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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year

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click - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (circa season 1) Tags/Warnings: cabin-in-the-woods moment, fluffy bestie banter, virgin reader, first time sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, and of course, Sam is a pussy god, as per usual. Word Count: ~20k (shhhh don't talk about it i have a problem) Notes: that's right, i make moodboards now bitches. these photos were collaged by my wonderful commissionee @daffodil-mania, who asked for: ""a reverse (you are a) natural, baby? where sam is the reader’s first time + a smutty cabin in the woods-type situation." Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

“Okay, okay,” you thought out loud, thinking hard, “my turn—if you could have anyone as a dinner guest, alive or dead, who’d you pick?”

A few paces ahead of you, Sam hummed in thought. His puffy winter coat made the outline of him against the swirling snow thicker, and if it was possible, taller, a menacing wall of deep blue between you and the woods. Something hiding out here and spying could even mistake Sam for something scary. Luckily, you weren’t that stupid.

Sam, for the millionth time in the last minute, checked that you were where you were supposed to be. (Two immediate steps behind him. Or he’d die). Looking back at you made the wind mess up his hair every time, and every time Sam tucked the same two strands behind his ears again. Like the shy girls in rom-coms did. Truly, monsters trembled at the sight of him.

He geeked at your question, but managed to play it cool: “Gandhi. Feel like he could teach me something. We’d probably like the same food, too, so it’d make for a good dinner.”

“Oh yeah, he was a vegetarian, right? You two could have a nerdy little salad together.”

Under the soft swell of the wind, you thought you heard Sam laugh, but it picked up in loud gusts at times that swirled skirts of untethered snow around your ankles. Well, your knees. The snow was tall enough here to seep into your boots. You’d given up totally on finding your own footing and started walking in Sam’s tracks, which were wider than yours almost all the way around. You told yourself that this was to confuse anyone tracking your prints in the snow, but really it was just fun to compare your shoe size to Sam’s. This set the walk back to the cabin at a snail’s pace. But with the way this conversation was going, you didn’t exactly mind freezing your ass off.

John had left his boys yet another unfinished hunt to distract them. Sam and Dean, tired of being distracted, changed tactics and split up. Dean was following a lead in Montana that could actually take him to John, and you and Sam were tying up John’s loose ends in upper Washington. The two of you had spent the last three days researching bloody disappearances in the area. An area in the thick of its snowiest, blurriest season, mind you, miles from anything but one of the Winchesters’ off-the-grid apocalypse shelters. This wasn’t how you and your mother had operated when you’d hunted together, but. Things changed. Parents disappeared.

Sam seemed to be shoving himself through John’s absence as best he could. You got smiles out of him here and there, but especially today, playing question games to pass the time mapping the woods and putting down traps.

“Gandhi was a fruitarian,” Sam clarified. He shielded his face from the snow by hiding in his collar, so you may have misheard when he added, “So, yeah. Him or my mom.”

Months ago, a mention of Sam’s mom would’ve shocked you into a full-on coma. He kept her memory even closer to his chest than Dean did, in some ways, and either brother even sneezing in the direction of their storied past had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Before this hunt, that is. Now you couldn’t get Sam to shut up. Either the isolation had made him lonely or something else had pushed him to trust you, because the last two days had been spent this way—trudging through snow and spilling your guts about everything under the sun together. Sam loved to read and watch documentaries, he was fascinated by astronomy and meteorology and organized crime history and Native American folklore, and, hey, big surprise, reading. You’d never heard him talk about anything with so much passion. You hadn’t heard that passion in your own voice since before you’d lost your mom.

Still. As comfortable as you suddenly felt with Sam, you were sure to tread lightly. You risked a glimpse at his broad, snow-dusted back. “Mary would be nice too. Maybe you’d get to try some family recipe she’d make or something.”

“I think I remember my dad tellin’ me once that she hated cooking, actually, but m’ not sure,” Sam said, a bit of humor in his voice.

You thought of the soup Sam had turned to lava over the wood stove that morning, and grinned, “Yeah, I think you got that from her.”

Keeping casual eyes on your feet, you tried to see how fast you could get your boot through each foothold in the snow. Sam would make deep gouges in the powder with his longer strides. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. You’d clear them three in a row, sometimes four, then stop short a step behind Sam and wait for him to make more tracks. Like hopscotch, almost. Every once in a while a huge gust of wind would force Sam to stop, and without a word he’d form a wall between you and the blast. You’d learned pretty much everything there was to know about Sam these last few days, but out of all his best dorky qualities his chivalry was your favorite.

“S’ not that I hate cookin’, I just suck attit.”

And the accent. The accent was gold, when the pretty drawl of it crept through with Sam’s boredom.

A little further and the spindly, snow-heavy trees parted for the lake you and Sam had been using to navigate. On your first day scouting you’d noticed how the icy surface had frozen like a misshapen heart, and since then Sam followed the point of it back to your cabin every night. Southeast of it was the abandoned mining facility that’d swallowed three people whole, and to its far right was where three more had disappeared. Your guess was a couple of territorial tree nymphs or werewolves, and Sam was betting on a Winter Hunger. The loser would take the first shift driving down to Montana.

Seeing the lake, Sam starts to arc your march around the edge, his sharp eyes on the treeline across the ice. The wind was stronger with room to run over the lake, but you reminded yourself that being a little cold was the gentlest way to die out here and forged ahead. Besides, most of your body had gone stark numb miles back. When you remembered how bad your cheeks were stinging, you’d bring your scarf tighter around your face and watch Sam, his long legs cutting easily through the snow.

The wind cooled down to a whisper. You reminded him, “Your turn.”

You’d reached a point where coming up with good questions had become harder than answering them, so Sam took a bit to stew on something good. There’d been a silent agreement on who was responsible for which kinds of asks. You would probe Sam with the deepest, most personal shit you could come up with, and after he explained what his life’s accomplishment was and what friendship means to him, Sam would go, uhhhh, what’s your favorite color? He was definitely the smartest shovel in the Winchester shed.

“How about this,” Sam cleared his throat. “Would you ever wanna be famous?”

You must’ve made a noise that gave away your surprise at the quality of his question, because he made a snooty sound back that had you seriously considering shoving him in the snow. You put your hands on his shoulders and everything, but where there should’ve been normal guy shoulders there were buff guy shoulders, which wouldn’t budge an inch. Sigh. What a lousy, muscly jackass.

Sam planted his feet, whining your name. “C’mon. Answer.”

“I’m thinking!” You laughed, and pushed with your legs until Sam tilted forward into his next step. It took a moment for you to keep your hands to yourself. “Okay. In this hypothetical world, what am I famous for?”

“Supermodel,” Sam answered right away.

You splashed a little snow at his jeans, deciding to save your funny feelings about his answer for later self-reflection. “Dude. Be realistic.”

At this, Sam snickered, and even with him facing forward you could imagine the dry sloping smile pressing into his dimples. “Okay—across the whole entire world, you’re famous for cooking the perfect soup in a can. Like, in ways no one can even imagine, that’s how good. You make millions of dollars off it and become a household name. Would you want that?”

“God, no,” you wuffed out, immediately sending Sam into a fit of giggles. “Are you kidding me? All those strangers knowing me, not giving me any privacy? And don’t even get me started on all those soup-hounds throwing themselves at me for my soup-money.”

“I guess that’s true. You could never marry for love, 'cause everybody would just want your soup,” Sam mourned. Another great Sam quality: he was excellent at going along with a bit. “You’d just have to live with brief soup-flings for the rest of your life.”

You thought about what a soup-fling could entail for all of one second, then burst out laughing, warm clouds of it spiraling into the air through your breath. The shoulders of Sam’s coat shook with glee. It was funny for a few more beats until it warmed into something that was light and airy, something you hadn’t heard from Sam since you’d met him. He had the sweetest laugh. It made your damn teeth rot.

“Y’know, speaking of flings,” you hollered over the hissing wind, “I have no idea how your brother does that shit.”

Dean was safe and familiar territory; he was the centerpiece of everything you had in common with Sam, so your conversation circled back to him plenty. Every conversation you’d had with Dean orbited around Sam some way, too, so you’d come to expect it. You’d never seen two brothers care about each other as much as they did. Which was hilarious, since the moment one of them got you alone all they did was bitch. Dean’s been driving me up the damn wall. Sam keeps stickin’ his nose in my business. Neither of them had ever had a trusted third set of eyes before, or at least one who understood that their complaints were overshadowed with love. John had been someone to look up to, to emulate and impress, but you were a fresh outlet available for family baggage. The boys were your outlet for bitching too, since it was understood that your bitching also came from the heart.

“A girl in every port sounds fun in theory, but I feel like I’d get sick of it fast,” you confessed.

The snow underfoot began to crunch harder with each step, packed down into a firm sheet. Soon Sam’s prints were so shallow that you could see the tips of your boots again. Taking the chance while you had it, you fought against the snow to walk side-by-side with him, then fought again to match him stride-for-stride. Sam’s poor face had been pounded with so much snow that his bangs were soaking wet, but he still managed a half-frozen smile seeing you next to him.

“And, I dunno. I think I care about hurting people’s feelings too much to just…” you gestured stiffly, “head to the next town after sharing a night with someone.”

“Same here,” Sam sighed, then gave a very subtle cough as a sign to shift gears: “But, uh, I think it’s kinda a stress relief thing for him.”

You probably should’ve guessed that Sam wasn’t the fling type, since you’d been there every time he’d shied away from Dean’s plans to pick up girls, but the idea… sat there. Staring at you. It’d be stupid-easy for Sam to live that lifestyle. Dean had his own notions about what girls were most into (bad boys, leather jackets, you know), but you happened to be certified in what girls were into, and you had it on good authority that Sam was a total dreamboat.

You nudged Sam with your shoulder, coaxing him open with a well-placed smile. This was unearthed territory. “Not your thing, huh?”

The snow had pinkened Sam’s face enough as it was, so what he was capable of on his own was downright impressive. Even his ears went red. “Uhh,” he chuckled, too skittish to look you in the eye. “No, not really. I’m. I, uh, I’d rather get to know her first, y’know. Before we’re intimate. And hopping towns doesn’t exactly give you the time to do that.”

Yup. Total dreamboat.

“Oh, so that’s your plan, asking me all these personal questions.”

Sam controlled his sputtering by pressing his lips into a firm, flat line, which refused to indulge your silly flirting. “You’re a jackass,” he said, and the growing smile in his voice betrayed just how little he thought that was true.

When you were done laughing at your own joke, Sam guessed, “So that’s not your thing, either? One night stands?”

You were having fun—pulling Sam’s leg, for one, but also talking to him in general, so the truth glides right out of your mouth.

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had sex.”

Sam had left his filter two states behind on the drive up, so he doesn’t even think to cap his disbelief. He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

His mortification with himself makes contact two beats later, and while you’re smirking and floating unbothered across the snow, Sam nearly goes belly-up falling over himself to apologize.

You soak up his groveling until Sam’s embarrassment hits a breaking point, then, in your humblest and kindest princess voice, you say, “It’s cool, Sam. No worries. I’m not at all offended you think it’s weird I’m a virgin.”

“I don—I-I don’t think it’s weird,” Sam stressed, going a little wild in the eyes. “It’s great! …I mean, not like, great, I just mean. It’s not a bad thing or anything.”

You meet his awkward silence with a smug, pleased one of your own. Sam’s smart enough to realize he’s stumbled into your trap, but not quick enough to find an escape, so he sputters for a long time and falls back on his third option.

