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kingofthe-egirls · 9 months

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LOVE CONFESSION: LUFFY x Y/N

Summary: basically, y/n goes to Luffy’s cabin in the middle of the night to confess they have…needs they want him to fill ☠️

(cw: kissing, sex, fluff, haki, food mention)

(a/n: hi hi hi! it's been a while since i wrote a standalone fic. welcome back! i love him. so much. also my goal was to write over 2k words, which i did! proud of me proud of me luffy would also be proud of me)

Songs: "Green Light" by Lorde

words: 3.4k

You twist your fingers, hovering outside your captain's quarters.

He's snoring, quietly, you can hear through the door. Almost giving up, you roll in your lips and step back. The wooden deck creaks beneath your feet, and the snoring stops.

Shit.

"Whaddya need?" Luffy asks sleepily, hanging on the door with half-closed eyes. Pillow lines crease the side of his face with no scar.

This is stupid, you think. There’s no way he’ll say yes to this. He’s just affectionate with you cuz you’re his friend, he’s probably not even into sex in the first place—

“Y/n?”

Luffy asks you, tilting his scruffy head. His raven hair is all mushy from sleep. You want to weave your fingers in it and pull.

“So…,” you start, clearing your throat. Then, you lift your chin up and plant both your feet on the floor. You’re a Strawhat crew member, and “cowardice” is not in your vocabulary. “I want your help.”

Luffy purses his lips, curious. “Hm?” He asks, “Help with what?”

You look around furtively, glancing around the deck for any stragglers. Nope, seems like everyone’s gone to bed. You twist your lips.

“Can I come in?”

****

Now, you’re seated on the captain’s soft (messy) bed.

“Whaddya need, y/n?” Luffy is smiling at you with one big, warm hand on your knee. You’re both sitting crosslegged while the dark ocean waves crash outside. The moonlight trickles in like quicksilver through the porthole window.

“So…,” you start again lamely, face hot and fingers wrestling in your lap. “D’ya remember saying you’d help me with—anything?”

You gaze up at him, awkward as all fuck, to see him nod. “Course!” He boasts, hands balled into fists. His knuckles are blistered, still bruised from his latest fight. “I’ll help my friends with anything! ‘Specially if it’s you,” he leans in with a monkey’s grin.

You shy away, dazzled.

“Why won’t y/n look at me?” Luffy asks with a serious pout in his voice.

“Scared,” you whisper, knotting your hands into fists, yourself. He skims his fingertips over your knuckles, delicately tracing the veins along the back of your hand. His voice is soft, now, lower.

“Y/n is braver than anyone!” Luffy reminds you, ducking his head so you meet his eyes. They twinkle inside his sweet face. “Whatcha scared of, anyway?”

You snort, “Scared of you saying no to me.”

Luffy frowns. “Unless it’s food, I won’t say no!”

You shake your head. “Ya haven’t heard what it is, yet.”

“Don’t need to!” He blows up his cheeks, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You smile, and reach forward to ruffle his hair. You straighten it, a little. So it’s not smushed to one side anymore. He whines. “Tell meeeeeee!!!”

“Okay, okay, fine!” You throw your hands up into the air. Might as well say it: now or never.

You cross your arms.

“I need your help…,” you hedge, swallowing through a now-dry throat, “With cumming.”

He blinks. “Coming where?”

“In bed, Luffy.”

He sits for a second, before the lightbulb clicks. “Oh!” He grins, proud of himself, “You’re horny!”

“Ugh,” you drop your head in your hands. “Not just horny,” you admit miserably, “All I can do is think of you.”

He stops.

Breath hangs in the air, suspended for one, two, three—

“Like…when you’re in bed?”

He asks with his head tilted to the side, like a crow analyzing a puzzle.

You nod.

He grins: a slow, syrupy thing that engulfs half his face. He flicks his eyes up and down your form, with a heat you barely recognize. You shift, under his hungry gaze.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” He giggles, leaning forward to cup your jaw in his hand. “I can help ya with that,” he says, low. His voice is all gravelly, now that his lips are two inches from your face. You close the distance, eagerly.

Kissing Luffy is magnetizing.

You’re stuck in place: rooted to his lips by some inescapable force. Is that—is that his haki, pulling you in?

Red flickers at the edges of your vision, eyes half-closed from kissing him. He runs his hands up your arms, squeezing gently. He groans into your mouth.

“Tastes good,” he mutters, fingers going to card through your hair. You close your eyes at the sensation.

“Thanks,” you breathe, “You too.”

If it is his haki freezing you in place, you’re more than happy to comply. He must sense it somehow, because the overwhelming pressure loosens up, slightly. You giggle against his lips.

“Afraid I’ll run away?”

He bites his lip, caught. “Sorry,” he scratches the back of his head, “Never really done this before.”

“Really?” You ask, surprised. He kisses so well—you thought for sure he’s had at least some practice. You tell him as much, and he laughs.

“Nope! Just you,” he nuzzles into your face. “And myself, of course.”

“Of course,” you agree, running your hands through his hair. “I like kissing you.”

He beams, and wraps his arms around you. He lifts you into his lap, and rubs your hips against his clothed cock. You gasp at his daring.

“Wh-what did ya wanna do?” You ask, terrified. Luffy giggles, looking up at you with stars in his eyes.

“Whatever ya need.”

****

“Take whatcha need from me,” he murmurs, “Make yourself feel good on my cock.”

He is giving himself to you, wholly and completely, with no strings attached.

He rocks against you gently, hardness already poking your leg. You wrap your arms around him, and nod.

“Mkay.”

He grins, happy to help, and lifts you up to wrap your legs around his waist. He stumbles a bit, but makes his way over to the wall. He presses your back against the cabin wall, nosing into your hair. He places a kiss along your collarbone.

“Smells nice,” he whispers, rubbing his nose along your cheek. You shiver, wrapping your limbs around him tighter.

“Thanks, captain,” you whimper, already desperate and hungry with need. Luffy hums, readjusting himself so he can press his clothed cock against your heat. His eyebrow twitches as you moan.

“Hah, is that whatcha needed? Hm, pretty girl?” He tilts his head, rubbing his hips against yours. Your pussy spasms, involuntarily. You need him inside you, now.

“Mhmm,” you moan, letting your head thunk down onto his shoulder. He giggles.

“Shishishi,” he adjusts, lifting you up higher. He reaches down with one hand to unzip his shorts, and push your own panties to the side. “S’okay if I fuck you like this?”

You nod, uncontrollably shaking from desire. He takes pity on you, and slowly starts to press his cockhead against your entrance. You hiss.

“Fuck yes, Luffy—,”

“Captain,” he corrects, sharply, “It’s Captain Luffy, for you.”

“Yes, captain!” You breathe, letting your muscles melt in release. His cock pushes deeper inside you, and you moan. “More, please?”

“Hm,” he cocks his head, running a strong hand over your shoulders and down your arm. He nuzzles into your hand, pressing your palm flat against his cheek. He kisses your fingertips, before meeting your gaze with a wicked grin. “Have you been good for me?”

“Mhmm!” You nod, childish, wanting only ever more of him inside you.

Luffy, however, doesn’t mind teasing you and instead of fucking you hard he opts to keep stroking your entrance with his tip. He shoots spasms through you, and only giggles as your thighs quiver around his waist. He pecks a kiss onto the tip of your nose.

“Say please.”

You gasp, already teased past your fucking limit, and start babbling praises for your Captain Luffy to smile at. “Please, captain! Please captain fuck me, I need you so bad you’re so fucking hot pleasepleaseplea—,”

He cuts you off with a sharp thrust of his hips, your begging now a gasp as you feel all of him inside you at once.

“Fuck, Luffy!”

“Hey,” he frowns, pulling back to squeeze at your tit. He harshly thumbs at your nipple, and you hiss. “Bad girl.”

He starts fucking up into you hard and fast, catching your breaths with his mouth in sloppy, eager kisses. You moan, fluttering walls squeezing around the length of his hard cock. You never thought it would feel this good—

“Hey,” he commands, a strike of his haki flickering around the room. The lamplight goes out for a second, before coming back on. He bites at your neck, letting out a gruff moan. He slows his hips, now languidly thrusting into you at a maddening drawl. You whimper, banging loose fists against his shoulders.

“Captain…?” You beg, letting him see the pleasure in your half-lidded eyes. He regards you with a pirate’s smirk, eyeing you like a piece of golden treasure. You bite your lip.

“What is it, slut?”

Your mouth falls open, shocked. You stammer, trying unsuccessfully to find the words to describe the utterly ruinous sensation of having your captain (and best friend) call you such a dirty name. You wanna hear it again.

“Cmon, slut,” he gifts you with another title, “Speak up.”

All you manage is a groan, before needily whining a hazy, “Faster?”

He giggles, grinning at you like the devil, before speeding up his hips and slamming into you with reckless force. He bites his own bottom lip, gripping your ass with both of his strong, sure hands. A raspy moan leaves his lips, decorating the skin of your shoulder he breathes it into. You tighten your arms around his neck, letting him lazily lick the sensitive spot below your ear.

“S’good, baby,” he praises you, lifting up to claim your lips in another kiss. His cock is pulsing inside you now, all the veins and all the length helping push you toward a quivering orgasm.

He sees it on your face, feels it in your clenching walls, and laughs. “Atta girl!” He speeds up, smiling like hell as he rams into you from below. Your voice comes out cracked and broken, not caring who hears your screaming praises.

“Fuck, Lu—fuck, captain!” You somehow catch yourself in mid-orgasm, but not before he lands a surprisingly hard hit onto your rear as you gasp, and then whine, as you realize your cresting wave has passed you by.

Luffy slows down.

“How are you, baby?” He gently pulls out of you, letting your feet fall back to the earth. He steadies you with his hands on your shoulders, while you shift back and forth on wobbly legs. He ducks to make you meet his eyes. They’re grey, like clouds in morning light. You shake your head.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, all trace of his punishment gone. He tickles the sides of your face with his fingertips, sticking out his tongue in a funny face. He nuzzles at your nose, cooing little sounds of encouragement and praise, until you’re a giggling mess beneath him.

“There!” He says, proudly straightening up. He fixes his straw hat atop his head, from where it’d gone skewed while he fucked you.

“Thanks, Luffy.”

He frowns down at you. “We’re not done.”

Your face lights up, your forgotten orgasm still pulsing between your legs. Your clit is aching.

“Ya wanted Captain ta make ya cum, right? Have you cum yet?”

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

“What kind of captain would I be if I didn’t satisfy ya, hah?” He tilts his head, cheeky, before leading you back to the bed with one arm. He snakes it around your waist, setting you down gently with your knees spread.

He sits down with his face between your thighs.

You shiver, already nervous, before he pushes his hat back without ceremony, and dives into your cunt facefirst.

****

Licking and slurping sounds fill the captain’s quarters, the air now musky and filled with the scent of sex. The summer air clings to your skin, humid and muggy as Luffy eats you out.

“C-can we open a window?” You complain, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. It comes away slick with sweat.

Luffy kneels up, springing to the porthole without a second thought. You see his chin (and cheeks) glistening with slick, your own wet shining on his handsome face.

He opens the window, and blessed cool air wafts in with a breeze. You sigh, dragging your hands through ruined hair. Luffy waltzes back over to you, searing your skin with his fiery gaze. He licks his lips.

“Can I fuck ya again?”

You nod, pushing back on the bed to make room. He lies down on top of you, pressing your body into the mattress, held down firmly by his weight. You snuggle up under him, grinning softly. His mouth parts in awe.

“There it is,” he croons, leaning down to kiss your appled cheeks, “There’s my baby’s smile.”

You arch an eyebrow, trying to hide the butterflies in your chest. “Your baby?”

He looks up at you, confused. His half-hard cock is still poking you in the thigh. You wriggle, under him.

He places a hand on your hip, keeping you still. His eyebrows are furrowed down over his face. “Course,” he says, “Ya didn’t think I’d do this for just anyone, didja?”

You stare, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. “I-I thought you were just…being a good friend!”

Luffy frowns, still pressing down into you with his full weight. He supports himself with one elbow sinking into the mattress beside your head. He regards you with a deadly calm.

“Nuh uh,” he says, firmly shaking his head, “I wanna help you.”

You blink.

He strokes your temple with his thumb, softly smiling down at you. His voice is hoarse, as he whispers, “So, my flirting hasn’t been working after all, huh.”

You pause, already panic-stricken and out of breath from the turns in this conversation. You feel Luffy’s haki broiling behind his shoulder blades. You wonder if he’s going to sprout wings.

You reach up to stroke his forehead, delicately tracing the slight line of his widow’s peak. The dark hair is soft against your fingertips.

“You’ve been flirting with me?”

He pouts. “Been trying to…,” he purses his lips out like he’s embarrassed. You giggle: you can’t help it. He slaps your shoulder lightly. “Don’t laugh!” He complains.

“Sorry, sorry,” you shake your head, cupping his cheek with one hand. “You’re cute, is all.”

He grins, wide and ferocious, before leaning down to kiss you again. His tongue pushes past your lips, and you let him in. He tastes like you.

Your mouths slide softly together, moans creeping their way up your throats, and tumbling into the salty air of his bedroom.

“Like you,” he says, pressing his forehead into yours. His voice is raspy. Hoarse. He swallows. “I like you a lot.”

“I like you too, Luffy,” he closes his eyes at the sound of his name, and you hum. You trace your thumb below his cheek, softly squishing at his baby face. “You’re pretty.”

He kisses you again, beaming his gorgeous smile directly against your lips. You mmph! in surprise. “You’re pretty,” he corrects you, “But thanks!”

You giggle, charmed by his boyishness, and let him cuddle you into his chest as he pleases. Luffy smells like salt and cinnamon, and sorta like weed. You��ll have to ask him for a hit, later.

“Welcome,” you murmur, tracing your fingertips against his spine, still left bare from when you’d ripped his shirt off earlier. “Wanna fuck me now?”

“No,” he pouts, sitting up. He supports himself on one elbow, regarding you seriously. “I wantcha to be mine, first.”

“‘M yours!”

You blurt it out, no thoughts needed, before burying your face in his chest. He giggles, and wraps you in a double-rubber hug. “Mine!” He squeals happily, rolling you both over so you’re no longer beneath him. He lets you crawl over him instead, straddling his hips with your thighs. His arms are still double-wrapped around you.

You wiggle your hips into his a bit, smiling at his breathy moan. His fingertips stroke the soft skin of your back. You shiver, arching slightly beneath his touch. Luffy slowly unspools his limbs from around you. The ship rocks gently in the waves.

"How did you flirt with me?" You ask, basking in the afterglow of your unexpected (yet long awaited) tryst.

"Food...," Luffy trails off sheepishly. A slight honey blush tints his squishy cheeks. You poke at one, softly.

"Sharing your food with me was flirting?" You smile, beaming inside at the thought of how he's been handing you sly snackies at every meal. A drumstick here, a potato there, a cookie when Sanji wasn't looking. All affections you had accepted keenly and wholeheartedly: falling farther in love with your captain as you did. "I liked it," you admit. And then, softer, "Special."

Luffy grins. "So it did work!" He leaps off the bed, sending you careening off the side. He pumps both fists into the air, cheering himself on. "I was right!"

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, pushing yourself off the floor. You're used to his antics, by now. "What else did you try?"

Luffy spins back around to you, grinning like a mad scientist. His torso is bare, and his shorts are still unbuttoned. They hang low around his hips, the sharp line of his V proudly disappearing into the waistband. "Sunsets!" He declares, fists on his hips in victory.

"I liked sunsets, too," you giggle, and motion for him to take your hand. You’ve thrown on your clothes again, haphazard shirt dress half-buttoned and uneven over your knees.

Luffy lets you lead him, following along after you onto the deck and onto the grassy lawn. Someone has a light on in the crow's nest.

Stars burst overhead, shimmering in their rivers of space-dust like silver ribbons. The midnight sky is deep indigo, and all the constellations Nami knows how to name twinkle like firelights.

You breathe in deep lungfuls of fresh, night air. The wind is cool and crisp, even in the summer. Fireflies flicker around the tangerines.

Luffy steps up beside you, squeezing your hand softly. He strokes his thumb along your knuckles, and you hum. "Sorry for not cumming," you say, staring at the stars.

Luffy tugs on your hand, and you stare at him, instead. His eyes are dark, hazy in the firelight. The campfire still glows red with embers.

"Sorry for what? Not your fault," he slips out, casually, "But I didn't cum either, so it's even anyway. Is that okay?"

He scuffs his heel on the ground, and you start walking along the edge of the grass. He skips a stray stone over to you, and you kick it down the way. It skitters across the lawn, bouncing a couple times, before landing at the base of the farthest tree. A firefly winks at its roots.

"Not like it was our last time," he grins at you, tugging on your hand. You skip a little, stumbling, but he catches you with one hand pressed to your lower stomach. His strength is terrifying.

"Careful, princess," he teases you, and you almost stumble again. As it is, you open and close your mouth like a fish. He snickers, fully pleased with himself. He swipes under his nose with his finger.

"Okay, king," you counter, trying to ruffle his hair, but he ducks out of the way. You don't miss the faint blush tinged on his cheeks, though.

"Shishishi, I like that!" He straightens up again, tugging on your arm to pull you away from the trees. His arm stretches out long, space elongating between you, before he snaps you back in to hold in his arms. He shifts you around so you're piggyback, and you giggle.

"Let's go steal something from the fridge," you whisper, and Luffy gasps in love and adoration. He turns over his shoulder to you with stars in his eyes.

"I love you," he says, unabashedly. You swallow, and nod.

"I love you too, Captain Luffy."

"Like, really really love you."

You snicker, burying your face in the bare skin of his shoulder. His arms flex from where they hold your thighs. "I really, really love you, too. 'M in love with you, Luffy." You stroke your fingertips along his chest, from where your arms are wrapped around his neck. His black hair tickles your cheek. He hefts you up higher in his arms, smiling with his eyes crinkled shut.

"Good! I'm in love with you, too. Sorry I didn't tell ya sooner."

"Me too," you mumble, and Luffy heads off to the kitchen, with you in tow.

****

#dumpster dive #my writing #one piece fanfic #luffy fanfic #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy smut #luffy fluff #luffy x you #luffy fic #one piece smut #ough

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taintandviolent · 11 months

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I held my nose I closed my eyes - I took a drink; Jimmy x Reader

Summary: Reader is a hypnotist. Jimmy, in one of his drunken nights, cleans out his own supply and stumbles into your caravan to clean you out too. What he finds... is sooo much better. [warnings: 18+! sex pollen fic!! shameless, explicit smut, I'm so serious. female receiving, oral sex, rough sex, mentions of alcohol.]

Also! Hugely inspired by @silverzoomies' mindbogglingly good Quicksilver sex pollen fic - the queen of sex pollen as far as I'm concerned!! Please read it if you haven't!!

taglist: @kaismanwich / @elsamars / @thewolveswithin / @petersevans / @marylovesevanpeters / @80strashbag / @redwoodghost / @silverzoomies / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @evansb1tch / @yesdevineruler / @stucktothetwo / @enchanting-evan / @evanpetersfansblog / @kaissweetlamb / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @my-own-walker/ @viharmonscorner / @nova-kayne67 / ask to be added!

ao3 link here! | full fic under the cut!

The calliope breathed its melodic tune as your fingers curled back towards your palm. The man in front of you was glassy-eyed and pliable.

“Bark!” You snapped your fingers.

Almost immediately, the man let out a string of excited woofs, much to the delight of the audience. Laughs and scattered applause filled the tent, the loudest of laughs coming from the front row — from his presumed wife.

“Ladies and gentlemen! While I am using hypnotism for your pleasure and amusement today, I implore you… to consider that hypnotism can be used for good. It can be used to cure sicknesses of addiction, turn the fearful into the brave… or perhaps make someone fall in love with you.”

The man swayed languidly back and forth, following your graceful fingers as they swept through air. You brought the man’s attention to you with one finger, whispering soft words of release. You snapped your fingers for a final time and the man came to, dropped back into his own reality in a mess of confusion and wobbly knees. Unbeknownst to you, this regular Joe wasn’t the only man unsteady on his feet. A dozen or so yards away, the beloved Lobster Boy was drunkenly stumbling into your trailer, looking for some more booze to drown his woes.

