#even after you tell him it hurts when he does | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tadpolesonalgae · 1 day

Text

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 17

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: does anyone mind the slightly longer chapters? I feel like I keep accidentally adding scenes in and I’m not sure if it’s too much? Anyway, regardless of length, I hope you enjoy! 🧡💛

word count: 8,024

-Part 16-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Was that necessary, Mor?”

Neatly groomed brows narrow over hard amber eyes, stood at the edge of the room, still cast in shadow before walking to be stood closer to the bed that’s been pushed so it’s beside the open window.

“Stay out of it, Az,” Mor murmurs, arms folded over her chest, eyes cast downwards. “You should be focusing on getting better.”

Azriel is quiet for a bit, his gaze weighing on her but she makes no move to look at him, a hint of anguish in her normally bright expression. He sighs, shifting against the pillows as he glances out the window, inclining his head a little as a light breeze washes over him, sending silky strands of hair fluttering up from his brow.

“You know she didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says, watching as the clouds shift in composition in the sky, small dots flying in the distance as they arc and dip with the winds. Hazel eyes flick back across the room, but Mor’s head is still lowered, her expression resentful. “You know you were being cruel.”

“And you’re in a position to criticise me?” Mor replies quietly, hard amber piercing into him. “You’re the reason this became such a mess. You should have said something. There’s no way you couldn’t have noticed.”

“I made a mistake,” he concedes reluctantly, holding her gaze.

“You made more than a mistake, Az. Now we’re all hurting because you—”

“Mor,” Azriel interrupts. She stiffens but doesn’t yield, that look of reproach returning to her expression. “You can’t lash out at us whenever you hurt,” he says thickly, still watching her. Silence stretches between them, centuries worth of history pulled taut in the quiet.

“What does Rhys think?” Mor diverts, successfully switching subjects. Azriel sighs, leaning back into the pillow, “about which part?” Mor’s brows narrow a little, “all of it, I suppose.” Azriel’s jaw works, glancing briefly out the window again to peer up into the sky, the winds calling to him and his wings move subtly at his back, repositioning themselves against the large stack of cushions placed to prop him up.

��He’s furious that it got this far,” he replies, features carefully neutral as he answers the question. Amber eyes observe, offered insight through those years of friendship that others might struggle to pick out—the guilt he feels for failing. Not just her, or Mor, but Rhys and Feyre. For inadvertently allowing a situation to unfold where his brother would be forced to remember those months…years of grief after his family was slaughtered. After his sister was murdered. The whole situation is dredging up unwelcome memories, for all of them. They can’t let another one be lost.

“He wants to know how Eris even got to her in the first place,” Azriel admits, glancing warily at Mor to gauge her reaction. “You don’t know?” She asks, pushing past the tightness in her throat at the mere mention. But the Shadowsinger shakes his head. “There wasn’t really time to ask,” he supplies quietly. She wasn’t really even in the right mindset to be asked.

“What about Cassian?” Mor queries, but Azriel shakes his head.

“You know I won’t tell you.” Because to know Cassian’s thoughts on the matter would likely be to know Nesta’s, and that isn’t the kind of emotional intimacy any of them would be comfortable with. It’s strange how emotions intermingle like that, how swiftly things can complicate themselves when new figures are added to the equation.

A beat passes, then Mor’s shifting on her feet. “You know, there was a time when we shared everything between us. Wasn’t that easier?” She asks neutrally.

“Mor,” Azriel warns lowly, causing Mor’s upper lit to curl slightly.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Az,” she mutters, resting her full attention on the injured male. “Don’t act like you’re completely blameless.”

“Assigning blame won’t fix anything,” he replies shortly, hazel eyes losing a little of their softness. “I’m sure that narrative suits you well,” Mor counters sharply. “I think you’re glad that I said those things to her so that you have a chance to redeem yourself by condemning me. You’re the one who started this whole mess, so—”

“Mor.”

“Shut up, Az,” Mor hisses, warmth vanishing from her face, eyes hardening as shields rise. “Don’t you dare try and twist what happened. You made mistake after mistake because you were too busy chasing Elain, and too busy ignoring what you didn’t want to acknowledge by hiding behind your work instead. At least I had a damn reason. What was yours?”

Azriel gives nothing away, his expression cold and blank.

“I tried to help her, I reached out my hand and offered her a chance. And she repaid that by going to Eris,” Mor hisses, unable to help the stark pain that bleeds into her fury. “She could have come to any of us. It’s more than we ever had, and yet she ignored it. Then tries to pretend it away? I’m not immune to that. If she can’t even be bothered to care about my pain why should I give a damn about hers?” Mor breathes, eyes feeling hot as the words gush out. “It is nothing compared to what we endured.”

————

You manage a small smile as Madja enters your room, Elain closing the door behind her as she takes a seat at your bedside.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Madja asks as she settles in the chair provided for these visits, a kind look on her face that you know you should be grateful for, but it’s difficult to summon anything when you know she can’t do anything. All this is, is documentation. An observation to see what happens to you. Because it’s undeniable something is happening.

You swallow thickly, but nod your head. “Good, for the most part,” you answer, truthfully. “I’m still feeling generally fatigued, but I wouldn’t say it’s particularly interfering with my day? I’ve had some pains in my stomach and back though, but I think they’re just…you know…” Madja raises her brows in question, silently asking you to continue. Heat rises beneath your skin and you avert your gaze, hands wringing together beneath the duvet.

“Would it be more helpful if it were just the two of you?” Elain suggests carefully, and teeth push into your lower lip. Then you give a small dip of your head, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. But she doesn’t seem to mind, telling you’ll she be a few rooms over, and will return once the examination is done. Madja looks patiently at you, a kind expression on her features that soothes you slightly. She’s a healer, surely she’ll have seen and heard worse…

You clear your throat, peering into your lap to avoid looking at her. “I think they might just be…” you trail off, glancing at her then gesturing vaguely to your stomach, hand hovering over your abdomen. There’s nothing impatient in her smile as she speaks, “your cycle?” You snap your eyes away, a flush of mortification rising to your skin, shoulders tightening as you stare into your lap but force yourself to nod.

“It’s perfectly fine to speak about that with me,” Madja says gently, “it’s a normal occurrence with females, there’s no need to be embarrassed about your own body. There’s nothing wrong with it.” You nod again, just to try and appease her, but in truth you’re desperate to escape the subject. “I’m sorry, I just— I find it hard to believe you aren’t…uncomfortable, discussing such topics.”

“Well, I’ve been a healer for most of my centuries in this realm,” she says calmly, and you can imagine that kind expression on her features, peaceful and infinitely patient. “I’ve worked during both wars, not to mention helping with your sister’s pregnancy. There’s very little that could ever cause me discomfort in regards to how the body works, so you don’t have to concern yourself.”

You shift again in the bed, but manage to nod your head. Madja seems to be satisfied with the response, smile broadening, and a slight bit of tension is relieved from your shoulders, breath easing into your lungs. “So you’ve been experiencing some abdominal and back pain?” She questions, and you nod again, feeling a little useless. “Can you describe it to me?” She asks, and you swallow thickly. “I…it’s like a dull ache in my back, near the base of my spine but a bit to the right. Then it’s quite sharp in my…abdomen. It doesn’t happen often, but I thought I should mention it…”

“I don’t think you should be experiencing any pain at all,” Madja replies. “And may I ask when you’re next due for your cycle?” You look away briefly before again meeting her gaze—nothing to be embarrassed about, she’d assured. “In about three months,” you answer quietly.

Madja nods in approval, and you begin to relax back into the pillows. “And have you noticed any bleeding at all?” She asks gently, and you freeze in the bed.

“No,” you answer hurriedly, without thinking, “no. Not from— No.”

“Alright,” she smiles calmingly, “anywhere else? You have some scabs on your hands, isn’t that right?” Your throat rolls but you nod, releasing your tight grip on your nightgown, bringing yourself to raise them from beneath the duvet so she can examine them. “And these bumps,” she inquires, “can you tell me how long those have been there for?” You blink, trying to remember—they’ve been there for months it feels like, but it can’t have been that long, can it? How long has it been since you first told Azriel?

“I think…” you hesitate, unsure of yourself, “maybe a month? Two? They don’t hurt, but they do sometimes…bleed.”

“Okay, would you mind if I had a look at them?” She requests, and you silently offer her your hands for her to take. That tingling warmth feathers beneath your skin, as if the flesh has fallen asleep, and you watch curiously as she probes along your knuckles, examining your palms, grazing your wrists. “And may I look at the area you experienced the pain in?” She asks, and you stiffen but nod. It’ll be the same thing as last time, you hope, and that wasn’t too bad since she had managed to work through the fabric of your night gown. The duvet is rolled back and you sit straighter in the cushions so she’ll have better access.

“Can you point out where exactly you were feeling the pain?” She requests, and you gesture to a horizontal strip of skin below your middle. “It was the sharpest here,” you answer, “but I sometimes get a small ache further to the left or right.” Madja doesn’t reply, her expression showing concentration as she moves her hands across your stomach, gently pushing at the parts you’d mentioned as that warmth settles pleasantly into you. You can’t help as your attention drifts to your own hands, how flaky and lumpy they are in comparison to her tender set. It’s so dry, small scabs where blood had leaked from…you wish at least the bleeding didn’t happen. So many pairs of gloves you have to wash repeatedly to make sure there aren’t any stains.

It’s become such a normal part of your life it had slipped your mind that pain shouldn’t be a normal part of it, nor the bleeding.

The bleeding…

A cold feeling washes over you, like you’ve had ice tipped down your spine as you remember the scare you’d experienced in the Autumn Court.

If Madja notices how you’ve frozen, she doesn’t mention it, but a slow feeling of slippery dread unspools in your stomach as you recall the blood you’d noticed when visiting the washroom one morning. You’d thought it was your cycle—the slight pains had added up and the night sweats had made sense—but then nothing had happened and you’d forgotten about that blood.

Nausea churns in your stomach, a district feeling over lightheadedness overcoming you and you force the calm breaths into your lungs…deep, and steady. You choke on saliva and your palm flies over your mouth as you twist your head to the side, coughing.

Madja glances up at you, brows slightly pulled together from concentration. “Have some water—are you remembering to keep yourself hydrated throughout the day?” She asks, handing you the glass that rests by your bedside table. “For the most part,” you answer after taking a few sips. Madja pauses briefly, a look of consideration passing behind her eyes before speaking, “would you mind if I checked your lungs? It’s likely nothing, but might as well be sure since I’m here, don’t you agree?”

You blink at her, looking slightly perplexed but you suppose there’s no harm in it, so you nod your confirmation, handing her back the glass before settling into the cushion. That familiar warmth tingles in your skin as she tentatively lays her fingers just below your collar bones before pressing down a little firmer and making her way from one side to the other. Her features remain set in an expression of concentration and she returns to the tops of your sternum before going a little lower. You tense, but understand she’s performing a medical examination.

“Can you sit upright a little more? I’d like to search a little lower, just by your ribs,” she adds, seeing your startled expression. You nod, understanding, sitting more upright independent of the cushions. “Now if you can raise your arm?” She requests gently and again you follow, raising your left arm so she has access to the side of your ribs. The tingling sensation returns and you think you can feel as it searches through your body, though it doesn’t feel invasive like you had expected.

Madja’s fingers pause, before she’s pressing noticeably firmer and you have to steady yourself so she does upset your balance. The sensation becomes more acute, able to feel as the tingling feeling concentrates near the middle left of your lower ribcage. When she retracts her hands she looks a little confused.

“Is everything okay?” You ask nervously, uneasy by her expression.

“There’s what feels like a small lump connected to the tissue of your left lung,” Madja explains calmly, and you nod your head. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to try and purge it. I haven’t seen it in any other patients, and there’s no reason for it to be there—it isn’t a natural part of your body. Would that be okay?”

You nod your head—if she’s found something wrong with you, that sounds promising…? And if she thinks she can…purge it, that seems even better.

“Alright, if you lean back into the bed to keep your upper body relaxed that would be perfect,” she guides and you settle down. “Okay, I’m going to apply my magic to the growth. You might feel a sudden heat or a ticklish sensation but if you can avoid coughing that would be helpful,” she explains, and tension rises in your chest as she again puts her hands against the side of your ribcage.

Sure enough, a sharp heat fills a spot on your lung, and you press your lips together to prevent from coughing or inhaling suddenly despite the abrupt tickle that’s manifested in your throat, an intense itchiness in your lungs…an itchiness growing in the tips of your fingers…growing hotter…and hotter…beginning to burn, and…

Madja pulls away, a gentle smile on her face, “all done. You did well not to start coughing in the middle there, it helped make the process much easier for me.”

“So, it’s gone?” You ask perplexedly, hand gingerly rising to press into your ribs, testing as you inhale. Sure enough, the tickling feeling has gone, and so has the tightness in your throat, suddenly feeling much clearer. Like when you’d had a cold as a human, feeling the distinct relief once you were able to breathe freely again, having to become reliant on inhaling via your mouth rather than nose. One never appreciates how seamlessly their body works until it’s compromised.

Madja smiles, “it’s gone.”

A hesitant smile makes its way across your mouth, peering down to where you hand is settled.

Maybe it isn’t as bad as you’d been telling yourself.

————

Golden eyes gleam from within the home, the scent of rosemary so familiar emotion swells in your chest.

“Hey, Bas.”

He pauses briefly, and you hesitate, waiting to see what he’ll do. Then he’s shifting in the doorway, opening it wider cautiously as he take you in, taking up most of the entryway. “You’re back…” he greets, but the note of caution in his voice has you hesitating again. But you push a small smile to your mouth, remembering yourself. “I’m back,” you agree, nodding your head slightly, “how… How have you been? Everything okay?”

Bas is silent, simply watching you with an indistinguishable look and you resist the urge to move beneath his attention, instead waiting it out, wondering what he’s thinking.

“Where were you?” He asks, catching you a little off-guard with the question. You hadn’t really considered he might question where you went. “I was… I visited another Court. Temporarily. Just to see more of the world, I guess…” You peer up at him—he isn’t moving from the doorway, remaining blocking it instead of inviting you in like you’d anticipated. Things feel strange, to how you remember them. “Is everything…okay?” You hedge.

“Is everything okay?” He repeats softly, as if to himself. His golden eyes regain awareness, pupils tightening as they look at you. “Why don’t you tell me?”

It’s enough to have you faltering, temporary confidence stumbling as you peer up at him questioningly. “I…what do you mean?” You ask, unsure what he’s asking after.

“I mean, why did you disappear like that, huh? You just— went. Without telling me where, without telling anyone where, apparently. Do you know how dangerous Prythian can be? Especially for someone like you, and you just decided to leave? What were you thinking?” Bas asks, his patience steadily slipping as he speaks, thoughts pouring from his lips. “Someone like me?” You repeat faintly, pinning him with a look, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re smart. Not strong,” he answers succinctly, but bluntly, “you should know what sort of creatures are out there.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you the night I left,” you counter, a note of disbelief in your voice.

“Because you’re smart,” he repeats as if it’s obvious. “You’re smart, so I assumed you’d make a smart choice. Not just go out into Prythian on a whim. You don’t even know how to fight. Do you understand what could have happened to you?”

“Bas, I’m fine,” you reassure, trying to understand his temper is coming from a place of concern. “I…I went to meet someone. I didn’t just go out into the wilderness, you don’t need to worry,” you explain, knowing it’s best to keep the details vague.

“You know your family came to visit, right?” He asks, again catching you off guard as you stare at him. “No,” you answer, quietly, “I didn’t. Who—… What happened…?” Bas shifts in the doorway, settling to lean against the threshold of the entrance, and a small grain of relief passes through you at the distinctly familiar gesture. “Azriel visited first, and I told him he wouldn’t get anything out of me because I had decided to trust that you knew what you were doing. And you know what he told me?” Bas asks harshly, shaking his head and not waiting for reply. “He told me I was interfering with Court affairs, that withholding information might result in the High Lord personally questioning me. And I still didn’t tell him anything.”

“I…I’m sorry, Bas,” you manage, guilt at last beginning to rise in your chest, head lowering slightly. “I’m…thank you. For trusting me.”