“I’m just wondering,” he winces, knowing his question is stupid, “why are you still a virgin?” You’re about to laugh in his face, but the earnestness in Sam’s voice makes you hesitate. His question is a genuine one. “...That sounds awful, m’ sorry. But, c’mon. You’re smart enough to know how pretty you are. Charmin’ enough to use it, too. I mean, I’d…”

He caught himself. “—Anyone, would, uh…”

Sam didn’t finish his thought. He changed his grip on the shotgun swinging from his hand, self-conscious, and cleared his throat.

Well. That wasn’t obvious at all. No way in hell you were leaving that alone.

“You’d what?”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just tucked his hair behind his ears again, too shy to say what he was thinking but bold enough to let it be spoken in his silence instead. And it was a very, very telling silence.

Your brain scrambled to cram as much as possible into the blank Sam had left. There was so much potential in that one little word. I’d…

I’d understand if someone wanted to have sex with you.

I’d have found someone by now, if I were you.

I’d have sex with you.

I’d take that opportunity, ______, if I could.

Hm. Okay. Okay, huh. There weren’t a lot of people in the world capable of making you question your life decisions so quickly, but of course, this was Sam. His silence persevered. Your train of thought became an internal trainwreck.

A few opportunities had cropped up over the course of your life—third dates with guys that hadn’t totally sucked, a few handsome barflies—but nothing had… clicked. Because there was supposed to be a click, right? Before sex? Some compass in your body, moving you in a certain direction? You hoped to drift toward something that fit better than a stranger, but like Sam had said, that level of commitment wouldn’t be waiting for you out on the road. You could hook up with civilians or hunters as you pleased, but just the thought made your chest ache. Real connection wouldn’t be waiting for you in the back of a truck or a sleazy motel. Hunters lived short lives, sure, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be a hopeless romantic.

You’d held onto that notion for a long time. Someday, something would click, and it’d be worth the damn wait.

Now, Sam was here, blinking coyly at you through his bangs, keeping you close to him, listening when you spoke. Click, goes your brain. Like a gear notching into place. He has those mossy, sensitive eyes that pry right open just for you and the prettiest rasp to his voice. Click click.

“C’mon,” Sam coughs. “Cabin’s just ahead.”

I’d… Sam had said, and left you to fill in the blanks.

The next day, both of you were proven wrong. You found out the hard way that the disappearances weren’t caused by cannibalistic spirits or werewolves. After getting mauled by living hills of snow and almost swallowed by an avalanche, you and Sam got the very subtle and not-at-all-lethal impression that you were dealing with an insane case of cursed ground. (Cur-sed, Sam had said, because he was fancy.) It took some on-the-spot ritual work and a day’s worth of walking to bury hex bags in the right spots, but by dusk you were alive and comfortable back in the cabin.

“I say we stick around for one more night—make sure this place is clean,” Sam suggested, shaking himself out on the welcome mat. When he shucked his coat off, the silky interior and the back of his shirt were dark with melted snow.

You glanced between Sam, who was blue at the edges, and the shifting tides of flakes on the wind outside. If you stared long enough the whole mountainside seemed to come alive in the dark.

“Uh,” you told him, “are you sure? If we got even one of those spells wrong, what’s stopping this thing from burying the whole cabin?”

But Sam had already thought of that, like he’d already thought of everything else. He rose from where he’d been kicking off his boots to give your icy hands a quick, warming squeeze. “I got it covered. Go—get a fire started, and fast.”

Since you were still riding the wave of adrenaline that’d kept you alive against moving, living forces of nature, you were already following Sam’s orders before he’d finished saying them. He didn’t act hardly as hurried. Being soaked and half-frozen was apparently second nature to him, since he navigated uninhibited through the duffle of ingredients you’d unloaded on the cabin’s floor. Your fingers were so numb that it took three tries to scrape some fire out of your matches, and by then Sam was already tying off his millionth hexbag of the day.

You didn’t regain your senses until a few minutes later, which passed as slow as hours did. Somehow in that sliver of time you’d hauled more firewood inside, hurried it into the fireplace, lit it, helped Sam bury the protection spells around the yard, raced back inside, and laid all your wet clothes out in front of the hearth. The second the doors were locked, your high started to tank. Sam was talking.

“—will last us through til’ tomorrow. Then, in the morning, we can use the spell to see if the land is purified. It might even be a good idea to check with the dowsing rods, too. If this ground is as cursed as we think, the hexbags will be just fine, though, so you don’t have to worry. You listenin’?”

Sam was a big, fuzzy-edged shape sitting criss-cross on the ratty rug a few paces from the fire. His silhouette was outlined by it in handsome shades of gold and honey-white, ‘cause of course he was the kind of movie beautiful that suited romantic fire lighting. Like, really romantic. Your brain had been baking in the panicked sludge of fleeing and hunting all day, but even it was capable of looking at that image of Sam and going, Uh, yeah. There’s something going on here.

For the last few days, the two of you had purified the ground of the cabin, too. It was the most telling relic of Sam and Dean’s life with John Winchester: rationed, unglamorous, and harsh. John was usually an out-of-bounds subject for the boys, but Sam had spent the last few days describing him at length. He was paranoid and obsessive—hence the cabin’s military rations, hidden weapons, traps, metric fucktons of salt, and next to nothing else. John hated any music and technology post-1980—hence the cabin’s record player. It was the only source of entertainment on hand, and the same three records only lasted so long. Even as hunter’s hovels went, this one was impressively oppressive.

Sam, plagued by abysmal hunter-kid memories of being stuck out here, had warned you about it ahead of time. You’ll get bored and miserable. He’d said that and you’d thought to yourself how hard it would be to get bored and miserable around Sam, who mystified you just sitting there. Still, you splurged on some big fluffy blankets, the shittiest and cheapest chess set you could find, pillows, and s’mores. Not exactly the John Winchester essentials, but. Just in case.

Stuffing the footwell of Sam’s stolen truck with cozy bullshit had been worth it in the end, purely because you wouldn’t wish the sleeping situation in the cabin on your worst enemy. There was a single, boxspring-less bed crammed in the bedroom’s corner, with a blanket too pitiful to put into words. It only had one pillow. This pillow also happened to be of unknown origin and age, and you were only brave enough to touch it because you’d worn your big girl pants that day. Sam had banked on the two sleeping bags he and Dean had left there as kids, but they were unfortunately still kid-sized. The two of you would’ve been forced to share body heat under one petal-thin blanket. Now, loaded up with massive, fuzzy comforters and heavy quilts, the two of you were happily sharing body heat under enough blankets to drown in.

Sam had insisted on making a bed for himself on the floor the first night. You’d let him, purely because he was pouring on the chivalry by the truckload and you were too grateful to know what to say. Any plans to argue were pinned down by that stern, unguarded stare. S’okay, I’ve been sleepin’ like this since I was little. Just a few minutes sinking into your snug nest made you rot with guilt. Being on the road with the boys put you in a bed with Sam plenty of times, and though the quarters were a bit tighter in the cabin, the cold was sharper too. You confessed your guilt to Sam the next day, and after the usual research marathon that night you felt his weight fill the untouched side of the bed.

Okay, Sam had caved. But—you’re sleeping on the inside, by the wall. I’m a lighter sleeper. That way if somethin’ comes in, I can protect you.

Hearing that, you’d grabbed his wrist and pulled it over your side. You’d kept one hand fisted around the knife under your pillow and the other folded over Sam’s hand, as if to say, I can protect you, too. Sam must’ve understood, because he’d pressed his cheek against your shoulder blade and succumbed to sleep. The rest of the week was spent like that, Sam herding you against one side of the slim bed with his legs and his arms and his sleepy-soft breaths. Though the bed was toasty and the contact was a one-stop sleeping pill, you stayed up with your knife for company. Sam deserved to feel safe while he slept.

You didn’t get that often as a hunter. Especially the touching part. Touching of any kind only really happened when you trusted someone, and trust was earned on the road with all the ease and painlessness of pulling teeth. In Sam’s case, he was an untapped well for little doses of affection. The moment that line was crossed, the second you’d taken a hit in his place for the first time, the second you’d torn your own clothes to wrap his wounds, Sam was open to you. He would never reach for your hand first (not if he was still Sam, who thought he didn’t deserve it), but you could reach for his and he would take it without question. You could pull his arm around you and Sam would wrap it tight, pressing his nose into your back. There was an exchange that occurred. He trusted you to give him something he was too proud to ask for and you trusted him to let you in, the two of you careful not to break the magic.

While he poked at the fire and lit candles, you flitted to the other room to scoop up a blanket to wrap yourself up in. The constant back-and-forth insanity of the day had made you too nauseous to eat, but you knew your stomach needed something. Preferably something sweet to trick you into feeling rewarded. Military rations really weren’t your thing, so you opted for the pomegranate Sam had avoided to keep his research papers clean.

He’d been going through your plan for tomorrow, right. “I’m listening, Sammy.”

When you circled back to join him on the rug, you opened up an arm of your blanket-cape for him. Sam, without comment, ducked under it, and you shuffled around for a minute to give his broader shoulders some fabric to work with. “All we can do for now is wait,” he told you, “so… whaddya wanna do?”

You put a bowl down in front of you and started splitting the pomegranate with your knife. “Chess again?”

Sam’s lip slanted in a frown. All his energy for smart stuff had been spent on the hunt today, so you weren’t all that surprised at his reluctance.

“Cards, then?” You guessed. Beads of rich red fruit started to fill your bowl, which Sam didn’t hesitate to sneak a hand into.

“There’s only so many rounds of Go Fish a guy can handle losing, _____,” Sam teased.

It was true. You’d obliterated him every round so far, the poor bastard.

Sam leaned into your side, filling your peripherals with his know-it-all smirk. “Unless you—”

“We’re done playing poker,” you said, having suffered your fair share playing against him. The emptiness of your wallet must’ve reflected in your voice, since Sam started snickering into his lap—and yeah, maybe the whole cute-shy-guy routine had worked on you, but knowing Sam he’d find a way to sneak the money he’d won out of you back into your bag. He was sweet that way. Evil, but sweet.

“Okay,” Sam wet his lips and wracked his brain. “...I could read my book to you. It’s the one I was telling you about—”

“—with the corrupt cops in L.A,” you filled in. Separating the pomegranate seeds from their core was bloody work with your knife, so when the natural halves of it were happily in the bowl you picked the rest apart with purple-stained fingers.

“Uh-huh. And we’re at a part I think you’d find pretty interesting, all the crazy trial stuff.” Sam shrunk into his shoulders a little bit, then added in a quiet voice, “If you, y’know. If you want.”

Hmm. You swiped the book from Sam’s other hand, the planes of his fingers making brief, electric contact with yours. A sharp flash of heat whipped through your belly, sizzling through your nerves. It took a bit for you to refocus, but the pause made you look like you were some deep scholarly person really inspecting the back cover, which Sam seemed to appreciate. You took care not to get any fruit stains on the pages. When you turned to pass it back to him, Sam was rubbing his bruised knuckles into his sleepier eyes. How he could keep reading after staring at nothing but old newspapers all week, you had no clue.

You reeled the book back toward you. “...How about I read it to you?”

Sam froze, considering this. He considered it so long that you could watch his cheeks color in real-time, the same red they’d been in the snow, until he broke out of his trance and managed a warm, surprised sort of smile.

“Okay,” Sam melted.

“C’mere, lawboy,” you decided on a whim, and pat the top of your thigh. True to form, Sam took his permission and ran with it, twisting shyly to lay on his side and prop his cheek on your leg. “Lemme impress you with all the big words I know how to say.”