As he stood in front of your cabinet, he surveyed the collection. Dried herbs, crystals, some of those cards that he’d seen the travelling gypsies use… and a ton of bottles. Scanning until he found something that most resembled some liquor — though everything was questionable — Jimmy palmed the one of the two largest bottles, lifting it to the light to get a better look. The dark liquid sloshed heavily around inside, and while he knew he was drunk, he could’ve sworn it sparkled.

Flipping the cork out with his thumb, Jimmy pinched his nose, squeezed his eyes shut and threw the contents of the bottle into the back of his throat, having enough to sense to avoid whatever taste was going to meet him. Whatever it was went down smoothly, leaving a syrupy, sweet coating on his throat. A line of deep burgundy trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his tongue flicked out to catch it.

“Hooo,” he grimaced and shuddered hard enough to lose his grip on the bottle. It clattered to the floor loudly. “That’s rough.”

His throat felt warm, but the feeling started in his thighs, of all places. Underneath his dusty black jeans, the muscles felt like he’d gone and pressed them against a bed of coals. It was hot in Jupiter, not that hot — but Jimmy Darling felt like he had the fever of the century. Sweat beaded at his hairline, running salty ribbons down his temples.

And then, he felt it. Concealed in his cotton briefs, heat rushed to his groin at breakneck speed. It couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds for his cock to stand at attention as though he’d been working it up all night. His jeans tented and the pressure wasn’t very forgiving. No, it was downright painful. The blood switched heads and he could think of nothing else but you. Jimmy wanted to be inside you, feeling your weeping cunt clench with each thrust. He wanted to lick his fingers clean of your — “Come on!”

Jimmy drew the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping at the sweat. As the seconds ticked by, his body temperature continued to climb. He knew he had to do something before he actually became a lobster, bright red and steaming. With one hand, Jimmy unbuckled his pants and yanked the button free of its slit. The small give in restriction allowed his stiff cock to breathe, but Jimmy pulled the elastic of his briefs under his balls, wincing at the static electric feeling that physical touch brought.

His cock sprung free, bouncing heavily. It looked full, and pre-cum was already leaking out the velvet soft tip. He couldn’t describe it mentally any other way — needs emptyin’.

You had graciously taken one more participant before making your way back to your caravan, pulling your high heels off as soon as you were out of the tent. You padded softly across the grass, humming some disjointed melody. The tips had been good tonight, and you’d been looking forward to the iced tea in your tiny little fridge all day. "…Gotta’ hank o’ hair and a piece o’ bone and made a walkin’-talkin’ honeycomb.”

Stepping onto the wood crates that served as doorsteps, you pulled the door towards you, still singing quietly.

“…well uh honeycomb, wontcha’ be my baby, well uh honeycomb wontcha’ be my own — ”

With your index finger still curled around the handle of the screen door, your body froze, voice leaving your throat. Jimmy Darling leaned against your bed. Not just that — Jimmy Darling leaned against your bed, caramel locks plastered to his forehead with sweat. His pants were undone in his lap, and his fused fingers were glistening with his own cum. You’d only looked at it for a split second before you clamped your hand over your eyes, but it wasn’t soon enough to stop the visual searing its way into your brain. The way the swollen, red tip slid through his conjoined fingers as he clumsily tried to jerk himself off…

At the sound of the door, Jimmy immediately started crawling towards you, muttering desperate words of gratitude. Like a hound on the scent of a rabbit, his nose had clocked the earthy sweetness of your perfume oil the second you’d walked in. He needed to get closer to it and to you. There was another smell — a sweeter one — that he licked off his lips as he made a beeline for you.

“Oh, baby, baby, baby….” He growled low, words separated by hiccups. “I’m real glad you’re here. I messed up… uhhuuummmm - real bad.”

On his knees in front of you, Jimmy wrapped his hands around your legs, claws stroking the backs of your knees. Paired with the fact that he’d never called you baby, the contrast of his warm, strong hands against your delicate legs gripped your core, setting the first trap of arousal. A moment later, his lips collided with your shins, feverishly peppering kisses along them as he worked his way up.You closed your eyes, exhaling hard through your nose.

His head dove under your skirt and you let out a shrill yelp.

“J-Jimmy Darling! Stop, stop!” You wrenched your leg from his grip, his slick fingers gliding off your calf muscle as you hastily stepped around him. “What in the hell has gotten into you!?”

He fell forward onto his hands, letting out a sound you’d never heard a man make. His dick hung heavy between his legs and thick strands of pre-cum swelled from the tip, stringing to the floor with every slight movement of his hips. His lust just wouldn’t stop yelling, drowning out every other rational thought he had. It was as loud as when Elsa brought her megaphone to the stage, shouting orders at the top of her lungs -- louder maybe. Jimmy reached for his aching cock to give it a few desperate pumps, tightening his grip as he drew towards the base. The sensation crippled him, bringing him forward onto his face. …so damn sensitive…. I need her…..

He’d always been able to satisfy himself, even as drunk as he was now; after every meeting with the Girls, when some gal in the crowd got a little too flirty — he’d never had an issue taking himself in his pincers and rubbing one out. But this… this wasn’t enough and he was damn tired.

Every cell in your body was begging you to keep staring at the way he handled himself, alternating between stroking the thick shaft, and doing quick, smaller thrusts to stimulate the ruby tip. Jimmy groaned into the vinyl floor of your trailer as he decorated it with strings of white.

Did he just cum…?

Underneath your skirt, your cunt fluttered with a bloom of heat.

Although it had been difficult to walk away, you somehow managed and stopped just short of your kitchen counter, which had been converted into a short shelf. All of your tonics, amulets and tools of your craft were neatly arranged there. Were. They were…. Previously. The empty space in your cabinet was suddenly very apparent.

Suddenly noticing that you had left — or maybe he smelled that you had left, Jimmy’s lids peeled away from each other. He turned his head just enough to stare up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. The curve of your ass underneath your skirt made his dick twitch upwards, reaching for relief. With his cheek smashed against the vinyl flooring, Jimmy’s words were distorted behind you. “Aaah— you’re sucha’…. dream Dolly, you know that?”

You closed your eyes, kicking your foot to the side. It collided with something, with an unmistakable tink! just like you’d predicted it would. Sucking in another deep breath, you dropped your gaze to your feet. A very empty amber bottle had been tossed haphazardly to the floor.

You heard him shuffling to his feet behind you, catching himself on whatever surface was near enough for him to grip. Through ragged pants, he continued. “I’ve always thought that — ever since you got here, the very first day…. Laid eyes on you and thought ‘Hot damn! We’ve got a sex-pot headlining.’ Youkn—”

“Jimmy…?” you asked, warningly. Planting both of your hands firmly on the counter, you pacified your mind, lassoing it in from the field of panic-stricken thoughts. “Tell me you didn’t drink this whole thing….”

Instead of dispelling your fears, a broad chest pressed against your back and two arms wound themselves around the front of your hips. Jimmy’s body felt like a furnace against yours, and the sudden pressure between your ass cheeks had you clawing the laminate countertop like a feral animal.

He’s still hard as a rock…

He was sweaty and smelled like sun and liquor; a smell that you’d become very attracted to in the few weeks you’d been here. Every time he passed by, you’d inhale, filling your lungs with it. He kissed the nape of your neck like he’d just got home from work, missing you all day.

“How many times have you orgasmed?” You didn’t want to know the answer.

“Mmm, only uh’ couple times…. I’m sss-sorry baby…” he slurred, pressing his face into your hair, loudly inhaling the scent of it. His voice was barely a whisper, but it was so close to your ear, it sent shivers down your spine. “You aren’t mad at me, are ya?”

His little mistake wasn’t about having too much of his Mama’s hooch in that little flask she carried around. Well, maybe that too… You’d got those potions from a lady in New Orleans in 1946 and she’d warned you about the dosage… “a silver teaspoon, nothin’ more, you understand?” She said it came straight from Marie Laveau and wasn’t to be trifled with. Jimmy Darling had consumed a whole bottle and now, his swollen cock was dribbling into the cotton fabric of your skirt.

“No,” you breathed shakily, reaching up to press your middle finger to the bridge of your nose. “I’m not… but you’re in for a real storm, Jimmy Darling. It’s — was— love potion, you know that?”

“Love potion, huh? Didn’t think that was real.” He questioned lazily how to fix it, more interested in his hands sliding up your stomach, manoeuvring until they’d found skin.

“You have to do what you were put on Earth to do. That basic instinct — and I sure I wish I could tell you once would be enough. But Jimmy,” you paused, inhaling sharply. “The dose for a man of your size is a teaspoon.”

“A man of my size…” Woozy chuckles vibrated your shoulders. “Seems like you’re the gal to see — you know an awful lot about it.”

Frustrated, you cocked your hip to the side, doing your best to sort out the thoughts. You knew the only solution was to fuck it out of his system, but you hadn’t really thought you’d be ending your night with him. Jimmy let out a loud moan, bucking his hips further in between your legs. You felt the heat of it, searing through the thin fabric. He bucked again and rolled his forehead along your shoulders, whining.

“Hooo…. you can’t move like that, baby. I’ll flip.”

You whimpered his name as you lifted your eyes to the ceiling, cursing whatever deities were looking down on you, waiting on bated breath for your next move. You’d waited a long time for something like this. So long in fact, that you had almost turned to waving your enchanting fingers in front of his face, like one of the ticket-holders, hypnotising him to look at you for longer than a few minutes. Instead, his mercurial alcoholism had planted him right in front of you. Well, behind you.

With his hips still rutting into you, grinding incessantly, he murmured into your ear: “I’m sorry I’m actin’ this way… but you haveta’ help me, baby…. Help me, please… I’m gonna’ lose my mind if I do—“

“I know, Jimmy.”

As you walked your legs out to the sides, you hoisted the back of your skirt above your ass. Watching intently, he backed his hips up allowing you room to reach between your legs and search for him. Your fingertips grazed the base, just above his balls. With a final prayer that Jimmy Darling wouldn’t forget about you as soon as the potion had run its course in his body, you wrapped your fingers around his shaft, already slick with a generous coating of pre-cum, and guided him in between your thighs.

Jimmy’s hands were suddenly at your hips, taking fistfuls of your skirt and shoving it up towards the small of your back. With a grunt, he wound one of his claws around the hem of your satin underwear, wiggling it down from one side. He thrust his hips forward and the hot tip slipped past your entrance, grinding into your clit from the underside.

Jimmy’s low, honey voice was reduced to high pitched whimpers and broken whines. Your insides pulsed with a hungry need…

“Hoh-god…”

“No,” you spat. “This isn’t right, not like this. Jimmy, I really —“

He didn’t let you finish. Conjoined fingers gripped your biceps hard, spinning you around so fast, the intent was blurry. For a minute, his face was contorted, frustrated and the way his chest heaved wound a nervous coil in your stomach.

Instead of striking you, or whatever you thought he was going to do, Jimmy crushed his lips against you, desperate for any sort of erotic contact. His hands found their way to your breasts, cupping them, while his thumb flicked at your nipples over the fabric. “I gotta’ have you, honey…”

You pursed your lips, tightening them into a thin line. In one fluid, frustrated motion, you pulled your shirt over your head. You unclasped your bra, holding his gaze and barked: “Then, take me.”

He forced his tongue into your mouth. You remembered the time you’d bit into a honeycomb as a child. As sweet as you thought it would be, and as sweet as it was, there was something very overwhelming about it. There was a word for it — cloying. As he explored your mouth, Jimmy tasted bitter, and cloyingly sweet… and god, was he drooling? There was so much spit that you had to swallow a mouthful just to avoid choking. His tongue wrestled with yours, teeth biting at your lips until they were red and swollen.

Your lids snapped open and you felt your pupils dilate. A warm, sweet heat rose from the base of your throat, filling your mouth. There were hints of honey, and spices, and underneath a very bitter fruitiness.

Oh… oh no.

He didn’t know what was going on inside of you, but he revelled in the way you started moaning and whimpering into his mouth, grinding your cunt against his groin. Jimmy’s hands dropped to grip the soft, pillowy flesh of your hips, his thumb pressing into the softness. “Fuck baby, your body… you can’t see these hips under that skirt you wear all the time.”

“This ain’t enough,” he cooed, pushing you towards your small sofa-bed with kisses. “I need to fill you up, Y/N….”

You were more than willing to let him guide you to the bed; though you knew the majority of your disposition was due to you already having a big, silly crush on him. Jimmy lowered himself down, one knee at a time, keeping his eyes locked on the table laid in front of him.

Hastily, Jimmy pulled your skirt to the floor, kicking it behind him. He made quick work of your underwear too — though those didn’t join the pile of clothes. He lifted those, the satin fabric dangling from one of his thickened fingers, swaying back and forth. You did your best to avoid looking at the wet spot you’d left in the crotch of them, though Jimmy seemed to have locked onto that and only that.

“Pink, huh?”

You chewed your bottom lip bashfully. “I’m not all crystal balls and veils, Jimmy…”

At those words, his eyes flashed to your cunt, pupils dilating. He chucked your underwear over his shoulder, refocusing his attention onto you. Jimmy spread your pussy with his knuckles, exposing the pink, glistening flesh. His laboured breaths slowed as he focused, watching every clench and twitch. “Baby, baby, baby….”

He was just staring at it. Your cunt ached as he teased it with feather-light touches.

“Can I?”

You moaned, asking for clarification. Not that you needed it — he could do whatever he wanted to you and he wouldn’t hear a peep of protest from you. You were a mess, like butter in his claws.

“Can I eat it, baby? I’m hungry… I’m a growin’ boy…”

It took a lot of effort to lift your head to look at him. You were swimmy; everything felt rose-tinted.

“Yeah,” you nodded, wetting your throat. “Yeah, Jimmy, but I think if you grow any more… we’ll have a problem.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, pausing to look at himself. It was true; his cock had never been this hard, and the tip was such a deep red that it was heading to plum.

With one segment buried deep inside your slick cunt and the other curled back towards his palm, Jimmy leaned in. His plush lips pressed tenderly against her, tongue slipping out to taste her in between kisses. You strained against his grip, writhing like a worm on a hook.

“You taste so good,” he murmured, finally pulling away from her. His chin was glistening — you almost wanted to apologise for the mess you’d made. He didn't seem to mind though, as he reached up, wiping at his chin with his hand. The way his thick, fleshy segments looked coated in your wetness, the way they caught the dull, yellow lighting of your trailer — it was enough to make you cum right then and there. You collapsed back on the bed in a mess of whimpers and Jimmy took that opportunity to dive back in.

He caved his tongue to envelop your clit, the vibrations of his moans sending a shockwave through your core. Before he started pumping his fingers in and out, Jimmy Darling did something that could’ve sent you into another dimension; he just sucked at your clit, flicking his tongue over the most sensitive spot he could.

He slurped at your cunt like an ice cream cone, one that was melting faster than he could catch — but he did a damn good job of getting every drop. He was loud and sloppy. He’s so hungry for it…

Your body trembled violently as you came, grinding against his mouth as long as you could before he backed up, dipping his head further in between your legs so he could feel the clench of your orgasm around his tongue.

He straightened up with a satisfied ‘Mmm’, jerking his head to the side with a smile. “Sweet as candy, baby…”

Crossing his arms over his torso, Jimmy pulled his white undershirt up and over his shoulders before tossing it behind him. Ribbons of sweat streamed down the tanned skin, leaving glittering lines across his chest.

“Jimmy,” you whined. “Hand me the other bottle.”

He obeyed, reaching behind him for it. His big hand closed around the cool, brown glass, and brought the cork to his mouth. His teeth clamped down and yanked it free. A small whiff of the potion inside made his eyes roll back, but he quickly regained control, looking down at you with a devilish little smirk. He knew exactly what you’d planned to do. He took one generous gulp, swallowed, and said:

“Open up, toots.”

You obeyed, and Jimmy Darling poured the love potion — too, too much of it down your throat. You coughed, sputtering some of it onto the pillow of your bottom lip, and he lapped it up.

The devil worked fast, but hoodoo potions worked faster.

Sweat beaded up from every pore, coating your body in an aroused sheen. You’d felt like you’d been sunbathing all afternoon, with no lake or pool in sight. You felt like your cunt was on fire. It had a heartbeat as strong as the one encased in your ribs. You had one thing on your mind — and that thing was stroking himself as he watched the change in you.

“Ohhhh, shit….” He took a deep breath, inhaling the pheromones that had abruptly filled the tiny space. You smelled them too, and the adrenaline dump made your muscles quiver. Jimmy’s dark brown eyes were wild as they locked onto your eyes, his cheeks flushed red. “Oh, now we’re cookin’.”

You jerked forward. You needed him, you needed every bit of him and the idea of teasing him drove you wild. You raked your nails along his heated stomach, tracing a line of hair the colour of brown sugar, following it down to a bush of the same shade. With your bottom lip swelling between your teeth, you planted both hands on his torso and dropped your head between your shoulders to tease him with your breath. You exhaled over the reddened tip, watching in delight as it twitched closer to you. Your lips ghosted over it, suctioning around just the tip. You swallowed, and opened your mouth wider, letting your tongue flop onto the underside of his shaft.

“Fuck…FUCK!”

Jimmy came undone, clenching his teeth as he bucked his hips against your mouth. Up and down, your head bobbed, stroking his cock with your mouth. Your cheeks caved as you hungrily swallowed the ropes of cum that hit the back of your throat.

That didn’t last long. With a strong hand, he guided you back, pushing you back onto the bed. You felt the mattress shift to Jimmy’s weight as he climbed behind you.

“C’mere, baby… lay this way.”

He guided you into a horizontal positioning, curling his body behind yours. His chest pressed against your back, warm and slick with sweat. His soft lips scattered kisses along the nape of your neck, down your shoulder.

Jimmy gripped your leg at the thigh, holding it straight. His cock was rock hard, and a thick, clear glob of pre-cum welled from the slit on his head as he lined up to your swollen, aching pussy. Your jaws ache at the sight of it, wanting to smear it over your lips like a gloss.

“You wanna’….” He inhaled a shaky breath. “You wanna’ feel the motion of the ocean, baby?”

You squeaked out a ‘yeah’. After nuzzling his nose behind your ear, The Lobster Boy jerked his hips so hard that the stretch of your cunt had you wincing and grinding your teeth together. But god, that feels so good… He sunk in, bottoming out almost right away — but the rhythm that boy had…. He was fast. He was fast, and he whined every time your cunt had swallowed half, shuddering the rest of it in. Every few thrusts, Jimmy would bunny-hump you with his cock deep inside, revelling in the way your cunt hugged his girth — squeezed it, even.

You, on the other hand, were feeling like your body was going to burst into flames at any moment. Your pussy had hardly had any time to recover, but you screamed out another orgasm, pulsating around The Lobster Boy.

He pulled out quickly, his ink-pool eyes glittering with a new position. With his dick secured in his hand, Jimmy got to his feet, stepping carefully off onto the floor. He let go to snatch you at the waist and wrench you harshly to the edge of the bed.

“Go, Jimmy…”

He pulled you forward slowly, dipping his chin to his chest to watch as your walls clenched around him. Your pussy was blush-red and swollen; a visual he’d treasure for the rest of his life. Once the tip of his head stretched past your entrance, Jimmy yanked your hips back against his. Hard. The sound your cheeks made when they slapped against his stomach drove him wild, and whatever apprehensions he had about hurting you went out the window.

Through unhesitating thrusts, he asked: “Doesit’ feel good, baby?”

You could only nod, seeing the ceiling of your trailer vibrate each time your bodies connected. The trailer has to be moving — he’s shaking the trailer, oh god.

“Say my name again.”

“Ji-Jimmy… oh my god, Jimmy!”

You were two orgasms in, and he was pounding a third out of you. The muscles in your legs were quivering, and losing strength quickly. Your vision was overexposed and twinkly, tears stained your cheeks.

“Jimmy - wait - wait, it’s too—“

You whimpered desperately, your fingers dropping away from your overstimulated clit. Jimmy straightened up, one hand moved to your shoulder, leaving the other still clamped on your hip. Your shrill screams were loud enough to break the barrier of your trailer, but when he tightened his grip on your shoulder to use it as leverage, you didn’t care.

He was fucking you deeper and harder than you’d ever been fucked, and maybe than he’d ever fucked. Blinded by ecstasy, he couldn’t hear a word. Every carnal instinct he had kicked into full-drive, galloping towards the finish line of pumping you full of his seed.