“I’m not done,” Bas says quietly, but firmly, causing you to glance up at him questioningly. “He came back, that time with Mor.” There’s no way for you to conceal the pain and conflict that passes through your expression. Even if you could, even if you knew how to hide your emotions like that, you have the distinct impression he knows you well enough he’d be able to see through it, and the thought is surprisingly uncomfortable for you. Knowing someone so well they could see through your lies…that kind of vulnerability…

“She was the one who convinced me to admit I had no idea where you’d gone. She was clearly worried, and I had to look at her and tell her how you hadn’t trusted me enough to say where you’d be going, but that I had decided to trust you enough that I’d been fine not knowing.” His voice has lowered, becoming rougher, and your shoulder slope with shame. “Can you understand that? To realise you’ve been deceived by someone you cared for like that? To admit that to people who had been smart enough to know better?”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, raising your eyes to meet his, gloved hands wringing together. “I didn’t mean for it to seem like I didn’t trust you. I do.”

“Then where were you?”

You raise your head to look at him, then. Heart sinking because—you can’t tell him. You’re in enough trouble as it is, with Rhys, with Mor, with Azriel. Probably with your sisters too, they just haven’t shown it yet. You can’t cause more problems. More problems for them is more consequences for you, and you have a long list of things to make up for. Dauntingly long. Almost unbearably… “Bas…I…”

“Can’t tell me?” He finishes, his tone telling you it’s exactly what he anticipated.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you say softly, holding his gaze imploringly. “You know I trust you. That I’ve told you things I could never—… That I could never tell anyone else…”

“Then why can’t you tell me, huh?” He asks, a touch more gentle, sounding as helpless as you feel.

“Just…I need you to…”

“Trust you?” He scoffs, shoulders jerking in an unnaturally sharp movement.

“You’d made it sound like they didn’t care about you,” he says quietly, and you look at him wearily. “I thought you were on your own, you know.” Like me, is what he leaves out, but you can hear it clear enough. “I have my ma, and you have your sister, but beyond that I thought you had no one but me.” And I had no one but you—again, you can hear those words he’s not saying. “That we were going to be there for each other because we understood what it was like. But they care for you.” A strange sense of shame settles heavily on your shoulders, and your head lowers, but you don’t look away.

“It was obvious,” he murmurs, his brows curving almost imperceptibly, a kernel of pain passing behind sharp golden eyes. He sighs, shaking his head, pushing up from the doorframe and you watch silently as he begins to draw the conversation to a close. “I won’t begrudge you of that. I’m glad you have people. Family. But I…” You lied.

“I don’t—” You say abruptly, rushing into speech, hurting without thought, just needing to explain yourself, even if it opens up something you aren’t ready for. “They don’t,” you breathe. “I—… It might look like they do, you might know they do. Maybe they really, actually do.” You stare up at him, feeling that emptiness lethargically blink itself awake, mouth yawning open in preparation to begin swallowing you down again. Pulling you into that inescapable state of overwhelming darkness. “But I can’t believe it,” you whisper, feeling as your eyes fill with wetness, and something hot spills down your cheek, another following when you blink to clear it away. “I can’t…” you breathe, trailing off. “It doesn’t matter what happens, Bas. I just—…I can’t believe it.”

“And I should believe you?” He asks quietly.

You stare at him helplessly. There’s nothing else you can say. You’ve tried to convince him, you’ve been as honest as you can physically tolerate, and it…it just isn’t enough. You aren’t enough.

Your heart doesn’t plummet like you’ve learned to anticipate. Instead a vague feeling of disappointment calmly soothes your skin, glum pessimism setting in as the high emotions fade into watery greys. Desaturated, and bearable.

“I don’t know what else to say,” you tell him quietly.

“Just tell me the truth,” Bas asks, golden eyes showing his hurt. Another case of betrayal you’ve brought upon yourself.

Would it be unfair to ask his forgiveness?

“I’m sorry,” you give as your answer. There’s nothing else you can say.

Bas’ eyes dull slightly, and you understand how you’ve let him down.

His jaw works, looking away briefly before returning his attention to you. “I’ll see you later.”

————

The wind breezes through you as you walk along the cobbles, the sun long since dipped down beneath the horizon, leaving a chill in the air that manages to sink through the silky orange material of your scarf.

You can’t bring yourself to try and tackle the emotional conflict with Bas yet. You’re drained, and tired from the past months—maybe longer—and you don’t want to put yourself through more self-inflicted sadness. If you really need to release some bottled up emotion, you know you’ll have no choice in escaping it. If you have the option to keep yourself from hurt, you’ll take it. At least for the moment.

Bas had said he’d see you later—you have to trust him. As a friend, as someone who’s been there for you, and you for him—you have to believe you’ll be able to fix this. There’s good in the world, Feyre had told you, you just have to trust that you’ll find it. Even if it’s seemingly alluded you until now, in the moments you’ve needed it most.

A silhouette seems familiar in your peripherals, a distinctly fae sense recognising the shape, or…something, of the figure, and you glance over.

Cassian raises his hand in greeting, his expression clear and untroubled as he walks over to where you’ve paused, wings kept neatly tucked at his back to keep them from bumping into things. “You know, I’ve been told you’re supposed to be staying in bed,” he greets in his deep voice, tone similar to one someone would use when catching another doing something they aren’t supposed to, but considering joining in anyway. It’s very him, in a way.

“I…” you begin, about to mention Bas, but then decide otherwise. “I’m feeling okay today. I thought a walk might be nice. Fresh air’s supposed to be good for you, right?” You ask lightly, volume low. Cassian’s quiet for a beat, unnervingly sharp hazel eyes weighing into you calmly. Then he sighs, shrugging his shoulders a little before shifting on his feet, making to turn around, to lead you somewhere. “I suppose I can’t fault you for keeping things to yourself.”

You watch as he turns, obviously expecting you to go with him, but the moment caught you off guard. “…keeping things to myself…?” You hedge, managing to get your feet moving to walk a little behind him, not particularly wanting to go with him but knowing it would be unreasonable to turn away. Especially after all the trouble you’ve caused—like having such poor control of your—

You halt abruptly, staring up to the cliff-face that contains the House of Wind. Sure enough, even from so far below, you can spot the large break in the rock-face, able to pick out what had been your bedroom, and the sides of the rooms either side of it. You feel as the blood drains from your face, shock icing your body as you’re unable to look away—you caused that. “Something wrong?” Cassian asks, calling back to you a few steps away.

Words have left you, unable to figure out what to say, mind struggling to wrap around all of it. Another thing to make up for, and that one’s pretty big, too…your shoulders slope as you stare at the hole blown out of the rock. The damage you’ve probably caused the interior too… How much will it take to repair that? Isn’t the building itself old? Even to fae standards?

How can you ever make up for something like that?

Cassian walks back over to you when you don’t reply, pausing at your side, hands on his hips as he follows the direction of your gaze. “Pretty impressive,” he says conversationally, “you’ve got a way to go before you can manage an entire building, though.” Then he pats you lightly on the shoulder, wing curving round your body to get your legs moving as you’re pulled away, view with the House broken.

“I—…” you choke out, “did…did I do that?” You manage hoarsely, looking up at him as your feet start moving one in front of the other, subconsciously wary of bumping into his wing. “Sure did. Blew right through that noise cancelling ward Feyre put up,” Cassian answers, keeping his attention ahead as he leads you through the city streets, people automatically making way for the familiar face. “I told her she’d been slacking off in practising her magic,” he murmurs under his breath, but you aren’t paying much attention, too overwhelmed with debt to really engage.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, feet hesitating as they move over the cobbles before stopping firmly, shoulders bunched as you glance up at him. “I’m so— I didn’t mean to make such a mess— I just— I just didn’t— I didn’t know what to do. And I thought he was going to—”

“It’s okay,” Cassian says firmly, standing in front of you so there are less places to look away to. “It’s Rhys’ anyway. You don’t need to apologise to me.”

“But…it was given to you,” you hedge, staring up at him—and if it’s still Rhys’, that’s so much worse. So, so much damage.

“Would you feel better if someone was angry with you?” He asks seriously after a moment of pause. You freeze, startled by the question. “…what?”

“Would it make it easier?” He repeats, watching you solemnly, “if we acted how you’re waiting for us to?”

You stare at him, struggling to pull together a reply, startled from the strange clarity of his questions. Seconds pass and all you can do is look at him, too afraid to answer—not of him, but…something.

Cassian breaks the connection, glancing away, half turning his body to face the direction you’d been walking. “Maybe that question was too much,” he says, almost to himself. He sighs, eyes closing briefly, before he’s glancing at you, wing opening as if to guide you along again. “Come on,” he says, voice having lost that solemnity, back to the familiar timbre, “we’ll be late.”

“Late?” You manage as you somehow get your body to fall into step beside him. “What…where are we going?”

He looks at you strangely, as if the answer’s obvious. “Dinner, of course,” he replies, returning his attention to the streets ahead, sure enough taking the path that will lead directly back to the River House. “They’ll start without us if we aren’t there on time.”

“Dinner?” You ask, feeling lightheaded. Too many new components being dropped on you for you to entirely keep yourself together. You swallow thickly, fumbling for excuses because you can’t do a dinner as you are—not after yesterday. “I’m not feeling too great, actually,” you say hoarsely, “besides, if I eat this late I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it…” you trail off, realising he probably doesn’t want to hear about you throwing up meals every now and again.

“Madja’s told us you need to keep your strength up,” Cassian replies, and you’re unsure if he’s intentionally chosen a counter-argument you’d have trouble escaping or whether it was inadvertent. “Eat what you can—it’s important during recovery, even if it might feel insignificant, or pointless.” You glance at him again, that strange feeling creeping into your chest at his wording—is it some kind of intuition that’s leading him to say these things?

“…Will everyone be there?” You ask quietly, trying to calm yourself as the River House comes into view, not far away now. “Az will probably want to eat in his room,” Cassian answers neutrally after a temporary pause, “but everyone else will. You’ll be sitting besides Elain.” There was no reason to add that on.

You can’t manage it, but you can’t figure a way to escape. There’s no out you can find—saying you aren’t hungry, or you’re tired won’t get you out of it, he’s already said to just eat what you can meaning you have to have at least a bite or two. But the idea of sitting with all of them, when everything is still so unclear…You can’t.

The River House looms before you, and you can swear you feel a cold sweat appear on your back, hands turning unnaturally clammy, so accustomed to the skin being dry and flaky that to feel the dampness on your palms has slippery discomfort roiling in your stomach.

Cassian walks up the steps, hand settling on the door, and you watch in motion slower than usual as he begins to turn the handle.

A slight breeze blows, pulling strands of your hair forward, as if trying to push you into the House, and Cassian pauses, door opened only a few inches. Beats pass, but you keep utterly still, both wanting the moment to end but also desiring nothing more than to run from the oncoming meal.

Strangely observant hazel eyes flick over a broad shoulder, meeting your own set and you tense, hairs rising at the nape of your neck, getting that same feeling you’d had when speaking with Rhys, that he can somehow see through you too clearly, like you’re too easy to read. Fearing what he’ll be able to find before you’ve had the chance to discover it. Watching you fumble in the dark for something that was so easy to locate. Struggling with a problem embarrassingly simple to decipher.

“You don’t need to be scared,” he says, holding your gaze. Are you really that easy to see through? But then he continues, and the surrounding world warps a little.

“You have a right to be at that table as much as any of us,” he says, those keen hazel eyes remaining steady. “Keep that in mind, when you go in.”

Then the door’s opening wider, and the smell of a hot meal wafts out into the night. You trail behind him, latch clicking at your back, following as he makes his way to the dining room. He had believed the words he’d told you, that you were deserving of a seat at their table. You can’t really bring yourself to believe it, but his sincerity has shaken your ground a little.

His expression shifts when he rounds a corner, brows rising as his lips part in a broad smile, voices rising in greeting and you can see why Feyre treasures his company. He’s surprisingly gentle, oddly perceptive.

They probably all already knew that, though. It’s your fault for casting roles on them before really even getting to know them, assigning characters after only a handful of proper conversations. If only you’d made the effort to step out of your own little circle, maybe the circumference wouldn’t be as strangling as it’s become.

If you’d stepped out sooner, could you have been first choice?

But, glancing again at Cassian, his profile captured in a look between irritation and affection, turning the corner into the dining room and seeing the scrunch of Feyre’s brow as she replies to whatever he’d said…no. It wouldn’t have mattered.

But it’s not the end of the world that you weren’t made that way.

————

It’s good to see her smiling again, he thinks.

With the past months having been so draining, the symptoms of her restlessness only exacerbated in the last few days given the turmoil they’ve all been thrown into, it’s good to see the light in her eyes gleaming again. More than just good, but there isn’t quite a word right enough to express the soul-deep relief he feels at seeing her smile. A strange conviction that everything will be okay now that she’s on the way better.

Her ears twitch once before she’s shooting him a half-glare, having felt his gaze roaming over her. “Family dinner, Rhys,” she snaps under her breath, but he can see the heat in her eyes, the silent agreement that’s exchanged in the brief moments their gaze locks, and Rhys’ mouth curves suggestively, his brows rising in feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he murmurs, looking down at his mate with an intensity he knows she adores. And yet she lightly smacks his thigh anyway.

“I’m serious,” Feyre warns, that heat dissipating as Cassian picks a seat at the table, dragging the feet across the floorboards with a grating noise that’s thankfully drowned out by chatter while a smaller figure quietly follows after him, taking one of the two remaining open seats. Unlike Cassian, she lifts her chosen seat from the floor, trying to keep as silent as possible and blend into the background as she sits beside Elain. “Don’t scare her off,” Feyre murmurs under her breath. Rhys hums compliantly, eyes twinkling as he spends a few extra moments looking at his mate. Moments he thinks he might at long last be beginning to lean into.

“Where’s Mor?” Cassian interrupts, and Rhys reluctantly shifts his attention to his brother, who has taken the seat opposite Feyre. He sometimes wonders if Cassian choses moves like this intentionally, whether they’re conscious decisions or whether these actions result from a wish to have his family united. Cassian isn’t like himself or Az, wasn’t taught to conceal his emotions as they were—well, in his own case it was taught. For Az it was a matter of survival.

“Taking supper up to Az,” Nesta’s voice cuts through the previously enjoyable atmosphere, the noise similar to recognising the hiss of steel being drawn within a temple. A few centuries ago, his ears might have twitched at the distinctly unpleasant intrusion, but Cassian’s eyes have already left his own to seek out the icy silver of his mate’s, softened at their edges.

“More than just supper,” Amren comments, one space over to Rhys’ right, sat at a corner seat. “She took an entire bottle of wine with her.” Laughter rises, and Rhys allows his attention to briefly sweep over across the table where the two sisters are involved in conversation, as if there’s no one else to speak with. He supposes one of them might very well believe that, and with a fraction of a thought swiftly removes the precautionary enchantment of the silverware so they won’t vanish if she reaches for them.

At least she’s there, though he’s fairly confident Cassian has something to do with it. Rhys can picture how the light in Feyre’s eyes might flicker learning she had found a way to shut herself away in a house where avoiding others was almost impossible without intent. No amount of luck or coincidence would keep her entirely hidden. Especially over meals.

Violet eyes return to his left, feeling the familiar ease that settles through him at the reminder of Feyre’s presence. A deeply-treasured reprieve from the strain and stress that’s been thriving amongst them as of late.

————

“How was the check-up with Madja, by the way?” Elain asks, using one of the large wooden spoons to shift a few roast potatoes onto her plate.

You nod slightly, lips pressing together in a small smile that you hope is reassuring. “Good, for the most part,” you reply. “I think she still wants to observe what happens for now, but she did…do something, which might have helped?” It reminds you of the lightness in your lungs, the strange openness of your throat and you instinctively take in a deeper breath, basking in that odd clearness. Elain hums in question, silently offering you the spoon for potatoes, but you shake your head politely. “I’m not sure…I don’t think dinner is the best place to discuss those check-ups,” you say quietly, a half-smile on your mouth. Elain’s lips curve, eyes gleaming as she nods in agreement, “you’re probably right.” Then she glances across the table before returning her gaze to yours, a new, preempted question already rising to her mouth. “What are you going to eat?”

