble. “Clean this corpse from the room! Let’s go, wizard! Been dying to use that one." Arthur drags Merlin to the corpse, and they both carry her out of the hall.

Once they were far enough, when Merlin’s brain stopped short-circuiting, he started to chuckles at the absurdity of the situation. "Well, that was a—“ he starts, but is caught off guard when Arthur roughly pins him to the wall, trapping him under him.

“Arthur what--“

“Do you realize how dangerous that was?” Arthur spoke, grip tightening on Merlin’s jacket, “I had enough of you, trying to make a fool of yourself to the royal court; you think I didn’t notice, didn’t you? Your silly stunts of sitting at the throne and the time you sat at the table, and—wait, you’re doing this on purpose!” he realizes, shouting accusingly at Merlin.

"No,” Merlin said, avoiding Arthur’s eyes.

So he had noticed.

"Oh, stop lying, Merlin, you can’t even lie about your magic.”

“Well okay only some of them, the rest is because of the situation” he sighs, wiggling under his grip. When Arthur made no indication to move, Merlin finally voices the tiny thought that had been echoing in his heart.

“So you don’t hate me?” Merlin asks, not looking at him. Arthur had the right to look offended.

“Hate you?? Of course not! Why would I? No! Merlin! I’m mad at you!” Arthur said, pushing him further. “What if the court didn't agree with me back there?! What if they didn’t know about your magic?? What if they think that a king-servant relationship is not normal like my father? What then?? What if they separated me from you?!” Arthur asks frantically, and it finally clicks—all the things that Arthur did for him.

"Oh,” Merlin said, “I thought,“ and Arthur kissed him hard, awkwardly, their teeth clanking. And Merlin melts into it. Finally, he thinks, as he puts his hand on his hair, finally he gets to kiss him. And then they pull away from each other.

“Are we good?” Merlin asks

"Yeah,” Arthur said, before kissing Merlin again.

#bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin emrys #arthur bbc #merthur #merlin x arthur #arthur x merlin #merthur fanfic #merthur fic #merlin fic #merlin fanfic

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