You turned your head, screaming into the mattress as your pussy shuddered one final time, leaking the wettest orgasm you’d ever had onto his cock. She clenched around his tip like a vice, and the sensation drove Jimmy to the edge.

The knot inside Jimmy unravelled all at once. He let out a deafening groan, spilling his pent-up load into you. Gush after gush flowed into you, and you could feel the hot fluid leaking from your cunt, splashing onto your thighs with each determined thrust he gave.

Eventually, his thrusts became spasmodic, shakily slowing to a stop. He collapsed atop you, and reached between your bodies, to tug his softening cock out of you, humming at the sensation.

“Y’know… I really do have the hots for you, baby…. I haven’t slept with a single girl since you waltzed in.”

He exhaled hard. “I gotta’ sleep, doll. I gotta.”

By the time you sat up and slipped your arms into a robe that was draped over a chair, Jimmy was already asleep. The way he curled up on your too-small bed, naked, one hand hanging off the side was easily one of the cutest things you’d seen since drifting to Jupiter. You wouldn’t know until he woke up, but if he was telling the truth…. You’d spend every last day worshipping the ground he walked on.

A delicate rapping pulled your attention from Jimmy, who had already started breathing deep in his sleep. Delicately, you pulled a blanket of yours over his bottom half, not wanting whoever was at the door to see him in all his glory.

You made your way to the door in no particular hurry, still floating Cloud Nine. Eventually, you toed open the door and leaned sleepily against the doorframe. The robe barely covered your chest, but at the sight of the visitor, all worries left.

“Have you seen Jimmy?” Maggie asked, her tone of perpetual annoyance making you smile. “I needed t—

“I have,” you cooed. “I sure have.”

Like the nosy bitch you knew she was, she poked her head in. It didn’t take her long to find him, and hear his soft snoring.

“Oh, drop dead twice,” she muttered, retreating.

You stopped, an amused smirk twisting your lips. So, she had wanted him. Clocked that one. “What, and look like you?”

Her wide eyes narrowed into slits, lips pursed indignantly. With a toss of her dirty blonde hair, she marched off towards the tent, fists clenched at your sides.

You might’ve felt bad for the poor wretch if Jimmy Darling’s cum wasn’t dripping down your thigh. Might’ve.

#tryin' something new with the headers... there aren't enough jimmy gifs and I need something better to match the vibe of my fics lmao #Jimmy Darling #Jimmy Darling smut #jimmy darling x reader #jimmy darling x you #ahs smut #american horror story smut #fanfiction #ahs fanfiction #ahs freak show #American Horror Story Freak Show #Evan Peters #myfics

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layla4567 · 11 months

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Imagine: A relaxing shower after training

Peter Maximoff x Female reader

Summary: You were practicing hand-to-hand fighting with Quicksilver, even though they both have superpowers, Professor Xavier insisted that we practice other forms of fighting just in case.

Warning: Smut, naked bodies, p in v, fingering

..............................................................................................................................

I don't know why the professor insisted on this, it's ridiculous-you thought-you could incinerate your opponent in a matter of seconds and it's almost impossible (if not impossible) for them to catch Peter with their super speed. Anyway, here we were.

You were wearing a black crop top and gray sports cloth pants and you had your hair tied up for comfort. You went to the training room, there were several tarps on the floor and Peter was waiting for you sitting on one of them

Peter saw you appear in your workout clothes and thought it made your figure stand out but he just scoffed and said

"You finally show up, I've been waiting for you for hours"-he stood up

Speedy (as you liked to call him) was wearing an army green short-sleeved T-shirt and baggy black training pants.

"Oh sorry-you said ironically- it's not my fault SOMEONE is running at the speed of light."

"You are forgiven precious, luckily I am compassionate with those who go to the rhythm of a snail"-he finished with a smirk

sparks began to emanate from your fingers as if you had all the fireworks in the palm of your hands while your gaze hardened

Peter's face turned pale, he was scared when you did that. That's why he knew he didn't have to make you angry

"Uhmm w-well how about we start training before you burn down the place?"

First both stretched a bit so as not to hurt their muscles and then the training began. You practiced with your fists dodging each other, Peter was tempted to use his super speed but held back because the rule was no super powers. You was throwing kicks and Peter barely dodged them.

Suddenly you took his right arm and with a stunt you wrapped your legs around his arm and threw him to the ground, with a hold you raised your hips slightly up so that Peter can't escape the hold.

He didn't expect that, so when he was lying on the floor, scared, he exclaimed

"Time out! I give up!!"

You loosened your legs on his arm and he stood up quickly, holding out his hand so you could get up.

"Since when did you learn to do that?"-Peter said still surprised but still smiling.

There are things you don't know about my Pet..-you said mysterious

"Meow the kitten knows how to defend herself"

"Shut up"

You rolled your eyes and went to your room to take a shower, you were tired and sweaty

You entered your room and prepared the clothes that you were going to use later. You put on your bed a jean and a red shirt. You grabbed a robe and began to undress, dropping your crop top and pants on the floor.

After that you went to the bathroom and opened the tap letting the water run. You made sure that the water is warm enough not to freeze you but not so hot it burns you. You put a hand under the rain while you felt the warm drops slip through your fingers. You waved your hand as soon as the water began to heat up, removed your robe and stepped into the shower.

Peter was running through the halls when he heard the sound of water running from the shower in your room. He was too tired to go to his room on the other side of the mansion and that's when a naughty idea crossed his mind, but he didn't want to be intrusive or bother you, but damn he liked you so much. He decided to sneak into your room thinking if what he was about to do was right or not.

Your door never had a key, at least not during the day, which is why Peter was able to get in easily. The boy saw your clothes lying on the floor and approached your bathroom door.

He knocked three times on the door

"Y/n! Are you there?"-But of course she's there, idiot, where would she be?

You were enjoying the water falling on your face when you felt the blows and the voice of Peter, you shuddered. What was Peter doing here? What did he want now?

"Uh yes Peter I'm here and In case you didn't notice, I'm taking a shower"

"Ye-yeah I know and that's the point I-Uhmm"-He was too nervous to speak

You started to get impatient and feel somewhat uncomfortable when you heard those words..

"Can I shower with you?"

A wave of modesty washed over you, you suddenly felt vulnerable. Showering with Peter? It was something you wouldn't have imagined. Clearly you liked the boy but this was something intimate. But a feeling of adrenaline began to rise through your belly and you didn't know why

Peter had his eyes tightly closed, regretting having exclaimed those words. He was starting to walk away when he heard you say

"Ok, you can come in"

Speedy couldn't believe it, shyly opened the door. He took off his clothes and piled them on the toilet seat. He slightly opened the shower curtain and entered with you closing his eyes

You were waiting for him face to face, the first thing you saw was Peter with his eyes closed so you laughed but then your eyes began to slowly go down to his torso. He had well worked pectorals, his white skin seemed soft and he was tempting you. You kept looking down until you reached her stomach, it looked like a Greek sculpture, and her small waist made you want to hug him and feel his skin in your hands.

You kept looking at his stomach until a thought quickly crossed your mind: Don't keep going down, don't keep going down! And you looked up and to the right blushing and covering your body with your arms

Can I open my eyes now? -When he heard you tell him "yes", he slowly opened one first and then the other and blushed

He looked away out of respect but he couldn't resist and he saw your body again, it was even more beautiful than he thought. You still looked down in embarrassment while covering your private parts. But thighs were still showing, and that's where Peter's eyes went. You had one leg in front of the other, resting your whole body on one of them, which made you look delicious. Peter looked at your hips, you weren't a supermodel but for him it was as if the gods themselves had sculpted you. Your rounded hips gave shape to your waist and accentuated it. Peter's pupils dilated.

Now Peter's eyes were on your shoulders, they ran through your body as if it were a manuscript and ended up on your collarbones to then look at your wet neck. He wanted so much to kiss it and feel the taste of your skin

Peter noticed that you were uncomfortable so he told you not to worry about what it was going to be like if he wasn't there. So he grabbed a sponge, a soap and began to rub his body without looking at you

Slowly you stopped covering your body with your arms and you thanked him with your eyes and turned your back to face the hot rain, it felt so good. You closed your eyes letting the water fall on your body and slide on your skin. The drops seemed to play a race along your legs. They started at your belly and slid down your hips. Meanwhile, Peter was concentrating on not looking at your butt as he rubbed his neck and back with the sponge.

The boy sneakily approached you a little closer to moisten the sponge. Since Peter was taller than you, you felt his warm breath near your ear, he was closer than he should have been. Suddenly and delicately you felt fine fingers pass through the sides of your hip. They slid from top to bottom following the drops of water as if he wanted to clean them. You felt a chill even though the water was hot

His touches were soft, he passed a hand around your waist caressing it slowly, his movements were delicate as if he were molding a sculpture.

"Peter.."-You said almost in a whisper to turn your head and look at him

He looked at you smiling mischievously. You decided to stick closer to his body as you tipped your head back and placed it on his shoulder near his neck to give him more space. Now that you was completely close to him, Peter dropped the sponge and placed both his hands on the sides of your waist. Another shiver ran through your body at the feel of his grip. Peter's hands, manly, went down from your waist to your hips and near the lower area of your belly, reaching your buttocks where he left a small pinch. You moaned but not in pain.

Peter's hands embraced you, they ran through your body as if he wanted to leave paint marks on it, you closed your eyes while your breathing quickened and your toes curled. His left hand went up to your breasts while the other went down to your privacy. First he caressed you on the outside while you didn't know where to hold on to keep from falling to your knees so you placed one hand behind his neck and your other hand grabbing Peter's wrist that was below.

When Peter inserted a finger into your intimate area, you let out a small moan while throwing your head back even more. You felt your lips throb and he liked that. He began to stimulate you by making circles with his finger on your clitoris, the rhythm varied, first they were slow and then fast.

"Oh my god Peter please..!"-you gasped pleadingly then bit your lips

You felt that you were about to cum and you didn't know if you could keep holding yourself back for longer

But Peter didn't give you rest, with your head thrown back he began to place wild, hungry kisses on your neck. The hand that was in your privacy came up and grabbed your jaw. Peter kissed every inch of your neck and jaw as if he were going to devour you, you did nothing but moan with pleasure and purr like a cat. Peter went down to your collarbones and left wet kisses

Tired of being the one receiving and not being able to touch his body, you turned around abruptly and your lips found him. You grabbed his face feeling needy and kissed him voraciously. His tongue explored yours while his hands cupped your ass. They both moan without taking off their mouths.

Peter grabbed your legs and you wrapped them around his hips as he pinned you against the damp shower wall. The sprinter reaffirmed his grip by placing his hands on your thighs and encircling them.

"Are you ready?"-he asked with his pulse racing

You nodded hastily and impatiently, there was no need to ask anything, you just wanted to have it inside of you now. You wrapped your arms around his neck and when you felt his hips loosen inside you, a surge of pleasant electricity ran through your body from head to toe and you opened your mouth in a silent moan. His thrusts were delicate at first but they increased in speed as Peter noticed that the first sensation of pain had disappeared and there was no risk of hurting you. Your body was hitting the wall at a considerable rate but you was enjoying it. Their bodies were drenched in sweat, and not just from the hot water. Your wet hair fell over your shoulders and chest while Peter's fell over his forehead almost covering his eyes. He rose and rose like the temperature, the mirror was fogged up while some of the water fell on Peter's back and torso

God looked so good with his broad back and the raindrops running down his shoulders, it made you feel more feverish. He looked like a maddened bull, his muscles tensed and concentrating on keeping up.

Suddenly Peter threw his head back with his eyes closed and panting he said

"I think I'm about to cum baby"

and said and done with a hoarse growl from Peter you felt the walls of your interior fill with something warm

But he wanted to continue a little more until you did the same so approaching your ear he whispered

"Come on, now cum for me please"-He begged for it like a wounded or helpless animal

Goddamn Maximoff

You closed your eyes and grabbed his hair tightly while our bodies moved frantically up and down like in a fast dance and when you couldn't take it anymore you felt your fluids shoot up.

Maximoff put you back on the ground gently, their bodies felt exhausted and your legs trembled slightly. You turned off the faucet while you two caught your breath and got out of the shower. Peter came out first and wrapped a towel around his hip and held out his hand to help you out as he put on the robe you had come in with.

You finished drying yourself in your room and getting dressed, You expected Peter to do the same but he hadn't brought his clothes. When you pointed it out to him, he ran out of your room even with his robe around his waist. When he ran through the corridors he left small puddles of water. You laughed imagining the poor fool slipping and falling (if Peter hadn't already).

.....

Professor X was walking through the corridors with his wheelchair when he saw a puddle of water in front of him

"How strange, where does this water come from?"

He saw that Hank was coming up behind him and asked him

"Do you happen to know why there are puddles of water all over the hallway?"

"No idea, maybe the janitor forgot to dry the floor"-Hank said casually.

..............................................................................................................................

I leave this and slowly walk away...

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lol-im-done · 8 months

Text

killer queen | joel miller x fem!reader

'Your baseball bat looked like a flash of quicksilver in the air, lethal and swift. Blood splattered across its surface like a Jackson Pollock painting, and you the artist.'

'Joel watched as a wide harlequin smile stretched across your plump lips and it made his stomach drop. The fingers that would gently brush through his curls now pushed into the man’s eye sockets.'

His Killer Queen

tags: smut, unprotected sex, PiV, overprotectiveness, falling in love, comfort & fluff, soft!Joel, intense & explicit descriptions of violence, angst, death/murder, talks of child/infant death, trauma, mention/reference to sexual assault, memory loss, ptsd, age gap, badass reader, swearing, jealousy, limited use of (Y/N), 18+ Minors Do Not Interact!

author's note: hello! i was heavily inspired by this great quote- ‘I don’t believe in the glorification of murder, I do believe in the empowerment of women’ . this is my interpretation of a multifaceted traumatized character in the last of us world. reader is in late her twenties. please read the tags, this is a mature story with upsetting themes!

word count: 6k & AO3 link

Boston QZ

“We can’t make it that far out without-,”

“Tess.”

“Joel.”

The old man watched the standoff with little interest as he puffed away at his cigar, the pair of smugglers before him both equally determined to make each other see reason. They had been going back and forth in a fiery manner, deciding if they could do this job. Tess huffed in annoyance, sometimes she wondered how she put up with Joel Miller. They had only recently decided to take up smuggling after Tommy ran off to join the Fireflies. This run and subsequent trade would help establish them as smugglers in Boston and make the necessary connections.

“You guys scared or something?” Rick, their new contact, chuckled as he exhaled smoke.

Tess shot him a glare, sharp as a knife. “Sorry if I’m not excited to go into what’s been called the most densely populated area of infected asshole.”

Rick put his hands up in mock surrender, “If you’re so worried about the infected, I got someone who can help,” he offered.

“We don’t need help,” Joel snapped, eyebrows furrowing over his eyes at the thought of even having to interact with another person. The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with someone who he didn’t know. No one could be trusted.

“If you want to make it back to the QZ alive you will.”

The finality of Rick’s tone made Tess lean in closer to Joel, speaking in a hushed tone. “We don’t know the area well enough, if this person is going to get us through alive we need that.” Joel, exhausted as he was, had no argument with that so he gave a terse nod in agreement.

“I’ll let her know you’re on your way. She can be a bit of a character, but she’s a nice one....just don’t get on her bad side,” Rick warned before pushing a card with a small map of the QZ drawn in the middle.

That’s how they found themselves waiting for their so-called ‘backup’, faces stoic and eyes narrowed to ensure they showed no signs of weakness. But on the inside Joel’s stomach twisted in nervous knots, anxiety making his fingers tingle as he thought about all the ways this could go wrong. His racing thoughts were interrupted by incoming footsteps, Joel’s hand going to his gun instinctively but it went slack the moment he laid eyes on you.

Today was going to be a good day, you had decided. The water from the shower had actually reached a warm temperature, you had eaten a fresh peach this morning, a gift from your neighbor. The sweet taste had made nostalgia wash over you but you couldn’t quite place the memory which wasn’t much of a surprise. There were no clear memories of your life from before the Outbreak. Occasional flashes accompanied by migraines, a vague concept that you had indeed had a life but no names, locations, only blurred faces. There were only the days and years afterwards. Hoping today would only bring you good fortune and not another injury or scar to add to your collection you hummed under your breath looking forward to the prospect of going outside of the QZ, an opportunity for a new book or knick knack.

Joel wasn’t sure who he was expecting but it wasn’t a woman holding a metal baseball bat, an array of rings adorning your fingers. The early morning sun made you almost glow, the relaxed smile on your face curving the lightning shaped scar that ran from your cheek down to your soft jaw. The first thing you noticed about the man in front of you was his handsome features- proud nose and wild curls that kissed his ears. The plaid shirt he wore stretched across his broad shoulders and his stance exuded power. Then your eyes met his and the sounds of the QZ went quiet around you, the pounding of Joel’s heart no longer from anxiety.

“Rick send you?”

Tess’ interruption was intentional as she stepped in front of Joel, her voice taking a territorial edge. Both you and Joel blinked harshly, snapping back to reality and to the matter at hand.

“Yup,” your eyes flitted over to the woman who looked at you with only suspicion.

“You got a name?” Tess asked. “I’m Tess and this is Joel,” she jerked her thumb over towards where he stood. Joel watched as you twirled your bat in your hand, bouncing it off the ground like a little game before answering- “People call me a lot of things- but I’m mostly known as Quinn. Something about some old comic book character.”

Tess was not impressed by your nonchalant manner, crossing her arms with a grimace. Joel on the other hand saw something different, a quiet confidence in your stance and by the way you held that bat he had a feeling you knew how to use it. It only took you a few seconds to assess them, satisfied by your intuition and the knowledge that you had the upper hand out there you beckoned them forward.

“We don’t want to waste time, let’s get going.”

“Wait, we're going now? We need to plan out the route-,” Tess tried to say.

“You must have looked at the map Rick showed you, right?” you turned to face them, eyebrows quirked upwards.

“We did,” Joel replied. You weren’t prepared for the sound of his rich Southern accent, it threatened to make you blush.

“Then you know where you’re supposed to go. I’m simply the tour guide,” you turned to continue walking, leaving them no choice but to follow. As they made it to what seemed like their main exit out of the QZ they encountered their first obstacle.

A man with a scraggly beard emerged from behind some plywood that covered one of the exits. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Just helping some friends through,” you replied easily.

“You don’t have any friends,” he retorted.

“Haha. You got funnier since the last time I broke your nose,” you grinned and Joel felt his lips twitch in amusement against his will.

“Watch yourself Quinn, you’re lucky Rick gives me a cut or I’d bash your pretty little face in.”

Immediately Joel felt his fists clench up unwittingly at the man’s words and Tess shifted uneasily. In a strangely calm manner you simply pointed your bat at his face- “Do it then.”

Joel felt his heart start to race at the suddenly dangerous tone of your voice, a flash of fear going through the man's eyes. Visibly deflating in defeat he stepped aside, “Keep moving.”

“You’re the best!”

“Fuck you.”

Turning back to Joel and Tess you gave them an enthusiastic thumbs up and they scrambled to follow you, keen to avoid conflict. Tess looked at you a little differently after that interaction, perhaps she had underestimated you. As they continued on Joel found himself trying to memorize every turn, crawl space and opening in fences that you led them through. It took them a while but the three of you had finally made it out into the ruins of the city.

“FEDRA guards won’t usually come past here,” you pointed at two collapsed buildings that leaned against one another. “After this point we’ll find a variety of infected,” you continued to explain before the expression on your face turned serious. “Out here and in the city outskirts there’s bound to be gangs, raiders, people who won’t hesitate to kill you. You guys probably know that by now.”

Even speaking those words you had to force yourself to take a deep breath. Infected you could handle...other people not so much. Joel stiffened at your words, guilt simmering in his stomach so he turned away. “So it's very important that you follow my lead from here on out. I don’t enjoy having to leave people out here.” Tess and Joel shared an uneasy stare at that.

Joel tried his best to mimic your footsteps as you jumped over cordyceps vines, crouching and crawling in a graceful, practiced manner. Soon after that they had found the abandoned pharmacy which had been obviously picked though, but Rick had insisted there were goods to be found.

“Not gonna give us a clue where we can find the stash?” Tess asked, pushing a desk over. Joel looked over at you as you sat on the counter munching on what seemed to be a piece of chocolate.