Sam chuckled, and it was the kind of laugh that told you just how many weird law words were about to trip you up. It was also the kind of laugh you could feel, rumbly and real through your leg, which was. It was. It was something. He got comfortable, curling a lazy arm around your knee and using you as a proper pillow.

You really should’ve put more thought into having Sam this close. Like, really should’ve, since he’s so big and warm that it has you running on nothing but instinct, and your first impulse having Sam in your lap is to go straight for that gorgeous hair.

You take the lock Sam’s been messing with all day and tuck it behind his ear, just because his head is there and you need a damn place for your hand to rest. Right. A deep and draining sigh airs out of Sam’s nose being touched like that, and you start to wonder if this was something he’d masterminded. He seeps into your lap like he’d been chasing this all day, all week, and something about it makes you feel special in ways no one else could manage.

You open to the page Sam left off on and start to read. Sam doesn’t move an inch, laying statue-still in your lap. He only moves to sneak pinches of pomegranate seeds. Stiff as he is, he’s there, the furnace you’ve relied on for the last few days to keep warm. You get through a few chapters this way, Sam pausing you every ten seconds to explain something or hum or snootily translate some lawyer-speak for you. The whole time you do an excellent job of keeping your hands to yourself. Ever since Sam’s comment from yesterday, the little pieces you’ve gotten of him have made you greedy. Click.

The fire and the candlelight create a perfect bubble of heat on the otherwise icy floor, so it doesn’t take long for Sam to go from resting in your lap to downright oozing across it. From your point of view he’s nothing but a mop of shining hair and a big hand curled around your knee. His presence seeps into you as much as his warmth does, and after so long it’s almost overwhelming to taste someone else’s vulnerability this way. Click click. You’re reminded of how much you care about Sam, and how long it’s been since you’ve been allowed that. There was something about him that would always be worth protecting. Maybe it was how fucking good he smelled.

“Doctor Janen’s contributions to the investigation, especially her knowledge of luminol, were,” you trailed off, “were…”

Sam’s breathing had evened out in your lap. Or, you thought it had, until his posture shifted under the sweater he was wearing. He rolled out of your lap and onto his hands with a reluctant groan. Tired as he was, Sam was always capable of being a smartass. “D’you know what luminol is?”

“Yes, detective,” you scoffed, maybe a teensy bit disappointed that he’d left your lap. The outline of his touch on your thigh burned like a heat beacon. “Should I go back and read the last few paragraphs, or was that you just pretending to sleep?”

Sam rubbed at his face, like it was possible to physically scrub the sleep from it. He sat up next to you, blinking slowly to get his bearings, and for no logical reason your heartbeat built to an ear-ringing throb in your chest. You were completely alone with him. For once, you had Sam all to yourself. Soft shadows kissed his arms and hands and neck. He was made up of nothing but full endless sloping lines, a charcoal sketch come to life.

“I was restin’ my eyes,” he sassed. “We should stay sharp through tonight, though. Stay up. I can take the first shift, since you’ve taken the last three.”

You didn’t miss the little nod to your sleeping habits. Which meant Sam had also laid awake long enough to know you hadn’t fallen asleep until late, which meant he’d laid awake next to you. In bed. Thinking with that big brain of his. It made your own big brain run around in crazy circles, chasing whatever conclusions he might come to.

You stole a glance at the nearest window. The salt lines were laid neatly on its sil, on the off chance boarding up the glass turned out to be useless. “That’s okay. I’m not exactly tired yet.”

Sam popped a few pomegranate seeds into his mouth, humming in thought. “Then it’d probably be smartest to keep each other up.”

“Samuel!” You gasped. He froze mid-chew, confused, and remained confused until you started poking him and laughing. “I’d expect a line like that from your brother, but never from you.”

You were a tease-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, so you understood Sam’s particular brand of banter and how he liked to respond to yours. Typically, you’d annoy him with a playful little taunt and Sam would let you know you were funny by calling you a jackass. You waited for Sam to hear your line and brush you off as an idiot. Instead, he did something much more interesting: he got defensive.

“I meant stay up like, like talking,” he sputtered. “I would never—y’know. I wouldn’t. Do, uh. Do that. Why don’t we keep up our question game from before? It’s, it’s your turn, right?”

“Okay. What was your first time like?”

Well. Shit.

This was the fastest question that either one of you had managed to whip out all week, and that fact hung so obviously in the air that you could feel it between you and Sam on the floor. It dropped so hard in the middle of the conversation that it shut you both up, silencing Sam’s sputtering and veering your train of thought to a shrieking, sparking halt. Sam was smart. His big brain would put together—had probably already put together—that you’d thought about asking him this. He might even be smart enough to intuit why you’d been itching to bring this subject back up, and for the first time in your life you prayed that Sam was the dumbest, most thick-headed man to ever hunt with you.

He did a great impression of someone less clever than himself. “Like. The first time I…?”

You chewed a few pomegranate seeds. “Uh-huh.”

“...Right.” Sam registered. He conveniently decided to fixate on the fire instead of you, which should’ve helped your sanity, if that was even possible anymore. The bulb of his nose and the swell of his lip curved just perfectly in profile, made even prettier by the firelight. God.

You panicked. “If that makes you uncomfortable—”

Sam swallowed. “No, no. You’re okay. Just thinking.”

You bit down on your tongue. Oh, awesome. Thinking! Exactly what I want you to be doing right now!

Sam swiped two sweaty, corded hands down each of his thighs. Tucked his hair behind his ears. Made your belly flutter and twist like a huge gust of wind going through a spring-fresh tree.

“I was seventeen,” Sam cleared his throat. “We were in Utah—well, I was in Utah, Dad and Dean were… Whatever. But I was sort of, um, on this rebellious streak at the time.”

You lazed back on your hands. “So, in hunter-kid terms, counting the days til’ you’re eighteen and packing your rucksack?”

An abrupt laugh barked out of Sam. His gaze loitered on your face with renewed comfort, remembering, again, that you’d both hidden your acceptance letters where no parent could see them. This was another Sam-move you knew the steps to.

“Yeah,” his eyes glittered. “Exactly.”

(The day you met Sam, the one reference you’d made to your associate’s degree had him crossing his legs under the table. He’d asked in a husky, tight voice what you’d gone to school for. Just hearing the words folklore and mythology had the guy close to pitching a tent.)

Sam managed to take his eyes off you. “But, uhm. There was this girl at school my Dad had ordered me not to hang around, so… I hung around. After a school dance. In her car.”

You were a very mature adult who was not at all jealous of a teenage Utahn, and thus sculpted your face into something playful. “Dirty,” you snickered. Sam’s light smile was encouraging, so you said as an afterthought, “Sounds like a squeeze, though. Don’t know if I’d want my first time to be in a car.”

“Especially in a tiny, cramped Nissan,” he agreed, chuckling. The smidgen of regret in his voice shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d earned a point against Random Utah Girl, but it did. You scolded yourself for it (your imaginary point gripped in one fist).

It was now Sam’s turn to ask a question, and he asked it fast. Impressively fast. “Okay, so. No car. Where would you want your first time to happen, then?”

Though you were an absolute animal when it came to Go Fish, your empty wallet was proof enough that you were a lousy poker player—due to an even lousier poker face. Hearing Sam’s question, it did you no favors. Even before you’d formed any thoughts about… everything, your body knew its answer, pointing every delicate nerve in your body toward the open doorway to the cabin’s bedroom.

You flicked a glance at the warm, intimate darkness waiting for you there.

It was only a second. But that one look was enough. Your hand was exposed, and Sam, by comparison, was an excellent poker player.

In a rush, you scrambled to put some distance between yourself and your obviousness. You winced. No way out. “Uhh, anywhere cozy. For the first time, I dunno if I’d wanna be cramped in a closet or something, no matter how sexy it may be. Is it lame to say… a bed?”

Sam hummed. As you’d talked, he’d become more and more relaxed in front of the fire, lounging on a propped-up arm and picking out of the fruit bowl. There was a long silence from him that could’ve been the weighted silence before a judge’s verdict.

…You’d never seen a judge draw his hand up to his mouth, suck pomegranate juice from the pads of his fingers, then pull off them with a noisy pop, but. But maybe they took a different approach at Stanford.

“It’s the standard for a reason, right?” Sam shrugged, amused.

He pushed the bowl across the floor with his wrist instead of his spit-slick fingers. It made a hollow scraping sound that brought your head back to the conversation, thank god, since the last seconds of your life post-fingers-to-mouth action had been spent elsewhere. The specific “elsewhere” that entailed Sam’s thick-knuckled fingers and Sam’s pretty pink mouth. You’d had the occasional intrusive thought about men creep up on you before, but the tricky part was that those thoughts pushed their way in. They jolted into your life then jolted back out.

Single-handed, Sam had hooked you, reeled you in, and pulled you “elsewhere.” Keyword: pulled. Not pushed.

…Then… maybe… pulled you again. And pushed you back. And again. Pulled out, then pushed in. Pulllled out slow, only to ssssink back in, deeper than before. Pulling and pushing with rhythm. Pulling, pushing, faster, deeper. Making you gasp and yelp his name, his fingers—Sam’s fingers—digging into your waist, your belly—

Click. Click click click click click click.

“_____?”

You’re so self-conscious you think you could feel the individual atoms of your body clanging against each other. “...Uh-huh?”

It’s your turn to ask a question next. But Sam breaks the rules and speaks first, since he knows exactly what he wants to ask you. He glides up onto one hand, his whole body a twenty-page study of lanky coyness, and tilts in close to you.

“If you could lay it all out—the timing, the place, the person…” Sam’s face glittered with a poker player’s curiosity. “What would your perfect first time be like?”

Or: Give me the manual, and I’ll follow it.

Your mouth was watering. It was one of a million things making it impossible for you to speak right now, including the sudden, nigh-unbearable heat of the room under your collar, and, oh right, the metric fuckton of slick soaking your underwear. The speed at which your arousal hits you is enough to make you dizzy, and in the haze you swear you start to hear something. Click. Click. Click click click click click click click—

Fuck. Sam is waiting for an answer. Fuck.

“I guess I’ve never thought about it before.”

Which was a blatant lie, since you’d spent the last ten minutes thinking of nothing else. Sam either sensed you weren’t telling the truth or was looking for something more, because he let you linger in your own answer, prying the rest out of you with his hanging silence.

Really, you should’ve been tougher, but the first long breath without anything from him shredded your strength. You caved and filled the quiet.

“I mean,” you toyed with your hands in your lap. “No matter what, I’d want it to be special. Bein’ out on the road, marching around, that’s not really a luxury we’re allowed to have. It’s like you said yesterday. I wanna be with someone I’m connected to, and I don’t think that’s gonna be in the back of a bar or—”

“—in a stranger’s bed,” Sam softened with understanding. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” You echoed. The fire crackled and popped, loud enough that you could use the sound as an excuse to look elsewhere. “And if I happened to find that person, they’d have to be in the life. We can only trust other hunters, nowadays.”

Sam snorted. “If we’re lucky, maybe.”

It disappointed you how much you had to agree with him. There used to be a sense of mutual understanding among the hunters you’d met, but something had shifted since you were little. The world was a much scarier place, and the hunters that’d survived to see it had darkened to meet it. You’d dodged all shades of skeevy, selfish people before you’d landed in the Impala’s backseat. Even Dean and Sam had colored the list of hunters you’d been warned to avoid. Of course, every inch of it had turned out to be triple-hand gossip. Maybe you were quick to judge or the boys were just good seeds in a shitty crop, either way, ending up with them was the kind of good luck that beat the devil.