The smile on your lips becomes strained, gloved hands shifting in your lap as you keep the orange, silk scarf pulled over your arms to conceal the wretched skin. You wish you’d at least had the chance to change before coming here—your mind will mostly be preoccupied with making sure none of them are forced to see the state beneath the silk. “If I’m honest, I’m not really that hungry…” you hedge, but Elain gives you a look that tells you she won’t stand for it. Although it comes from a place of care and love, you can’t help feeling a little suffocated.

“Just have a couple of bites, okay?” Elain reasons gently, “Madja’s told us it’s good for you to eat, it’ll help you recover.”

“Apparently Madja’s been saying that a lot,” you mutter under your breath.

“Madja’s a highly respected healer,” Amren cuts in from across the table, her eyes sharp as they pierce into you. “If she’s said you should eat, you should eat.”

You aren’t sure if you imagine the way the noise level seems to drop at that, but the familiarly dull pain of humiliation flickers across your chest, ashamed to have sounded so ungrateful. Your head lowers a little, unable to think of a reply as your hands wring together beneath the table, tucked away in your lap.

“Unless you really feel sick,” Elain interjects a little defensively, her hand subconsciously placing itself on your upper arm in what you’re certain she intends to be a comforting gesture—in truth it causes your flesh to ache, but you keep your mouth shut. “I’m sure I can manage a bite or two,” you get out with a small smile and you hate that you know it won’t reach your eyes, so keep your head slightly ducked as you put a few potatoes on your plate. You can come down later, once everyone’s gone to bed if you’re still hungry.

A beat passes, and Elain shifts at your side, a fresh smile on her face, trying to brighten your mood—you dip a little lower at that, that she feels responsible, but if you don’t pull yourself together she’ll keep doing it. “How did you and Cassian bump into one another?” She asks, reaching for something else on the table that you don’t look at. Cassian doesn’t make to answer, so you have to, feeling the distinct weight of the table’s attention. “Just coincidence, I suppose,” you reply, managing a faint smile, keeping your eyes on your plate as you slice one of the roast potatoes in two, steam wafting up from the hot centre.

“Went out for a walk?” Elain asks. There’s an almost unnoticeable tone of relief in the question—you probably wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t as close to her as you are. Is that how easily she can pick out your own thoughts? “Fresh air’s probably good for you, right?” She says smiling, causing your own lips to curve at their edges fondly. “I think so,” you murmur in reply.

“Have you had a chance to read any more books recently? I haven’t seen any in your room…I could get some if you want?” Feyre speaks from across the table, and you bite down on the way you want to shrink into yourself as the conversation is drawn over to you. “I haven’t, and it’s fine, thank you. Have you been painting recently?” You ask, swiftly shutting it down and shifting the conversation back to her, hoping you’ll be left out of it now.

Rhys’s attention flits over her a split second before something passes behind Feyre’s eyes, but she swallows and nods. “There hasn’t been as much time as I’d like, but I’m finding moments,” she answers, but goes no further. You’re glad she’s still getting time to herself in spite of being High Lady and more importantly, a mother. You can’t imagine how difficult it must be if it’s taking up that much of her time…and you probably hadn’t helped…she’s been visiting each day… You should have succeeded.

The passiveness of the thought catches you a little off guard. Since when had thoughts like that become so habitual? So flippant? You spear a piece of potato with your fork, bringing it to your mouth. It was just a fleeting thought, it’s fine. Weird things happen in the mind anyway, as long as you don’t mean it, you’re okay.

“Would you…” Feyre’s asking, “be interested in joining me? We could have an easel set up in your room?”

A part of the potato goes down the wrong way as you hear the question, hand grabbing the napkin as you cover your mouth, coughing. You clear your throat when you’re done, making sure to wipe your lips subtly as you pull the napkin away, sipping on the glass of water to help clear your throat. Once you’ve recovered, you remember her question.

It would be nice. Really nice, actually, but… “it’s fine, please don’t worry. Painting’s your thing, and I think…personal, to you. Besides, I have my books,” you excuse, heart sinking a little, but it’s for the better. She’s already short on time anyway, she needs to keep that for herself, even if you can’t help but want it.

The same look passes behind her eyes, and you now wonder if you can’t figure it out because…because you might no longer know her well enough.

“It’s probably for the better,” Rhys announces, bringing the moment to a swift end, “Feyre’s nude models would probably upset your delicate sensibilities, anyway.”

Your eyes widen and you nearly choke on air as wild, ferocious heat swarms your features, staring ahead, bewildered.

Rhys grins as a fuming Feyre smacks him on the shoulder, indignant rage lighting her eyes. “Lies! All lies,” she snaps, before sparing you a somewhat apologetic glance. “He’s joking, obviously,” she reassures, shooting a glare Rhys’ way at that last part. “His humour’s apparently a few centuries out of date.”

“Speaking of things on the old side,” a golden voice calls from the hallway, parading into the dining room in heels tall and thin enough to potentially run someone through. “Rhys, is there another case of this stuff? Az wants some more.”

The High Lord rolls his eyes, amusement clear, Feyre settling at his side, feigned anger dissipating as if it were never there, her eyes twinkling again.

“We all know you finished off the bottle before you even reached Az’s room,” Amren snipes, thickly-jewelled fingers sparkling as she nurses her own glass, laughter rising from the table.

“Oh, like you’re any better Amren. You could polish off bottles of blood in the time it took me to eat an appetiser,” Mor replies, heels clicking across the floor as she sweeps through the room in a flurry of vibrant red and stunning gold, taking her seat opposite Elain—between Amren and Rhys.

One seat and across from your own position.

The meal fully commencing now all able players are assembled at the table.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @fae-glamour-petrichorus @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #multi part fic #cbmthy #cbmthy chapter 17 #azriel acotar

217 notes · View notes

pinkflower2003 · 1 day

Note

Part 2 to the max fic inspired by the smallest man who’s ever lived?

“He Just Comes Running Over To Me”

Loss of my life part 2

a/n: this has been heavily requested, but honestly this is the best I could come up with...

Your heart pounded in your chest as you walked away from Max, his words echoing in your mind. You had to stay strong; you couldn’t let him see how much he still affected you. Your team quickly surrounded you, ushering you to your private dressing room. Once inside, you sank onto the couch, your emotions overwhelming you.

Daniel had followed you, his face filled with concern. “Y/N, are you okay?” he asked softly, sitting beside you.

You shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes. “No, Danny, I’m not. How could he say all those things now, after everything? It’s too late.”

Daniel put his arm around you, offering what comfort he could. “I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than this. You’ve got so much ahead of you, and you deserve someone who’s all in from the start.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “I just need to focus on my career. That’s what I need to do.”

The days following the race were a blur of emotions and activities. You threw yourself into your work, writing new songs and planning your next tour. But Max’s words kept creeping into your mind, making it hard to concentrate.

One evening, you received a call from Kelly. Surprised, you answered, not knowing what to expect.

“Hi, Y/N. It’s Kelly. I hope it’s okay that I’m calling you, I got your number off Max’s phone” she began, her tone tentative.

“Hi, Kelly. It’s fine. What’s going on?” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I wanted to talk to you about Max,” she said, and you could hear the nervousness in her voice. “I know this is awkward, but I think you deserve to know the truth.”

Your heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“Max and I... we’re not really together. We’re friends, and he’s been helping me out. Her father left us, and Max offered to step in, but he’s not her stepdad. He’s just helping us out because he’s a good person, and it comes across that we’re dating in the media so it’s just a bit easier to explain” she said.

You were stunned. “So, you’re not in a relationship?”

“No, we’re not. Max has been struggling a lot since you left. He talks about you all the time. He regrets what happened, Y/N. He really does,” Kelly said softly.

You took a deep breath, trying to process this new information. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can see how much he loves you. He made a mistake, but he’s willing to do anything to make it right. I thought you should know,” she said.

“Thank you, Kelly,” you replied, your voice shaking. “I appreciate you telling me.”

After hanging up, you sat in silence, your mind racing. Could you forgive Max? Could you give him another chance after everything that had happened?

A few days later, you found yourself standing outside Max’s apartment. You had thought long and hard about what Kelly had said, and you knew you needed to talk to him. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door.

Max opened it, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw you. “Y/N, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice filled with hope and uncertainty.

“I needed to talk to you,” you said, stepping inside. “Kelly told me everything. About you and Penelope, about how you’ve been feeling.”

Max nodded, closing the door behind you. “I’m glad she did. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I didn’t know how.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing the regret and longing there. “Max, you really hurt me. I wanted a future with you, and you made it clear you didn’t want that.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry. I was scared. I didn’t realise what I had until I lost it,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “But I want to make it right. I want a future with you, Y/N. Kids, a family, everything. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to him. “Max, it’s not going to be easy. You broke my heart.”

“I know, and I’m willing to work for it. I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back,” he said, stepping closer to you. “I love you, Y/N. I always have, and I always will.”

You took a deep breath, your heart aching with the weight of your decision. “Okay, Max. Let’s take it one step at a time. But you need to understand, this is your last chance.”

Max nodded, relief and determination filling his eyes. “I understand. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

As he pulled you into his arms, you felt a glimmer of hope. It would take time and effort, but maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other.

The anticipation in the arena was electric. The crowd buzzed with excitement, eagerly awaiting your performance. Backstage, you took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the night ahead. Tonight was special. You had invited the F1 crew to your concert, since they seemed to enjoy your performance so much at the last race. You knew Max and some of the other drivers would be in the audience, and you had a setlist full of songs that were deeply personal, songs that told your story with Max.

As the lights dimmed and the opening chords of your first song played, you stepped onto the stage, the crowd erupting into cheers. You spotted Max in the VIP suite, surrounded by his friends and teammates, their faces lit with excitement and curiosity.

You began with "The 1," a song about lost love and the one who got away.

"I'm doing good, I'm on some new shit

Been saying 'yes' instead of 'no'

I thought I saw you at the bus stop, I didn't though..."

Your voice carried the emotions of your journey, and you saw Max's expression shift as he recognised the story within the lyrics. The drivers around him were nodding along, clearly enjoying the music, but Max's eyes were glued to you.

Next, you performed "All Too Well," the iconic ten-minute version. The lyrics poured out of you with raw emotion, capturing the highs and lows of your relationship with Max.

"You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath

Sacred prayer and we'd swear to remember it all too well..."

You watched as Max's face reflected the memories of your time together. The pain, the joy, the love – it was all there, laid bare in the music.

During "Enchanted," a song about the magic of meeting someone special, you glanced at Max, and for a moment, it felt like no one else was in the room.

"This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home..."

Max's gaze softened, and you saw a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was as if the music was weaving a connection between you two once again.

During the break between songs, you took a moment to interact with the crowd. Spotting a group of kids near the front, you crouched down, reaching out to them. Their faces lit up with excitement as you spoke to them, making them feel special. You even gave them a few pieces of the costume jewelry you wore, them screaming as you did so. The arena filled with joy and laughter, and you saw Max watching with admiration.

The final song of the night was "The Alchemy," a new song you had written, encapsulating your journey with Max – the heartbreak, the growth, and the possibility of something new and beautiful rising from the ashes.

“Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads

Beer sticking to the floor

Cheers chanted, cause they said

There was no chance, trying to be

The greatest in the league

Where's the trophy?

He just comes running over to me.”

As you sang, you poured your heart into every word, feeling the transformative power of your emotions. The audience was captivated, and you could feel the energy in the room shift.

The concert ended to thunderous applause, and you headed backstage to catch your breath. Moments later, you were escorted to the VIP suite where the drivers and their girlfriends were gathered. The room was filled with laughter and chatter, but as soon as you entered, all eyes turned to you.

Max was the first to move. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his eyes locked on yours. Without a word, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, right there in front of everyone. The room fell silent, then erupted in cheers and applause.

You pulled back, slightly breathless, and saw the love and determination in Max's eyes. "I'm so proud of you," he whispered. "You're incredible."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you smiled. "Thank you, Max. That means everything to me."

The drivers and their girlfriends crowded around, congratulating you and praising your performance. You felt a warm hand on your shoulder and turned to see Daniel grinning at you.

"You were amazing out there, Y/N," he said. "You really are something special."

#formula one imagine #f1 imagine #max verstappen #f1 smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #formula one x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader #mv1 imagine #mv1 x reader #mv1 #taylor swift

226 notes · View notes

ourflagmeansgayrights · 3 days

Text

wait fuck ok i’m back to being sad about it now

like the thing is that ed doesn’t really hang out with anyone but stede in season one, not really. and whenever he is talking to other ppl on the crew, stede is right there. the only exception to this is in episode 8 when jack brings the party energy and everyone is getting drunk and rowdy together specifically as part of jack’s efforts to exclude stede.

and as a fandom we always make jokes and theorize about what the relationship between ed and stede must look like from the outside, if they were all placing bets for when they’d finally hook up or if they had zero belief in stede’s ability to pull THEE blackbeard

but now i’m thinking about the crew’s perception of Ed Himself. of the crew’s perceptions of The Legendary Blackbeard and how that must’ve changed over the course of the first season. because when they first meet him they’re all impressed and starstruck bc yeah, duh, this is Pirate Beyoncé we’re talking about. they’re also in varying degrees “worried he’s gonna kill them.”

but they quickly see that the real pirate beyonce isn’t all leather and murder and head made of smoke. blackbeard swaps clothes with their cringefail (derogatory) boss for fun. he dresses up and goes to a fancy party just because he wants to—he’s not even trying to get anything out of it, doesn’t have an angle the way frenchie does, he genuinely just wants to go to a very un-Blackbeardy party and have fun. he tells them scary stories. he shows them some of his trade blackbeard secrets. he hypes them all up after their first fuckery (and i will never get over how cute that is exchange is, “scared the pants off me” and “i thought blackbeard didn’t feel fear” and “and i didn’t, until tonight” and the crew’s genuine excitement and pride). he goes on a treasure hunt with their cringefail (affectionate, now) boss and lets him dig in the ground to get it out of his system. they learn that ed isn’t just a scary pirate, he also can be silly and goof off and enjoy things that aren’t exactly compatible’s with the Blackbeard Brand

and beyond just not adhering 24/7 to the Brand, they learn that ed—that blackbeard—is human. is fallible. they see his first plan to escape the spanish fail, and they get to participate in the backup plan that he and stede come up with. frenchie sees ed get hurt at the fancy party in a way that he completely understands. lucius realizes that ed is just as into his cringefail boss as his cringefail boss is into ed, and over the course of giving ed a shovel talk he maybe learns that The Legendary Blackbeard might actually be nervous about a boy liking him back.

and none of this—NONE of this—makes the crew lose any respect for him. even pete never has a moment where his perception of his idol is shattered, where he’s disappointed that blackbeard isn’t all nine guns and zero mercy all the time. instead, pete expands his idea of what The Ideal Pirate (the ideal MAN) looks like.

i think by the time jack rolls around, ed is no longer on that Pirate Beyoncé pedestal to them. he’s still on a pedestal, a bit, but instead of seeing ed as this untouchable badass legend, they see him as like. the coolest guy on the ship. still a badass, still somebody they all respect and admire, but someone they can hang out with. someone they really want to hang out with. they want to impress ed because they want him to like them, they want to be his friend. and yeah, it’s played as a “your father and i are getting a divorce but we still love you very much” joke, but they really are so sad when ed leaves with jack.

and ed showing up with no beard and no stede, ed hiding in his cabin for. a day? multiple days? ed singing a song about his feelings. ed saying he no longer wants to go by blackbeard.

the crew is confused, but they’re on board. they don’t laugh at him for his (bad) singing, they don’t think less of him now that he’s sans iconic beard. ed, to them, is still The Coolest Guy On The Ship, and they want to be his friend. they’re excited to be his friend.

they want to put on a talent show.

and ed, right after getting stabbed in the back by jack and izzy, and then stede, and then izzy again—ed, who was so affected by the jeers of the rich fuckers at that fancy party, who grew up in a culture that doesn’t allow for friendship, a culture of everyone in various stages of fucking each other over—can’t see that. he’s got fresh heartbreak and fresh betrayal that are compounding on years of trauma and he hears them all chanting his name and he can’t trust this crew. he couldn’t trust his first mate, and he couldn’t trust his old shipmate, and he couldn’t trust stede. he cannot, cannot risk vulnerability with the crew. not again.