“I’m just the tour guide,” you reminded them. Joel was actually surprised to see a flicker of mirth on Tess’ face before it became impassive again. It seemed everything was going to plan, the stash of medications was found and they were quietly making their way through a warehouse when an all too familiar click and sound of screeches met their ears- runners and two clickers closing in from either side.

“I’ll leave you two to handle the clickers,” was all you said before you ran head on towards the runners with a determined glint in your eye. Joel and Tess had no chance to protest, guns and hunting knives coming out for the kill.

Joel couldn’t help but stare in wonder once he had finished off the clicker, his heart pounding under his flannel both from the adrenaline and what he was witnessing. Your baseball bat looked like a flash of quicksilver in the air, lethal and swift. Blood splattered across its surface like a Jackson Pollock painting, and you the artist. It wasn’t just the force behind each swing but the agility you seemed to use to bring down each one. The infected that surrounded you didn’t stand a chance as you swung your bat into their knees making them crumple in half before you bashed their heads in with a grunt. He found himself wondering where you had learned how to fight like that while simultaneously entranced by your hair swirling around you like a halo.

It was moments like these that you were transported back to the dark past that haunted you, where you had been forced to fight to the death against other prisoners. Those fighting cages where your captors would toss a few of you into the ring to see who would get bit or torn to bits by the infected that chased after you. Here though, you could fight those memories with every swing of your bat. Screams, blood, screeches, sound of tearing flesh, more blood- you were knocked out of these flashbacks when you rolled backwards, sending your bat clattering to the side. Much to Joel’s surprise he felt a surge of panic for you but with an ease few had, you rolled onto one knee, hand flashing with a knife you procured from a fold in your jacket. The knife went flying through the air and hit the runner dead in the eye sending it crashing to the ground.

Once you regained your balance with a deep breath, you reached where its limp body had landed moving to grab your knife but something else caught your eye. “Nice,” you grinned. “Score!” you waved the copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in the air, before running over to an out of breath Joel and shaken Tess.

“You two good?” you tilted your head, concern evident in your tone. They exchanged a disbelieving look before letting out laughs of relief.

“Yeah we’re good,” Joel sighed wiping the sweat off his forehead.

“Alright then, keep up old man,” you winked at Joel, missing the glare Tess sent you.

That should have been the end of it, they had secured a connection into the smuggling sector of Boston and made it back alive thanks to you. Tess had offered you a few ration cards upon your return but you simply waved your book insisting it was payment enough. You were a character alright, Joel thought. As the weeks went on the image of you fighting wouldn’t leave his mind. The juxtaposition of your soft smile, playful smirk, and violent display of skill replayed in his mind as he repeated the mindless tasks at his job site. There was a small sense of disappointment he desperately tried to ignore when you hadn’t joined them on another run but to his luck he began to encounter you on the occasional work assignment and daily life. He wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. He noticed that you tended to isolate yourself from the majority of the population, but everytime you approached him you seemed to genuinely want to engage in conversation. Had it been anyone else he would have told them to fuck off or sent them running with his signature glare. It had been your never ending supply of smiles and tangents on the most random of topics that began to soften his attitude towards you. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to his quiet nature, there were so many emotions lurking in his eyes and old smile lines that made you feel at ease. Somewhere in between your lively chatter and his occasional grunts of acknowledgement you had become friends. It wasn’t a partnership based on trades or acquaintanceship by sheer happenstance, you enjoyed spending time with him and Joel actually liked you.

Joel knew he was treading dangerous ground when he felt an unfamiliar sensation of warmth in his chest when you’d call him ‘cowboy’ once he revealed he was from Texas. He would never voice these feelings, especially to Tess who he felt himself becoming more distant with. While the terms of their relationship were clear, sex between them had once been quite regular but ever since meeting you he couldn’t bring himself to think about that with Tess and it quickly tapered off. She voiced no opinion or objection on the matter even though she knew precisely why, both of them now focusing solely on smuggling. Joel thought that the no strings attached type of relationship was the only thing he would ever allow himself but every minute spent with you made his heart yearn for more. It terrified him and thrilled him in equal measure.

Against his better judgment he found himself asking others about you, discreetly of course and under the guise that he needed to know more about a potential smuggling partner. Joel Miller understood loss; painful, world shattering loss that left one roaming the earth like a tortured soul. He also understood that in this new world, everyone would be forced to do things they’d never imagine doing, unimaginable things. None of this prepared him for what he learned. It was undisputed that you were a successful smuggler, that you were a force to be reckoned with inside and out of the QZ. While many would say you had a penchant for violence, they could concede that you had some semblance of a moral code. This was clouded by the stories that followed behind you like a trail of smoke. Someone swore they had seen you fight your way through more than a dozen infected with just your silver bat and sheer will to survive, bathed in blood and gore. Others claimed you were prone to bouts of hysteria, going into blind rampages that had resulted in you killing some people in the last QZ you lived in. Some even claimed to know of stories of you as far back as the start of the Outbreak - “Heard she started to lose it after having to kill her own sister and brother when they got bit. Then she got captured by some slavers…you know how that went. Must have been enough since she sliced all their guts open. Left them out like some deranged warning.” The stories only became more callous after that- “Got pregnant…not by choice of course. She killed it after it was born.”

Joel never gave these stories much merit, people liked to make up stories since they had nothing better to do. The only one he could believe was you taking on all those infected, he had seen it himself. That all began to change after one night. Side by side you walked through the busy street, stifling back a yawn. You leaned closer to him as you told him about your day but something made you freeze mid sentence. Joel stumbled into you with an apology on the tip of his tongue until he followed your gaze. The soft babble of the baby, a flash of a memory- Sarah swaddled in his arms the night she was born, made his heart lurch. Babies were a rarity these days, not many were born in the QZ and even fewer survived. When he regained his senses he looked around to find you but you had disappeared. Following his instinct he found himself in a dark alleyway around the corner where he heard heaving sobs. There you were, arms wrapped around yourself and leaning against the wall as you shook from the panic that overtook your body. Before he could stop himself Joel had you in his arms, his strong arms anchoring your body.

“I- I- my baby--,” you choked out incoherently, hands clutching your stomach as phantom pain engulfed your body and flashbacks made your head pound. It was a curse that your mind could not wash away the terrible memories of her loss like it had washed away the memories of your past life. Her birth was your biggest joy and her death was your greatest sorrow, one that had left you on the brink of madness. Slowly the drag of Joel’s calloused hands along your back began to bring you out of it, the flow of tears slowing and breathes returning to normal.

“I know darlin’ I know,” Joel sighed against your temple, the term of endearment coming out naturally. He didn’t need to know exactly what had happened but now he understood. Tears gathered in his own eyes at the thought that you had gone through the same pain he felt after losing Sarah. Tethered by this shared loss, you stood there wrapped together in a blanket of grief. Burrowing yourself deeper into his arms you felt real comfort for the first time in years.

The following day he spotted you in front of your apartment building, your eyes still red rimmed and vulnerable. He was uncertain of the way to approach you and when you caught his eye you bit your lip overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze. Eventually you tilted your heads towards a small bench nearby. After last night it was clear that something shifted in your relationship, what was a friendship was now on the precipice of becoming something else entirely. Something the two of you were not entirely sure how to approach.

“Quinn-,”

“(Y/N). My name is (Y/N).”

Joel felt his heart skip a beat, emotion filling his chest and in return for the precious gift of your name, he grasped your cheek not caring who saw. He audibly gulped, struggling to put together these newfound feelings into words, so utterly terrified of messing it all up.

“I don’t know how this will go. I can’t promise you that the QZ will always be safe, but I will be by your side and do everything I can to protect you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Fuck. I realize I can’t control anything and that’s why I’ve been so scared of getting closer to you but I want to try, try for us,” Joel finished.

“I’m by your side, always,” you whispered back. A press of your forehead against his sealed this promise. There was no denying it, you were truly, madly and deeply in love with Joel Miller.

The next few weeks went by as normal as normal could be for you and Joel. Days spent on trade runs, evenings wrapped in each other's arms or swaying to the sound of your eclectic record collection. He had even introduced you to Bill and Frank one weekend, wanting you to experience the delicacy of their cooking and the soft cotton sheets even if for one night. But normalcy never lasted forever. Not for you. Joel waited at your usual table at DeMarco’s bar, Tess shuffling cards beside him with a cigarette dangling from her lips. She didn’t even bother to start a conversation, saving her gossip for your impending arrival. Joel was beginning to get restless, wanting nothing more than to have you close to his side with a hand gripping your waist like a dragon coveting his treasure. He knew you enjoyed this, a smirk always gracing your features as he stared down anyone he caught eyeing you. The bell above the door let out its usual jingle but there was no dazzling smile or off kilter attempt at a joke. Tempestuous was the only way to properly describe the tight frown of your mouth, emotionless eyes and aura of danger. Anyone in your vicinity scattered hoping they were not the object of your ire. Joel managed to intercept you as you made your way towards the back of the bar, trying to whisper your name but it didn’t seem to register.

“I know what they say about me,” you whispered, not able to meet his eyes. “They say I’m a monster, that I’m demented, but there’s worse out there…the ones who made me into this.”

“Sweetheart what’s going on-.”

“I have to finish this.”

As if in a trance you slipped from his grasp, grabbing an empty beer bottle from a table, cracks beginning to stretch across its neck. There was only one thought in your mind, one purpose- to make him pay. Joel watched as you walked towards a man whose face morphed into sheer terror once he saw the bottle swinging towards his head. People jumped at the sound of shattering glass and the pained cries from the man made the hairs on Joel’s arm stand straight up. Joel tried to reach you but your words- I have to finish this and Tess’ grip on him kept him at bay. Taking advantage of your target’s shock you swung your fist at his face, relishing in the resounding crack. He cursed before sending a punch to your cheek that made your face whip sideways resulting in a violent struggle on top of one of the tables. Eventually you both rolled to the ground ignoring the sting of glass that pressed into your knees. You clutched his shirt in your hands to ground yourself for a moment. There was no doubt it was him, the man who haunted your dreams, the only one that had escaped you.

“I thought- ugh- you were dead,” he choked out as blood spilled out of his mouth and you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you.

“I wish I was Travis but yet here I am,” you leaned closer. “I knew you were out there somewhere surviving like some roach. After I finished off your little friends-,”

“You slaughtered them-,” he tried to protest, another punch to his face shutting him up. In this moment all you felt was unbridled rage, all you could see before you was the man that had imprisoned and tortured you for years. Here was one of the men that had robbed you of any chance at a normal existence.

“Do you understand what you put me through?” you hissed, digging your fingers into his neck feeling the muscles constrict as he desperately tried to suck in oxygen. “You and those fucking slavers destroyed the person I was. Made me kill other fucking people for your sick entertainment,” you pressed harder into his neck. A sudden flashback made you shudder- the contractions, all the blood, your screams of pain before her first breaths.

“Then you took her from me, you made me kill my daughter. You thought you were a fucking saint for that, that it was a mercy letting me smother her instead of leaving her out in the blizzard.” Joel had managed to inch closer and it gave him the ability to hear every detail, his heart shattered at your words. It all became clear, the pieces of your tragic past falling together.

“Stupid crazy bitch,” Travis managed to choke out.

“I’m not fucking stupid!” you roared, giving him a rough shake. Travis’ pathetic whimpers were like music to your ears, satisfaction filled you as you watched tears pool in his eyes before cascading over his pale skin.

“No- no don’t cry,” you cooed, smoothing your fingers across his eyelids. Joel watched as a wide harlequin smile stretched across your plump lips and it made his stomach drop. The fingers that would gently brush through his curls now pushed into the man’s eye sockets. A buzzing sound rang in your ears, drowning out the ear splitting scream of your abuser as you squeezed tighter and tighter. This went on and on until his body went limp beneath you, hands now soaked in crimson blood. Distantly you could hear the sound of someone vomiting, chairs screeching as people ran out of the bar in case FEDRA showed up. You didn’t even seem to register Joel as you stood up with a sigh. Tess pushed past the nausea she felt, gripping Joel’s arm trying to get them out of there but his eyes were latched onto you unable to look away. Taking a seat at a nearby table you took a demure sip of water, hand relaxed at your side with blood pooling down onto the ground. As if nothing had ever happened you began to hum along to the song that came from the jukebox.

She’s a killer queen

Gunpowder, gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Guaranteed to blow your mind

Motherfucker got his mind blown alright.

“Go, we’ll handle this and get her home,” the owner, Mr. DeMarco frantically pushed Joel and Tess out of the door before locking it tightly behind them.

“Let’s go!” Tess cried and left with no choice; he let her drag him off.

Back at Tess’ apartment, they sat at the table, statuesque in their silence as they processed what they had witnessed.

“I don’t get it,” Tess finally spoke, running a hand through her hair.

“What don’t you get?”

“How you can want her,” Tess replied coldly. Joel’s head snapped towards her, indignation filling him to the brim. “Look I get it we’re not perfect, no one is. We’re all fucked up, but she’s-,”.

“Don’t say another fucking word-” Joel growled, pointing his finger at her in warning.

“She’s twisted. Broken and twisted back into something barely human.”

Joel felt anger surge through his body at Tess’ words, the same ones so many others had said about you. None of them truly knew you or what you had been through, none of them had any right to judge you.

“I'm sorry to say it Joel but someone has to.”

“You ain’t sorry about shit. You’re just like everyone else, thinking she’s crazy-,”

“She is! She’s not even afraid of dying! She practically welcomes it with open arms,” Tess slammed her hand on the table.

“I’m not going to keep listening to this bullshit Tess. You don’t know her like I do. I know who she is,” Joel growled.

“Does she even know what she is? At least I know what I am. I don’t put on this mask of sweet smiles before I go off and squish a man’s head in,” she snapped.

“That is who she is, Tess. Don’t you get it? You think it’s some mask? A way to deceive people? You’re more blind than I thought,” Joel hissed. How could he explain to Tess that there was humanity in your hands that were bathed in blood? How could he put into words that for the first time since he had lost everything, he had found someone who truly saw him. Sending her a final glare he stood up and went out to find you hoping he hadn’t lost you.

True to his word, Mr. DeMarco had somehow gotten you to your apartment. Guilt constricted Joel’s chest, he felt like a coward for allowing them to push him out and then running away from the bar, from you. Using the spare key you had gifted him he entered and there you lay limp on your bed, the blood from your hands staining the sheets beneath you. He knew there was no use in trying to get a word out of you, your eyes were open but there was nothing behind them. With care he didn’t know he still possessed he spent the next hour cleaning you up and tending to your wounds. Diligently he fished out the pieces of glass from your knees with a practiced hand. Joel made sure to ply you with plenty of water before getting you under the spray of the shower, careful to avert his eyes from your naked form. As he finished wrapping your bruised hands, the light slowly returned to your eyes as you lay swaddled in a blanket next to, pressing closer to him.

“I’ll tell you that story one day. Not tonight but soon. I’ll tell you about the people who took me, what they did to me, what I did to them. Then I’ll tell you about her.”

Joel jumped in surprise not expecting to hear your voice tonight. There was no evidence in your tone that you were upset with him but a knot formed in his throat regardless.

“Darling I’m so fucking sorry-,”.

“Don’t- Joel you have nothing to be sorry for,” you stopped him, getting up on your knees so that you were eye level with him. “I had to do that, there was no choice for me. The best thing you could have done was to let me do it and you did,” you whispered. The blanket that was once wrapped around you was beginning to slip from your shoulders.

“I shouldn’t have left you there alone,” he hung his head.

“It was safer for you to leave if FEDRA had shown up. The DeMarco’s handled it though so I think we owe them,” you tilted his chin up. “Probably need to replace Manny DeMarco’s jacket, left a bunch of blood on him when he carried me back here,” you whispered, relishing in the flash of surprise in Joel’s eyes. His hands traveled up to your hips, squeezing the flesh there.

“He carried you?”

Joel knew that Manny, Mr. DeMarco’s son, had harbored a crush on you for as long as they had frequented the bar and the thought of another man carrying you made jealousy churn in his stomach.

“I know what you’re thinking Joel, but my act of vengeance probably scared him off for good poor kid,” you chuckled before your eyes filled with uncertainty. “Did I scare you off?” you whispered. Joel gripped you tighter, eyebrows furrowing in incredulity.

“Scare me off? Baby no, fuck I was scared shitless watching you fight but I ain’t ever leaving your side. I promised you that and nothing you did changes that,” Joel presses you closer to him, your breasts pressing against his chest. The blanket was now slipping into dangerous territory and something began to simmer low in your stomach at his voice. The emotional weight of his words and reassurance of his love made you certain of this next step.

“Joel,” you beg, hands clutching at his shoulders.

The breathlessness of your voice, the way you shimmy the blanket off revealing yourself to him makes Joel’s mind go blank. He had always been intentional in making sure he never pushed your boundaries, the furthest thing you had welcomed was a deep kiss. Now his eyes roam over your body appreciating every curve, freckle, birthmark he can spot. Carefully his fingers trace the old scars, evidence of everything you battled in your life. He kisses a particularly rough one, an old brand mark over your rib making your eyes glisten with tears.

“I haven’t- not since-,” you stammered, shaking those memories from your head.

“I know,” Joel whispered, wishing he could find all those men who had hurt you and make them pay but he knew that you had already finished the job. You, his beautiful brave girl.

“We don’t have to do any of this you know,” Joel whispered, hand coming to your cheek, stroking your lightning mark as he calls it.

“I never had a choice with them and before the outbreak…I don’t remember if I even had any of this. But I want this, I want you. Please,” you assured him. That’s all Joel needed, hands coming to roam across your ass before rocking your soaked core across his clothed cock. The act made your head spin, wetness gushing out of you and nipples hardening. Before you could plead for more, Joel had carefully maneuvered you onto your back careful not to aggravate your wounds. Your mouth opened in wonder as he quickly removed his clothes before coming to hover over you. Joel hoped you weren’t disappointed in him but by the way you licked your lips hungrily any self consciousness disappeared. He wanted nothing more than to take his time with you, but you were making it clear you did not have the patience for that today.

“Darlin’ let me at least open you up,” Joel kissed down your neck and you squirmed before nodding quickly. His thick fingers prodded at your entrance, your hips coming down to grind down on them. Joel cursed under his breath as he slipped one in before your greedy cunt practically begged for another finger, your cries mingling with his ragged breaths. Finally he felt you were prepared enough so he withdrew his fingers and aligned his hips to yours making you whine.

“Inside me please.”

Joel moaned loudly into your ear as his cock pressed into you, giving you time to adjust as your cunt stretched to fit him in. He grasped the base of his length to keep himself from finishing too quickly at the sight of your head thrown back in pleasure, a keening cry escaping your swollen lips.

“Fuckin hell baby,” Joel groaned before you pull him down for a bruising kiss. This was the most intimate you had ever been with someone, his forehead pressed against yours with every roll of his hips as he pushes deeper and deeper. The bed is thumping rhythmically against the wall, the lewd sound of your wetness and combined moans filling the air. Joel felt himself nearing his climax, so his thumb goes to rub your clit in tight motions making your back arch. It only takes a few more minutes of this before you gasp as if dunked into icy water. With a cry of his name your walls flutter around him practically choking his cock, delicious heat spreading across your body as your orgasm overtakes you. Joel barely has time to pull out, groaning as his come spills across your stomach making you moan at the eroticism of the act. You don’t think you’ve seen Joel so relaxed a smile overtaking his features which makes you blush.

“I love you (Y/N).”

“I love you Joel.”

Joel is dutiful as he cleans you, peppering your skin in soft kisses, and soon he is back in bed behind you. As your heartbeats settle there is a peaceful silence in the room, even the apartment building was void of its usual distractions. Moonlight washes over your naked bodies like a blanket, illuminating your sweaty skin. You thought you were imagining it at first but then the soft rumble behind you turned into words. It was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, Joel was singing to you. His voice was like velvet tickling against your ears, the warmth of his hands relaxing your body until you drifted off into the ocean of dreams.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou smut #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x y/n

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harrowharks-iliac-crest · 17 days

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The Nine Houses

Worldbuilding/Lore

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The Nine Houses refer to planets, named, presumably, in order of colonisation. I'm befuddled as to which one is which planet, if we're going on the assumption that this is the solar system. This is what I've extrapolated from reading:

First is Earth.