You’d never had the chance to tell Sam that before.

“I dunno. Not to go all mushy on you, but I do feel pretty lucky.”

Sam indulged you with an inviting tilt of his head, impressed that either one of you had a sliver of luck between you. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. This last year, before I joined up with you n’ Dean, there wasn’t a single living soul out there I thought was worth putting my faith in,” you said, easing your mushy confession onto him under the guise of fact. Sam couldn’t digest it any other way. “I’m really grateful you changed that for me. It feels—it feels good to trust people. To feel like somebody knows you.”

Sigh. The side of your personal bubble filled with nothing but Sam started to seep with quiet, disbelieving fondness, and you could tell because Sam was giving you the eyes. The eyes. The ones that people brought out their wallets for and sent girls like you into romantic psychosis.

You dared to face them head-on, which was a reckless idea (probably brought on by romantic psychosis). Sure enough, his gaze was big and soulful and heart-rending. Sam was sitting so close now that you could almost soak up his body heat. The biting wind wormed its way through the thin walls and the fire was fading with it, but Sam oozed magnetic warmth by comparison. Stuff-your-face-in-his-neck kind of warmth.

“Do you feel like…” Sam rasped. He brushed the flats of his knuckles down your arm, breaking that final touch barrier. “...like I really know you?”

Your entire nervous system implodes with fluttery feelings. It’s just two fingers, brushing soft down your arm through your sweater, but. It’s confirmation. It’s Sam’s yes, I want this, and it puts into perspective how the two of you have spent the last week: alone together. Curled as one shape in bed. Talking just loud enough for only the other to hear, and never an octave higher. Never more than a few feet apart. If you reached for Sam first you knew he’d accept your hand, your boots in his bootprints, but when he coasts his palm down the swell of your shoulder it’s him reaching out for you.

You reach right back. You curl a hand up to cover his hand with yours, those big doe eyes asking that same question on repeat. Do you think I know you? Do you trust me? Do you want this?

“All I’ve got is me, you, and Dean. And it wasn’t him that I told all my deepest hopes and shittiest moments to,” you laughed. “So…”

Every other time you’ve hit this point, you’d been distracted by the logistics and the math of sex—protection, chemistry, the when and how, and the consequences of both. It’s not gonna hit you until two days after this moment, after Sam has you as many times as you want in the plush cabin bed, that there was no math with him. Just want. Just things sliding into place. Click click click.

“So…” Sam’s face tips even closer. Your head fogs with the heat and smell and presence of him, mesmerized.

He puts it all together for the two of you: “Your perfect first time would be with a hunter, somebody in the life that you trust. Somebody who could make you feel special. Somebody who really knows you.”

You smirk before you can stop yourself. “Do I need to drop any more hints, Sam?”

Damn, could that boy put a fireworks show to shame. He lit up. Sam’s shoulders did this really cute boyish swell and his lips parted, telegraphing with every piece of himself, Oh, you really want this, you really want me!

You’d never seen him wear that kind of happiness before, and it made sense why. Thank god the two of you were off the grid out here, because you didn’t doubt that Sam’s smile could pop every lightbulb in the entire country.

Sam aimed a bubbly laugh at his lap, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’m getting the full picture,” he tried to flirt, “a few more, maybe?”

So, getting less and less subtle as you went on, you explained to Sam the hypothetical author of the night of your life. He’d be sweet. Polite. Smart, too, but not the type to rub it in your face. (This made Sam laugh). He’d be gentle and considerate and frankly fucking awesome, but not so shy that he couldn’t give you a wild time.

When he was blushing so hard you stopped needing the fire for warmth, you sprinkled one last handful of flattery on him. “And, jesus,” you whistled, “this guy I’m picturing? Total dreamboat. So pretty it makes me wanna write dumb songs about him.”

Predictably, Sam got so flustered that he went back to futzing with that same strand of hair by his ear. With the touch barrier between you broken, your mind buzzed with a million different ways to reach out and feel him, to draw him in, and all those ideas coalesced seeing Sam’s hand come up to his cheek. Before you lost your resolve, you stroked the messiest portion of his bangs behind his ear for him. Sam melted. He liked to do that around you.

“Now I’d just sound arrogant if I assumed that it’s me,” Sam snorted.

You pressed the flats of your knuckles down Sam’s warm, smooth cheek. “It’s you. It’s been you for a while, actually.”

The easy, loving contact dazed him. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and a short, shaky breath puffed out of him in one bracing go. It was clear that he hadn’t been touched this way in a while. He sat there absorbing your touch for a long time, a cat resting his head in the full scope of your palm. You turned your body to face his and Sam’s gaze, which was layer after layer of hazels no artist could mimic, opened for you.

You thought about saying something cheesy like, wow, ain’t I lucky, having the whole world in the palm of my hand, but Sam was much faster (and much, much cheesier).

A leather-tough hand scooped around the back of your neck. The touch was fucking-christ-big and god, so was he, the line of his thumb to his wristbone as long as the length of your neck. You knew this because that’s exactly where Sam placed it, stroking your chin with his thumb. Prickling chills tickled up your legs. He scrutinized you—and you say scrutinize loosely, since the Sam-equivalent was gazing into your face like a fatal decision was held there. Your mental yes, yes, I want you was so loud that Sam could’ve psychically heard it. If he did, it was enough to make his pupils become huge pools of want.

“C’mere,” Sam grinned.

You laughed. “M’ practically nose to nose with you, Sam, I don’t have any further to—”

The rest of your teasing was lost to a louder yelp. Sam scooped his arms around your middle and. And hauled you. Into his lap.

His—lap.

There was no way to survive this landing. You were plopped right on top of his barrel-wide thighs, your every sense instantly stuffed full to bursting with every wonderful thing that made Sam himself. A steam of woody body wash and aftershave put you under his spell. Two massive hands soothing down your back glued you happily in place. Sam’s warm chuckles seeped through his chest and into your hands, because, oh yeah, you were allowed to touch him. And there was so much of him to touch now, too. The entire front of your body was cozily smushed up against his firm, longer frame, filling your hazy vision with the soft shadows on his throat and collarbones and those fucking dimples. What the fuck.

“Is this okay?” Sam asked you.

The only time you’d been permitted in another person’s space like this was to hug them. Overwhelmed with choice—you could kiss him, touch him, run your fingers through his hair this close—you defaulted to what you knew. Sam hesitated, but with a breath, the coil of his body unwound and the two of you slid together with a satisfying smush. (Or maybe a click).

Oh my god that’s good, your senses wailed, but all you could manage with your face muffled in his neck was, “Warm. Sooo warm, Sammy.”

“Is that a yes?” He hoped.

You pulled your face out of his shirt to sigh. “The biggest yes of your life.”

Sam gleamed. Being so close to the source of all happiness on earth (the toothy grin he was biting back for your benefit) should’ve instantly pulverized you and every other hot-blooded being on this side of the planet. It should’ve. But your soul was still ringing around in your feeble body, and sure enough, your calves were still snug around Sam’s thighs like they’d been before. You’d survived being inches away from Sam’s face while he smiled all shy for you, and succeeded in feeling only a teeny bit like a pile of smoking ash because of it. For a second you tricked yourself into thinking you could survive him.

That is not the case.

With impeccable timing, Sam kisses you. Just a brief, firm peck on the mouth. Testing the waters. The waters that are now a fucking ocean in your underwear, thank you very much. It’s only a two-second kiss, but the instant Sam’s lips pop off of yours an embarrassing happy squeal follows him out. Definitely not the suave reaction you were expecting from yourself. Sam just laughs, which translates as a sexy hum under your free hand.

“That was cute,” he whispers, eyes crinkling.

“Shut up, Sam.”

He hums, still brimming with that big spoiled grin. He takes you by your prickling arms and starts to pull his hands down them, again and again, squeezing the anxiety out of you in huge handsy swaths. You feel a bit better about being such a nervous wreck. His hands are trembling too.

The first kiss was good. Really good. Wetter, warmer than you were expecting, but so fucking—good. His mouth was soft and stained by the pomegranate, but, oh no, you’re already forgetting what it was like to taste him. It’s so tempting… to just… lean in…

He’s just as tempted. Sam meets you in the middle for a second kiss that he finds so satisfying, so right that this deep rumbling moan purrs right out of him. The pink swell of his lips are, of course, pressed hot to yours, filling you head to fucking toe with that single bassy note. You gasp through your nose—because nothing is worth breaking his kiss. Not a desperate breath of air, not an uttered word.

Sam kisses you with his hands as much as he dazzles you with his mouth, laying heavy touches down your back, then your waist, then your legs, inspecting and absorbing. You’re hardly as methodical. He is a wonderful beach and it’s your first time seeing the ocean. You take the biggest fistfuls of him that you can, feeling the silky sand of him slip between your greedy fingers.

Sam is apparently into being your metaphorical beach, since after he’s done melting your brain and your underwear in the most intense make-out session of your life, he pulls away to speak.

Sam rasps. “Can I take care of you?”

It takes you a moment to respond, because. Well. A, that’s the sexiest way someone has asked to have sex with you, no contest, and B, you’ve been waiting this whole time for the moment where you don’t want this anymore. With other men, your body had just never found the spark that should’ve been there. Was this time different? Had things click click clicked into place?

You take a step back to put this in perspective for your future self. As vividly as you’re able, you think about having sex with Sam. You visualize Sam’s sharp eyes, his naked back, the cut of his hips, all of it, as he fucks you straight through the shitty mattress in the cabin’s bedroom. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his—of his fucking paws, essentially, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls. You think about it some more. How Sam would moan, how his lashes would screw shut in ecstasy as he filled you. You keep thinking about it. When your mind starts to deviate toward the filthy, thick sound of him… o-of Sam plunging into you over and over again, smushing you under his weight… uhm. Uh.

Yeah. Yeah, this is everything you fuckin’ want.

It takes conscious effort for you to close your gaping mouth, then pry it open again to blurt: “Please, yes.”

A tiny piece of his posture relaxed in relief. Sam smushed a cute, giddy peck into your cheek, reminding your entire tingling nervous system that there was a really sweet guy underneath the deadly-efficient hunter you knew.

“Okay,” he beamed, and shyly tipped his head toward the bedroom. “Shall we?”

You feel like you should be doing more than being demure and nodding a lot, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. After you climb out of his lap and find your footing on your jellified legs, he unfolds off the floor like bucks do, knowing on instinct how to conduct the body he has so much of. The fire’s sleepy and weak in the hearth, and with it dead, Sam is the new center of heat in the room. He takes your hand and just touching the middle of his palm spurs shivery warmth down your legs. Now, you’re all too aware of Sam’s proportions—how encompassing his hand feels, how easily his shoulders fill the doorway to the little bedroom. Feeling mature, you fill the next room with bright giggles. You see in real-time how Sam melts at the noise.

Like you have the last few nights, you each scoop up a candle and find a place for it amidst the hunter clutter. It takes a beat to find your way through the dark. The space is just big enough for the slim bed pushed snug into the corner, and already you know from experience how you and Sam fit into the nest of blankets and pillows. (Hint: extremely well).

Sam uses his candle to light a few others on the bedside table, keeping a free hand stretched toward you to reserve his spot as your only hand-holder. You drop your candle on the dresser and consider the only thing next to it while you wait for him. The Winchesters had three vinyls total for their ancient record player, and seeing it unused and wasted in front of you, you have a stroke of romantic genius.