(and like, cmon, who is ed even kidding? he’s not made for things like softness and friendship and genuine camaraderie. trying to be anything other than blackbeard is like a wolf trying to fit in a sheep’s clothing, but the clothing is too small and everyone can see right through him and they’re all laughing and laughing and he’s the only one who can’t see what a joke he is. ed’s not an idiot, he knows there’s no way the crew is up their chanting his name and asking for another song because they like him. they just want the great clown pagliacci to come out and make them laugh.

so sure, ed’ll give them a show. they think ed’s funny? well he’s about to be fucking hilarious.)

EDIT: those of y’all seeing this in the ofmd tags are missing the additions where it gets even sadder

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd meta #edward teach #ed teach #edward teach born on a beach #crew of the revenge #s1e04 #s1e05 #s1e06 #s1e07 #s1e08 #s1e10 #txt #meta #mine #og

228 notes · View notes

i-yap · 23 hours

Text

Things that batboys and you fight about(Dick Edition)

Dick-

him being "flirty" with other women. he says he is just being his charming self but he looks so good, is so rich and has that buttt. ofc every other woman thinks its flirting cuz we all see what we wanna believe. He always makes it up by fking u in the bathroom/alley of whatever public place you guys are in and then long cuddles in the bathtub when you get home ( which Is when he tells you exactly what you mean to him( its a lot)

Bailing on dates last minute- especially before u found out about his alter ego but even afterwards on special days when he would get late or be unable to attend because he is out there being an amazing hero. he always thinks he can make it on time but he never does. He will make it up and regrets it so much now uve started carrying some hobby( a book or homework or headphones) when meeting him anywhere for a date

Him disappearing on days weeks or even months at an end . dude has so many teams ( young justice titans batboys ) to take care of and so many people to save and ofc ( elder sister syndrome) he thinks he can do it all. but that means covert opps and faking deaths . you guys did decide on a signal later on to make sure he is not actually dead But it hurt like crap the first few times he disappeared.

Him running away . Mr cant stick to any good relationship and doesn't know what to do with someone genuinely loving him. in the beginning he might push u away, ask for an open relationship or friendzone you (he did cheat on starfire) but it always backfired. one day you just got fed up of him playing ping pong with your relationship and hit him with ur slipper on the head and told him to get his head straight or get out. ofc he cant leave you. just be understanding He opens up to you about his past and you understand that yes ur past sucks but that's no excuse for u to suck ..after somewhile this issue goes away

he is a lot, singing jumping around aerobics guy. so if u get irritated or have mood swings u may snap at him. but he always instant cut It out and does his best to soothe you

He also has a need to save everyone and everything and u have to remind him that while u love the fact that he takes care of u, u can do sh"t by urself sometimes . Also u can take care of him in genuine ways..he'll get used to it

he wants kids ....so like if u don't it'll be a bit of a conversation

he may never fully leave superhero stuff( at least not till much later)

He has issues yes but so do you and he more than makes up for all the problems.

(authors note- hi , who do u wanna see next ?)

#bruce wayne x reader #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #damian wayne x reader #tim drake x reader #batmom #batboys #batboys x reader #batboys x batmom #batfam x reader #bruce wayne fluff #batboys fluff #nightwing #nightwing x reader #dick grayson

131 notes · View notes

helios-writings · 1 day

Text

Umemiya knows he’s going to marry you from the moment he meets you. Whether you think the same, he doesn’t know, but he knows that you’re the one he wants, one hundred percent.

You do not think Umemiya is the man you’re going to marry. In fact, endearing as he is, you don’t see the two of you together at all. But he never pushes.

“In your own time,” he always tells you; like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s omniscient.

But still, Umemiya never gives up. He walks you home, carries your things, texts you every morning. When you ask him why, all he does is grin: wide and crooked, taking over his whole face.

“Because I like you.”

And then he continues walking, like he hasn’t just verbally knocked you on your ass with four words. Like this is something he knows and has accepted. And while you knew the truth of his affections before he stated them, he had never said them aloud before.

You start being kinder to Umemiya after that, the change so gradual that you don’t even remember when it happened. It's soon that Umemiya is at the top of your contacts list; at the top of your messages. You find yourself waiting for him after school, instead of him hunting you down to walk you home. You even start inviting him out, when he doesn’t seem too busy, though he claims he’s never too busy for you.

On one of these outings, you get hurt. It's an accident, truly, nothing more than a shove, but you hit the ground a little harder than you should, your wrist spraining under the force. Umemiya goes pale as he fusses and frets over you, eyes filled to the brim with regret and worry; as if it was his fault you toppled to the ground.

You don’t know what comes over you in that moment, not really, but one minute you’re trying to calm him down, and then the next, you’re kissing him. It’s soft; barely there in terms of kisses. But it’s enough to make Umemiya pause in his ministrations, enough to make his cheeks burn red. He takes your hand in his and kisses the tips of your fingers before helping you off the ground. You hold hands on the way to your house, no need to speak about what each other feels.

You start thinking that you could marry him, too.

#wind breaker x reader #hajime umemiya x reader #daylightarchive #drabble #fandom☀️: wind breaker #character☀️: umemiya #sunbathing with: umemiya

115 notes · View notes

lxmelle · 2 days

Text

Love is the greatest curse of all… Damned if you love and Damned if you don’t.

What does it mean to be Human? It’s an extremely valid question posed by Yuta. Megumi didn’t think they were heroes and felt he had no option but to make personal choices. Yuji wanted his life and death to have some significance and save people. Todo says they have to keep going regardless of tragedy. Sukuna says it’s best to be unattached to all things as they’re all worthless. Gojo had a dream that was largely affected by Geto - about never leaving anyone alone for the new generation.

Is being human, to know love? Regardless of their strength? Kusakabe thinking of Yaga who helped the sister he loved, in her grief over her beloved son. Larue and Miguel with their love for Geto. The kids and their friendships with one another. Gojo, Yuta - knowing the taste of loneliness. Geto, knowing the taste of grief. The underside of love.

Back to stsg for a moment because that’s my unhealthy obsession brainrot

If Geto loved Gojo enough to tell him, he would’ve led him down a bloody path. If Geto loved him enough to leave him, it’d have led him down a lonely path.

If Gojo loved Geto enough to join him, it would’ve led them both down a morally-/societally-disapproving path. If Gojo loved Geto enough to let him go, it would’ve allowed him to go down a lonely path.

Yuta knew the pain of pure innocent love and how it bound Rika to his soul. But in doing so, he granted her the best happiness she ever experienced in her entire existence. Was it because she had meaning? Her overwhelming love for Yuta meant she could kill and hurt others for the sake of love? What a cursed existence even as a spirit. It hurt Yuta.

He loved her enough to desire not to let her go, but this cursed them both. In loving his newfound friends enough, he sacrificed himself and was lucky to survive it and freed the cursed Rika. But this then led him to bear the curse of loving others … in the endless cycle of “you’re Damned if you do, Damned if you don’t”.

Because Yuta loves and empathises, he sees Gojo. Humanity. Compassion. To be able to connect to those above and beneath his feet, in contrast to Hajime and Sukuna who both pursued strength alone. He understood the weight and enormity of love and the sacrifice that comes with it. He saw the impact of being a monster and the only one who was chained to his role despite being able to supposedly do everything, but actually felt like he could do nothing.

Not the things that Gojo really wanted anyway (ugh. The tragedy of his life T_T). He couldn’t spare Geto. Geto didn’t want to be spared and left him to handle it all at Jujutau High while he tried to single-handedly take on Gojo’s role and change the world.

Gojo was left behind. I think his view of their separation morphed over time too. He wanted to change the sorcerer world too, in a different way that wasn’t as drastic.

Maybe at first he wondered if Geto felt left behind in the face of his unparalleled strength, (the strongest, alone), telling Megumi that he should be strong, keep up and not get left behind. After all, he and Geto had that “talk” breakup and he decided to become a teacher to try and save those who wanted to be saved.

As Megumi grew, he had more students, and Yuta came along, it was about the protection of their youth. Just like he had his blue spring that was so precious to him. It was also what Geto gave him and the reason he had to stop and kill Geto, because he encroached on the principles he tried to uphold himself - not to kill young sorcerers. Geto couldn’t completely abandon all of his humanity and kill Yuta and Gojo spared him the continuous suffering and ended his life.

Then, not leaving anyone behind to be lonely. He would see to it that the next generation wouldn’t suffer like he and Geto and Nanami did.

And finally, he wished to catch up to Geto, after being left behind when Geto chose to become a monster himself.

In Buddhism, detachment is sometimes seen as the penultimate “enlightenment”. But it’s ironic because the more one aspires to become enlightened, the more selfish they inherently become. Because, we do not live in isolation. What is the worth of enlightenment?

Gojo’s enlightenment was costly. He was alone as a tool.

Sukuna’s is disastrous. He embodies a twisted form of enlightenment where he sees responding to love as compassionate through killing his opponents.

Yuta’s is now... tragic.

Megumi had tried to choose who to be compassionate towards. He admired those like Tsumiki who were kind, and like Yuji. Kind - as was Geto. And Yuta. Too kind that they would be willing to sell/soil themselves for the sake of who they loved.

Yuji’s compassion as a vessel was also wholly self-sacrificial.

How does one really retain any form of love or compassion in a world like jjk? When loving anything or anyone seems to cost them dearly? Is that the price of humanity? To love is to hurt?

It’s also interesting how Geto, from human origin, focuses on eliminating humans as the source of cursed spirits... and Gojo, from elite sorcerer origin, focuses on eliminating the higher-ups who were the source of twisted rules within the society.

Anyway. Just rambling a little... I’m still trying to process it all. Jjk is some kind of crazy masterpiece.

81 notes · View notes

yoonivy · 2 days

Text

my house of stone, your ivy grows (and now i’m covered in you); part 7.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

genre. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, drama, angst, fluff, smut. it’s a y/n fic but no use of y/n. heavily inspired by taylor swift’s ‘ivy’.

When a fierce blizzard ravages the North, a certain dragon rider gets caught up in it and crashes onto Bear Island.

And right to you, the youngest daughter of House Mormont.

warnings. angst

01| 02 | 03 | 04| 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11

----

“Welcome back… Lady Mormont.”

Time has frozen.

At least that is what it feels like as soon as you laid your eyes on Aemond.

Your mouth parts after a dry swallow, as if parched for so long and his visage is the water that will sustain you. All you could do is stare upon him and drink in your fill.

You have thought about this moment happening for so long. Of what you will do when you see him again. Yet none of your previous fantasies seem appropriate anymore — not with his arm wrapped around your dearest friend’s waist and your husband so close by your side.

So you just stare, open faced and vulnerable.

The look on your face has Aemond narrowing his gaze. Quizzical or suspicious, you cannot tell.

(Shouldn’t you be able to tell? You used to read him like an open book.)

But you can only guess that he is as astonished as you are by this surprising reunion.

“Actually, your Grace,” Jeremy pipes up. “My wife goes by Lady Strong now.”

Aemond hums noncommittally and does not even spare Jeremy a glance, keeping his gaze and attention solely on you. It is as if he did not even hear him, reminding you of the time Aemond rudely interrupted your dance with Jeremy all those years ago.

Perhaps your husband remembers it as well. He goes rigid beside you.

So you slip your hand into his, meeting his gaze with a reassuring smile. Jeremy returns it, his finger flexing against yours before he squeezes your hand tightly.

The prince does not miss even a millisecond of this exchange, and when you turn back to face him, you are met with the most unenthused scowl.

There was a time when you could have just pinched it off his face with a laugh. Where did that time go? How did it end up like this?

It makes your stomach turn how strange this feels. It hurts so much… but all you could do is grin and bear it.

You pull your hand away from Jeremy to curtsy low towards Aemond, finally remembering that you had not even formally acknowledged him yet.

“Prince Aemond, it’s wonderful to see you again,” you say with your head dipped low, eyes on the ground.

“Is it, really?” You hear him question. “I apologize if I find that hard to believe, Lady Strong. You didn’t even invite me to your wedding! Did my invitation get lost somewhere on the way to me?”

Though it may sound lighthearted, you hear the subtle accusation in it. It has you flicking your gaze up at him, meeting his eye. Despite his smirk, you can clearly see the hurt in him. Hopefully he can see the pain you have been carrying as well.

“How do you two know each other?” Alys questions, her confused gaze darting between you and Aemond.

Your mouth parts, about to answer… But the words would not come out, dying at the tip of your tongue.

What can you even say? What are you and Aemond now?

“It is the duty of the Prince Regent to know the people that lord over our glorious lands,” Aemond supplies. “So of course I know about the Mormonts of Bear Island. I had visited a couple times as a child and got acquainted with the Mormonts,” he turns to you with a tight smile, hands clasped together behind his back as he dips his body your way, “isn’t that right… Lady Strong?”

It is not entirely wrong, but it did not seem right either. The nonchalant and broad way he explained your relationship felt so impersonal that you cannot help but feel a strong pang of sadness deep in your heart.

“Right,” you answer hoarsely, taking a swallow since your throat felt tight and blinking rapidly since your eyes are threatening to water. The latter does not work, but you are blessed by a distraction by the name of Talia. The young Lady Strong runs to you and you bend to your knees to catch her, hugging her closely and your tears disappearing into her curls.

It did not take you long to realize that the little girl is crying too.

“Oh, angel…” you coo sympathetically, pulling away to wipe the tears on her cheeks with the pad of your thumb on both sides of her face. Your face falls as you take in her bloodshot eyes and look of absolute distraught — it’s clear that her tears are beyond just seeing you and Jeremy again. It is something else.

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond watches with a knot in his stomach, looking between you and the little girl and wondering if she’s… he looks towards Jeremy, then back at the little girl.

They have many similarities — chestnut brown curls and honey brown eyes. Definitely favouring the Strong features and yet none of the Mormonts.

There is a bitter taste in Aemond’s mouth, his mouth pulling back in a scowl.

In another world, a better world, she would have had pearlescent silver hair and your eyes.

The Prince Regent shakes away the thought just as Jeremy picks up the little girl, the both of you coddling her closely, asking her what is wrong.

The girl is in shambles, unable to explain as she stutters and hiccups through her tears.

“What about ‘We have a lot to discuss’ did you lot not understand?” Comes a booming voice.

Everyone turns to the clearly vexed Ser Simon, who had just noticed that no one had been following him.

“Apologies, grandfather,” your husband says, passing the little girl over to you.

Ser Simon’s hard stare did not move away from you, disapproving as always. What have you done now, you wonder. “And Talia. I told you to stop with the tears. Crying to your aunt and uncle will not bring your father and mother back. You have to grow up now.”

A soft gasp startles out of you at the sudden devastating news, looking over to find your husband’s heartbreaking expression. His mouth opens, as if he was about to ask his grandfather to repeat what he had just said, like he could not believe what he had just heard, but no words came out.

Your gaze sharpens into a heated glare at the man who spoke the deplorable words, holding the little girl more closely as she sobs against your chest, though she tries to keep it quiet this time.

An agonizing pain throbs your heart, for your niece and your husband.

You step closer towards Jeremy, hoping your presence is comforting enough. You can’t imagine how he is feeling. If you lost any of your siblings…

You could not even think of that right now.

Behind you, Aemond lets out a breath of relief that he had not known he had been holding.

---

You are unsure if it is because you are a woman or because the castellan of Harrenhal does not care much for you, but you were not allowed to take part in the discussion. Frustratingly, you think it might be because of both reasons.

The sun is already starting to set and yet your husband still has not returned to your chamber. He has already been gone for a few hours and it has you anxiously pacing around the room.

Harrenhal had been attacked — that you can conclude by the injured and the repairs being done around the castle. But what of the riverlands? Or Hornhill? If a clash had broken out in Harrenhal, surely those areas would not have been left untouched.

Worrying your lips, you stare out the window, wishing you had the gift of sight to see miles and miles beyond.

Remembering Forrest’s letter to Braeden, a sinking feeling of dread settles in your stomach

Are your siblings alright? The invisible strings that ties you all together seem to be pulled taut and loose at the same time. But you are sure it is just in your head. As much as you try to put on a smile and stay optimistic, you are always just worried now, always stuck on the worst case scenarios.