Second is most likely Mars - gathered from the fighting energy of its house, proximity to Earth and viability for terraforming, and also this:

"[...]Each Beast is different. I have fought numerous now, and each Beast is quite unlike any other … Number Two spewed quicksilver and remade itself into hundred-foot spikes. Number Six kept sucking us into enormous sphincters and spraying us with worms. I cannot even remember what it looked like. I remember Number Four … it was a humanoid creature with a beautiful face who held me under the water, and it spoke in a lovely voice but it only repeated, die, die—and I recall Number One as a great and incoherent machine … when I saw it I thought it had a great tail, and a thousand broken pillars on its back, but Cassiopeia saw it as a mechanical monster with swords for wings, and great horns of myelin, tessellated over with graves.” It was the Saint of Duty who said, restlessly: “Number Eight was a giant head.” “Finned like a fish,” said Augustine, lost in reverie. “Its ribs were bloody bandages, and its teeth protruded through its own skull, tangled about its face like a nest. It was red, and it had a single eye of green that moved all about the body …"

Metal-related appearance, from the planet notoriously rusty.

Actually, this passage describing the Resurrection Beasts - revenants of the planets - was the thing that got me into trying to assign planets to Houses based on, mostly, vibes.

Forth could be Venus, based on this passage alone. I could easily be wrong.

Sixth is Mercury I reckon. In the epilogue of HtN the setting is described as very hot - close to Dominicus. I reread it now and I don't think it's ever mentioned to be set on the Sixth, in fact parts of it actively contradict that assumption, but somehow I seem to have gotten that into my head anyway? But even so, Sixth is described as the one closest to Dominicus - notably this passage:

The Emperor dropped to his haunches and eased the white robe off Mercy’s dead shoulders. He shrugged his naked body into it—coyly pulling it closed—and he stretched his jaw in his mouth, and wriggled the tip of his newly grown nose. “Right,” he said, and closed his eyes briefly. Then he said, “The sun has stabilized. Hope the Sixth House didn’t get cooked in the flare.”

This to me pretty much confirmed the Sixth as Mercury.

Eighth, in the above passage about the Resurrection Beasts, is described in ways that immediately make me picture Jupiter. Red, a single eye of green moving all over the body? Ribs were bloody bandages? A "giant head" - Jupiter, in Roman mythology was the king of the gods? Am I way off the mark here?

And Ninth is Pluto, furthest from the sun, cold and desolate. And solid. (How are they pulling off living on gas giants?)

This leaves the Third, Fifth, Seventh houses to be matched with Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. At a loss, still, for how gas giants are supposed to be colonised. The general infrastructure of the pre- and post-resurrection world/Empire has me asking questions like, where do they get the materials to build starships and feed their officers? Metal and plastic seem abundant. In terms of food we've mostly seen snow leeks, Canaan House and the Mithraeum, all of which are probably exceptional to what a regular House person eats. There is some talk of John's expansion and colonising efforts, so do they just go to random planets - are there aliens in this universe? (Is Alecto one?) So the Empire is expanding, mining colonised planets for ore and oil to turn into plastic - though that would indicate a lot of life on a lot of these planets, so I'm gonna guess that whatever happens to those planets isn't kind to the native flora, fauna and people.

Of course, there's always the option that this isn't meant to be the planets at all, and even if it was, it might be a lot more metaphorical. Or just actually a completely different world to ours, not the solar system at all. (Though there's many explicit and implicit pop culture references which would indicate the First to truly be Earth, so we're sticking with this theory.)

Are they actually on the planets - we haven't seen any planets other than First, and Ninth, arguably big exceptions; the Epilogue seems to be set on a moon of some kind, after a more thorough reread. The Actual Planets are dead, or rather resurrected, with their revenants on the hunt. Could be that the Houses do stand for the planets, and some people might be living on (or near) the actual planets, but a lot of people are actually living away from the solar system entirely - born into "Houses" far from the sun, into the Emperor's war machine. It's hard to tell.

Either way, I'm not gonna assign any more planets now until I know more.

>> Next: The Resurrection

#does this count as liveblog? i'll tag it as if it does for now #tlt liveblog #tlt theories #the locked tomb #tlt #no nona the ninth spoilers please #the locked tomb liveblog #tlt spoilers #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth

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whiteredrose13 · 6 months

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So, I haven't written fanfic in a long time, and it's been even longer since I've posted it. But, oh my god, this fucking AU--

Do you know how long it's been since a piece of media has captivated my ADHD brain into doing more than drawing or just thinking about it really hard?? And then for an offshoot of that media to rot my brain just as badly??

Anyway, all this to say, @somerandomdudelmao I love your AU and I literally cannot stop thinking about it, it's consumed my waking thoughts. Donnie and Leo's reunion has me in a death grip.

(Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors, wrote this on my phone with very little sleep.)

Donnie is going to kill him all over again when this is over.

Mumbling, cursing, Donatello walks the surface of the spiritual lake, stray drops of glowing blue falling up around him. It's been hours. At least, it feels like it's been hours. Donnie knows time dilation is one hell of a drug, that what feels like hours to him may only be minutes–seconds, even–to anyone on the outside. He also knows that he's never had an ounce of patience for pointless tedium in his life, which is really not helping. That does not, however, negate the fact that his feet hurt, and it's fucking cold, and no matter how far he walks there's no sign of Leo–

Stubborn, selfless, reckless, candle-in-the-wind, dum-dum Leonardo!

Of course he'd be the hardest to resurrect! Donatello isn't sure why he had expected otherwise. His twin has always been the most grating individual he's ever met; Leo lived to spite him. It only makes sense that he'd make Donnie jump through hoop after hoop to save him. First his soul being barely more than an ember, weak against even the barest breath and aggravatingly flighty, and now this.

Growling, Donnie hunches slightly, staring ahead into the endless distance.

“Leo!” He screams, the sound echoing far and forever in the void. “Leo, you moron, where the hell are you?!”

Leo doesn't answer. Donnie pretends this doesn't scare him. He leans into the anger, letting the heat of it push him forward, urge him on. He can't be afraid. He's done this before, he's pulled their brothers from death's icy grip, given them a second chance. It's worked perfectly, up til now, and it's going to keep working despite Leonardo's attempts at driving Donnie insane.

Donnie's feet hit the lake harder as he stomps on, and on, and on, eyes darting frantically around for a shadow, a flicker, a sign, something. He calls for Leo until his voice is hoarse. Until his feet are so far past numb he's circled around to feeling them again.

Until Donatello realizes he can feel something under his feet.

He thinks it's the numbness creeping back in again, turning his nerves fuzzy and oversensitive (it wouldn't be the first time). But, no, he realizes, as something pushes up from underneath. Donnie stops dead. So does the thing below.

No. Not a thing.

Sparks flare to life at the back of his brain, familiar yet faint. It's a ghost of that feeling, the connecting thread between him and his other half, that twin sense Leo never shut up about and Donnie always maintained had no scientific evidence to prove. Donatello hasn't felt it since the day he died. Yet, tremulous though it may be, it's here now, bidding him to stop.

The breath vanishes from his lungs as he looks down.

There, amidst the quicksilver finish of the lake, is–

“Leo!”

His brother looks up at him. Or rather, looks up through him. Leo doesn't seem to recognize him. He stares, still as stone. Their twin sense fills with static. Donnie feels sick to his stomach. Clenching his hands, Donnie takes a steadying breath. Pressure begins to build behind his eyes. He's there, he's right there, but he still feels so far away. Donnie wonders for a moment if it's really Leo he's seeing down there.

“I miss you, Leo,”he says, though he's not sure why.

Leo copies him, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Curious. When Donnie moves, so does he, a perfect reflection, right down to the tilt of his head. Donatello kneels. So does Leo. He presses his hands against the glassy surface of the lake. So does Leo. He blocks Donnie, no matter how he moves, keeping himself on his side and Donnie on his. Just like all those games they'd play when they were hatchlings. Donnie hated those games then. He hates them even more in this moment, because on top of being annoying, now he's actively preventing Donnie from doing anything to save him.

“You are not making it easier, you know,”Donatello hisses, irritation replacing fascination.

Gritting his teeth, Donnie presses harder against the water, feeling the tension begin to give way under his right hand. The hand, he notes, Leonardo is missing.

There's nothing to block him there.

Reeling back, Donatello's fist hits the surface with enough force to send shards of glassy cerulean flying. It sinks further down, but not enough to get through. Leo's interference again, he knows. After staving off the sweet oblivion of death for so many years, fighting a decade-and-a-half in a losing battle, he's tired. Leo doesn't want to leave. He's supposed to be here, resting. This is home. That's what the twin sense tells him.

“It's not home,”Donnie grunts, punching the ice again. “Home-” Punch. “Is waiting-” Punch. “For you-” Punch. “Right here!”

Blessedly, Donatello's hand breaks through the icy surface. It's fucking freezing. Painful cold jolts up Donnie's arm into his shoulder, the shock nearly shutting down his nerves. He pushes through. He forces his arm deeper in, willing his fingers to move and close around Leonardo's scarf. Donnie's knuckles turn a startlingly light mint with the strength of his grip.

And he pulls.

He drags Leo, his twin, his brother, the other half of his soul, up and up from the depths of the water. The current shifts beneath his feet, waves lashing against his legs as it threatens to pull both him and Leonardo back under. Still, he keeps pulling. Donnie grimaces at the sharp sting of frost. Leo mimics him.

“Come here, you dumbass!”

Leo sneers up at Donnie. Rain pelts his skin, icy droplets pouring up in a deluge strong enough to nearly knock Donatello off his feet.

“You're coming with me and that's not up for discussion!"

The lake wants to take them both. It didn't want to let go of Leo, and now it thinks it can bring Donatello down with him if it tries. What it doesn't know is that the only thing that can stop Donatello is Donatello. He didn't come this far to give up now.

He didn't fight and claw and rage against all known laws of the universe to come back without his brother.

Both hands close around Leo's scarf. Then his shoulders, his sides, until Donnie's arms are under his, gripping tight around his shell. Donatello slams his foot against the lake for leverage, hauling Leo free of the water's frigid embrace.

“FUCK YOU, DEATH! I'M TAKING HIM!”

The water ripples in reply, and suddenly, it lets go. Gravity shifts. Everything tilts, sending the brothers spinning, dizzy, up–down?–into the dark.

Through it all, Donatello keeps hold of Leonardo's hand.

He made the mistake of letting go once. He's not about to make it again.

#rottmnt #cass fic tag #donatello #leonardo #rise of the tmnt #tcest dni #disaster twins #cass apocalyptic series #cass apocalypse au #update: I have a TMNT blog now! its theseweroff19th

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rayan12sworld · 3 months

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💙A Thousand Things

By:tickertape

Summary:

Wei Ying can’t find his words. “What would I do in Gusu?”

The man’s mouth quirks in what Wei Ying cannot interpret as anything but a tiny, smug smirk. “Learn.”

Wei Ying has made a fine life for himself. He’s got his jiejies and his talismans; he doesn’t need anyone’s charity. But spending a whole year in Gusu? That’s hard to turn down.

Chapter:11/11

Words:108,237

Status:completed

(Wei Ying isn't adopted by Jiangs)

...Lan Qiren has been a teacher for many years; he’s seen his share of naturally gifted students. Wei Ying, the scruffy, arrogant, waspish boy from the marketplace, is something altogether different. He watches from a distance as his nephew and Wei Ying sit together at a table in the library, discussing a text on advanced meditation techniques. Wei Ying is slovenly, completely slouched over the book, gesticulating wildly. The end of his brush is gnawed on, his fingers ink-stained. His words are rapid, too loud. His hair is a mess. Wangji is watching him like he hung the moon. Despite himself, Lan Qiren also finds his gaze gravitating repeatedly towards the bright spark that has the usual Cloud Recesses balance spinning off-kilter. There’s something about him that’s difficult to look away from. Something familiar. His smile, his laugh, and something in the way he moves his hands as he writes. It sparks something deep in Lan Qiren’s memory. It isn’t until he watches him spar that suddenly things click into clearer focus. His quicksilver motions, instinctive and foxlike. Cangse Sanren.

he will know of his parents one day; Lan Qiren could not deprive him of that. But just for this year, he wants to watch and see. He could not articulate it if he tried, but he watched his brother be destroyed by their sect’s rules and agendas. He has seen good men dig their own righteous graves, and callous men abuse the integrity of others. Wei Ying has come from nothing, as far as he or the world knows, and to go from that to bearing the weight of all that came before him is more than Lan Qiren would wish on anybody. So when Jiang Fengmian visits to discuss trade treaties, Lan Qiren does not tell him. When he marvels at their new disciple’s capabilities in the field, Lan Qiren does not tell him. When he mentions blithely over dinner that the boy seems almost familiar, Lan Qiren does not tell him. He has a sense that, no matter how much his old friend may think himself balanced and impartial, the desire to guard and guide Cangse Sanren’s son would prove too much for him. It would just lock Wei Ying in the same cage of well-intended but misplaced expectations. Lan Qiren has been a teacher for many years; he’s seen his share of naturally gifted students, and he’s seen his share of tragedies, both the preventable and the inexorable. Wei Ying, the scruffy, arrogant, remarkable boy with too many ideas and too much heart, has the potential to be something altogether different. To watch how high he can soar without a tether, if just for the moment— it might be something to behold.

~~~ wow he really didn't tell him

Wei Ying makes it all the way to Destroy the five poisons before he can’t concentrate any more. He drops his brush onto the table with a clatter, exhaling loudly. “Trouble with the precepts, Lan Zhan?” Lan Zhan freezes, his eyes still cut towards Wei Ying. He gently lowers his brush onto the stand and adjusts his sleeves. “You… seem upset.” Wei Ying fights the urge to just punch himself in the face. “I’m tired.” This just sends Lan Zhan’s brows furrowing lower. “You didn’t come to the jingshi.” “I was out.” “Are you having difficulty sleeping due to nightma—” “No.” Wei Ying jolts the table, sending his brush tumbling to the floor. “And even if I was, it’s not your job to— to make me sleep, or whatever.” He breathes out hard through his nose, aiming for ‘calm’ and probably missing by about a thousand lǐ. Lan Zhan’s properly frowning now. “Wei Ying—” “Drop it, Lan Zhan. Finish your work.” But he doesn’t return to his text. “Wei Ying, whatever is upsetting you—” Yesterday’s hurt flares up in him in a burst. Lan Zhan’s words; It’s not about his conduct. It is about him. He does not belong here. Wei Ying grips the wooden table in front of him, trying not to raise his voice. “—is my business.” He finishes for him through gritted teeth. Lan Zhan reaches for him; too close, too much, too little, and that’s the last straw. Wei Ying slaps his hand away, the smack resounding loud and sharp in the stiff silence of the library.

~~ 🫠

“Wei Ying.” Ah, there he is. Wei Ying is pretty sure he’s heard his name spoken more times today than ever before. “Lan Zhan.” He responds dryly. There’s no response for a few breaths, and Wei Ying risks a glance. Lan Zhan’s dark hair is damp, curling at the ends, and there are tiny droplets of shining water caught on his eyelashes. He really seems like a jade sculpture. Unfairly beautiful. Lan Zhan worries at his lip, and Wei Ying watches that, too. “I have upset you.” He says, finally. Wei Ying exhales, breath furling out before him like dragon smoke. He wants to be angry. There’s so much burning up in him, but...Maybe Lingxin is right. “Yeah. Yes. You have.”

Lan Zhan nods, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the water between them. “I... admit that I do not know what I did, or have done. But I am sorry.” Wei Ying doesn’t know what to say— how much to say. “Thanks,” feels safest. Because no matter how good the advice was, he doesn’t want to talk about it. He just wants Lan Zhan to unsay it, unfeel it. Cold, fierce tension runs through him in jitters, locking his jaw painfully tight. Wanting is pointless. Lan Zhan did say those things. No amount of misinterpretation can make that an untruth. He turns away to hide his face, which he can feel contorting with emotion. He doesn’t want to think about this any more. But then Lan Zhan’s voice comes from beside him, painfully tentative. “Was— was it our conversation at the inn? Did I misspeak about your intentions towards cultivation?” Fuck. Lan Zhan had been so gentle with him on the balcony, more than he had needed to be towards someone putting such unnecessary strain on his life. Wei Ying shakes his head, feeling the corners of his mouth wobble. The cold is beginning to feel stifling. He needs to go to bed. “Was it about coming home?” Wei Ying’s heart clenches in his chest. He whips around, furious tears welling in his eyes. “Home?” He says, voice strained. “What home, Lan Zhan? You said I didn’t belong here.” Lan Zhan looks stricken. His eyes go wide. “I—” “I heard you speaking to your brother. Wei Ying is not a Lan. He will never be one. He doesn’t belong here. I heard you.” Lan Zhan stares, mouth agape. Wei Ying can’t stop. “It’s only until the conference, Wangji! I can’t— why? It’s one thing to feel like that, but to— to—?” He flails his arms, trying to find his point. “Just tell me that you think I’m worthless, that you hate me. It would have been easier.” His words break off with a crack, and he slams a fist into the water. Icy droplets splash miserably onto his face. He sniffs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. The night sits still and frigid and still around them. It drains the last of Wei Ying’s anger, and he sinks into himself, feeling hollow and… sad. He’s sad. Hurt. He wants things to go back to the way they were.

~~~😭😭

“You kissed me.” In a whisper, barely leaving his tongue: “We kissed.” Lan Zhan freezes, and Wei Ying can hear the way his breath catches in his chest. The way the hand resting over his tenses. Shit. Shit, he’s ruined it. He has to backtrack— “It was silly, I—” “No.” Wei Ying bites his tongue with how hard his jaw snaps shut. “Not silly.” Lan Zhan says, and it comes out a bit choked. He seems to be scrabbling for words. His Lan Zhan, scrabbling. “I— I had thought I dreamt it.” Wei Ying feels time stop. Feels his world tilt a little bit, as Lan Zhan gazes imploringly at him. “It would not have been the first time.” And then, all in one breath, like it takes everything in him: “Kissing you is all I have ever wished to do, since we first met.” The air seems to leave the room in one big rush, taking the breath from Wei Ying’s lungs with it. Lan Zhan wanted to… kiss him? Lan Zhan wanted to kiss him. Has been wanting. Just like Wei Ying has been wanting. Except longer. Longer, Wei Ying realises as he watches the tense line of his brow and mouth, the dark intensity of his golden eyes as they search his face. Lan Zhan wanted to kiss him the night of the festival. And before. “All this time?” He whispers. Lan Zhan gives the faintest nod. He’s so beautiful. Even nervous, even when he’s radiating apprehension. Lan Zhan has been wanting. He’s been staring at Wei Ying’s mouth right back. Like Wei Ying, he’s been wondering how the wine would taste shared between their tongues, how his hands would feel reaching underneath Wei Ying’s robe, touching his bared skin. Heat rushes through him; a dam bursting over shallow fields, dancing over his body in goosebumps. Wei Ying parts his lips to call out for him, but Lan Zhan is already there, barely a breath away. He’s there and his face is so close that Wei Ying can smell him. Sandalwood and cool, clean linen. And a new note; deeper, muskier.

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xappetites · 5 months

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sort of a continuation of this w/Frank and fBell

Frank is no stranger to barbershop banter, he might not spend all that time in town, even when he’s home, but he’s been getting semi regular post-mission cuts here for long enough to be counted as a regular.

So he doesn’t really mind the ribbing, his barber poking fun at how he should let his hair grow out like the youngins do, and he’ll throw in a perm for free. That is until the grocer down the street, currently getting his beard trimmed, makes an off hand comment about Bell.

“Doesn’t seem like the missus would be a fan, though.”

And it isn’t like Frank’s fucking bothered, it’s just this is the first time he thinks of the situation with Bell —living in his house and sleeping in his bed, making his coffee and strong arming her way into paying at least the electricity bill— as something that might stick. And he needs a minute to sort through the ache in his chest.

A forfuckingever thing, instead of the vague suspicion that he won’t find her there when comes back stateside, the bracing himself for an empty house he’s been doing for the better part of two years now.

“What?” the barber stops, kills the trimmer even, so he can be heard loud and damn clear. “If you ain’t planning on marrying that pretty thing living with you, better break it to her soon then. She’s started raising chickens.”

“Not sure she’s the marrying type.”

It’s not a lie, Bell’s quicksilver in Frank’s mind, half a cool little stream after hoofing it across the jungle for days and half forest fire. The word ‘wife’ itself feels weird, no matter how many times he’s let her know that he loves her as he comes.

The barber drops it, thankfully, though he shakes his head at Frank like he’s the stupidest son of a bitch that’s graced his chair today.