The second you drop the needle on the first jazz record and turn back toward the cozy, honey-lit room, Sam’s there, sliding into your open arms to plant a kiss on you. And another. And another. And another, coaxing little happy sighs from you. They’re such deep kisses that you dip back with each one, until the curve of Sam’s towering body is diagonal over you and you have to clutch his shoulders to stay standing. Both of his rough-sawn hands cup the scoop of your back to support you. All your daydreaming about him had convinced you that he’d be a head-to-toe brick wall, but Sam’s teddy-bear soft instead, the gleaming skin you have access to yielding and plush. His lips most of all, puffy pink and shining.

Sam persists, pressing closer, kissing you deeper, panting under his breath. Whatever it is about the happy sounds you make wake up something dark in him. There’s a tight, delicate rhythm he likes to follow, and the more of Sam you get the less of it you see. That straight-arrow persona is there, and then—poof! Sam’s tongue is laving wet and hot and perfect across your parted lips, ruining your underwear in one fell swoop.

He tilts in to start sucking on your tongue—

“Fuck, Sam,” you choke out.

The situation in your panties graduates to unbearable levels. If you have to makeout with Sam fully clothed for even a second longer, you think your core will enter a full reactor meltdown. You try to get the words across, grabbing helplessly at his sweater and whining, but Sam interprets it as something else.

“Everything okay?” He worries.

Dazed, you nod more than you need to. With your eyes open and his face in full view, you’re hit with a spark of self-consciousness. Sam fills the bedroom with easy conviction, owning his desire in a way you’ve never really been capable of. You don’t exactly have the experience to blow his mind or anything. Why would he want this if there was so little in it for him? Sam wasn’t a selfish guy, but… To you, your eagerness starts to feel more like greediness.

You shift from foot to anxious foot, shrinking in place. “...Could you, um? Walk me through it? How we’re gonna…?” You swallowed the frog in your throat. “Sorry, that must seem stupid.”

Leave it to him to make something stupid into something ridiculously, fatally sexy.

“S’okay, don’t be embarrassed. It’d…” Sam wets his lips, looking for the words. A quiet, dirty-minded smile plays across his face. He decides, “It’d be my pleasure.”

His touch moves away from your back, and you’re about to mourn the loss of it until Sam’s hands start to play with yours, twisting them around in his own like a schoolboy. He closes the space you’ve timidly left open between you by pressing your chests together. It’s a small gesture. But this is Sam, so your face is in smolders on that alone. (…And you’d just been french kissed, to be fair).

“Okay. Uhh,” Sam fumbles. He stops to consider his approach. As in, the approach he’ll take to seducing you, as if you aren’t seduced on a level incomprehensible to humankind.

You can’t help but laugh at how much Sam-math must be happening in his head, and Sam laughs too. Sam keeps laughing, until it warms into a handsome, knowing hum, and suddenly he’s laying your hands on his belt and tickling your ear with the hot fan of his breath. You squeak, sensitive, which tempts him into breaking character.

Sam reigns it back in, then whispers.

“When you’re ready… m’ gonna get you out of these clothes.”

The deliciously big set of hands on your waist sidle up under the open strip of skin below your shirt. Just one of his fingers is brave enough to sneak up to draw circles against your tummy. It’s the slightest taste of what it’ll be like to have those hands all over you, sweat-slick skin-to-naked skin, which is just enough to make your appetite for him boil in your gut.

“And I know you’re gonna be freezin’, we both are, but I promise you’ll get real hot real soon. Cause’...”

The bulb of his nose (and the ghost of his smile) brushed your cheek, then down, and the explosive fluttery feeling already lighting up your belly pitches into a whole fireworks show.

“...The minute I see you lying all pretty on your back for me…”

Sam tips in to lay a kiss on your throat. A slow, open-mouthed kiss, suckling soft on your skin.

“...In our bed…”

Our bed, he says. That choice of words alone implies so much. If the two of you sharing it before didn’t count, then Sam was about to make it your bed.

“I’m not stopping til’ you get every single thing you want,” Sam purrs. His kisses become blatant licks, the whole of his capable tongue drawing wet lines on your throat. “Til’ you’re damn spoiled.”

What. The fuck. The universe could dissolve into mist and you would be too turned on to care, tethered to the last atoms of the earth by your hands on Sam’s belt. You gape up at him. Sam, the evil genius, smirks right back. When you’d said you wished your first time could feel special, you hadn’t exactly been planning for Sam to follow that direction to the damn letter. He makes it sound like he’s going to bend to your every whim, and knowing Sam...

You swipe at your face to check that you’re not drooling. “I’m—I-I—you’re—” while you’re sputtering, he swipes a dab of spit off the other corner of your lip. “—Suh-Sam.”

Screw it. You drop both hands on Sam’s chest and twist your fingers in his shirt, forcing the words out in choppy pieces. “I’m not as experienced as you. But I really, really… want this. To be—to be good for us. Wanna give you everything you want, too.”

Sam makes a flattered, yet sympathetic face. “Oh, baby, don’t think about me—”

“—I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Now, it’s Sam’s turn to forget how to speak. Finally.

You wind your fingers into the tuft at the back of his neck, enunciating, “How… do I make this good for you?”

“You’re already here. That’s all I need,” Sam gushes, falling back on his tender chivalrous boyfriend routine. It’s really sexy. Almost sexy enough to work. He tucks back his signature lock of unruly hair, blushing from his ears to his neck.

Well, stream-of-consciousness hasn’t failed you yet.

“Uh-uh. We’ve been alone together in this teeny cabin for a whole week. There’s no way I’m the virgin, but you’re the one without the dirty fantasies.” You take a long squinting look at him to divulge any loose secrets. Thumbing Sam’s hip through his shirt, you press, “Tell me. C’mon. You want me to blow you? Pull your hair? Or do you, I dunno—wanna bite me? Pin me down?”

You can track the second Sam starts breathing harder, but somewhere between then and now his eyes have glazed over with dangerous desire.

Sam clutched fast at his shrinking sliver of self-control. “Okay,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. So… if it feels right, and it’s not embarrassing, it would be… I’d, I’d love it if you…”

“Got super noisy?”

After an intensely bashful pause filled with quiet music, Sam nods, hiding behind his bangs. Knew it. He always got so squirrely when you did your oh-I’m-so-cozy moan snuggling into bed at night.

Teasing him any more would definitely be poking the bull. But is it fun to poke that bull? Absolutely. Especially when Sam starts to unbuckle his belt, his whole body crawling with the urge to throw himself at you.

“Alright, I can do that. But how noisy are we talking? Like, normal enjoying myself kind of noisy, or best-sex-of-my-life noisy?”

He gets this nasty, disbelieving smile on his face, and it’s your last warning before—

Snap. Sam’s restraint splits in two. In an instant you’re captured by the underarms and Sam, who’s honest-to-god grinning/snarling about how you need ta’ be taught a lesson on leavin’ well enough alone, flings you onto the end of the bed. You land with a shriek. Then a second, louder squeal, as Sam takes your pantlegs in his fists and whips them clean off.

The next precious moments are filled with all sorts of lessons. For one thing, it takes a lot of force to tear pants off a person. By happenstance, you’re dragged a whole foot further down the bed and right against Sam’s lap. You also learn that pants are connected to underwear, so following that math, it makes sense why your panties are now royally rearranged on your hips. These two factors are too convenient to not be planned on Sam’s part. You’re reminded, again, that Sam is a genius.

You also remember that you’ve never been pantsed before. With and without the sexy context. Keeping that in mind, you, like any other person in your delicate situation, snap your legs closed on instinct. Not because you don’t want Sam there—holy shit, do you want him there—but because he happened to tickle you in the transfer from floor to bed, and you’re not about to let him pounce on you and tickle you to death.

This really works out for you in the long run, since having your legs closed means that it’s inevitable Sam will have to open them.

You’re laughing so hard that your sides have locked up with stitches. Sam pretends he’s not just as amused by kneeling up on the bed as grouchily as possible, ripping his shirt off, and… and, uhm… scooping his huge palms under your knees, and… yeah. He doesn’t have to do any pushing past that. Your legs just fall right open for him, and Sam wiggles in between them where he belongs.

Nothing in this entire world could prepare you to have Sam this close, so the idea that you could even cope with being absolutely towered over by the indecent amount of ab he possesses is fuckin’ laughable. Who the fuck let him have abs? For the health of all people attracted to men on this planet, who taught Sam to work out?

Your giggling trails off into mesmerized, panting silence.

“How noisy?” Sam scoffs, chuckling mean and deep in his chest. “How noisy? I’ll give you a hint how noisy you’re gonna be—”

He falls forward onto his hands, effectively blanketing you in a swath of flushed-smooth, freckly skin. There’s not a thought in your mind about how cold this room is in comparison to the last. Your hands smooth over the planes of his cheeks on instinct, and Sam follows the touch into a soul-shattering, full-body, toe-curling kiss that melts both your bodies into the homey center of the quilts and comforters. His nose squishes into your cheek and a long, satisfied groan bubbles out of him. He barely pulls his lips from yours when he hisses—

“...I’m gonna fuck you til’ you’re hoarse.”

What in the ever-loving fuck.

I cannot put into words how much I want you to do that, you want to say, and it’s true, since you end up making the world’s neediest gasp of glee instead. You’re not pleading up into his face for a full second before Sam gets your message. One can only guess what he’ll do next. (Hint: Sam cannot take in a full breath without kissing you first).

All week you’ve been toiling away to earn tiny pieces of the Sam puzzle. The picture you’ve built so far is, frankly, a touch-starved animal, who will wait at the heels of the first trusted person willing to provide. You kiss Sam once and he’s so damn grateful that he’ll multiply it by five. You get adventurous with your hands, squeezing and appreciating Sam’s flushed-smooth back. Because he’s Sam, returning the favor takes precedence over his beloved activity, and your kiss is forced to break so he can sit up and touch you proper.

Well. If any of this can be considered proper, that is. And if there’s one word to describe what Sam does to you with his hands, it’s improper.

“Still ready, _____?” He asks.

You bite back your inner worries and taunt him, “Been ready.”

He splays his fingers on your belly and is so transfixed by its softness that he stoops to smudge a kiss above your belly button. You do your best to pretend it doesn’t tickle, which is the opposite of what Sam wants. He gives your sides two quick pinches that have you squirming and squeaking under him, too shy to keep your eyes open. You’re embarrassed about the girly sounds he gets out of you until you risk a look at his face—plum red, dizzy, and glazed with fond desire.

Sam wasn’t kidding. He does want you at your noisiest.

This brings your horniness to a whole new level, turning the airy fluttery feeling expanding in your belly into the opposite: an emptiness, a vacuum, and one that desperately needs to be filled. Sam seems to do nothing but fill things. The doorways he stands in, the beds he kneels on, the snuggly center of your embrace. Naturally, this makes you insane. His hands fill up the most—big swaths of your belly, your shirt—your bra.

They push the band of the hunting sportsbra you’re wearing clear over your tits and out of his way. Sam rumbles in approval.

You stop your hands from twitching up around your naked chest, now hyper-aware of how much your breasts rise with your breath. Sam breathes you in. His gaze is soft beyond imagination, which makes the whittled-down shards of fear inside you seem even sillier than before. Either he reads your mind or he’d predicted you’d be mousy (and christ do you hope it’s the latter, since that means he thought about this already), because Sam plucks up your closest hand and presses it flat to his happy trail.

“Don’t be nervous,” he soothes. “Touch me too.”