The door of the room opens just before you go mad with any more dreadful thoughts.

Turning away from your spot by the window, you watch as Jeremy steps in, weary eyed and appearing more exhausted than the last time you saw him. You meet him halfway across the room, your steps hurried while his are slow. When close enough, you reach for his arms as his own find their place on your waist.

Before you could even get a word out, Jeremy's face crumbles, it is as if he had been holding back this whole time he had been gone. He finds home with you, his face hidden in the crook of your shoulder, breaks down while he tells you through aching sobs about the fate of his brother, his friends, and many other people he had grown up with due the attack of the Blacks.

As you hold him tightly, you tell yourself that in due time, Jeremy will tell you everything you need to know. But for now, you lead him to your marital bed and let him seek solace in your comforting embrace.

---

A couple days pass and you were correct, Jeremy tells you all that he knows once he is ready. He informs you that the Greens are brokering a peace deal with the Riverland houses, and that he is sure that the Tully’s will accept it. Though about the Reach – and Horn Hill, specifically – he had no news. Nothing at all. You don’t know whether that should relieve you or worry you more.

Your husband has no reason to lie to you.

So could Forrest’s intel be wrong?

It does not make sense seeing as your older brother is part of the Queensguards, but you desperately hope that is the truth.

You decide to take your mind off it for now before you go mad.

There are still repairs to be done. Injured people to nurture back to health. And the children — oh you know they would love for a distraction and normalcy for this confusing yet terrifying time, and resuming your art lessons would surely bring that.

You’ve neglected your self appointed duties since your return to Harrenhal, only leaving your bedchamber a few hours a day before you find yourself running back to the safety of it.

It must be exhaustion from the long travel.

It must be lightheadedness from the remembrance of death all around you.

It must be the feeling of vivid violet like goosebumps on your skin, the wisp of blanche from the corners of your vision —

But you do not want to hide away anymore. So you start your day at the medical bay, offering your aid wherever the maesters see fit.

You make makeshift gauze out of old yet newly washed clothing. You help dress wounds. You feed those who are not able to by themselves. And when one of the maesters needed more dreamwine, you offered to be the one to get more.

That is how you find yourself standing like a statue right at the open apothecary door.

It had not been your intention. But you realize as soon as you step into the apothecary and freeze suddenly in place when you see your dear friend, that you had been avoiding her.

You have seen Alys around. Out the window of your bedchamber as she walks across the courtyard, the prince regent by her side. In the dining hall, the two of them sharing a meal. In the common room, absorbed in reading separately while sitting so intimately side by side that Alys was practically on his lap. Wherever Alys is, Aemond is surely close by.

Perhaps that is the reason why you had not dared to approach her.

But right now Alys is surprisingly alone and none the wiser about your guilty stagnant hovering by the doorway. The raven haired beauty is too preoccupied with her work.

Your eyes water at the sight of her, mouth pulling down into a wavering pout. You miss her so, so much. Yet you’ve been hiding from her because of what? A long lost love who you have not seen in years ?

You’ve moved on. You really have… With Jeremy.

It is clear that Aemond has moved on as well — and with your best friend. You should be happy for them.

No. You are happy for them.

… Aren’t you?

You do not have the time to reflect on your conflicting feelings — not when you hear your name being called, and when you look up, you meet Alys fox-like gaze. There is an uncharacteristic small yet kind smile on her lips, one she reserves just for you. “… what are you doing standing over there?”

You clear your throat and put on a smile, finally taking a step into the room. “I apologize. I did not want to bother you.”

Alys shakes her head.

“You are never a bother, my lady… Actually, I was going to seek you out after I let this batch of sweetsleep simmer,” she says as you make your way beside her.

Close now but not too close, you watch her stir the pot in front of her one last time before putting a lid on it. She turns to you then, “I finished the medicine for your father last night and sent it out early this morning.”

She leans in closer, and you catch the gleam of mischievousness in her eyes as she whispers, “threatened the courier to make haste as well, so hopefully it will get to your father sooner rather than later.”

With those words, every disconcerting thought you were having fades away, replaced once again with only appreciation and admiration for Alys.

An emotional feeling of gratitude overtakes you as you take a hold of her hands. “Thank you, Alys. I don't even know what I would do without you. I will forever be in your debt.”

Alys shakes her head with a soft smile, reaching up to gently tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear before she cups your face. “I want nothing from you except to know that your mind is at ease.”

You almost burst into tears. Instead, you tackle her into a tight hug.

“I really wanted to lessen your burdens,” Alys says, her hand stroking in a comforting manner against your back. “Especially after what happened here and at Hornhill.”

Her words give you a pause. You rear back slowly, meeting her eyes, your face pinched in confusion. “.... What… What happened at Hornhill?”

Now it is Alys’ turn to look bewildered. “Jeremy had not told you?”

Panic starts to set in you, heartbeat racing and breathing near hyperventilating.

Told you what? Was there something to tell ?

“My Alys. There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” you hear distantly. It barely registers, not with the ringing in your ears.

Alys ignores the newcomer as well and murmurs your name, full of worry.

You step away from her, clearly already distracted with the thoughts in your head when you tell her, “I should go… have a word with Jeremy.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll see you soon?”

You squeeze her hand once more, offering a smile and a nod before you turn away to leave the room.

As you pass by Aemond, you bow towards him though you quickly keep on walking.

You don’t see how his hand reaches out in an attempt to stop you. Though before his fingertips could touch you, he drops his hand lamely by his side.

The Prince Regent keeps his eye on you until he can not see you any longer. The ache in his chest grows.

Another opportunity to be in your presence — gone , just like that.

Disappointment does not even begin to cover it.

---

You find Jeremy at the training yard.

Sometimes you forget how much the name Strong fits with your husband, when all he ever is sweet and soft-spoken with you.

But as you watch him now, it is the one word you can think of to describe him. Strong , a solid and powerful force to be reckoned with.

A protector.

Is that why he had refrained from telling you about Hornhill? To protect you?

Jeremy barely budges when the man he is dueling with elbows him in the stomach, the abs on his stomach clenching as it absorbs the blow. He then easily turns things around in his favor, shoving the man to ground with a grunt and stabbing his sword right into the dirt beside the man’s head, thus ending the fight.

A second later, the seriousness of the duel dissipates when they both laugh at the same time, Jeremy offering a hand to help the man up.

Your hands come together to applaud for your husband, and his attention turns towards where you stand behind the fence. Meeting your gaze, his mouth widens into the most handsome smile.

He jogs towards you, and you can not help but lose your breath at the sight of him. The way his bare upper body glistens with sweat and how his muscles are taut from the practice…

Swiftly, you shake the thoughts away that the heat between your legs try to distract you with. You remind yourself that you are here for an explanation and not anything else.

“Hey,” Jeremy greets, leaning across the fence that divides the two of you to kiss your cheek. “You’re up and about early this morning.”

“Thought I’d better start doing my part to help out,” you say with a shrug.

He hums, reaching out to lay his hand on your shoulder, his thumb grazing along your clavicle.

Ever since arriving back, Jeremy has been more physically affectionate. Always finding reasons to touch you, or sometimes, for no reason at all. You have a feeling you know what caused the sudden change.

In truth, you had been enjoying the newfound possessiveness.

Except right now. You can’t stomach his touch at the moment knowing he had been lying to you.

So you shrug his hand away, causing Jeremy to tilt his head and narrow his eyes in concern.

“Are you done with training?” You question, before he could get a word out.

He glances behind him, and even though he does not seem to be — the others still clashing with one another — he turns back to you and says, “I could be.”

Nodding, you implore, “Please. We need to talk.”

With that, he jumps over the fence with practiced ease, and you pull him to a quiet corner of the courtyard.

Alone and with no one around to eavesdrop, you get straight to the point.

“I heard about Hornhill.”

The way Jeremy’s face falls in shock and the hard swallow he takes tells you everything you needed to know. But you press anyway, “Did you know?”

A long moment of silence passes before he nods sheepishly.

Your heart wrenches. “Jeremy… why ?”

At the sound of your voice breaking, his does too when he starts to speak, “I… I did not want to worry you, my love. Believe me, if I knew any news about Jorah and Renee — good or bad — I would have told you right away. But, as of right now, I have nothing, just as I told you before,” he takes a hold of your hands, eyes pleading for you to understand why he had told the little white lie, pleading for you to forgive him. “The Tarly’s have been sending letters to families of fallen soldiers and villagers, and if Jorah was… gone , we would have gotten word of it by now.”

Red rims around his regretful gaze, and you know all too well the grief that had caused it.

It had laid with you in bed every night since arriving at Harrenhal. It had your husband screaming in his sleep, dreaming of nothing but blood on the lifeless bodies of the people he loved.

“Please, please, forgive me,” your husband begs, his honey brown eyes filled with tears. “I just did not want you to feel the way that I did — like I still do.”

Your lips thin, contemplating his words. Then you lace your hand with his.

“Then tell me everything you know, my heart. And don’t spare any details this time.”

It’s not full forgiveness, but it’s a start.

---

Aemond finds you in the kitchen, led there by the sound of your melodic and lively laughter drifting through the cold and bleak halls.

He tried so hard not to seek you out. But his heart would always somehow lead him to where you are.

It’s a conflict in his head. Yes, he still loathes you. Of course, he is still bitter. And there is no doubt that he still resents every inch of you.

But for the past few weeks, every single day since the two of you find yourselves dwelling in the same place, Aemond’s subconscious would somehow find the time to search for you in the largest castle in all of Westeros and its hundreds of rooms.

The arduous task that he gives himself never deters him, for just one look at you — even for a passing second — is enough.

( You’re lying , the voice in his head mockingly laughs. You could never hate her and it is never enough. )

He stomps down the voice.

So he never dared to come too close. Always just a little out of your sight. Drinking you in from afar.

It's just you today, he notes as he watches in the shadows by the open doorway of the kitchen. No husband of yours following after you like a dog.

There are a group of children surrounding you though, all in awe as you slice up the pie you had made with their assistance.

The scent of the freshly baked pastry flows to him, causing a wave of nostalgia that pangs his heart.

Aemond remembers the many times you and him had also helped your mother and Dorothea with making the Mormont’s special apple pie.

He remembers peeling and slicing up the apples with you, offering up the slice most perfectly cut for you to pop in your mouth. Remembers accidentally dropping too much cinnamon into a small bowl, causing it to dust up into the air and into your noses, stinging your eyes as you sneeze and laugh and cough and whine out his name. Remembers sitting shoulder to shoulder, taking that first bite of the warm and delicious tart apple filling at the same time with a simultaneous hum of content, your elbow nudging him as your brows lift and your lips grinning as if to say we made that.

Smiling unbeknownst to himself, Aemond does not realize he got lost in the memories until the children are rushing past him. They are too engrossed and excitedly chattering amongst themselves that they do not see him standing there.

But someone does notice him.

“Prince Aemond?”

Your honeyed, sweet voice. His name.

He has to take a sharp intake of air, his heart stuttering underneath its hollowed cage.

Although he is the one who sought you out and this is what he wanted, to be alone with you — it is too much.

(It is never enough.)

Plastering on a tight smile, Aemond turns towards you.

The way he sets his eye on you has you feeling nervous. It is piercing.

“I apologize for intruding, my Lady,” he drawls. “I was led here by the scent of the famous Mormont apple pie.”

But his gaze does not linger away from you for even a second.

“You are not intruding, your Grace…” you say, timidly twisting your fingers together. You glance back at the wooden counter behind where the pie rested, “Would you like a slice…?” Then you wince, remembering — ”Actually, there’s only one left and I’m afraid I already took a bite of it. But if that troubles you, I can make another—”

“I don’t mind sharing. We’ve done it before,” he interrupts you. A smirk starts to pull his lips. “…I’ve devoured yours, remember?”

A shuddering breath escapes you, your face blazing with heat.

You don’t believe he is talking about pies anymore.

Turning away swiftly after clearing your throat, you don’t dignify the comment with an answer. It was highly inappropriate. But that doesn’t stop your chest from tightening at the image he put in your head.

As you fuss around to plate up the last slice of pie, you feel his gaze following you. Leering so intensely that the crawl of it over your skin causes you goosebumps.

What was the word he used again? Devoured?

Yes, it feels like he is devouring you whole .

You are so in your head and nonplussed about your every move that you don’t even realize he was standing behind you — until you feel the weight of his touch on your lower back.

They say that lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, but Aemond’s touch is as electric and all too familiar.

It causes a shiver to run down your spine, and you quickly flinch away from him as if struck.

You fix an affronted glare his way, all it does is spread that infuriating smirk on his lips once again.

If you didn’t know any better, he seems to be enjoying the fact that he is making you both nervous and agitated.

“Shall we see if this compares to your mother’s and Dorothea’s?” He questions, tone cheeky, as he grabs a fork and cuts off a small piece.

“The children loved it.”

“They’re children ,” he remarks flippantly. The glare would have been the permanent fixture on your face if he had not said your name. But he did, and so your expression slacks, mouth gaping at the sound of your name on his tongue. It has been so long since you’ve heard his tongue wrapped around the syllables — he has always made your name sound like it is the prettiest song.

You are not sure if he had meant the familiarity or if it just slipped through accidentally. But he keeps prattling on, “They’ll eat anything tooth-achingly sweet and claim it is the Gods’ gift to mankind.”

“Wait a second…” Laughter fills the room, and you place a hand over your mouth to try to muffle it. “I think I recall this one dragon prince who had that revelation many, many times… He never learned though, not even when he would toss and turn all night because his tummy hurts and I had to keep him company, reading his favorite stories until he fell asleep.”

An annoyed huff through his nose is the only acknowledgment you get. It has you giggling until he brings the fork up into his mouth.

At the first bite, Aemond chews slowly, his expression giving away nothing.

Anxiously waiting for the verdict, you begin to bite down at the corner of your lip.

You are not like your mother or your sister. Cooking and baking does not come second nature to you. Even boiled eggs are not safe in your care if you are not careful.

On your visit to Bear Island, you would be by your mother’s side every time she was in the kitchen, making sure you follow the family recipes exactly how she does them.

In all honesty, you have been scared that you will never measure up. Terrified that something will happen and you will never taste anything like what your mother makes ever again.

But then Aemond lets out a steady hum, his eye closing as his head tilts up to the ceiling — captivating your attention so easily. His jaw is working like he is savoring it. And when he swallows, his neck — his beautiful neck — bobs elegantly.

Ethereal.

Aemond breathes in deeply, then opens his eye — lashes fluttering prettily — and sets it on you.

“It’s good,” he compliments, in a tone so soft you almost thought you had dreamt it.

“It tastes exactly how I remember it.”

He smiles then, sweet, unlike the arrogant or cruel smirks that only graces his features lately.

It is the smile of your Aemond.

Just that one smile was enough to break down the walls that had built itself between you two — at least for you.

So you gift him one of your own. Wide, and brilliant, and blinding.

The air in his lungs catches. The beating of his heart stops.

Who said he needed his sight anymore? As if you are the sun, he is willing to stare upon you until he loses function of his remaining eye.

The intruding thought does not last long.

Aemond glances away, cursing himself. Cursing you.

Is that really all it takes for him to forgive everything you had done to him?

A pretty smile, and nothing else?

Irritated at himself, he pushes the plate a little too forcefully towards you.

“Oh.” You frown. “You don’t want any more?”

One look of your little pout has Aemond squeezing his hand into a tight fist.

Weak. He is so weak.

Unflexing his hand after he takes a moment to calm down, he sighs. “We’re sharing, remember?”

Tentatively, you break off a tiny piece to put in your mouth before nudging the plate back in his direction.

Aemond rolls his eye, but does the same, only taking a little piece and then offering it back to you.

This goes on for a while. The room is quiet save for the scraping of the fork on the plate.

It is strange being here with Aemond like this. You almost think you might be dreaming. But he is real — your many secretive glances at him from the corners of your eyes made sure of it.

The silence is killing you. Many unsaid things linger in the air, but you don’t know where to start. There was a time when you talked to him about anything and everything, now you are rendered mute in case of saying anything wrong or idiotic.

Does he even want you to speak to him?

All the letters you have sent went unanswered, perhaps he wants it to stay that way.