But it distracts him, the whole fucking thing, nags at him like a mosquito bite in the crack of the ass. So he has to bring it up, and he’s sure he sounds annoyed as hell about it, because he is.

Bell laughs —easy, without mockery—, perched sidesaddle in his lap, because of course she does. This is why he preemptively imagines a world without her, practices losing her in his mind so it doesn’t kill him when it happens for real.

“You ever think about tying the knot?”

“I’m legally dead Frank, I don’t think I’m allowed to get married anymore.”

“But you would, if you could?”

“I’d walk my ass hand in hand with you into city hall tomorrow if I had a valid ID, love”

She kisses him to make her point, in that mesmerizing fucking way of hers, and she rides him half to death that night, fingers interlocked and mumbling his name like a prayer.

So Frank calls a guy, someone he trusts to take his payment and keep their mouth shut. An old CIA contact who minds their businesses.

And he thinks he could make it romantic, should probably; he just— can’t wait.

All he does in the end is slide the two cards over the table towards Bell one morning, as soon as they arrive. Valid, legal, forged by the best: a driver’s license and state ID for his best girl, with her name sitting pretty on them, joined by a simple, solid ‘Woods’.

To call her his wife still feels weird, but this is right. As right as her laughter, bright and so sudden it almost makes her choke on her coffee. Right as the way she fits in his arms, talking about rings and looking at him with eyes half closed, like she’s looking at the sun.

#m: cod #r: fluff #frank woods x bell #frank woods x reader #the man is a romantic! 🥹#thought i had gotten these two out of my system but #love writing Frank’s pov cause i can pull out some absolutely unhinged turns of phrase

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littjara-compleated-sage · 1 year

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Plane Shift: New Phyrexia - Human Subraces

For the past 2-3 years, I've been working on a homebrew D&D 5e supplement for New Phyrexia, and it occurred to me that I could publish/share it in installments here on Tumblr! Today, I'll put up human subraces. Core-born Phyrexians and playable myr (among other things) to come! PS:NP was written to take place during Scars of Mirrodin block or earlier, since that's when my campaign is, but its contents--including these subraces--are forward compatible with other points in the timeline.

Like their relatives on other planes, the humans of Mirrodin are ingenious, ambitious folk who strive to leave their mark on the world. They are divided into five distinct ethnic groups: the Auriok of the Razor Fields, the Neurok of the Quicksilver Sea, the Moriok of the Mephidross, the Vulshok of the Oxidda Chain, and the Sylvok of the Tangle. Your Mirran human character has the following traits.

Type. You are a Humanoid. You are also considered a human for any prerequisite or effect that requires you to be a human.

Ability Score Increase. One ability score of your choice increases by 2, and another increases by 1.

Age. Humans reach adulthood in their late teens and live about a century.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and one other language of your choice (except Phyrexian).

Size. Humans vary widely in height and build, from barely 5 feet to well over 6 feet tall. Regardless of your position in that range, your size is Medium.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet.

Ethnic group. Choose one of the five Mirran human ethnic groups for your character to belong to.

Auriok

The Auriok are a nomadic people, specializing as warriors, spellcasters, and diplomats who form alliances between tribes and with the other races of the Razor Fields. Each Auriok tribe is led by a champion who is responsible for their people's well-being. Auriok skin is bronze-colored and embedded with gold, and their hair is bleached white by the constant light of the suns.

Auriok Combat Training. You are proficient with the longsword and shortsword.

Diplomatic. You have proficiency with Insight and Persuasion.

Neurok

Having thrown off the yoke of slavery under vedalken masters, the Neurok have risen to a dominant position in the chrome-spire settlements on the Quicksilver Sea, based in their capital at Lumengrid. They are scientists and inventors, among the first to notice and study the increasing amounts of glistening oil on Mirrodin's surface. Silvery, chrome-like metal adorns Neurok skin, and their hair, often hidden under elaborate, multi-eyed headdresses, is brown, red, or blond.

Breadth of Knowledge. You gain proficiency with any combination of three skills or tools of your choice.

Cantrip. You know one cantrip of your choice from the wizard spell list. Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for it (choose when you select this race).

Moriok

Carving out a living in the inhospitable swamp of the Mephidross, the Moriok endure constant exposure to its necrogen gas and battle the harsh urges its fell magic draws out. Lead-like metal emerges from underneath their skin, often forming visors over their eyes. They are tall and pale, decorating their bodies with dark leather and ornaments of tooth and bone.

Inured to Necrogen. You are resistant to poison damage, and you have advantage on saving throws against being poisoned.

Relentless Endurance. When you are reduced to 0 hit points but not killed outright, you can choose to drop to 1 hit point instead. You can’t use this feature again until you finish a long rest.

Vulshok

Renowned blacksmiths, warriors, and geomancers, the Vulshok people create armor and weapons of the best quality that can be found on Mirrodin. They are divided into six tribes based on their smithing specialization: Anvil, Blade, Hammer, Helm, Shield, and Spear. The iron spikes on their skin afford them a degree of natural armor. Vulshok are heavyset and sturdily built, and ember cores are embedded in their chests, glowing red-hot in moments of strong emotion.

Expertise of the Forge. You have proficiency with smith's tools.

Heart of Flame. You have resistance to fire damage. In addition, you know the produce flame cantrip. Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for it (choose when you select this race).

Iron Skin. You gain a +1 bonus to your AC when you aren't wearing heavy armor.

Sylvok

The most insular of Mirrodin's humans, the Sylvok are druidic hunter-gatherers who place emphasis on tradition, nature, and harmony. Unlike the canopy-dwelling elves, Sylvok inhabit the undergrowth of the Tangle, subsisting off gelfruit and the meat they hunt. They view artifice as a form of worship, using their skills to venerate the natural world through imitation. Their skin is decorated with intricate patterns of copper that imitate the look of plant growth.

Expert Navigator. A lifetime spent in the twisted growths of the Tangle has made you sure-footed and adept in tough travelling conditions. You ignore nonmagical difficult terrain.

Sylvok Magic. You know the druidcraft cantrip. When you reach 3rd level, you can cast the animal friendship spell once per day; you must finish a long rest in order to cast the spell again using this trait. Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for these spells (choose when you select this race).

Tangle's Lore. You gain proficiency in a skill of your choice from among Animal Handling, History, Nature, Religion, and Survival.

#mtg #magic the gathering #dnd #dnd 5e #homebrew #dnd homebrew #mirrodin #new phyrexia #plane shift new phyrexia

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leiawritesstories · 1 year

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Don't Have To Hurt Anymore

Frederick and I have been on a little bit of an angst kick recently, but I promise, I PROMISE, that this ends well. I PROMISE. i feel like this is horrible and rambling and goes nowhere but yeah here's a thing

inspired by "Broken" by Isak Danielson yes yES it sounds awful but i swear on gavriel's grave that it ends well

Word count: 2.7k

CW: swearing, references to abortion

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’d fallen so hard, so fast. The first time she caught a glimpse of his pale hair, near-silver beneath the kaleidoscopic strobe lights, when she caught a flash of his grin, she was captivated. There was something familiar about that hair, something she couldn’t place. She laughed and spun her way across the floor until she stood beside him–half a turn and they’d be face to face.

He turned.

Aelin still remembered the way Rowan’s face slackened upon seeing her, the way his jaw dropped and his eyes widened, sweeping over her with something so much deeper than brazen appreciation. Despite her tiny little skirt, her skintight gold top, the stiletto heels she could barely keep upright in, the thick layer of makeup, he didn’t see the persona she put on, but the person beneath. He saw her.

Nobody had ever looked at her like that. Like they saw her, and were not afraid.

None of her worthless exes ever had, for damn sure.

“Hi,” he said–well, yelled over the thumping music–his tattooed hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Rowan.”

“Aelin,” she called back, her lips tilting upwards.

That quicksilver grin of his flashed over his face. “Dance with me?” She grinned right back and took his hand, falling effortlessly into his arms.

They lasted all of four songs before Rowan bent his head down to her ear, whispering the question she simultaneously wanted and dreaded. Want to go upstairs?

Yeah, she breathed, ten different ways to quietly slip out of the party rapidly forming in her mind. He linked his fingers through hers and walked her across the floor, weaving through dancing bodies and the thick stench of alcohol and sweat, guiding her up the staircase into fresher air.

She heaved a deep breath. “So much better.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, keeping his fingers laced with hers. A hint of something almost vulnerable– probably just the alcohol, though–flickered across the planes of his face. “Here.” He pushed open a door, standing back to let her walk in first. “This one’s mine.”

“Didn’t know you kept a room at the frat house,” she teased, cracking a joke to cover up the way she could feel herself starting to shake.

He chuckled and closed the door. “I lock up whenever I leave so none of the other guys can dump their shit in my nice clean room.”

Aelin snorted a laugh. “So, a frat guy who’s a clean freak? Who are you, Rowan?”

“Nobody important,” he mumbled. He sat down on the neatly-made bed, a gentle tug on her hand asking her to come sit with him.

She flinched.

He released her hand and held both his hands up, palms out. “Hey.” His voice was soft, wary. “I’m not going to make you do anything, Aelin.” A few seconds of silence passed. “My door’s unlocked; if you need to go, then go. I promise I won’t try anything.” He swallowed thickly. “I…I guess I just thought you might want some space.”

Gradually, Aelin relaxed, remembering to count her breaths like she’d practiced over and over again with her therapist. “I…thanks,” she whispered. Finding her power of movement, she stepped to the bed and sat down a few inches away from Rowan’s side, still keeping a hand’s breadth of distance. “I needed some space, yeah.”

That searching look of his was back on his face. “Aelin?”

“What.”

He exhaled deeply. “Punch me if I’m being an asshole, but–did something happen?”

She twisted the rings on her fingers, a hundred million incoherent thoughts rampaging through her mind. Then, she looked up, properly meeting his gaze for the first time that night. “Before I say anything, Rowan, do you know me?”

His forehead furrowed. “You…no? We just met downstairs, you must know someone else in the frat–probably Fen, he’s friends with everyone.” Confusion clouded his handsome face; his eyes scanned hers, looking for something, anything, any detail that might jog his memory.

She blew out a breath. “Can I use your bathroom really quick?”

“Sure.” He gestured towards the bathroom door. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Aelin locked the bathroom door behind her, turned on the tap, and gripped the edge of the sink, hands shaking. She lifted her eyes to the mirror, staring into a face that wasn’t hers. The makeup–how clever of her to use her artistic skills to adjust the shape of her face so nobody would really know it was her. She’d thought she could enjoy the frat party, throw back a few drinks and scream-sing along to a few songs and have a fun night.

Until Rowan wrapped his hand around hers, and every emotion she thought she’d shoved away came crashing back.

Reaching for a towel, Aelin shut off the water and patted her face dry, carefully hanging Rowan’s towel back up before turning–slowly–back towards the mirror to face her reflection. Her face now, no longer hiding behind makeup. Gingerly, she opened the bathroom door, half-hoping Rowan would have gone back downstairs since she was taking so long. He was still sitting on the bed, and his head lifted when she opened the door, mild concern on his face as he glanced towards her.

She walked hesitantly across the room, stopped right in front of him, met his gaze head-on.

His eyes widened, jaw slackening as he looked into her face and recognized her. “Aelin,” he whispered. “You were–”

“Yeah.” Her voice was a hollow rasp. “I didn’t think you’d remember–it’s been more than two years, I thought I wouldn’t remember anything about it.”

Cautiously, he offered her his tattooed hand, letting her touch her shaking fingers to his solid, steady ones. “Do you…do you need to say anything?

She really thought she loved him. Stupid, childish Aelin.

She was nineteen when she met Chaol Westfall, still a big-eyed freshman amazed at how huge the world of university was. He was a year older, the rising-star sophomore baseball player that half the student body had a crush on, but for some reason he only had eyes for Aelin. She thought she was nobody–sure, she played on the basketball team, but she was only a freshman; she wasn’t getting tons of minutes or anything special. They met in a class, a 150-person psychology lecture at 10 a.m. Aelin sat in the middle of the lecture hall, in the sweet spot where she knew she wouldn’t really be noticed but she still had a good view of the professor. Chaol strolled into class and sat down a couple rows in front of her, and she paid him no attention, thinking he was just another guy. About a month in, they both showed up to a study session with a few other student-athletes from the class and quickly found they had a lot of shared interests.

Their first date had been a few days later. He took her out to dinner at a nicer restaurant, laughed and flirted and wooed her over dinner and dessert, drove her back to her building and kissed her goodnight. She’d gone upstairs to her dorm with a giddy smile on her face, incredibly excited for the potential of a relationship.

Then he took her to one of the baseball team’s parties, and she started to have doubts.

She shoved those silly doubts away, though, drowned them out with laughter and flirting and cheap beer and Chaol’s kisses. She told her apprehension to go fuck itself and wound her fingers into Chaol’s hair, pressed her body closer to his. One of his teammates wolf-whistled at them, earning a dirty gesture from Chaol, who laughed wryly as he took Aelin’s hand and led her through the chaos of the party into a quieter room, locking the door behind them. Don’t need anyone walking in, he chuckled.

When he kissed her again, tongue tangling with hers, his hands drifted to the hem of her dress, sending sparks shooting through her blood. He paused, leaning back enough to find her eyes. Is this okay?

And Aelin nodded, sliding her dress off her shoulders, and kissed him back, closing her eyes, losing herself in his surprisingly gentle touch. It only took a few moments before he was less gentle, before clothes disappeared in a hazy, half-drunk blur, before a condom appeared from gods knew where and he was laying her down, promising he’d make her feel so good. And he did, he made her feel things she’d never felt before, made her feel pleasure like she’d never experienced it. He told her she was beautiful, she was gorgeous, she was stunning.

She really thought he meant it.

The next morning, she woke up in Chaol’s arms. She smiled lazily, sleepily wondering if this could become her life. And for a while, it was her life. For at least a few months, she grew used to tumbling into Chaol’s bed, falling asleep in his arms. She grew used to wearing his jersey, which meant she caught looks from other girls. She grew used to the idea of him as her boyfriend.

Then she passed out during her chemistry lab.

When she came around, her professor and her lab partner and some of her classmates were clustered around her, varying degrees of concern on their faces. She waved them off and sat up, taking her lab partner’s arm for stability. Probably just the chemical fumes, she joked. It’s like I forgot basic lab safety, right?

She got through the rest of the lab before racing back to her dorm, dumping her things, grabbing her car keys, and driving straight to the pharmacy. Once she got back, she locked herself in the bathroom and opened the cardboard box with shaky hands, unfolding the ridiculously large instruction sheet. She almost couldn’t focus because of her nerves, but she steeled herself, followed the instructions, and waited. And waited. Gods, three minutes was an eternity.

The chiming of her phone timer just about gave her a heart attack. She scrambled to turn off the timer, then grabbed the little plastic sticks. She swore she could hear her own heartbeat thundering as she forced herself to look at the tests.

Two blue crosses stared her in the face.

Of course, she told Chaol. Why wouldn’t she? He was the father; he deserved to know. She showed him the tests late that night, sitting by his side. She wrapped her arms around her knees, suddenly reverting back to her little self, terrified of the great big world. He dropped the pregnancy tests with a soft, dull clatter and swore under his breath.

She managed to look over at him, tears pooling in her eyes. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Fuck, I didn’t–we were safe–”

“We were.” Until they weren’t.

He sighed. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

She believed him. Stupid, stupid Aelin.

It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours after telling Chaol when Aelin knocked on his door and walked in, like she’d grown used to doing, and stopped short, gasping. The sight of one’s boyfriend shirtless and making out with someone else tended to do that.

At her gasp, Chaol jerked away from the…the guy? Well, shit. Good for him? Or something? Aelin didn’t wait for him to try and explain, she just slammed the door and walked away, ignoring his half-assed attempt to call after her. He barely even tried–he didn’t even run after her. He just called her name once or twice, then gave up and went back to his room. And his probable boyfriend.

Aelin expected to feel…something. Instead, she just felt numb. She walked back to her dorm, sat down on her bed, and stared at the wall. She didn’t know how long passed until voices sounded in the hallway and she snapped back into reality and picked up her phone, pretending like she’d just been casually scrolling through Instagram when her roommate walked in.

The next day–it was a Saturday, she remembered it like it had been yesterday–she got up quietly, made her bed, got dressed in comfortable leggings and an oversized Nirvana t-shirt that had once been her dad’s, picked up her car keys and her purse, and slipped out the door. On autopilot, she drove into town, pulled into the clinic parking lot, locked up her car, walked into the building, and went upstairs. The receptionist at the desk was a sweet-faced, middle-aged lady with graying hair who only asked a few check-in questions before handing Aelin a clipboard with a few forms and telling her where to sign. In moments, she was being escorted into the clinic, a nurse in vibrant purple scrubs at her side. The nurse sat with her through the whole thing, squeezing her hand, and wheeled her into the recovery room, saying something about how someone would come by in half an hour to discharge her.

She remembered exiting the clinic feeling tired, ready to go back to her dorm and have a good long nap. She remembered walking back into the waiting area and suddenly having the need to sit down, a wave of lightheadedness washing over her. She remembered how she all but collapsed onto the floor, waving off the staff who came to check on her. I just need a moment.

She remembered a tattooed hand reaching down to her. Hey. Do you need a lift?

She remembered looking up into pine-green eyes filled with concern. She remembered the sticker on his t-shirt: VOLUNTEER. She took the outstretched hand, let the young man help her to her feet, and took a deep breath, steadying herself. When he asked her again if she needed a lift, she shook her head and started walking. Her legs quivered and buckled, betraying her, and he was right back at her side, gently insisting that he at least get her out to her car.

She was much more stable by the time she got to the parking lot, stable enough to wave at the guy before driving herself back to campus, heading upstairs into her room, curling up on her bed, stuffing her face into her pillow, and releasing a long, stifled scream.

The tears followed immediately after that, bursting uncontrollably from the depths of her being. Aelin tucked herself into a tight little ball, clutched her pillows, and sobbed, her whole body shaking with the force of her tears.

Until now, she’d spent the last two years deliberately forgetting that day had ever happened.

She was sobbing by the time she’d finished speaking, slumped onto Rowan’s bedroom floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, overcome by every broken feeling she thought she’d locked away. She didn’t even realize he was kneeling next to her until he said her name, softly at first, then a little stronger. Aelin. Aelin. Aelin. “What?”

He faced her, close enough to touch but not wanting to reach for her lest he frighten her, lest she pull away. “You don’t have to hide yourself from me, Aelin, I promise.”

She sniffled. “How can you say that?”

“Because you deserve to hear it,” he murmured. “It’s true. That asshole–he never deserved you, not for a godsdamn second.”

Despite herself, she managed a teary chuckle. “He never fucking did.” She looked up through a film of tears, finding muted rage clouding Rowan’s face. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“He–he’s not worth it.” Chaol wasn’t worth it. She’d failed to see that for so long, still clinging to the hope that he’d come back to her, that he would change into someone who cared. He’d left her broken on the floor, left her without a care in the world.

Rowan had started to pick up the broken pieces of her the moment he held out his hand in the clinic.

“Okay.” Rowan’s whisper was gentle. “I…Aelin?” Her brows lifted in question. “Can I–” Words failed, so he just held out his arms. She all but fell into his embrace, clinging to him like a lifeline. Hot salty tears dripped into his shirt, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

When she raised her head, a hint of a smile curled at the corners of her lips. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His tentative smile was everything she needed in that moment.

She’d fallen for him so fast, so hard–like she always did. Like she had with Chaol. And with her handful of high school boyfriends before that. This time, though, it was different.