The thought alone explodes you into steam. But you’re no quitter, so you roll with the invitation, stroking the soft pads of your fingers along the line from Sam’s naval to his ill-fitting jeans. He’s not flexing for you, so you get to feel him as Sam really is: butter-smooth and blanket-soft. Without his belt there’s a precious gap hanging between his hips and his waistband. It’s just big enough for your hand to fit inside.

You’re not brave enough to take that final plunge until Sam twists down to kiss your chest. His mouth burns scorching hot on your breastbone, and as he curls over your body, his hands on your belly slide up to take two needy handfuls of your tits. In the same motion you fit your hand into Sam’s jeans and squeeze and—ohhh fuck, you wind in as one, sharing a perfect bow-taut moment of hissing pleasure.

Sam pressed his face where he was kissing, deflating on top of you with a long, seeping, “Shittt.”

Okay. On top of feeling good, sex could be a fun little puzzle to put together. Sam urging his hips into your hand was one piece, and if you put it in the right place (i.e: touched him like that again), he’d be all yours. You do. You cup him through his boxers and follow what you feel, and what you feel is. Fucking. It’s. I-is it supposed to be that big? And, and holy shit, is he hard.

Sam. Sam’s big, thick dick in your hand. You’re gonna be wet for damn weeks.

Stupified, you blurt out, “Do you always get this hard?”

Sam cracks a wry grin, his eyes lidded. “Mm. It’s definitely you. Bein’ stuck out here with you.”

He drops a kiss on the seam of your ribcage. Then lower. And lower, leaving shiny wet circles along your tummy. “Makin’ me crazy… sticking by me every second, pressing yourself into me in your sleep. Lookin’ at me like—like that.” Just thinking about it made Sam shiver. “You turn me on like nothing else. Just last night, even, right here in this bed—I must’a stopped myself from rolling you over and tasting you a hundred times.”

The urge was so vivid for him that Sam’s mouth must’ve been watering, since he sucks the spit back through his teeth before he starts to kiss your belly in earnest. Just that sound burns with lust. Sam wants it, wants you so bad he’s shaking, his hands trembling under your thighs as he slithers down to lay between them. His kisses grow fiercer, open-mouthed and sucking the closer he gets to your panties. Kitten-soft moans start to sneak into the cycle of your panting.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop myself this time,” Sam husks.

You let him know just how comfortable you are with that by curling your legs around his back. Then his shoulders. Then Sam’s ears, and at that point he’s singeing spit-damp kisses inside your thighs like the world’s most faithful servant.

Nobody but him had ever touched you there. You choke out his name on short, needy breaths. It’s like you’re filling a meter. With enough please, Sams, you hit his limit, and he stops rubbing his face into your soft under-thighs long enough to hook his fingers around your waistband.

You’re treated to the Sam Winchester specialty. He bats long lashes at you over dark, sensitive eyes, and rasps, “Am I okay to…?”

You’re so horny that you start spurring Sam closer with your heels. “Fucking yes.”

This is the A+ answer. Sam doesn’t even wait to get your underwear all the way down your legs, yanking them out from under you and ducking straight below the bridge they make. Just seeing your pussy makes him swear. You’re so swollen and slick and his mouth is so close, so close, but Sam decides to taunt you, blowing across the spit cooling on your belly instead. Heat oozes in hazy lines from his body. From his hands. By comparison, the night has leeched the warmth from the room and you’re cold enough to get goosebumps.

“Please please please, Sam,” you hiccup, “need it. Need you. Need you t’ warm me up.”

“My poor girl,” Sam coos, brows drawn with playful sympathy. He starts to rub some heat back into your freezing legs, tilting closer, closer. “I know just how to help.”

You let your head flop back as you take his cheesiness in, laughing. That’s not exactly a line you’d expect from him. Before, though, you would’ve never pinned Sam as the kind of guy to clamp your knees against your chest, drop his head between your legs and fit his mouth on you, slurping noisily on your slick like he’s eating the juiciest fruit of his life—

“—f-uuuuckkk Sammy yes yes yes—”

Indescribable pleasure pops and sizzles along your weeping core. It’s so fucking—fucking yes all at once that you clap down both hands to white-knuckle the top quilt and howl. Sam sets to work. He covers your entire pussy with his mouth, swallowing you fucking whole, apparently, since you’re the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted. You have to be, with Sam groaning and cursing all fierce and hot between licks.

“Fuck. That’s it, pretty girl,” Sam coaches. He slurps loud and obscenely on your clit, swallowing down the results with a shiver of ecstasy. “Shit, just like that. You’re so good at this already. So good at taking it, ______. Never should’a made you wait.”

But all that must not count as getting a full taste of you, since Sam deviates, splaying his tongue flat and wide to rake it against you top to bottom. His tongue almost drools with liquid heat. At first you’d been disappointed you couldn’t see him over your legs, and now, you’re grateful for the mercy. Seeing Sam like that…

Sam licks you open until there’s no breath left in him. He goes until his jaw is sore and your slick is rolling off his chin in sticky rivulets, wetting the bedspread. He goes and he keeps going, worshipping your slippery-wet cunt between huffy moans.

You make a pathetic attempt at giving as good as you’re getting, but what should be a sexy zinger actually comes out as, “Sam, I-I—oh, god—Sam—!”

After that, your ability to form words joins your other higher brain functions in the endless sparkling expanse of white in your mind. Sam stirs a single long finger through your sopping folds. The stimulation alone has your hips twisting helplessly up to his face, on top of the rapid flicks of his talented tongue, but it’s the easy pressure of Sam’s thick finger filling you to the knuckle that actually earns a scream.

Not your average horror movie scream—an honest, enthusiastic, belly-deep cry that jerks in your chest like a sob.

You can pinpoint the precise moment that Sam realizes you’re a screamer; he hum-laughs to himself where he thinks you can’t hear.

“Next time,” (oh my fucking god there’s a next time), “‘won’t make you wait a minute, baby. Gonna give you everythin’ you want. I’m real sorry, darlin’, do you forgive me? Forgive me for not fucking you the second we were alone?”

You’re too busy having actual, real tears of desire cake your cheeks to string together a better answer than a moan. Holy shit.

Sam gives your pussy two deep, loving licks, each hot enough to send you into a coma. “Say it,” he utters, teasing, “say you forgive me.”

“I forg’ve you,” you croak.

“Forgive who?” He presses.

“I forgive you, Sammy.”

“That’s my girl,” Sam husks the promise between kisses to your clit, “So good to me. So sweet.”

Somehow, this is just as life-altering for him as it is for you. Long, flowing crests of pleasure seep hot through your system, winding tighter, tighter, tighter, twitching in the muscles of your stomach and almost cramping in your curled toes. The taste of you is so rich that Sam’s back quakes with euphoric shudders, trembling deep under the skin where he’s too far gone to rein back in. Sweaty locks of his bangs flutter as he breathes. It’s the only sign he’s breathing at all, really, what with him eating you out like he’s fuckin’ starved.

Sam gives a few good twists of his finger deep in your pussy (which doesn’t even graze how deep he might be with his cock). When you’re a puddle on the mattress and used to him, Sam withdraws to studiously coach you, “Deep breaths, ______.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Once they have, you wind down long enough to measure your crazed breathing into even strokes. The ceiling overhead swims with dancing candlelight shadows and floating cartoon stars. Sam lifts his head to see for himself that you’re following his instructions, and after he’s done falling in love with the sight of you, Sam fills you up with two digits instead of one.

“A-ah!”

Just like before, they’re thrust in to the hilt at once. The throbbing, aching, leeching core of your arousal positively explodes, the urge to be filled finally touched. Sam’s responding bassy groan vibrates all the way up your body. The length and thickness of his fingers is put to immediate use, stretching you out with long knuckling gestures. You’re so unimaginably wet that your pussy just pulls him right in.

There’s a pause where you wiggle down onto his hand and brace yourself for the next brain-melting touch, and true to form, Sam sails straight over your grandest expectations. He’s quick to find the silky heart of arousal in your core again. You only know it by reputation, not experience, so when Sam presses into it with two soft fingerpads the pitch of your wailing jumps up ten octaves. Suddenly the pleasure is hot hot hot inside-going-out.

Sam tilts his head to one side and finds the gall to ask you: “How does that feel?”

(He just wants to hear you say it.)

“So good,” you weep. “Please please please gimme more, Sam, please—”

“It’s gonna be okay, _____. I’ll make it all better…”

Only then does Sam’s tongue get back to work, and—and holy fucking shit, he swoops in to steal the gold, demolishing every other name in the pussy-eating game. Sam wins. Sam fucking wins.

If this is just how his fingers feel…

Sam’s grin takes on a confident gleam. By coincidence, it’s around then that you remember that he’s psychic.

Somewhere between licking you into the next dimension and, oh yeah, Sam licking you into the next dimension, he’s pinned your thighs to your chest with a firm hand under your knees. You squeeze that hand for all you’ve got, every feeble atom in your body scrubbed raw with perfect pulsing desire.

To think, you’d spent this whole time getting off with your hand. A fucking hand. A few fingers! Sam crooks his in a way you’d never even hoped for on your own, finding that fluttery, twitchy spot inside you and working it for all it has. You’d asked for more and he gives you more, thrusting two fingers in at a brutal, even pace—again and again and again, til’ you’re thrashing up and off the mattress, wailing, your whole body a fist cramping shut around him. You snap in so tight toward him that you shove your face into your knees and cross your ankles tight behind Sam’s neck, keening, the fire knotted in your body devouring whatever fuel he’ll give.

Sam’s skill with his hands made you feel like an amateur in your own department. But his slick velvet tongue on your slick velvet pussy, taking slow sucks on your clit that turn into big broad licks, licking you up, licking you into his mouth whole, made just the thought of masturbation fucking laughable. I mean, c’mon! What the fuck are you supposed to do after this? Pop into the bathroom to use the showerhead, when Sam and his insatiable appetite for pussy are sitting right in the next room? Why even bother fantasizing about him and dicking around with a vibrator when nothing would ever compare to the real thing, shoving his parched panting mouth between your legs in an addict’s haze?

Still lapping up your dripping core, Sam pries his free hand from your grip. You’re pretty sure you have the right to whine in protest. Without his leverage for support your weak thighs collapse straight open, and for all you know the gates of heaven had parted to reveal god’s most beautiful angel. Sam is the picture of filth. His pretty pink lips are sealed around your cunt, his nose is all cute and smushed into your pubic bone, and you watch in time with every dirty lap as his jaw rolls handsomely under his skin.

The look on his face is unfor-fucking-gettable. In fifty years, sixty years, seventy, you know this memory will still live inside you, since no man has ever looked at you that way before. You weren’t sure it was even possible. Hazy euphoria radiates in unending rays from Sam’s face. He wants you. He trusts you. He is written all over with warm, intent desire, satisfying himself on you.

“Stay still,” Sam asks, politely.

Politely, you slap back against the bed and moan out, “Mhhmm.”

A new kind of mischief flashes across his face. You would’ve never pinned Sam as the type of guy to thrive with an audience, but now that he knows you’re watching, he falls seamlessly into a performance. His act is a three-parter.

While keeping his pace with his fingers, Sam starts by sliding slow off your pussy and spitting on it even slower. Whatever hazel leftover in his eyes has been swallowed totally by glittering, black delight. The muscles is his arm bulge and cramp fucking into you so hard. Pleased with himself, Sam dips down, dark eyes disappearing under his bangs, and makes a show of pointing his tongue to flicker across the raw nerves of your clit.