“I heard you went back home for a little while.”

In breaking the silence, Aemond also tears down your overthinking.

There is a sudden lightness in your chest when you take in that he wants to talk to you.

As you were about to answer, you remember you are still chewing, so your hand comes up to cover your mouth as you nod to answer him instead.

Glancing down, Aemond huffs out a soft chuckle because of the look on your face.

Lovely , might have been a passing thought, but he is trying to drown out the voice in his head at the moment.

“How was that…?” He questions carefully. “How’s your family?”

“It was…” It takes you a moment to find the words on how you felt being back home — so many emotions overwhelmed you every single day you were on the island. With a faint smile, you finally settled on, “… something I really needed.”

You tell Aemond about your short time back on Bear Island. About your niece and nephew, about Braeden fully taking over as the Head of House Mormont, and so much more. He stands there and listens, hanging onto your every word.

“I finally had the chance to tell my mother this… thing that I was too afraid to tell her through letters.”

It flashes in your mind — your palms pressed on your stomach, your tears of distress, your mother holding onto you while she murmured it’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with you, don’t you ever think that, my darling.

You swallow the lump in your throat caused by the memory.

“And seeing my father again…”

Maybe for the last time.

This time, the passing thought makes a few tears fall.

Quickly, you wipe them away. “I apologize… I had not meant to dump this all on you.”

The awkward chuckle you let out dies in your throat when you feel Aemond step closer towards you. You glance wide eyed up at him through wet lashes just as his knuckles graze gently over your cheek.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says, catching the last of your tears. His touch lingers on your skin for a bit longer before he drops his hand — but his half-lidded gaze is still set on you.

You tuck your hair behind your ear nervously.

“And what about you, your Grace?”

“You’ve probably heard most of it.”

“Perhaps,” you answer. “But I’d rather hear it from you.”

Aemond lets out a low hum. “Then where shall I begin? With my brother, the supposed almighty and chosen king, and yet he’s injured beyond repair. Or my sister? There’s not much to say. She pretty much lost her mind further after losing her son. And I can’t forget about my mother…”

The look on your face is far too pathetic, Aemond thinks in disgust. So overtly pitying it makes his skin crawl. It makes him turn away from you, shamefaced.

Don’t look to me like that — you have no idea what I’ve done to you and your family.

“I guess we’ve both missed a lot,” he comments with a sardonic laugh. “I suppose that is what happens when people drift apart.”

“I guess so…” you reply, frowning.

But you don’t want it to stay that way. Your heart hurts thinking about it.

“Aemond?” He looks towards you, catching your watery gaze again. “Can we…” Your hand grips on the edge of the wooden table, fingers tapping anxiously. “Can we start over?”

The request takes Aemond aback, gaze narrowing and head tilting in disbelief.

Start over?

Just like that?

Like the past years did not matter? Like all his sleepless nights and anguish over you was for nothing?

Aemond nearly scoffs out loud — but then he really thinks it over.

Starting over and all that it entails… Being able to be by your side, to talk to you, to make you laugh once again… Which is everything he is secretly yearning for. As much as he loathes to admit it, it is true.

The past few weeks have been sweet torture for the Prince Regent. You were all his rotten mind could think about, distracting every other thought in his head because of the fact you are finally so close.

But to truly start over, everything should be laid out on the table, correct?

The damning confession is there, on the tip of his tongue…

Aemond bites back the words in cowardice, too afraid to face your ire. You despising him is the last thing he wants. Especially now that you are actually speaking to him, looking upon him with those eyes of yours he used to worship.

So instead, he sucks in a breath and nods.

“Alright… Let us start over.”

And when your pretty lips break into the sweetest smile he has ever seen, Aemond decides that although he made the wrong choice, it is one he does not regret making.

Aemond just wants to bask in your sun for a little bit longer before the inevitable happens — the day you find out the truth and hate him with all your guts until his final breath.

Is that truly so wrong of him?

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #hotd imagine #hotd smut #aemond #aemond targaryen #hotd

80 notes · View notes

penkura · 2 days

Note

Hi! I saw that your requests are open!

Would you be alright writing headcanons for a GN!Reader(Fem is fine too if it's a struggle) for Sanji and Zoro with an idiot reader? The type to throw themselves in danger, believe people at face value, able to succeed a mission by failing all the instructions ect.

Im a big fan of idiot readers because I am one myself, if you could add some cuddling in there too I would be so grateful

Take care!

Hi!! Gosh, this was fun to write lol. Sanji and Zoro are my boys, they would both def end up with idiot readers lol. I hope you like it! :)

Sanji

You, an idiot?

His precious, darling beloved?

Never, he’d fight anyone who said you were! He’d never call you that himse—

Oh there you go again, throwing yourself in front of Luffy. Haven’t you learned he’ll be fine?

You do it every time, and even after Sanji and the others tell you to stop being so self sacrificing, they get enough of that with Zoro

Its fine, its fine, Sanji knows you just want to protect your friends

Its even fine when you nearly fall for an obvious scam of some woman needing money to pay off debtors, and it just happened to be the same amount in your hand

Thank goodness he was nearby and able to grab your hand to get you away from that, telling you what was going on

You felt really stupid for that, but it was fine, no problems, Sanji kept you from losing your money, Nami would’ve killed you both if you had

Its not fine when you end up injured this time, jumping in front of him when an enemy throws a spear at him

It barely grazed you when you pushed Sanji out of the way, but he’s still horrified knowing it was because you were protecting him that it happened

No matter how many times Chopper tries to Sanji that you’ll be okay, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he’s still upset with himself for being distracted by another enemy

Sanji wants to distract himself but you won’t let him leave you alone, dragging him into the bed you’re staying in that night and demanding cuddles since you’re hurt (not that hurt but still)

He’s glad to obliged, holding you close and burying his face in your shoulder while you stroke his hair

“Sorry I worried you, Sanji.”

“You’ve got to stop throwing yourself in front of people…”

He just doesn’t want to lose you

Zoro

He’s the one that calls you an idiot the most

In a loving way the majority of the time, but other times he really does mean it

The day you almost got swept away to another crew because on of their members tried to sell you a sob story about needing medicine for a sick kid?

Yeah you were an idiot for that one

The time you run to protect Nami, shoving her out of the way and receiving a deep gash on your abdomen

Zoro knows you want to protect people, to protect your family

But you should let him handle things sometimes!

He was on his way to protect Nami himself, but of course, you being you, ended up jumping ahead and pushing her away from the Marine attacking her

After all the Marines are taken care of, Chopper has you in the infirmary on Sunny immediately to assess your wounds

You got the worst of it, good job!

Zoro hears you got the worst of it, say your prayers because he’s pissed

Not entirely at you, partially at the Marine that got you, but still at you too

“You’re lucky his weapon didn’t have poison on it or somethin’!”

“I don’t think the Marines use poison, Zoro.”

“That’s not the point!”

You let him go off, telling you everything that could’ve gone wrong

It’s rare for even you to see this side of him, but it’s nice to know he cares this much

Eventually Zoro calms down, taking a deep breath before he walks back over and drags you into a hug

“You’re such a damn idiot you know?”

You nod, but smile, “but I’m your idiot, right?”

He rolls his one good eye and nods himself

“Yeah, you’re my idiot.”

He wouldn’t change a thing if it meant you were his and he was yours

Though he would like you be a little more careful in the future

#one piece x reader #zoro x reader #roranoa zoro x reader #reader insert #sanji x reader #black leg sanji x reader #fem!reader

120 notes · View notes

senditcolton · 19 hours

Text

hits different

do you think i have forgotten... about you?

series masterlist | playlist | word count: 9.3k a/n: here it is! the finale of the "we're a bad idea" series. it's crazy to think that this series started on a complete whim and turned into this. i had so much fun writing this for you all and screaming about it with you and... gosh, just, thank you for all your support! I hope you all love this conclusion as much as I do. warnings: feminine reader, teammate's sister, age gap. smut! heavy handsy make out, oral (f receiving), protected penetrative sex. Disclaimer: Reading/creating content for married players isn’t for everyone. Please don’t read if you don’t vibe with it, but don’t attack me or others!

It felt like something out of a goddamn movie.

The way your eyes locked onto each other the very moment you settled next to Shannon at the altar. How the scent of the flowers that Emily had chosen for your bouquet suddenly became overwhelming. The feeling of heat that rushed through you – a heat that had nothing to do with the warm July afternoon and everything to do with the blue eyes that had captured you under their gaze.

Not the mention the film reel flashback that replayed in your head of those months when you allowed him into your bed and into your heart. And how he broke you into a million pieces and sent you running to Los Angeles to escape his hold on you.

Almost two years and three-thousand miles between you and him. You thought that would be enough.

But, even after all of that, it seems that you still couldn’t forget Matt Martin.

And based on the beating echoing through your ribcage, it was obvious that your wretched heart failed to remember how much it hurt whenever he was around.

The string music dancing on the breeze lifts to a crescendo and you almost scoff at the irony; like the universe itself was trying to arrange a reunion worthy of an Oscar-winning romance. Then you heart stutters when you see Matt lift from his seat, his eyes still locked on your frame and you fear that a love confession was about to fall from his lips.

Thankfully, that doesn’t happen. Instead, he turns from you, directing his gaze down the aisle.

The embarrassment rushes through your body and you have to shake your head at your dramatics; at the way you made yourself the main character in a moment that was anything but yours.

This was Scotty and Emily’s moment – their wedding, for Christs sake. Your eyes divert to the end of the aisle, watching as your soon to be sister-in-law walk to your brother, her stunning white dress flowing behind her. You sneak a glance at Scotty, watching his eyes water as Emily takes those final steps towards him. This was the reason you were here. Not Matt Martin.

Somehow, you manage to make it through the entire ceremony without looking out to the audience and those ocean blue eyes. When you walk back up the aisle for the recessional, your arm linked in Sebastian’s, your gaze locks with Matt’s once again before he disappears from your sight.

It’s a moment of reprieve as you sneak back into the cabin where you and the rest of the bridesmaids had spent the night, a deep breath lifting your chest.

You should’ve known he would be here. He was your brother’s teammate, a fact that you were all too aware of when this tryst began. Still, you hoped you wouldn’t have to face him. Not because you hated him or because you had moved on. But because there was still a part of you that craved him, that couldn’t let him go.

There was an ache in you and it felt like only he could heal it.

How? The answer to that question was still uncertain. You didn’t know if you needed him to apologize, or give you closure, or tell you everything you’ve always wanted him say. But you weren’t ready for it, whatever it was.

And when you walk into the reception area where the guests waited, your heart proves how unprepared you were based its reaction when your eyes find Matt. And the gymnastic routine it does when you realize that he was seated at your table, only a few spaces away from you.

Dinner is excruciating. It feels like a choreographed routine as you stop your head from drifting too far to the right to look in Matt’s direction, pretending that you don’t feel the weight of his stare, laser-focused on the toasts and your brother’s first dance. And when the dance floor opens and the mingling begins, the reason you fly from your chair was to greet other guests, performing your duty as a bridesmaid.

Not because you were desperate to delay the inevitable conversation you knew you had to have with the one man you had been avoiding.

Blissfully, a familiar voice calls to you from across the space and your eyes lock onto Mat Barzal, frantically waving at you from one of the other tables. You smile, walking over to him as he rises from his chair and hugs you, your name falling from his lips with that bright cheerfulness that you heard so frequently over Facetime calls and nights out in LA when the Islanders came to California.

“How are you doing, Barzy?” you ask, pulling away from the hug.

“Pretty good,” he replies, his hand falling to the shoulder of the pretty brunette occupying the seat next to him. “Have I introduced you to Lyla yet?”

“Well, you’ve talked about her enough that I feel like I’ve met her before,” you laugh as you steal Mat’s seat from him, holding out your hand before formally introducing yourself. “Good to officially meet the girl that stole this idiot’s heart.”

“Nice to finally meet you too,” Lyla says, taking your hand in hers. “Although, I will be honest, when I first saw your name on Mat’s phone and how many Facetime calls the two of you shared, I was a little concerned. Thought you were a long-distance girlfriend or something.”

“Completely understandable,” you laugh, admiring her candor. “But there’s nothing to worry about. He’s a little too sweet for me.”

“I’m standing right here,” Mat huffs and you look up at him with a smirk.

“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

Your relationship with Mat Barzal was the one thing that had shifted in the years you were away but it definitely changed for the better. He had turned from a potential romantic partner to a true friend. That shift – one that was brought on after a night of too many French Blonde cocktails – lifted a weight off both of your shoulders and opened the door for an even deeper connection with star winger.

“I hear that I have you to thank for him asking me on a date,” Lyla says.

“I did nothing but push Mat to ask for the number of the pretty girl at the gym that he spent almost a half-an-hour raving about,” you laugh, loving the way both Lyla and Mat’s cheeks flushed. “You had him whipped before he even knew your name.”

“Oh, trust me, I figured that out eventually,” Lyla jokes and you can’t help but scoot in, ready to hear all the embarrassing stories that Lyla was willing to share. And share she did. It seems like hours of laughter and conversation, Mat even dragging a chair over and joining in – although most of his comments are attempts to defend himself. Eventually, Lyla gets up to run to the ladies room, departing with a kiss on Mat’s cheek and you can’t stop the smile that appears when Mat’s eyes stay glued to her as she walks away.

“I like her,” you say, calling his attention back to you. “She’s way too good for the likes of you.”

“Oh, I know,” he laughs, taking your jest in stride before sipping his beer. You see his hazel eyes bounce across the room, pausing momentarily before they return to you. “Have you talked to him yet?”

A sigh rushes through you as you shake your head.

“I still can’t believe I told you about him.”

“You told me like… eight months ago. Besides, you can only blame yourself.”

“Hey, I can also blame copious amounts of alcohol.”

“Yeah, alcohol that loosened your tongue and sent his name falling out of your mouth,” Mat quips, his eyebrow raising. “Along with your dinner.”

“Please don’t remind me,” you say, your mind jumping back to the night in question.

It was November, when the Islanders played Los Angeles. You and Mat met up at a local bar – just the two of you and it was that night that your relationship changed completely. Because in your inebriated state, Matt Martin’s name slurred from your lips while Barzy was attempting to shove you into an Uber.

Despite facing the wrath of his coaches, Mat helped you back to your apartment and kept you company that night, his reasoning being that he wanted to make sure you were alright and a California road trip allowing him the time to do so. It was over greasy eggs and bacon that he asked why you said Marty’s name. And you told him.

You even told him about the night of the charity gala, emphasizing that you never meant to use him like that. And that the reason why you never took him up on his offer to be more than friends was because you didn’t want to use him more, keep giving him false hope.

The truth stung him for a few days but after giving him the time and space he needed, the honesty and clarity brought the two of you closer. Now, he was the only person in your life that knew the whole story of why you left Long Island. And, like the good friend he was, he kept your secret all that time.

“You know you’re going to have to speak to him at some point,” Mat prods.

“I know,” you quip, playfully rolling your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I can’t avoid him for a few more minutes.”

“You’ve been avoiding him for almost two years. Don’t know if a few minutes is going to help.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“You can thank Lyla for that,” he smiles and you watch his whole expression soften at the mere sound of her name.

“She makes you happy.”

The sentence is more statement than question. You were there on the other end of the line when he talked about the first time he saw her. You gave him pep-talks and advice on how to ask her out. You helped him plan dates and dinners. It was obvious that this girl was something special to him.

“Happier than I’ve been in a while.”

“Then why are you still sitting here talking to me?” you say. “Dance at a wedding with your girlfriend.”

“Alright, I will,” Mat laughs, standing. He doesn’t depart immediately, choosing instead to lean over to you with a serious look in hie eye. “But you have to promise me you’ll talk to Marty.”

Another sigh escapes you as you let your head turn to look at the reception hall, your eyes glancing off the crowd of guests before landing on Matt, leaning against the wall, talking to Cal and his wife. As if he can feel your eyes on him, his gaze drifts to you and you watch a myriad of emotions dance on his face, each so subtle and fleeting that you couldn’t even begin to decipher what he was thinking.

“He’s been asking about you, you know,” Mat’s voice sounds, pulling your attention back to him.

“He has?”