This time, it was Rowan.

~~~

TAGS:

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#my writing #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin angst #sorry not sorry for the pain #fluffy ending though i promise #I PROMISE

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sapphire-writes · 1 year

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Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!OC

previous chapter ~ next chapter

Read more on AO3

fic summary: Elyse Baratheon is Princess Helaena’s childhood companion and closest friend. Jacaerys Velaryon has loved her since childhood. Aemond Targaryen loathes the idea of love. A Baratheon in the capital changes the Dance of Dragons, and the realm holds its breath.

chapter summary: Elyse awakes to a devastating realization.

word count: 2.6k

warnings: none for this chapter, posted early happy valentines loves!

Chapter 16: Betrayed

Elyse dreamt of dragons.

That she was on Vhagar’s back, Aemond’s hands around her waist, face tucked into the crook of her neck. It was so real, she could feel the strands of his silver hair slipping through her fingers like quicksilver, feel his lips caress her neck.

When she awoke, she was in a soft feather bed.

Her hands tangled in the silk sheets. Eyes heavy, mouth dry as cotton. Elyse’s head pounded, the remainder of Dreamwine a lingering ache within her skull. She pressed her palm against her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut.

Light flooded through the room, so bright she could see it through her eyelids. So bright she could not see where she was. Elyse blinked several times attempting to adjust to the harsh light.

She was in a room. A fire roared in the great fireplace, the crackling of the burning logs the only sound in the room. Elyse grits her teeth together, forcing herself up on her elbows.

A cup sits beside the bed, full to the brim with wine. Elyse grabs it, greedily sucking down the warm liquid, beads of red escaping the corners of her lips as she drinks. She tosses the cup when she is done. Aemond would call her foolish for drinking it.

“Mayhaps it was poison, what then?” she could hear him say, as though he was whispering in her ear now, causing a shiver to roll through her.

Someone had changed her. Elyse now wore a silk nightgown. How long had she been asleep? She notices a chamber pot and moves on shaky legs to relieve herself.

Elyse released a shallow breath, her entire body beginning to tremble. The room is large, and grand, with silk tapestries decorating the walls. Pinks, purples, and lavish are the silks blowing gently in the breeze an open veranda lets in.

Where is she?

Elyse feels tears in her eyes as panic courses through her veins, twisting up her throat begging to be released. She feels her legs fail her, dropping to the wooden floor. She clutches at her throat as though to contain the scream that bubbles there.

Swallow your fear, Aemond had told her once.

Elyse pushes against the ground, forcing herself to rise. She scans the room, landing on a table in front of the fire. Her blade, Elenei lays there, unsheathed, reflecting the flames in the blade. They have left her weapon. Not a threat then. How could she be? Just a silly little girl.

Let them think me foolish when I shove my blade between their ribs, she thinks solemnly.

Elyse pads over on bare feet, snatching the blade between her fingers as the door to her room creaks open.

Elyse crouches by the side of the table as a maid enters. She is a young girl, holding fresh towels and linens in her arms. She looks at the bed in confusion with the ruffled blankets and missing Elyse.

Elyse springs forward, grabbing the girl by her hair, pressing her blade against the skin of her throat. The maid gasps, a fearful noise leaving her as she drops what she holds to the floor.

“Don’t scream,” Elyse hisses, grabbing a fistful of the girl's mousy brown hair. Tears flow freely down the maid’s cheeks as she struggles to catch her breath. Elyse keeps her grip hard, pressing Elenei hard enough to draw blood.

“M-my lady, p-p-please,” the girl says, causing Elyse’s grip on her hair to tighten.

“Don’t speak,” Elyse snarls, before shoving her through the door into the hall.

The girl is openly weeping as Elyse holds her in front.

“Take me to your lord,” Elyse demands. Her hands shake the entire time, but she keeps her blade pressed against the maid’s throat.

Swallow your fear.

The maid shifts her feet, slowly dragging herself and Elyse down the corridor. The hallway is lit with torches but gives away nothing about where Elyse is.

Elyse feels her mouth downturn into a frustrated frown as she continues down the hall. Her feet are freezing on the stone floor and her nightgown clings to her with fearful sweat.

The maid begins to sob, the sounds echoing throughout the corridor. Surely someone shall hear them. Elyse can taste bile in her throat.

Someone is going to find me and then someone is going to kill me, or worse, Elyse thinks to herself, causing her stomach to churn. What point was there, keeping her alive if not some unspeakable horror soon to befall her?

Elyse feels something inside of her harden with the realization.

No, I shall turn my blade on myself before I let that happen.

Tears fill her eyes, and her heart lurches.

Aemond shall understand. Aemond will forgive me.

The maid reaches to touch a great door, much like that of the throne room doors in the Red Keep. Elyse changes positions, making the maid standing in front of her completely before pushing her through the doors.

“M-m-my lord, please,” the maid sobs, before Elyse pushes her to the ground in a shrieking crumbling heap.

Elyse holds her blade high in front of her, as she looks upon her captors.

She meets the deep brown eyes of Jacaerys Velaryon.

Elyse drops her dagger to the floor, the sapphire hilt catching the light. Her jaw slacks and she feels as though the walls of her chest have begun to cave in. Silent tears roll down her cheeks, their saltiness stinging her chapped lips.

It was Jace.

Of course, it was Jace.

The boy who saved her from monsters comes to her aid once more.

The boy who wrote to her.

The boy who waited outside her door.

“What have you done?” Elyse hissed, her voice a strained whisper, her eyes wide.

Jace looked at her eyes wide, hands held outstretched before him. A surrender, a plea.

“What have you done!?” Elyse screamed running towards him.

She slaps him then, an angry red mark scathing his cheek. She struck him again, tears streaming down her face. Jace did not move to stop her or block the blows that struck his face as she continued her assault, his mouth a tight line. He said nothing as she beat her fists upon his chest.

“Please, Elyse stop!” a voice begged, thin arms throwing themselves around her back, tearing her from Jace.

Floris Baratheon had rushed to her sister’s side, entrapping her in a firm hug.

Elyse wept, sinking to the floor, still constricted in Floris’ grasp. Floris held her tightly, her head buried in her shoulder. Their dark hair tangled together, and two daughters of House Baratheon reunited at last.

“What have you done?” she repeated again, through her sobs.

A knight glanced towards Jacaerys, who waved him off. Jace knelt next to Elyse then, his eyes kind, cheeks red. His gaze held no anger, just solemn acceptance.

“I had to get you out,” he said softly and Elyse shook her head.

“You’ve killed us all,” she whispered, feeling Floris’ arms tighten around her.

“It was not right-,” Jace continued but Elyse cut him off.

“He is my husband!” she yelled.

Jace took his tongue between his teeth, as though remembering his own bride.

“Is that what troubles you?” he asked. “We can get the marriage annulled, it was against your will.”

Elyse stared at the man before her incredulously.

“Against my will?” she said, phrased as a question. “You believe he forced me?”

Jace continued to stare.

“You believe he ruined me?” she continued, a mad laugh escaping her lips.

In Jace’s eyes, she realizes he sees her as still the small child in need of protection. A maiden kept prisoner by a monster. Elyse’s body slacked, causing Floris to release her grip.

“Oh Jace,” Elyse breathed, fear replacing her anger, “what have you done?”

She stares at the boy she has known all her life, as though she does not recognize him now. His dark eyes are unfamiliar; he is a stranger to her, to the wife of Aemond Targaryen.

Elyse supposed they were different people now, an heir to the Iron Throne and a princess.

“Come,” Floris says, rising from the floor.

She keeps her arms around Elyse, attempting to pull her upwards. Elyse can feel them shaking.

“Let us get you a warm bath, and have you changed,” Floris says, as Elyse finds her footing.

She hadn’t noticed another presence enter the room, until looking up and meeting the brown eyes of Maceon Tyrell. His expression was pained, lips parted. She must look an awful fright to him now, no longer the summer maiden at the harvest feast.

Elyse kept her gaze low as Floris escorted her from the room.

She did not return to the chamber she had awoken in, Floris had her brought to her own chambers. A similar room, though much larger, bursting with flowers in every corner. A steaming tub was prepared in the center of the room, which Elyse continued to stare at. A handmaid dropped some rose petals in the smooth water before Floris dismissed her.

Floris had grown into a little lady, a head smaller than Elyse, though only slightly younger, with a willowy figure inherited from her mother’s side. Her blue eyes were dreamlike, dark hair was pulled off of her face in an elaborate braid. Her expression was familiar, and Elyse felt an ache in her heart as she thought of Helaena.

She moved toward Elyse, nimble fingers helping her undress. Elyse felt as though she were outside of her body, watching the scene from above. Floris’ eyes searched her sister’s face, and she began to worry. She removed the gown, collecting it in her palms.

“Oh, Elyse,” she said suddenly, “your monthly blood.”

Elyse looked down at the silk nightgown, the red patch that spread like spilled wine. An ache filled her womb. No child then. Nothing, no one to remind her of Aemond if he…if he…

She could not finish the thought, her throat constricted, with tears prickling at the back of her eyes. Floris helped her into the tub, and Elyse sank into the scalding water, relishing the feeling of the heat on her skin.

Floris stayed next to her and began to stroke her hair. Even when Elyse began to cry, Floris wrapped her thin fingers around her arm and sat beside her. Sobs wracked through her body, causing the water to ripple around her. Elyse began to calm as the water turned cold, her fingers pruning.

“What was he like?” Floris asked suddenly, as though unable to help herself.

Elyse turned her head, the water rippling with the movement.

“Aemond cares for me,” she tells her sister, “he loves me, truly.”

“Do you not love Jacaerys?” Floris asked, eyes wide.

“Of course I do,” Elyse tells her, “but not as a husband, not in the way I love Aemond.”

Floris nods, thoughts flickering to Lord Maceon, Elyse presumed.

“There is to be a war over this,” Elyse tells her, watching Floris’ cheeks redden.

“Aemond shall not take kindly to the snatching of his wife.”

Floris purses her lips, casting her eyes toward the floor.

“I told them not to,” she whispers suddenly, “when Jacaerys arrived. I told them you were happy, for them to read your letters and see.”

“They would not?” Elyse asked, already knowing the answer.

Floris nodded.

“Jacaerys was convinced. He was half mad when he arrived when he learned the news of your marriage and the broken betrothal,” Floris continued, “I do not believe he expected my presence, I think he wanted to offer your hand to Lord Maceon once more, avenging the slight.”

“Jace has always been hard-headed,” Elyse says solemnly, “what of Rhaenyra? She could not have agreed to this foolishness.”

Floris frowns, pretty mouth downturned.

“Prince Daemon assisted,” she whispers, “your ladies-maid, Tasha. It is he she is loyal to.”

Elyse feels a chill run down her spine, gooseflesh blossoming on her exposed skin.

“Lord Maceon agreed regardless,” Floris told her, “agreed that my kin should not be left in dangerous hands.”

“He’s not dangerous,” Elsye argued, “not to me, Aemond would never.”

The sisters are silent for a moment, the soft sound of the rippling water moving against the tub the only sound in the room.

“What do you believe he shall do?” Floris asks.

Elyse let the question sink in for a moment. She remembered on the eve of their betrothal, the night of Aegon’s coronation feast, asking Aemond a similar question of what he would do if Lord Maceon called his banners for her hand.

“I think Jacaerys has made a terrible mistake,” Elyse says, staring off into the distance, “and the realm is going to burn for it.”

“Aemond, calm yourself,” Alicent begged, not for the first time that evening.

Her second son paces in her chambers, as he has been for the majority of the evening. Alicent’s face is concerned, her eyes rimmed red from the events of the evening. She presses a hand to her heart as though it may stop the pain she feels there watching her son’s fury.

The war of ravens had ended and Princess Rhaenyra’s time had run out. War was upon them.

Aemond had returned to the Red Keep in a rage, soaked to the bone from his journey from Storm’s End. He had nearly not returned, bent on returning to the Riverlands and scorching the earth to ruins.

His trip there was uneventful, save deterring his uncle from laying claim to the Riverlands. Daemon remained at Harrenhal, and Aemond had promised to return with an army at his back. But first, he would join his wife at her ancestral seat.

Aemond was blinded by rage ever since entering the Round Hall of Storm’s End.

The seat of House Baratheon had been in a panic when he arrived. His lady was missing, along with the maid who accompanied her on the journey. When Lord Borros received him, his voice shook delivering the news to the one-eyed dragon prince.

His lady, his Elyse.

Vhagar lamented the entire journey back to King’s Landing, the sound of her cries heard from every corner of the Stormlands.

“Aemond,” Helaena begged, her face tear-stained, tearing him from his thoughts.

Helaena stood, shaking like a leaf, her silver hair hanging limply around her face. Her eyes were wide, shining with tears.

“Please,” Helaena hisses, holding an arm out toward him.

“We need to move, to plan now,” Aemond growls, continuing to pace around the room.

“Aegon has declared war against Rhaenyra, this is madness,” Helaena tells him.

“Who do you think took her?” Aemond shouts, “They have stolen my wife, and you suppose we do nothing?”

Helaena’s eyes widened, this time with anger.

“Do you think I am not distraught?” Helaena asked, her voice a shrill shriek, “she was mine first, Aemond. Before she was ever yours. I loved her first.”

Aemond’s mouth remained a tight line, but Helaena could see his chin tremble. Helaena had only seen Aemond cry a handful of times in her life. It sent a chill down her spine, seeing the cracks of his armored heart split open.

“I love her too,” Helaena said, kinder this time.

She moves toward her brother, holding onto him. Aemond slacks at her touch, leaning into her.

“I do not know where she is,” Aemond says quietly, desperately.

Helaena holds him against her, stroking his silver hair as tears stream down her face.

“We shall find her,” Helaena promises.

“I will burn it to ash,” Aemond whispers a promise of his own.

Helaena’s mouth is set in a tight line, though her lower lip begins to tremble, as she begins to grow colder hugging Aemond’s soaked form, the warmth being leached from her skin.

Alicent moves toward her children, reaching her hand out to stroke Helaena’s hair. Her eyes are sad, and a tear falls down her cheek.

note: thanks for being patient, hope you enjoy it! 💚

taglist: @minttea07 @tssf-imagines, @queenofshinigamis

#aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond x original character #aemond x original female character #aemond x elyse #aemond one eye #oc: elyse baratheon #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond

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valmare · 9 months

Note

is it too late for a 300 celebration request? could you write something with simon templar whump and him being taken care of? thank you and congrats!

Okay. My first whack at my precious boy Simon! I'm screaming over this because it was quite hard, but I really loved delving into Templar here.

Fifty Million Reasons

“What are you doing here?”

The question is more biting than it needs to be, but you’re fairly certain that it’s the current temperature’s fault as you pull the sleeves of the thick robe you’ve swung into over your chilled fingers. Frigid bites of winter nip at any of the skin you’ve dared to leave uncovered, hovering in the doorway. Thank Christ for socks—your toes curl over the threshold as you stand, half in and half out, of the blissfully warm cottage.

Sparkling white snow has blanketed the world beyond the door, nearly untouched, save the footsteps that have managed to stagger up to your front door. Curls of breath escape your warm mouth with each of the words, you can see every breath, as your hand extends beside the door to slap for the porch light. Hoping that light will alleviate the question that hangs in the air, it doesn’t matter—he’s stepped under the stoop, hunchined into a long peacoat and scarf, dark glasses hiding his face.

It’s a clever alias, but you’d know those quicksilver eyes anyway. “Simon.” It’s all you really have to say to trigger his gaze up to you as he steps closer, slowly. With precision. Like skirting the lines of an invisible boundary, waiting for the trapline to snap up and consume him. Smart man, the last time he’d staggered up to your door, it hadn’t been pretty.

Sticky, wet snow holds to his boots unforgivingly, his tracks large and unmissable as he gently knocks his feet together. His nose is scarlet red, but his cheeks are flushed, and you squint a little out from the light of the door—is that sweat? It’s three degrees out here, Christmas is next Tuesday—why is he sweating? Frowning at him, you reach to brush the accumulated snowflakes off his shoulder, and upon contact, you realize he’s shaking. And then his eyes slowly lift to yours again, and you know.

“Oh my god.” Alarm splashes bile into the back of your throat. Grabbing at the material of his shoulder, you pull him in through the doorway and shuffle him to the side. Fingers still curled into the material of the peacoat you kick the door closed with a quick scan of the yard—your eyes drop to the path leading up to your stairs.

Blood. Too much blood. Throwing the deadbolt you whirl around to face him, eyes skipping over Templar’s frame before your brow avalanches into worry. Rushing him, you brush his folded arms down and your hand slips into the cut of the coat, opening it wide. And immediately, your knuckles brush against warm, slick wet on his breast. Pulling your hand back, your eyes consider the scarlet of his blood spread across your palm, and your eyes track to his.

He’s shot. Again. You don’t have to see the wound to know. Shaking more vibrantly than he’d been a second ago, you step into his personal space and begin wrangling him out of the peacoat—it’s soaking wet. He staggers forward, hand on your shoulder as the weight of the coat drops away. His eyes flutter, head tipping back. Inside the coat warm and damp with exhaustive sweat, you drop it to the floor at your feet and begin ripping at the buttons of his shirt. Attempting to find skin, put eyes on the wound. He pulls at the scarf around his neck, which snakes away to the floor, bloodstained and nearly dripping with his perspiration. Flat-footed, you ignore the shake to your own hands and try to keep an expressionless look about your features.

He grabs your wrist, pulling you to a stop for a moment. Seems to register the shake about your hands. “I don’t have to stay,” it hangs there for a minute, mostly in the weight of his eyes—eyes that say he’ll go if you tell him to. But he wants to stay, there’s nowhere else to go, not really. And that’s mostly his fault, though you’ll never tell him that. You can’t. “Tell me to leave.”

Muscle in your jaw firing, you grab his wrist and give it one firm squeeze. “You stay,” you brush his hand from your wrist, notice how pale his complexion is, before your gaze drops beneath the weight of his strong eyes. Lips parting to protest, you stop him with a pointed look.

“You can barely stand, Simon—you stay.” You nod to his chest and bite your lower lips casually. “Let’s get you out of these clothes. You’ll be lucky if you don’t freeze to death before you collapse from blood loss.” And he knows you’re right—American winters are unforgiving, though half a life in Russia would probably prove you wrong. But Simon doesn’t know that.

Clammy, his chest hair is beaded with sweat, undershirt is soaked through when you rip off the top layer, which is more than seeped with dark, nearly-black clots of thick, oozing blood. You swear to God you can taste the metallic sting of iron as your fingers coat with the scarlet, and you force him out of the t-shirt as best you can. The effort of lifting his arm makes him pitch forward, gasping as with a wide-eyed expression of full-body, electric pain.

Grimacing, you dip in beneath his unharmed arm to catch most of his weight with your shoulders, propping him against the wall. Grunting under his mass, you wrangle him out of the shirt the rest of the way, the saturated garment hitting the floor with a wet plop. Reeling, gasping for only a few moments, his heart is compensating with a rush of adrenaline, you can feel it beating against your shoulder blades as you help him stand.

Stepping in front of him once you’re sure he can stand, the room is suddenly all of a thousand degrees. Sweat slicks from the tips of your hair to fat drops on the floor, and you rake the back of your hand over your mouth to dispel the pearls of sweat that had beaded over your top lips. Biting at your tongue, you consider the garish, open wound in his shoulder—nothing less than a 9mm has passed through his flesh. There’s so much blood you can nearly miss the nasty tear of flesh, but he’s ripped it open farther than initial impact—you realize there’s not exit wound. He’s dug the bullet himself.

A neary-steady stream of hot blood rushes out of it with every contraction of muscle. It’s swollen, a shade of every color dusts his skin, down his peck. There will be inflammation and bruising for weeks. Much less range of motion damage, screwed up nerves. No less than a handful of concerns pass through your mind as your fingers burn at your sides, studying the gaping hole, and your stomach opens up and drops into your kneecaps with all the strength God may have intended. Viscerally fascinated with the injury, this is not the first time Simon Templar’s wounds have welded you to the floor. There’s been a couple like this, over the years. Comes with the territory.

Sweat seeps down the length of your spine, dampening the waistband of your sweatpants as your gaze flicks to his face. He’s withdrawn, detached. Cold and mildly expressionless. Whipped puppy. He knows he shouldn’t be here, not without groveling or the bigger conversation that is just burning at the tip of your tongue. But you can’t quite shake how good it is to see him, how his taste still lingers on the back of your tongue, burns against your lips. Beating him over the head is preferable, circumstances considered—but the taste of him? That would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Wanting to lash him, wanting to kiss him, you swallow both urges quickly. Instinct takes over. “Bathroom,” your hand cards through your hair, and you gesture across the room to the corridor, which he knows well enough to manage his own way, “Don’t bleed on my rug. It’s new.” The longhorn hide is fresh out of Fort Worth and costs nearly a fortune. He knows precisely the one—you’d been talking about it for weeks.

Simon’s gaze doesn’t break from you. Moving from the wall, he stands within breathing distance—close enough that you can count his pores, take in the details of his immaculate lashes. The way his hair curls over his forehead. Moonlight that strikes his eyes from the pane glass window, lighting them up in smoky ways that even set you ill at ease. Every line, every scar—the slight crook to his nose. He’s overwhelmingly warm, smells like blood and fresh air. Pine. The way he shifts his jaw, the little poke of his tongue between his lips lights up each of the nerves screaming “Get back!” in the back of your head.