There’s more after that in the finale of Sam’s act, but the constant, brutal winding toward your release has taken its final toll. You have no fucking clue how you’ve survived this long. The overpowering squeezes of arousal inside you become full-body, wracking pangs. The sweaty trembling scraps of your soul leftover from Sam’s work throb and throb until they’re a blinding star. At the center of it, your core, tight and hot and so loved by Sam’s mouth. The searing pleasure becomes explosive. Apparently, the noisy, pitchy moans waking up the mountainside are coming from you, as you claw to get Sam even a molecule closer—closer, closer, closer—s-so close—!

So…

Close…

And you’re there. In the shimmering, divine realm Sam has made just for you; the realm your meager hands could never bring you to, and the realm you’ll be chasing still for the rest of your life. It becomes blatantly obvious in the next blissful minute that you’ve never cum before. Not for real, at least. This was a real orgasm, flashing through your spirit and flowing hot and beautiful through the numb ends of your body. You wail through it like it’s real, that’s for sure.

Your pussy clamps down around Sam’s fingers in waves of slippery pressure, and he revels in every second of it. You’re fucked through it. Kissed through it. He keeps up his pace and smushes his face in close, and that’s when you realize, oh fuck, Sam is going to drink your glass empty. The soft scooping of his tongue ramps up and up and over, til’ the edges of your vision start to spot and your muscles are too tight to unknot and it’s all too much.

“Sa—Sam—”

Just that word has him off you. You think Sam draws back and away, but that’s just a guess, since the wires between you and the outside world have been fucked stupid. Even the language has been licked and lapped out of you.

“Sam…”

You feel… like soup. Wet all over and hot hot hot. Filling the shape of the bed. You make an honest attempt at communicating this to Sam as your soupy mind’s way of telling him how satisfied you are, but. Your pussy gives a delighted, distracting throb that melts you into the top quilt all over again. Wow.

Just. Wow. You marinate in the aftershocks for what feels like ages, speechless.

Down by your legs (so that’s where he went!), Sam peels his heaving chest off the bedspread. Right. If you couldn’t breathe, he definitely couldn’t either. He gets up on all fours and crawls towards you like a guy in an RnB music video, all sexy moving arms and hips. It really shouldn’t be as appealing as it absolutely is. Starry-eyed, you open lazy arms to him and haul him down the second he’s close enough. He falls on top of you with a happy oomf. He’s long and smooth and wonderful, making you sigh when he snuggles in.

A few sparkling millennia go by laying in bed with him, toying with his hair and giggling dazedly to yourself. Sam hides his blazing face in your neck and murmurs something.

You’re buzzed by the skin-to-skin contact and cum drunk, which puts everything he says into fuzzy empty speech bubbles. The low, shy rasp of his voice tickles your neck. You try again.

“...Uh-huh…?”

“Was, uh, that too intense? Or…?”

The question floats around in your head for a while, bumping into things and spinning in zero gravity. Finally, the lights in your ship start to come on, and you pull what Sam said out from space.

“Look at me a minute.”

Sam does, curious.

“How’d,” you struggled to find your breath, “how the hell’d you learn t’ do that.”

And suddenly, Sam’s high school shyness is on a man’s face, and that man licks your slick off his lip and suppresses an evil grin. “I have, y’know. A thing about it.”

“A thing?” You echo, laughing with him. Maybe if you said it again it wouldn’t blow your mind as much. “A thing. Try an addiction, Sam, holy shit.”

In a few days, you’re gonna have to act normal around him in a room with his brother, while Sam uses the lips he defiled you with to talk, drink, and smile. Fuck. For the rest of your life, you’re gonna have to sit beside him at the dinner table and remember how he told you had a thing for eating pussy. A thing.

Glowing with innocent humility, Sam pawed up onto his hands, rolled onto his side, and positioned himself like a pin-up girl inviting you to bed. When he was done broadcasting with his entire body how much he wanted you, Sam shrugged. “I dunno… I just love to do it.”

(Being stunned silent by Sam tally: one million and three.)

He’s not real. There’s no way he’s real. You grab around for some part of him to pinch, and though Sam’s indignant yelp sounds authentic, you’re unconvinced. They had to have cooked him up in a lab somewhere.

This earns you a deep, fond Sam laugh. He gives your closest hip a playful pinch too, and after a brief tickle-fight that you miserably lose, Sam tilts his lips toward yours and husks, “Roll over that way and c’mere.”

With nothing else to do but submit happily to Sam’s will, you follow his hand and tilt in toward the wall. “You are something else.”

You’re joking, but you can also kind of feel it. Sam slings his arm over your ribs to pull your back flush to his chest, and already you melt into each other, settling back into the hollows you made in the blankets the night before. This close you can feel the magic in him. Sam oozes with cozy bonfire heat, his body laying sure and protective against your body, the last dregs of hunt anxiety in him gone. You feel the worn-soft denim of his open jeans as Sam’s lap wiggles down to scoop under you. A map of what’s ahead.

He teases a hand down your ribcage, thumbing sweetly at your belly. Sam tilts his head forward for a kiss, and unable to resist him, you meet him in the middle for one that turns into two, then three, then a swath of obsessed pecks. He must have a thing about kissing, too.

Sam pulls back to study you. With less confidence than you’d expect, he asks, “You wanna keep going?”

Just the teeniest motion of your head has Sam swooping for the chance to kiss you again, but you stop him short and twist to get a better look at him. In a high, maidenly voice, you play at being confused. Your poker face is still awful, so you have to hide your massive grin behind the invisible handkerchief you’re clutching.

“Keep going? My, a gentleman like you… an unmarried woman like me… what else is there to do, Samuel?”

His week being teased by you at all angles has forced him to evolve. Sam forgets altogether about indulging your bit and upgrades straight to more wonderful, ticklish manhandling, wiggling an arm between your vulnerable side and the bed to practically throw you back where you belong. You squeak and sputter between laughs, pretending your skin doesn’t explode with goosebumps at his touch.

When his massive palm is spread over your breastbone, Sam hoists you back against him, rolls in to threaten squishing you with more plush muscle and manly weight, and snarls in a way that ruins your metaphorical panties all over again.

“Uh-uh. Don’t play. You know exactly what m’ gonna do to you. Do y—?”

Sam stirs up his hips as he talks. All the snooty teasing left in your tank evaporates in one fell swoop, feeling the delicious outline of his dick swelling against you. Okay. You’re woman enough to admit that does it for you, and you really, really don’t want to wait anymore. Sam is an unbearable tease who will drag this out forever. You take matters into your own hands. Or, really, you put them into his.

…You prop open your closest leg for him, bent at the knee.

“Aw,” Sam rumbles, “didn’t even have’ta ask.”

You don’t hide your mean little grin. Sam, of course, kisses you into oblivion just seeing it, sliding a coarse hand under the silky, sensitive flesh behind your knee to keep you open for him. The ashes of your last climax are still simmering with heat, but it’s Sam’s kiss and his touch that reignites you totally.

It’s a bit of a twist to lean back and kiss him, but Sam’s height is made for this: his bulge swells right under your pussy, and he has the room to lean in close to your ear and purr—

“Take it out.”

Sam is asking you to take out his dick. You know that, yet you imagine yourself a month from now, unsure of which weapon the boys are comfortable letting you borrow from the Impala’s trunk. Dean’ll tell you, oh, the machete’s fine. Then Sam, with glittering eyes and full knowledge of how he’s torturing you, will nudge his chin toward the trunk and utter that phrase. Go on. Take it out. Knowing exactly what you’re thinking, and when, and how. And how deep and how hard.

It takes some shuffling and some curling, but you manage to work Sam’s jeans and boxers down his thighs. Just the sound of his zipper makes your mouth water. He hisses soft by your ear at the chill of the room, but in your hand Sam’s dick is body-hot by comparison. And. And so… s-so…

You scoop your palm around the shaft, squeezing him, feeling him. Through your back you feel Sam curl in and shiver, rumbling in approval. Your cheeks feel like they’re cooking by the candlelight just going for it, but your curiosity wins out—or, more accurately, your fucking awe. Because. What the fuck. You’ve never exactly seen a dick in person before, but you’re not naive. Sam is big enough to split you in half, and—and it just kind of pisses you off, because not only is he big, his dick is pretty, too. He has a pretty dick. Just cause’ being smart and empathetic and all that other bullshit didn’t make him sexy enough. God.

You nuzzle your cheek into Sam’s and he drops his lazy temple against yours. The two of you lounge there, heaving like peeping toms, as you both take in how sexy his cock looks leaking against your belly. Laying between your legs. It’s goddamn photo-worthy. Then, the angle your hand is taking slow, experimental pumps of him… accidentally… grinds Sam’s shaft between your abuse-swollen folds. He’s already twisting to moan into your mouth when you start to rock along him in earnest. You take a fistful of Sam’s hair and ride him for all he’s worth, dragging your sopping wet cunt across his dick until he glistens.

For three blissful seconds Sam locks you against his chest and grinds with you, making it instantly clear why people always use the word friction with sex. The push and pull of it has you whimpering loud and high against Sam’s mouth. And, thank god for him, because when your head starts to fog with visions of being filled raw, Sam pulls away from your kiss and recollects his control.

“Condom,” he gasps for breath, “we should. Probably. Yeah.”

“...Right,” you cursed. Your high school sex-ed teachers would not be proud of your lack of forethought, but it’s impossible to have any kind of thought in this situation, period.

For example: Sam tilts away to fish around in his duffle bag beside the bed, and, unfiltered, your mind taps its fingertips together and cheerily hopes, maybe Sam will be so rough the condom breaks.

Woah there, girlfriend, your reason butts in. But it doesn’t have anything else to say, since you start picturing how Sam’s cum would look oozing out of you, and. Um.

“You almost sound disappointed,” Sam jokes, digging for his wallet.

You snuggle down into the blankets and pretend you’re not hiding your face. “A little bit,” you confess, chanting the word responsible over and over in your head for good measure. “How much am I gonna feel you?”

Sam finds the condom and rolls back into your bubble. He turns in to kiss your shoulder, and you can feel his smile when he tells you, “You’re gonna feel every bit of me. Every inch… every stroke… I promise.”

He is so determined to assuage your worries that he holds the condom where you can see it, turning it over (between those long, long fingers) to make sure it’s punctureless and new. The little foil packet has XL printed on one side, which both adds to your sexy thoughts and pulls you out of them. Sam really is that big. He knows it, too, which is probably how he reads your nervousness.

“We’ll take it slow,” Sam promises, voice honey-sweet and quick to reassure you. “S’ big, yeah, but I’m gonna do everything to make you comfortable, kay? And if you wanna stop—”

He cares so much, you realize.

“Sam?”

He looks into your eyes like he loves you, and utters, “Yeah?”

“Thank you for making this good for me,” you say.

Sam melts. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and you let him know it’s okay with a softer, warmer kiss than the others you’ve shared. You take in the shape of his face, the subtle freckles on his cheeks and nose, how the candlelight shadows sweeten Sam’s gaze. It slams on top of you how there’s nobody in the whole world you’d rather be doing this with, and in one puff your anxiety is in the wind.

You wrap your fingers around Sam’s wrist and flirt, “...Can I put it on you?”

Sam nods, eyes lidded. You’ve never exactly had to open a condom before, so you’re careful to pry the foil open with your fingers. For whatever reason you hadn’t figured it’d be lubed, but it makes fitting the ring of it around Sam’s tip and sliding it down his shaft a bit easier. A soft happy groan escapes him. They keep escaping him as you pump his cock in languid twists of your hand.