“Yeah. Asking me, Scotty, Emily, anyone really. How you’re doing, what you’re doing.”

“What have you told him?”

“Just surface level stuff: your job, your complaints about the weather and LA traffic, things like that. It seems like he wants to talk to you,” Mat says. “So, you should talk to him. If nothing else, you might at least get some closure.”

You exhale, you mid swirling with the information that Matt Martin was still thinking about you, maybe in the same way you were thinking about him. Your head was a mess of doubts and hopes and fears and longing and desires. You just breathe through it all, pulling Mat into another hug which he reciprocates.

“You’re a really good friend, you know that right?” you ask, your voice muffled by his tuxedo.

“So I’ve been told by this really cool Los Angeles girl who overthinks everything.”

You laugh as you let your arms fall, Mat shooting you that crooked smile before he is walking away. You see him intercept Lyla as she re-enters the reception area, taking her arm in his and pulling her to the dancefloor, the smile on her face brightening as Mat leans in and kisses her cheek.

There was a part of you that twinged at the sight. You knew it was jealousy – not the traditional jealousy but a different form. You weren’t angry that Mat found joy with someone that wasn’t you, but envious that he found someone, period.

Especially since you were unable to move on from the man you shared a scandalous but exhilarating few months with. The man you promised yourself you would forget.

But then you hear his voice sound from behind you and feel that exquisite ache that you had never been able to soothe throb in the center of your chest.

“Hey.”

You turn to see him standing behind you, his suit looking almost too perfect for his body, his hair tousled and falling over his forehead. You watch as his blue eyes rove over your face and you wonder what he’s thinking and if all the same emotions are flooding his system the way they were yours.

“Hi,” you whisper, cursing your voice for coming out sounding so timid, cursing yourself for still allowing Matt Martin to make you feel small. But instead of that cool smirk that used to always appear at the sound of your frailty, his face remains impassive, his eyes flicking down to the now vacant seat next to you.

“Could I sit?” he asks and your head spins, not only because of the gentleness of the question but the fact that he even asked at all. The Matt Martin you used to know would’ve sat down immediately, invading your space boldly and brazenly for no other reason than to get a rise out of you.

You nod, watching him settle down into the cushioned seat and take a sip from his whiskey glass, his eyes still on you. It takes an immense amount of effort to break your gaze as you reach for your own wine and letting the smooth oaked flavor dance over your tongue.

“How have you been?” Matt breaks the silence again and you know you hear a hesitance in his voice, like he is unsure if he should even be addressing you.

“I’ve been alright,” you reply, your own voice thick with trepidation. “You?”

“It’s been decent.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and his eyebrows quirk up in curiosity at your words. “For your injury. The playoffs,” you elaborate. Your gaze stays locked on him, trying to understand the micro-expressions that pass over his face.

“Thank you,” he replies and you just nod, taking another sip of your wine. “Didn’t know if you were even watching.”

“Wanted to support my brother.”

“Right,” he sighs. “Of course.”

You hated this. Hated the weight that hung over the two of you like a lead curtain, making anything beyond small talk too difficult to say. You weren’t sure how to surmount this obstacle, not sure if it was even possible to overcome. But someone had to be brave and attempt that first step.

With a deep breath and another sip of liquid courage, you turn you attention back to Matt.

“Was there… something you wanted to ask me?” you question, the words as stilted and unclear as the intention behind them.

Matt looks at you, his blue eyes wide as he absorbs your words. It is a moment of stillness before he is finishing off his whiskey and setting the glass on the table, lifting himself out of his chair. Your heart flips in fear that you said the wrong thing, that you ruined the moment before it could even take shape but that concern is silenced when Matt stands in front of you, holding out his hand, his palm upturned.

“Dance with me?”

Of all the questions that you thought Matt Martin would confront you with, this was one that you were not prepared for. A sentiment that is echoed by a bewildered ‘what?’ falling from your lips.

“Will you dance with me?” Matt reiterates, the request turning into a genuine question. Would you let him take you out onto the dance floor and into his arms again?

Your eyes rove from his face to his hand, still outstretched. The hesitance lingers in you reflected by the way you lift your own hand, your fingers curling back in a moment of uncertainty before you allow them to touch his. They glide against his calloused skin, wrapping around his palm, his own fingers winding around your hand.

Another glance up at him shows you the slightest smile playing at his lips. But it isn’t twinged with the familiar undercurrent of cruelty or power. Instead, it looks like relief.

He gently tugs you upright before leading you to the dancefloor, the refrain of a slow melody encompassing you moments before Matt’s arms do the same. He adjusts the grip on your hand while the other finds a respectful place on the small of your back. You let your own free hand lift and rest delicately on his bicep as the two of you begin to sway.

The silence between you remains even as the music rises and falls. You still avoid looking in Matt’s eyes, content to stare at the hardwood floor even though you can feel the weight of his gaze. In the back of your mind, you knew that if your eyes locked with his, you wouldn’t be able to keep your composure. That possibility was to be avoided at all costs. You couldn’t let Matt Martin regain the control over you that he used to have.

“You look beautiful.”

Those three muttered words, the compassion behind them, makes your resolve crumble, your eyes darting up to meet with his.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice breathless – the exact opposite of the curtness you wanted your tone to convey. But perhaps it wasn’t your choice to soften your words. Maybe it was subconscious, based on the way that Matt held you, the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you. It felt different.

He was different.

“I missed you,” he whispers; the first real confession of the night.

“Matt,” you sigh, the cynic jumping out to protect your heart – the one that he shattered.

“I know,” he says. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“How can you?” you challenge him, the small flame of anger that you held flickering in your chest.

“You’re right. I have no idea what you were about to say. But I can make a guess.”

His words extinguish that resentment as soon as it appears, your eyebrow raising in surprise – not only towards his words but in his concession to you, he deference of power, the pendulum swinging in your favor. Your silence allows him to continue.

“I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” he begins. “For you to believe anything I say is the truth. But I guess… I’m just wondering if you would give me a chance. Let me prove it to you.”

“Prove what to me?”

“How much I missed you. How much I care about you.”

He pulls your closer to him and you allow it. You let him hold you tighter until your chests press together, the smell of his all too familiar cologne flooding your senses. You swear you forget how to breathe when you feel his hand trace up your arm before resting against your jawline. The gentle press of his fingers guides you to look up at him, his thumb caressing your cheek.

“Let me prove that I was an idiot for ever letting you go.”

You can feel the tears prick the corner of your eyes and you know Matt can see them, watching as they well up on your lower lashes. His words seemed so sweet, so genuine, and you so desperately wanted to believe them. But there was still that voice in the back of your mind screaming, ‘this is what he does; he’s an expert at speaking these saccharine words but you know they’re never fulfilling.’

But here, now, he was promising to prove it to you.

The words of acceptance are dancing up your throat, hanging on the tip of your tongue and at the edge of your lips. But before you can speak them into existence, the universe silences you once again.

“Alright everyone, please clear the dance floor and let the bride and groom have one private last dance. Make your way to the front entrance and get ready to send them off in style!”

The MC’s voice booms from the speaker, pulling your attention and your body away from the gentle hold of Matt. The uncertainty and distrust take advantage of the interruption to reassert itself in your mind.

‘This was a sign,’ it said. ‘The universe is protecting you from getting your heart broken again.’

But when you look back, your eyes connecting to Matt’s once more and you still see nothing but yearning on his face, you feel your own longing surge again.

“Meet me by the fountain when this is all over?” you ask.

“I’ll be there.”

This time, you really do believe him.

You meet with the rest of the bridesmaids and hand out the silver streamers. You are blessed with an immense amount of coordination and impeccable timing as the streamers pop right as Scotty and Emily make their way through the crowd and hop in the car, already packed with their suitcases and honeymoon plane tickets. It is another few moments of clean up and meeting with the wedding coordinator before you are able to run back to the cabin where you and the other bridesmaids stayed for the past two days. You grab your overnight duffle bag, slinging it over your shoulder before making your way through the country club and out to the garden near the front entrance.

The two aspects of your personality were still at war with each other as you entered the terrace. Part of you prayed that Matt would keep his word and be there, just like he said. The other part prepared itself for the possibility that this was all just a cruel joke, an elaborate attempt for him to keep his hooks in you.

But when you walk out and see Matt standing next to the stone fountain, his profile illuminated by the garden lights, your desire once again silences the doubt in your mind.

You wanted to trust him. Sure, you might get hurt. But you could also heal.

That hope was worth the risk.

Matt hears your heels clacking against the pavement and turns to face you, his lips curling in a gentle smile at your approach.

“You’re here,” you say, breathless, as if your brain still didn’t trust that this wasn’t all a dream.

“I told you I would be,” he replies, holding out his hand to you again, another offering for you to accept or reject. This time, your hand slides easily into his, your fingers intertwining.

There is a pause, as if neither of you expected to be in this situation. Now that you were, you were both unsure what to do next. The uncertainty sinks into you, your voice breaking the silence in an attempt to continue the moment.

“I was planning on getting a room at the hotel airport,” you explain. “If you want to join me.”

You swear you see a flash of surprise cross Matt’s face at your suggestion before softening, a look of gentle exasperation painted on his features.

“Is that how you think I’m going to make it up to you?” he asks. His tone isn’t frustrated or offended. Instead, it’s curious, like he truly wonders if that’s what you thought of him. Or if that’s what you needed from him.

The ache that rushes through your body, reminiscent of the desire you always felt towards him but multiplied tenfold, gives you your answer. The months you spent denying your hunger for him, the ways you explained away the pain of losing him as something akin to withdrawal, how you used those brief moments of happiness to justify your choice to leave, keeping you handcuffed to the idea that you would be better off without him… they all melted away.

You wanted him. You’ve always wanted him.

You step forward, pressing your body close as you look into those eyes that haunted your dreams.

“It’s how I want you to,” you whisper, the response to his question cutting through the night air.

There is no clear indication on who moved first but you find it doesn’t matter when you feel the press of Matt’s lips against yours. This kiss itself is delicate, as if he was careful not to cross any line, any boundary that you wanted to place. But you had no sense of restraint.

Your desire surged forward, free from the cage that you kept it locked in. You release your grip on his hand and your duffle bag, your free hands flying up to his hair, tangling in the silky locks as your body presses impossibly closer. Matt takes your desperation in stride, his own arms wrapping around you, holding you steady. Your tongue presses against the seam of his lips, silently begging for access which he gives. A whimper escapes your throat, the taste of him on your tongue only increasing your craving. You can feel Matt’s grip tighten in response to your sounds, his fingers crumpling the silk fabric of your dress as he swallows every desperate noise that he pulls from you.

Somehow, the kisses slow until your lips are falling away from each other. Matt keeps you near, your forehead pressed against his, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheekbones.

“Let me take you home,” he murmurs and you don’t even think twice before your head is nodding in agreement.

The car ride back to his place feels both familiar and foreign. The air between you is still thick with need but those powerful emotions are lightened by the feeling of Matt’s fingers intertwining with yours over the center console, the way his eyes dart over to you, looking at you as if he couldn’t believe this was real. You were sure that your face conveyed the same thought.

He pulls into the driveway, the porchlight gleaming like a beacon in the darkness, calling you back to him. His grip around you is firm as he walks you to the front door, escorting you across the threshold and your eyes take in the sight of a house that you felt you knew like the back of your hand. The pillows on his couch were different as was some of the art lining the walls but besides that, it looked exactly how it did the last time you were there.

You hear Matt kick off his shoes behind you and you aren’t sure if it’s habit or muscle memory that pulls you forward, your own heels tapping against the hardwood as you wander deeper, your body guiding you to the staircase. Your hand wraps around the wooden railing as you begin your ascent to the second floor. Matt is close behind you, his own steps slow and measured as he lets you guide him up the stairs and to the first door on your right.

The master bedroom is more of the same, the smallest and subtlest of changes catching your attention as you walk into the room. You can hear the small click of the door latch finding home echo and you turn to see Matt leaning against the doorframe, his eyes observing you in the low lamplight.

Your smile is all the encouragement he needs to push himself away from the door, crossing the distance stretched between you in only a few steps. His hand lifts to cup your face, your eyes locking with his before he is capturing your lips in another kiss.

In the safety and security of his bedroom, it seems as if both of your desires were unleashed with a vengeance. His hands pull you closer and your own scramble on his body, wanting to feel every inch of him, wanting to recommit his shape to memory. You are pressed against him, pushing him deeper into the room, your feet moving across the carpeted floor. He lets you manipulate him, walking backward and holding you against him as if he wanted no space to separate the two of you ever again, be it three-thousand miles or three inches.

It isn’t long until his body is falling to sit on the edge of his mattress, his thighs spreading to pull you between them. His desire to have you close is reciprocated, your body moving on its own accord. Your hand mindlessly reaches down to grip the fabric of your dress, pulling the midi hem higher to allow you to climb into his lap without hinderance, your legs straddling his waist.

Matt’s hands grip you tighter, pulling you close, the movement of his lips against yours never ceasing. Your own hands return to tangle in his hair, the taste of him more intoxicating than all the bottles and glasses of alcohol that you drank trying to forget him.

If possible, your desire ratchets up another level and your hands fall from his hair, tugging off his suit jacket. You blindly reach for his tie, undoing the knot as Matt’s hands wander all over your body, grabbing your ass, pulling your hips down to meet his. A moan rumbles from your chest as you feel the hardness of him pressed against you, your lips falling from Matt’s. He doesn’t seem affected, his own lips moving to kiss your neck, his hands still tracing your curves.

You are blind with lust as Matt’s head dips across your collarbones and the top of your decolletage and you let your instincts guide you, your fingers finding the buttons of his dress shirt. Each clasp is unfastened deftly and as soon as the shirt falls open, your hands sneak underneath the fabric, pressing against Matt’s warm skin. You can feel the strength of his chest, the movement of his muscles, and the pounding of his heart underneath your palms as they glide up, pushing the material off his broad shoulders. Matt’s hands only depart from your body momentarily to rid the shirt from his frame completely before he is pulling your lips to his again.

Your hands drift back down to his abdomen and you can feel his muscles clench in response to your gentle touch. It’s another generous roll of your hips against his before your fingertips find the button and zipper of his slacks. You blindly undo them just enough that you can slip your hand beneath both the waistband of his pants and boxer briefs.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Matt groans against your skin as your hand wraps around his length. Another rush of heat flows through your body at hearing the familiar pet-name fall from his lips. Your own lips twist in a smile as you give him a few languid strokes, relishing in the way his moans vibrate against your skin – the way he weakens for you.

The need to make him unravel more takes over as you begin to pull away from him, your body scooting back in order to dismount and fall to your knees in front of him. But before you could even drop a single foot onto the carpeted floor, Matt’s hands hold you firm, halting your motions.

“No,” he whispers, pulling you back to him. “Not tonight.”

You stare at him, your eagerness to have him in your mouth mixing with the confusion of why he was preventing you from doing just that. The immediate response he gives you is another kiss, his hand returning to rest against your jaw. When he does pull away, you hear his sultry timbre echo around the room.

“I should be the one on my knees worshipping you, not the other way around.”

His declaration burns through you, igniting a need that had been left untapped for years.

You were used to submitting to Matt Martin. You thought that you loved it. But now, here he was ready to bow to you and your desires and your will. That thought alone made a fire pool in your lower stomach, your lips pressing against his again.

His hands tighten against your skin, securing his grip on you as he lifts himself from the bed with you in his arms. The sensation of the smooth sheets pressing against your back is almost instantaneous, Matt’s lips falling from yours to retrace their previous pathway along your jaw, down the column of your throat and across your collarbones. You are about to lift yourself upright to pull the material of your dress away from your frame but Matt’s arms keep you pinned against the mattress. Instead, his hand simply tugs the fabric up, painstakingly exposing more of your skin to the cool air until the silk is bunched around your waist.

You feel Matt’s smile against your skin as his lips continue their descent, kisses placed against your stomach before he presses a whisper of one right above the edge of your panties.

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes darting up to look at you.

The only sound that your voice can manage is a whine but it’s enough for Matt, his elegant fingers hooking and twisting around your waistband. Your head falls back as you lift your hips to help him pull the soft cotton away. He tugs the material down your legs at a painstaking pace, lifting your feet to unhook the elastic from around your ankles.