“The one from Fort Worth,” his head tips ever so slightly. He remembers. “Finally caved in, huh?” Knowing why you did it, how you managed to afford it isn’t the question. He knows why and how. Instead it's a subtle cue to peer into your life, testing the waters if he’s welcome to such knowledge. Secrets. Once, he was—once you wanted to share everything, give him parts of you that you’d never dreamed of entrusting another living soul with. And, you had.

Light eyes track over your face, like he’s gazing at something priceless, something he won’t forget. Then, the slow smile. The one that twists the knife between your ribs, kills you slowly and always had since the first time you’d smacked eyes on him. He looks at you like something he might take–because that’s what Simon Templar does—he takes. He’d taken you, farther than you thought possible before destroying everything you’d ever wanted to give him.

His hand lifts to take your chin between his fingers. “Good for you, darling.” Hammering away at the marrow in your bones, your eyes flick up to his. Lips parting to say something else, you turn out of his fingers, hand sliding over your mouth in an attempt to stifle the slight tremble that’s set into them.

Always the thief, taking what he knows isn’t his. And he’s taking you now, just in a different way. Ripping you apart to slowly put together again, like something on the black market. It’s his MO, what he’s known for—he takes the pieces he wants, then settles the rest. Thief. Thief—it rushes through his veins like jet fuel, spiriting away better versions of a man you’d try to build. To love. And so desperately do you love him, crave him—miss him. Still.

It’s been a year, too long—but somehow not long enough.

And while you know he won’t dare touch anything in this house, you feel the need to remind him that this is your world—the world he left you in. Nothing comes. Muscle in his jaw ticking at your reaction, he manages a loud sigh and brushes his shoulder against yours Like a ghost slipping through your house he files through the corridor, beyond view.

Knowing what comes next, you briskly move into the kitchen. All nerves, your breath comes short and fast as you yank down the bottle of vodka from the cupboard above the fridge. It’s the same vodka you’d given him last time—his vodka. He hadn’t taken it when he’d left the last time. Holding the thick glass in your fingers, your nails curl against the logo, feeling the premium packaging. Your lower lip curls inward, nails ticking against the glass. With a firm twist you uncap it, toss back a burning bite of the stuff, and pinch your eyes shut. You hate vodka.

Everything you need is in the bathroom, and sudden water rushing through the walls of this old house tells you he’s started a bath. Nerves jump into your chest from the pit of your stomach. Eyes fluttering closed, your fingers burn as they curl around the edge of the granite countertop. Brain spinning through the last year, the apex between your legs suddenly throbs, and your eyes fly open to consider the stain of blood on your hands. It’s smeared across your counter, the vodka bottle. Damn.

Fiddling with the ring on your finger, a sigh puffs out your cheeks. Resolve bolts you to the floor for a heartbeat before rocking you up on your toes, turns you on the ball of your foot. Current of concern rips through you like an electric shock, settling off a slight tick to your fingers as you remember—he’s been shot. Someone has shot him, someone is probably looking for him. Wants him dead, obviously. And while Simon is an expert at espionage and alias, he is not foolproof.

Flying out of the kitchen, you race into the master bedroom and into the closet. As if it’s second nature, your hand fumbles across the top shelf for a heartbeat before your fingers dust the .380, drawing it off the shelf and into your hand. Finger through the trigger cage, like you’ve done this a thousand times—you have—you tuck the vodka under your arm.

Slip the weapon properly into your hands, check the slide. It snaps sharply, you feel the round chamber. There’s enough here to scare off even a determined bogie, but to be safe, you reach up on toes and pluck the two magazines down from the shelf, stuffing them into the front of your sleeping pants. With a huff, you turn to the his side of the his-and-hers closet. Consider the remaining clothes, rip down comfortable sweats and a t-shirt. They are like gasoline in your hands, setting fire to already-flaming fingertips.

Out of the closet, down the hall, and within seconds you’re not sure how you’re standing in the doorway of your guest bathroom. But you are. And Simon is leaning over your sink, which is dripping with the scarlet curls of half-washed-away blood. Button of his pants undone, he’s staring at his reflection in the mirror and god, he’s still beautiful as ever. Sculpting of his arm leaves you nearly breathless as the muscle flexes, his hand tightening around the edge of the sink.

“Think fast,” you manage, sending the clothes arching through the air. He turns, catches them expertly, and his hand weld on your frame falling against the doorframe like he’s never seen you do it before. You see him notice the vodka, the pistol and magazines suddenly on your person. Eyes track up to you, and you slip in through the door, bottle extended. “Start drinking. You’re gonna need it when I start messing around that wound.” Taking a sharp drink before he snags the bottle, it burns its way down your throat.

He reaches for the pistol and you, somehow, let him have it. “Planning to shoot me?” Glinting eyes says he’s teasing, but you know there’s a hint of uncertainty. Again, another probe. Testing the waters—he’s on eggshells. And he should be.

“Not today,” the corner of your mouth lifts, “somebody beat me to it.” You study the weapon, which looks small in his hand compared to yours, and sigh. “But—”

“Nobody’s coming,” he inserts softly, checking the slide himself before moving to setting it on the back of the sink with a light rattle of steel against porcelain, “I wouldn’t have come if people were following me, pretty.” His fingers lift to brush the hair from your eyes, “I’d hope you know that. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” The tenderness in his voice smacks you like cold water to the face, and your eyes drop to consider the laid-open button of his jeans.

“Didn’t stop you from leaving though, did it?” Venom drips off the words, even though they are hushed, and you turn to brush past him to sit yourself on the toilet, one leg tucked beneath you as you pull the robe closer around your frame. He follows you, but you shake your head and nod to the running bath. “Get yourself cleaned up, and then we’ll see what’s left of your shoulder.”

Simon considers your statement for all of a few heartbeats before he takes a pull of the vodka, and sets it firmly on the sink with a clank. He’s stopped shaking, for the most part, but he’s still ghost-white and pale like you’ve never seen him, hair still slick with exhaustive sweat. You turn, out of respect—want to melt into the floor, forget that he’s even here when he’s crossed the bathroom floor in two strides, rough hands grabbing around your bicep to haul you off the toilet, to your feet.

Stumbling over your feet and the rug of the bathroom, you thump against his chest a little roughly. If it hurts, he barely shows it—his face is hard. Set like a stone. Wholly unreadable, in that Simon way of his that makes him so good at what he does. Your heart is hammering wildly against your bones as a thousand scenes pass through your mind’s eye, a dozen names. He’s been so many men. Seen so many things, worlds and places you could only ever fathom.

They pass in a blur through his eyes, like a vehicle traveling too fast and you’re trying to count the stripes on the pavement. Simon’s always been too quick for you, a fast moving storm cloud when you want to simmer and brew.

Dizzy beneath the weight of his stare, you swallow a shallow breath. He notices, grip tightening up on your arm enough that it’s sure to mark. His mark isn’t an undesirable idea, has never not excited you. Thrill rips down your spine like a ferocious animal, and you’re rattled for all of a few seconds—being this close is dangerous. Brings back a thousand feelings you’ve been trying to bury for a year, makes you forget all the stupid things he’s done in his life. You swear to God he can feel your heart trying to escape past your ribs, and if he does he doesn’t seem to mind—his own heart beats steadily, like a familiar drum. Every part of you buzzes with electricity, like neon.

“I asked you to come with me.” It’s pointed. Firm.

It springboard’s your eyebrows up nearly off your face. Knocks the wind out of your chest, and you attempt to wrench out of his grip. He holds fast. Unmoving. You doubt you’d get far anyway, because the weight of his eyes bolts you into place, threatens to peel back your meatshirt and watch your heart throb against your breast. Clinically he discerns every one of your movements, knows your plays and little cues maybe better than you know yourself.

He had, yes—a year ago he’d made love to you and whispered into your ear all the things every woman wants to hear, all the things no man should ever promise. He wanted you to come to Russia. Germany, France. England. Costa Rica. Maine and Taiwan and Australia. Simon wanted to take you everywhere, share his world and all the glories it promised— you didn’t want to run with a thief. You don’t. Your heart beat for him and only him, but running? Hiding in the shadows of things you knew were black and white? It wasn’t who you were. It isn’t who you are.

He made his choice. And it wasn’t you. Fifty million—that was the price, a year ago. Ransom, really. It was you and the wedge of a cool fifty million dollars competing for his attention—and you lost. Money is the root of all even, the root of Simon, and not even you begging him to stay, promising to sell him your soul, had prevailed. It still ripped you open every time you ran the film strip of that day. You’d cried a thousand times over Simon, to the point of raw and bleeding and numb, and you’d cry a thousand more if he didn’t stop looking at you like this.

Still not over him, you’ll never be free of him—his taste, the way he fills up the walls of this house. His house, the house he allowed you to linger in. The way he’s held you a thousand times, all the words he says. How he feels inside you, fills you to the point of breaking and falling back together all at once—how he moves, breathes. His clothes, the way he laughs. All his silly games and those years of listening to him tell stories of his namesake. He haunts your living days and fills up your nights, and a part of you shrieks with fear that he always will, that there will never be anyone other than Simon for you.

He is the sun, and you put a revolving star in the galaxy of all he’s ever promised. It is divine torture, in all honesty. You’re never free of him, him but an invisible chain that tethers you to all you’ve ever dreamed of, and that’s the damnable misery. Because Simon is all you’ve ever dreamed of, since that very first day, and he still can be. It is simply a matter of choice.

And he didn’t choose you. Hadn’t. Not for a long time. And, that burns like hell.

You want to tell him that, remind him. Instead your jaw sets roughly to the point where you swear its grinding bone on bone, and you want him to hear the pain he inflicts in your bones. Your heart. Your soul. So, “You break fifty yet, Simon?” is the coldest, sharpest knife you can imagine driving straight through that gaping gunshot wound. You hope it dismantles his soul.

Seething, his nostrils flare for all of a second while the question hits home, and he glares at you. The smug look slips onto your face before you even have time to think about stopping it, and you rock back on your heel away from him, eyes lidded in a cool look of indifference. It’s a lie. Nothing about you is indifferent, you still feel as alive with him as you always have, but you have masks of your own, now.

All the anger drops out of his face, instead replaced with a wounded look. For all of a second Simon’s walls drop, like they have a hundred times in your presence, and you step forward to brush your fingers over his lips. On toes, you tuck your nose beneath his chin and breathe in the scent of him, feeling it curl down your spine as your lips brush against his ear, carefully. Humming into his skin, he shudders when your knuckles dust against the carve of his abs. Varying degrees of heat rush down your spine, explode between the junction of your legs, and suddenly you’re clenching around merely the thought of him inside of you—desperation, that’s the word. It’s been so long, and there hasn’t been anyone else. There can’t be.

You are still in love with Simon Templar.

Crazy, wildfire, dangerous love. You run the risk of breaking down walls, all the cages you’ve faithfully been crafting to keep him out of your life. In a matter of moments he threatens to disarm them all, to send them cracking. Like a stone skipping over glossy water he threatens to crash the glass ceiling of all you’ve tried to forget, and it is terrifying. But you still love him.

Jumping like a big cat down your spine, you’re trapped under it. Dizzy, drunk with it. Even after all the pain, all of the rejection—you still crave him. Like poison you can’t stop drinking. Who knows how many other women he’s had. How many other wells he’s sipped from. Sheets he’s twisted, hearts he has touched. Other arms he’s run to. How many others he’s tasted. None of that really matters, because he throws your heart wide open, and you won’t ever stop loving him. Even if you should, even if it makes you bleed and cuts like glass, you won’t.

“I’ll take that as a no,” the chime in your voice is coy before your gaze flicks to his injury, “I doubt I can stitch this, but we can pack it. I’ll need gauze—” Moving to brush by him, to the kitchen, he pulls you back into a stop. “Simon.” Eyes cutting to him quickly, he’s unreadable. Again. You’d know that look from anywhere—”Don’t.”

He shuffles you a little closer and you don’t put up as much of a fight as you want to. And then he’s leaning forward, lips dusting your forehead as he breathes you in. His head turns, cheek brushing into your hair as his other hand moves to pull back the seam of your robe, the collar of your sleeping shirt. Fingers ghosting over your skin, the catch of your nails is intoxicating—muscle memory tips your head to the side, allows him to suck at the vein in your neck galloping like a seasoned thoroughbred.

Fingers carding into your hair, he pulls a little. It sends a bolt of familiar white-hot pleasure through your body that sounds off in your fingertips. Unable to move, unable to breathe past the feel of him close, the familiar groan in the back of his throat as he tastes the salt of your neck, it takes every conscious amount of willpower your soul possesses to control the mewl stinging your tongue. The dull ache of emptiness in your core.

Unstable pain flares through your knees when he does that thing that drives you absolutely mad, and all at once you shove him back. Gasping, you shuffle back as if he’s fire and you’ve gotten too close, eyes blown wide as adrenaline kicks your heart up a few beats. You haven’t kissed him, but his taste is there on your lips—your neck burns, the target of his mark pulsing against your skin. Simon’s expression is magical, he knows what he’s done. And for a second the wicked darkness in his eyes sends you reeling with thrill, fear, and pain.

Stepping forward, you know the glint in his eye all too well. You don’t tell him to stop, but you step back a little into the curtain of the shower-bath combo. Biting at your bottom lip, he crowds up around you, until you can’t breathe steadily anymore. A single finger traces to the hem of your shirt, dips beneath, and crooks the material teasingly.

“You’re a bastard,” you challenge him.

“Not untrue,” he chuckles, the corner of his mouth ticking up as his tongue darts out to skate his lower lip. “But I don’t remember that ever bothering you.” You shudder when he rucks the shirt up to your chest, other hand moving to brush the robe off your shoulders. Slinging his hips forward, you explode with heat when he brushes against you—he lazily presses a kiss to your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. “Good god you still taste the same—breathtaking,” he growls a little, greedily, “I didn’t forget.”

Your eyes close and an uneasily breath whistles through your lips on a sharp inhale. “Screw you,” is all you manage, and it makes him chortle. Which does nothing for your resolve, which is bleeding away faster than the hole in his shoulder. Allowing him to kiss you again, your arm snakes around the back of his neck, like old habits that haven’t died so hard. “Fuck you, Simon.”

The low um unnerves you, to the point it’s dangerous. “Will you?” Bruno. His smile is unmissable against your skin as he kisses a line down the length of your throat, tipping your head back with a mewling whine, “I still remember how. I remember you, all your little sounds —- I still dream of you, you know,” Thomas. His voice drops to a low hum, the one that rattles your cage and shakes you all the way down.

Southern charm that spirals you out of control—”All the time, dahlin’. Always you, nevah anyone but you.” August. His hand smooths down the cut of your jaw, holds your face like he never even left. And parts of you forget that he did, but you're grappling to remember—to stay angry. Arching away from him, you try to manage a growl. But he follows you, enough that the back of your legs hit the side of the tub.

And when you can’t go further, you stumble fully clothed into the rising bathwater, sweatpants and all. Eyes dark and face wolfish, with a snap he sends the shower’s curtain away, and steps into the burning water with you. Sweatpants already heavy with water, you put a hand to his chest and halt his advance. His smug look is unimpressed, arm already leaned against the shower tiles. Deliberately bracketed, you either go through him, or stay planted.

His hand finds the one at your side, slips his fingers through yours. Simon draws them his mouth, lips brushing against your knuckles as he studies the ring that dares to sparkle, even the piss poor lighting of your bathroom. He considers the diamond for a heartbeat, before lifting his eyes to peer at your through his lashes. You swallow a squeak of air that’s threatening to bleed through the stitches of your resolve when he makes a show of tracing his tongue over the stone, the band, ultimately drawing your finger into his mouth.

Teeth catching the ring, Simon gently slips it from your finger. “You’re still wearing it.” Plucks it from his lips to loop a finger through the band. Head canted he stares at it snug up against a knuckle, chuckling at the mere sight of it. You still haven’t gained your composure, face flaming at the sinful sight of him licking your fingers emblazoned into your brain like a branding iron, until he cuts a sly little look over at. Corner of his lips tipped, he looked pleased with himself. “Interesting. Overwhelming, actually.”

The audacity of this man. “What? You expected me to, what, just stop wearing it?” Where the accusation comes from you’re not sure, but you move to turn the tap off, the room thrown into silence as the pipes stop carrying water, the tub quits filling. Water swirls around you feet as you turn back to him, trying to conceal the shake of your hands by smoothing the front of your soaked sweats.

“Just because you gave up on us, Simon, doesn’t mean I ever did.”

You don’t have the strength, or words, to deal with the look on his face. Instead, you ready to step out of the bath but he moves like lightning. Gripping your arm, he all but tosses you back against the shower tiles, water moving so quickly it bails out of the tub as if the thing were sinking. But you are sinking, rapidly, confidence all but snuffed under the intense gaze of his eyes—eyes that still worship you. That haven’t forgotten you, that still desire you.

His hands slip through your hair. Knock your head back against the tile just a little, and you attempt to brush him away. But he stays, unmoving. His face is a thousand expressions, but none of what you can put a finger on, and it pisses you off more than you think—but before you can retaliate, his mouth slants over yours in a rough, bruising kiss that has a gasp lifting up the back of your throat.

He tastes phenomenal. Everything you’ve ever known about him comes to life, like living color, the black and whites of yesterday decimated in how he moves to make contact with every part of you. Groaning against your lips, he licks into your mouth, tasting as far back as you dare to let him—and very suddenly he’s wearing too much clothing, but never enough, and your hands slip over the divine carve of his chest. All of him is never enough. It never has been, not for you—and suddenly all you can feel is him searching for you, drinking you in like he’s found the oasis of the Nile after a torturous forty years in the desert.

Simon breaks for air first, resting his forehead against yours. You can’t even think, much less attempt words as air rolls into your lungs. You’re swallowing every one of his breaths, which leaves you drunk on adrenaline and sex in a way you haven’t been for a year. Hand slipping down the valley of your breasts, he pulls at the front of the sweatpants you’re wearing, sending both .380 magazines into the water with quiet, graceful plunks. And now you’re more disarmed than you want to be, the magazines some kind of armor that’s given you more confidence than you thought possible.

He says again that he wanted you to come with him. And you tell him you couldn’t in low tones against his ear, forgetting. A hand at the back of your neck draws you against his chest as he works the band of your sweatpants until they’ve dropped down your legs, into the water at his feet. Steam from the water, heat from him, completely leaves you unraveled and raw, in the best way possible.

“Simon,” you whine as his hand slips between your thighs, gestures for you to open them a little. Simon has always been a tease, but you’re shivering at the mere thought of him. It’s been a year. A long, miserably cold, lonely year—and you’re not sure how to mentally handle that, and he doesn’t wait. Three fingers spread you the farthest you’ve been in a year, and it’s painful.

Foreign pain lasts seconds, maybe, before it bleeds into euphoria and you’re suddenly higher than ever. Raw and split between despising him and crumbling at his feet, he starts slow and deliberate. Careful. It’s so Simon, the rhythm is familiar and sparks old memories, old feelings that have been buried in the harsh, glacial winters of your devastation. Within heartbeats you’re little more than putty in his hands, and the smirk on his face says that there’ll never be anything better than this. Not in a million years. Not for a million dollars—or fifty.

“This changes nothing,” you’re white knuckling the muscle of his arm while he’s filling you knuckle deep, making you forget every sin he’s ever committed. Every word you’ve ever said, every never that’s slipped out of your sinfully moaning little mouth, “I’m still—mmm—I’m still seething over you, Templar.” There’s blood on his hands, and not just from his shoulder—but there’s blood on yours, too. Probably.

“I know, darlin’,” his voice is husky, low with those sweet, hot bourbon tones that rip you apart and somehow manage to put you back together. “But let’s just forget about that right now. Just for a little longer, hm?” His burning kiss at the juncture of your jaw and ear makes you utter something sinfully delicious, pulling a low groan from the depth of his chest. “Simon says just a little while longer, baby.”

“Screw what Simon says,” your growl is nearly demonic, as you pop him flush against your chest, pulling another searing kiss from him. “Just don’t stop.” That much you don’t forget.

And he doesn’t—he never does. At least, for a little while.

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