You expect – no, you need him to return to the apex of your thighs. But you soon realize how much Matt meant it when he said he planned on worshipping you.

His hands guide your feet to rest on his muscular thighs as his finger unbuckle your shoe, sliding it off before repeating the action on the other side. He lifts your leg, your bare heel now resting on the back of his shoulder and you sigh when you feel his lips press against your calf. They linger as he makes his way back up your frame, a kiss pressed on your shin, your knee, your inner thigh.

It feels like reverence. It feels like devotion – to you, to the way you make him feel.

Your hand reaches down, tangling in his hair and gently tugging him closer to the place you needed him most. Matt lets you guide him and, after he brings both of your legs to rest on his shoulders, his arm wrapping around your waist, pinning your hips to the bed, he finally – finally – presses his mouth against your core.

A relieved sigh escapes your chest as Matt’s lips move, his tongue darting out to trace your folds. Your sighs turn to whimpers to moans as he continues his ministrations, remembering all the things that make your breathing hitch, your thighs shake. Remembering all the ways you come undone.

“Still so sweet,” he murmurs. “Still so desperate for me.”

He resumes his movements, winding you up in the most deliberate way. Your free hand twists into the sheets as he drags you closer to the edge, his tongue diving into your cunt before lifting to flick against your clit, the action causing your hips to jolt from beneath his strong arm. You swear that you are about to rip his sheets based on how tight you are holding them.

You’re too strung out to see Matt’s eyes lift, him noticing the death grip you have on the soft cotton covering the mattress. In your haze, you can feel the grip he has on your thigh loosen and depart but your mind doesn’t understand the reason until you feel his hand dancing across your fingers twisted in the sheets, silently coaxing you to release the fabric. You do and as soon as there is space, his fingers filling the gaps between yours, holding your hand tightly as his mouth continues to work its sinful magic against you.

Your orgasm hits you unexpectedly, your back arching off the bed as the tidal wave of pleasure crashes through your body, radiating from your stomach down to the tips of each limb. Your hand tightens around his so firmly that you believe you must be cutting off circulation. But Matt doesn’t seem to mind, squeezing your hand tighter in response. He moans against your core in response to the taste of your release flooding his tongue, the vibration sending another round of shudders down your spine.

The feeling of Matt’s mouth and hands leaving you ignites a new wave of desperation, one that is only partially satiated when he returns to hover over you, kissing you deeply. You moan into his mouth when you taste the tang of your own essence still coating his tongue.

“I can’t believe I forgot how good you were at that,” you exhale when your lips fall from his.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget how gorgeous you look when you cum,” he murmurs, his head dipping down to your neck, his quiet assertation making you smile.

You let him press his lips against your throat, content to lay beneath him for the moment. But when you feel his hips roll against yours, his own hunger for you and your body not yet satisfied, another ache of need hits you. You pull his head back up to your face, capturing his lips in another feverish kiss.

Matt’s body hovers mere centimeters above yours, his hips pressed against you. The position makes it easy for you to hook your leg around him. Using what strength you had, you somehow manage to flip the two of you around, Matt’s back crashing onto the bed, your body now suspended above him.

You break the kiss, lifting yourself upright with a grin on your face as your hands trace over the ridges of his chest. His own hands dance up your thighs, sneaking beneath the hem of your dress to caress the soft skin around your hipbones. In the span of a breath, your fingers bunch the silken material of your gown, gathering it in your hands before you pull the fabric over your head.

The gentle sharp inhale of Matt’s breath as your body becomes entirely exposed to him is music to your ears. There is no stopping his hands as they continue to drift up your body, gliding over the curves of your hips and waist, dancing across your ribcage before coming to cup your breasts. He caresses the sensitive skin, his thumbs reaching to brush against your nipples causing your head to fall back, a soft plea for him to continue falling from your mouth. He listens, his fingers roving across your body, as if there was not an inch of skin that he wanted to leave untouched.

“Such a gorgeous perfect body,” he mutters, making the pool of desire within you fill again.

You lift your hips up only so far as to reach behind you, tugging at the fabric of his slacks and boxer briefs; a silent request. His hands fall from your body to pull the material down his legs and you feel him kick off the only remaining barriers between your bodies. You lean forward as you kiss him again, your hips sinking back down. A simultaneous moan escapes both of you as you grind against him, your arousal coating the soft skin of his shaft.

There is want and then there is pure unadulterated need and the latter is what takes a hold of you now. Your lips fall from his as you stretch your body forward, your arm reaching for the nightstand drawer, the place he used to – and now you hope still does – keep his condoms. Your progress is halted briefly by Matt’s head lifting to wrap his lips around your nipples, the action making another gasp sound your throat. You persevere, albeit somewhat distracted because of Matt’s ministrations, pulling open the drawer, relieved to see the box in the same place, thankful that not everything had changed.

But as you reach for one of the square packets, your eyes land on a stack of envelopes pushed against the other side and you swear you see your name scrawled across the white paper. You don’t have any time to linger on them as you feel Matt’s teeth gently nip at your skin, pulling your attention back to him.

“Please, darling, hurry up,” he implores, dark blue eyes looking up to you. “Need to get inside you.”

Who were you to deny him?

Your fingers grasp the foil, your body returning to its upright position above him. You rip open the packet, pulling the rubber from the confines and preparing it before you reach behind you, taking Matt in your hand. He throws his head back, his hair haloing around his face as you give him a few languid strokes before sliding the condom on.

There is no waiting, no more hesitation as you lift your hips up. Your free hand presses against the center of his chest for balance as you guide him to your entrance. You aren’t sure if it’s him or yourself you’re teasing when you slide the tip of him against your folds once, twice before you align yourself to him.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as you sink down, the stretch of him entering you delectably foreign and yet comfortingly familiar. Matt has a similar reaction to the sensation of your walls wrapping around him, his hands flying up to your hips, his grip tightening around you so much so that you swear you’re going to have bruises in the shape of his fingerprints the next morning.

“Fuck, darling,” he growls as your hips meet his, him bottoming out inside of you. “Still feel like fucking heaven around me.”

Your only response is a whimper as your eyes flutter shut, both of your hands now resting on his chest, using him for leverage as you begin to move. Matt guides the motion of your hips, helping you bounce on top of him, letting you grind against him, more sharp gasps falling from your lips as your clit rubs against the taut skin of his lower stomach.

“That’s it sweetheart,” he praises, fingers brushing against your skin as you ride him. “Take what you want from me. It’s yours to have.”

You whine, grinding your hips even deeper onto him, one of your hands lifting to tease your nipples. You missed this, the feeling of Matt hitting spots so deep in you, spots that no one else had been able to find before and since.

“God, I missed this,” Matt groans, echoing your thoughts, his eyes devouring your body. “Missed you.”

His words force you to open your eyelids and when your eyes lock, you almost cum simply from the way he is staring at you: like you were the most beautiful piece of artwork, like you were sculpted from the purest marble, crafted from the finest paints. Like you deserved to be hung in the Louvre.

“Matt,” you whine, his name falling from your lips in a plea as your movements falter against him.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks, his own voice strained and earnest. “What do you need?”

“Need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?” he questions. But unlike the times before, he’s not asking in order to tease you, to be cruel, or to force you to beg him for a mere sliver of his attention. He is asking because he wants to hear you say it – wants to hear you confess that you’ve missed him and that you’ve been wanting him as much as he has been wanting you.

“Please,” you reply. “Please, I need it. I need you.”

Your words aren’t twinged with contempt, nor are they wretched from your mouth unwillingly. They fall from your lips because you mean them, because you want to beg for him – not the other way around.

A gasp is torn from your chest as Matt lifts himself up, his chest pressing against yours. His hands trace your spine, one burrowing into the hair at the nape of your neck, the other resting heavy on the small of your back. He pulls you to him, kissing you again and swallowing every noise that falls from your lips as he drags your hips into his.

You weren’t sure if it was because you were wound too tight or that you truly couldn’t comprehend what was happening because before you knew it, Matt had spun you around, flipping you once again so you were the one laying against the sheets. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips and before you can moan at the feeling of him thrusting into you, your sounds are muffled by his lips again.

Matt eventually breaks away, one arm reaching back to grip your thigh, pulling one leg higher, the new angle causing every stroke of him to brush against that damnable spot that made you see stars. You cry out, your head collapsing against the bed, Matt’s name falling from your lips.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Matt mutters, keeping his steady pace as he watches your body respond to his movements. “Missed how beautiful you look underneath me. Missed this perfect fucking pussy. Fucking taking all of me like it’s made for me.”

His possessiveness makes you whimper, the high-pitched sound catching his ear.

“That right, baby?” he asks. “This cunt still mine, even after all this time?”

“Yes,” comes your reply, wrapped in a strangled moan. “I’m all yours. I’m still yours,” you gasp out, your hips desperately chasing his.

“And I’m all yours,” Matt replies, his head dropping down to kiss you again. “Let it out, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

He doesn’t speed up, content to keep his languid pace, steadily driving you towards that cliff. The noises that escape you are incoherent, a jumbled mess of curses and pleas as your walls flutter desperately around him. It feels like the most deliberate and exquisite torture, a pleasure that you would welcome time and time again if he would let you.

“Come on, darling,” you hear Matt’s voice whisper in your ear. “Remind me how good it feels when that beautiful cunt cums around me.”

It is the quiet demand that has you falling off the edge, your muscles stiffening as your orgasm hits you. You can hear a faint growl rumble from Matt, murmured praise being spoken into your skin like a prayer as he fucks you through it, your legs trembling as they fall from him.

Matt’s movements finally increase in speed as he chases own climax, each move of his hips making you whimper. You tug his head to you, kissing him fiercely and swallowing his groans as he stills and you bask in the sensation of his cock pulsing inside of you.

Your labored breaths mingle as you stay wrapped up together, sweat drenched foreheads pressed against each other as you both collect yourself. Matt’s hand, the one that that had been gripping your thigh, lifts to brush your hair away from your forehead as his eyes appraise you. You can’t stop the way your eyes close as he leans in, kissing you once again, his tongue dipping into your open mouth and you whine as you feel him slowly pull out of you.

He places a gentle chaste kiss against your lips before lifting himself off you, walking around the bed. Your eyes track his movements, watching as he stops at the nightstand, the top drawer still open. There is a flicker of some emotion that crosses his face before he pushes the drawer closed before disappearing into the ensuite bathroom. You hear the water running before he returns, a warm damp washcloth in one hand and a t-shirt in the other.

Matt gently presses the washcloth against your skin, starting at your forehead and temples before descending until he reached the apex of your thighs, brushing away the lingering wetness of your release from your skin. He throws the towel into the hamper and holds out his hand, which you take. You let him lift your torso off the sheets as he hands you the t-shirt. He holds you steady while you slip the soft cotton over your head, the worn Maple Leaf emblem resting on your upper chest almost completely faded.

You collapse back against the sheets as Matt pulls on a pair of boxers before climbing next to you. His arms wrap around your body as he settles behind you, pulling your back close to his chest. Your own fingers lift to absentmindedly play with his as reality crashes back over you.

You aren’t sure what to say, if there even is anything to be said. You don’t want to ruin the golden halo of peace that surrounds the two of you but you knew you couldn’t just leave it like this. There were still too many questions unanswered, still too much uncertainty.

“What are you thinking about?” you hear Matt’s husky voice whisper from behind you. You sigh, wiggling in his grasp. He loosens his hold enough for you to spin and face him, his blue eyes soft as they take in the sight of you in his bed.

“A lot of things,” you answer, the response vague enough to let him decide whether to press on or to leave it at that. He decides to do the former.

“Like what?”

Your eyes lift to think, picturing the mess of thoughts in your head as you attempt to untangle each. The loose threads seem innumerable, too many to choose which was the most important to tug and which could be saved for a later moment. So, you just latch onto the first image that appears in your mind.

“Could I ask you a question?” you say, eyes connecting back to him.

“Of course.”

“When I was in your nightstand earlier,” you begin, carefully observing even the tiniest reactions that tug at Matt’s expression. “I saw a stack of envelopes and it looked like they had my name on them. What are they?”

There is a myriad of emotions that dance across Matt’s face, each more fleeting than the last before his features settle to what looks to you to be apathy or resignation. You feel your heart panic as his body turns away from, fearing that you spoke the wrong words – said the wrong thing. But it quiets when you watch him pull open the nightstand drawer, his hand reaching in. Your eyes follow his movements as he pulls out the stack of envelopes before spinning back to you.

“They’re for you,” he says, holding them out towards you. You take them from his hands, the bundle held tight by a rubber band. Your fingers flip through each of them, finding your name written on every single one. Your eyes dart from the paper back to him and you swear you see his cheeks tinge a lightish pink.

“My therapist suggested that I write you letters.”

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah. I started seeing him shortly after you left,” he explains, his hand reaching behind to awkwardly scratch at the nape of his neck. “Realized that there was a lot I needed to work on.”

“Why didn’t you send them?”

“I didn’t know your new address,” he tells you, the candor in his voice strengthening as he continues. “And I was too proud to ask. Besides, I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to hear from me. Thought you might throw them away if I did send them.”

You don’t respond, neither confirming or denying his assumption because in that moment, you weren’t certain what you would’ve done if a letter from him had appeared in your mailbox.

“What’s in them?” you ask, choosing to revert to a safer statement.

“Things I wanted to say to you. Things I never said to you when you needed to hear them. Everything I wanted to tell you but never got the chance to.”

There is a silence as you take in his declaration, your curiosity piquing as your fingers trace the edges of the envelopes. There is a desire to read them but also a fear, unsure if the contents would contain blame or apologies or gaslighting or regret.

“You don’t have to read them now,” Matt speaks again, his voice drawing your attention back to him. “You don’t have to read them at all if you don’t want to. They’re yours to do whatever you please.”

Something inside you tells you that it’s dangerous; that it’s a bad idea to open them. To trace over the words and strong emotions that forced him to put pen to paper. To allow Matt Martin back into the heart that you’ve spent years repairing. But when you feel his hand trace down the side of your face, his fingers twirling a strand of your hair, you realize that that line had already been blurred beyond recognition.

You didn’t know what a bad idea was when Matt was around. You had already done so many things that you shouldn’t have with him. What was one more bad idea compared to the thousands you acted on before?

What was this bad idea in comparison to one that brought you to Matt Martin’s bed in the first place?

Your mind swirls with all the drastic changes you had experienced in such a short amount of time. How different the world felt right now versus a few hours ago. How different the man sitting next to you was from the man you left in a Long Island bar two years ago. You felt as if you lived twenty lifetimes since you woke up. The past, the present, and every possible future tangled together in your mind, an amalgamation of all that had happened and all that could happen.

But you didn’t want to think about that right now. All you wanted to do was sink into Matt Martin’s arms and hold him close.

So, that’s exactly what you did.

You gently turn away from Matt, reaching up to place the stack of envelopes on top of the neighboring nightstand. There was still uncertainty whether you would read them, but the action of keeping them meant that you would consider it. And when you face Matt again, it seems that – for him – that was enough. This time, it is you who reaches out to intertwine your hand with his, scooting closer to him. He follows your lead, his body sinking into the mattress until you are pressed together, side by side. Your head comes to rest on chest, your eyes closing, the sound of his strong heartbeat echoing in your ear.

Right before sleep overtakes you, you manage to whisper to him the truth that your heart sang out, the sentence that you realized you couldn’t deny even after months of trying to do just that.

“I missed you too.”

The last thing you register is a soft kiss pressed onto the crown of your head, and encompassed in Matt’s warm embrace, you let the feeling of peace wash over you.

… but it’s gonna be alright. I did my time…

a/n 2.0: I did decide to leave it a little open ended because i just liked the feeling of it better. but if you want to know how what i think happens after this, i will direct you to this mashup

tagging the babes who made writing this so rewarding: @texanstarslove @comphy-and-cozy @smileysvech @laurenairay @dissonannce @cowboybarzy @cellythefloshie @provokedgoalie @m00nlightdelights @tkachvkmatthew @cixrosie @alwaysclassyeagle @geospatialharmony

#nicole writes #matt martin fic #matt martin imagine #matt martin smut #new york islanders fic #new york islanders imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

57 notes · View notes