Sam nuzzles his face between your shoulder blades, whisper-rasping, “Would you like to…? It’ll be less scary that way.”

You really, really would. Before you make your move, Sam adds, “But, uh, before you put it in—want you to look at me.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Wanna see the look on your face when I fill you up.”

Well, fuck. You tilt your face against Sam’s, nose to nose with him and warmed by his breath, and feel the slow ripples of heat in your belly roll into long, growing waves. Sam slides a hand back to the silky underside of your thigh and props you open for him. When you line Sam up, you start with the tip, not pressing, just stroking, feeling him against you. A satisfied purr drizzles out of your mouth to Sam’s. So far, your chosen pace has been “just go for it,” and since it hasn’t failed you yet—

—you go for it.

Sam’s bulbous cockhead dips between your folds to find your hole. A desperate, keening yes squeals out of you. You’re spit-wet and absolutely caked in slick, so there’s no hitch when you pull Sam in, just a hot, sudden fullness that seems to go endlessly deeper and deeper. The fit is so fucking snug. Snug like he’s made for you. Snug and perfect and stinging, made easier by Sam’s soft huffing coos. Look at you go. Makin’ this look easy. You looked so pretty when I ate you out, baby, but I knew you’d look even prettier taking my dick. So eager, Sam says, and he’s right. Your wetness is just begging to swallow him whole. Just being stuffed with half of Sam’s cock has you sucking down air, so the final surge to bring him to the hilt pries a genuine, hoarse cry from your belly. Sam shoves his face in your hair and groans, the sound catching on the snarl between his teeth.

Together, you orbit around the throbbing core of pleasure between you, suspended in the moment.

Sam is a wind-up toy, springs tightening with every vicious squeeze of your pussy. His mouth has made you soft, slippery, and swollen, so the firmness of his cock is different but stellar. This close, in such an intimate position, you can feel his heartbeat in more ways than one, and it surrounds you and fills you so effortlessly that you can only assume it’s your own. He touches your body like it’s one he just stepped into, feeling you from a new perspective for the first time. Sam fixates on your tummy, too, and you find out why when he presses down under your belly button—feeling the thick swell of him under your skin, deeper than anyone else could ever go. He gives you a turn too, pressing your hand down in the same place. It sends electric blackouts of lust through your system that demand to be fucked brainless.

You start to wiggle in his grasp for more, stirring your hips down onto him and choking out his name. Sam is already responding: your open leg is scooped into the crook of his arm and drawn tight to his chest, spreading you open as wide as you’ll go. His hold cants up your hips in a way that lets his cock hit just that much deeper, and that’s all you need to dash your head against the pillows and mewl for your life. Two rough fingerpads slip back into the sopping wet home of your clit and stir against it at a pace brutal enough to cramp. Between Sam’s fingers and the thick drag of his cock against your soft walls, you’re desperate for something to hold onto. You latch onto Sam’s wrist for dear life. Then starts Sam’s pulling and pushing in brief, filling strokes, rocking, driving you fucking crazy, making you need him to fuck you like you need air. He was deep to a point that you swear you could feel him in the back of your throat.

“You want more?” Sam asks, and if it weren’t for the breathy rattle in his voice he could’ve sounded innocent.

You nod until your head is close to rolling off. “Yes, yes Sammy please.”

Sam grins. You feel it for an instant, then his cheek pulls away from your back and all you have left to read him by is the needy, carnal noises he’s making. All at once he’s drawing out further than he had before. You’re almost empty for a whole sob-worthy breath, which Sam makes up for with every ounce of his being.

For what has to be three glorious hours, Sam leans back to fuck you in powerful, even strokes, filling you to the brim every time, and filling the room with the thick, wet sound of his cock pounding into you. You repay him the only way you can, and—get—noisy.

You moan. You wail. You mewl, pretty much every time Sam’s hips snap up into your ass. You pant hard through it all, begging him in soft whines to f-fuck me, fuck me, p-please, Sam and to go deeper, baby—uhnn, more more more…! From there you’re on autopilot, letting loose even the most primal noises that Sam gets out of you. He is very, very good at his task, so you color the room with every erotic syllable under the sun. A porn studio would hire the two of you without even entering the room. Sam especially, but you might be biased since every time you sigh his name he drives in a little harder.

Indescribable pleasure follows even his tiniest movements. You absorb every pump with nothing but desperate enthusiasm, spreading your legs further, curling your back, and digging your fingers into the cushions for any sort of leverage at all. Just a few minutes pass until your limit is a trembling boulder of knots in your gut, but still Sam’s nowhere near finished yet. Slick coats your thighs and Sam's cock, you cry at every thrust, your body twitches and shudders all over, but he's still not there.

He slows. The brush of his lips against your ear and the wisp of his breath set your nerves on fire. “You’re gonna finish first, but tha’—that’s okay, baby,” Sam reassures, and works your poor swollen clit even harder, choking a string of thready moans from you. “Wanna feel your pretty pussy cum all over my dick.”

“Oh fuck,” you whine.

(Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up and wonder where the hell he got that dirty mouth from. Somebody needs to clean it out with soap.)

It’s as Sam’s laying sloppy kisses on your throat that his prediction comes true. The tissue in your body pulls taut, winding tight, tighter, curling around the epicenter of pleasure, toward him. You expect Sam’s thrusts to take a fierce turn. Instead, you’re treated to the same thorough, determined pace that got you here in the first place—the same pace that is currently jellifying your insides and reducing you to tears on this teeny bed. If the percussive slapping of skin on skin wasn’t enough to wake up the entire planet, then the vicious slam of the bedframe putting a new dent in the wall would certainly do the job. Somehow you hear it all past your pulse thundering in your ears. The arm hooked behind you to rake a hand through Sam’s hair bobs with each thrust, and your leg trapped in Sam’s hold bounces on beat. All you can do is scrape out broken gasps, until the tossing waves of heat and lust and power twisted in your belly have built too high—and all things that go up must inevitably come crashing down.

“That’s my girl,” Sam slurs, squeezing your tits in both hands. He rolls his hips into you and coos, “Just like that… take what you need, baby, it’s okay…”

Like last time, Sam fucks you through it. You’re scooped up in his arms and squeezed tight, tight enough to be drawn into Sam’s body and absorbed. The hot, gorgeous drags of friction against the sensitive walls of your cunt slow, but Sam never draws out, burying himself deep and soaking up every wild clamp of your pussy. There’s something fucking spectacular about having something to clench down on. Sam is that perfect something, vieny and thick and still fucking hard.

You cum on him in long rippling rushes of wet heat that feel downright unrealistic, otherworldly—exaggerated, maybe, by the fact that you fucking—black—out!

It must only be a few beats later that you come out of it, but the fact remains that Sam Winchester made you cum so hard you passed out, and you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life. You’re already starting to realize that Sam is the best lay you’re ever going to have, period, and the dull happy throb of your orgasm hasn’t even left your body yet. Sam hasn’t even left your body yet.

Wait, fuck. He’s still hard.

…This could be. This could be very good.

Fueled by hormones, sweat, and adrenaline, you pull off him and roll the rest of the way onto your belly. During all the crazed fucking, you and Sam had migrated halfway down the bed. You crawl to the top as sexily as you’re able, stuff your cheek against the closest pillow, and wiggle your cum-soaked ass in the air just for him, open for his taking. Your face could start the whole bed on fire, but you feel more alluring than embarrassed.

“C’mon, Sammy,” you taunt, and throw him a mean grin, “gimme the big finish.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath from his nose, probably preying for strength. A dirty smile touched his face. “You’re… you’re amazing, _____.”

Feeling like it, you turned your face over onto the other side of the pillow and tempted him with another mesmerizing ass wiggle. Sam was up on his knees in an instant. You should’ve known that Sam, the addict, would instantly take the chance to shove his face between your legs. The only warning you get is his massive hands clamping down on your calves to hold you still, then a hot, silky tongue swipes once through your folds for a taste. You haven’t finished squealing when Sam’s weight saddles up behind you, and the heavy shape of his cock starts to rut between your legs.

“Sorry,” Sam hums, not sorry at all, “Needed a taste of you.”

Stars above, he doesn’t hesitate to get handsy with you, too, taking two broad handfuls of your ass-cheeks. Your ass sits so nicely against his hips that you start to wonder if soulmates are real. Because Sam must be yours, fitting into you like a key and teasing you open like a master lockpicker. Once you’re where Sam wants you, he bobs your ass back until his tip has room to part your folds, and after that you’re both brought home into sparkling, slippery, blinding pleasure. He digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you right on him, filling your pussy to the hilt, like always. Key. Lock. Click click click.

“Yes,” you and Sam hiss together.

“Fuck,” Sam adds. “You should see yourself like this. You look so stuffed, baby, squeezing down on me.”

“Feel so stuffed,” you flirt back, wiggling into him.

This angle is different than the last, exaggerating, as Sam immediately starts in on his pace from before, how thick his cock is. He curls his fingers around your waist and beats in hard, pulling on your still-sparking overstimulated wires from last time. Every joint in your body locks ramrod straight, overwhelmed with brief flashes of too much too much. Your pussy clenches helplessly around him, but Sam brings you over it with a few well-placed stirs of his hips. In no time you’re mewling for him like you were before, emboldened by your first round.

You get your nails into Sam’s sculpted ass and drag him deeper, faster, urging him on the end of a moan, “Fuckin’ take it, Sammy—mhhnn, take what—what you need, Sam, yes, so good—”

This is exactly what Sam needs to hear. You’re scooped up around the middle, just like before, and Sam crushes his face into your back, spooning you close as he brings himself closer and closer to where he needs to be. Your hands can’t get enough of him, smoothing down his vieny arms and squeezing his hand against your belly. The picture the two of you must make is obscene on unimaginable levels. Sam, latched onto you like a parasite and reaming you for his release. You, smushed under him and loving it, digging your ass up into him for more. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his palms, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls.

Finally, Sam’s hoarse choked panting cuts off with a sharp breath. His hips putter into you for the last time, then still. Sam spills into the condom, shuddering against you from head to toe, and slowly… the two of you collapse into each other… panting and panting until your breathing syncs up. Sam’s chest goes up. You suck in a breath. His chest goes out, and you deflate right with him.

He doesn’t get up and you don’t ask him to. As the haze of sex starts to clear from the room (as much as it can, anyway), the chill of the mountainside creeps in behind it, and the hottest thing around for miles is easily the giant, naked Sam Winchester in your bed. Wrapped up in him and as warm as can be, you wonder if he’s as close to passing out (again) as you are.

But no. Suddenly, Sam’s up on his hands, and there’s only two possible reasons why.

“Didn’t get to kiss you as I finished,” he complained.

Smushed into your pillow, you tell him, “I think you have two addictions.”

Regardless, you roll onto your back so Sam can lay one on you. Since your soul is officially back in your body, you’re more aware than ever of the aches and bruises you’ve earned, not to mention a few sets of pomegranate-purple fingerprints. After a few stunning kisses from Sam, you’re still not sure that all of that actually happened. You touch his face and pinch his cheeks plenty of times, but all he does is look at you extra dreamily. Still doesn’t seem real.

Of course, being a gentleman, he decides to prove it to you.

“Speaking of my other addiction…” Sam lays a playful hand on your belly, “I know I wound you up a bit back there. Can I take care of you one more time? Please?”

“Hmm…” You pretend to think, grinning to yourself. “Man. I just can’t say no to you, Sammy…”

Two weeks later, you’re crammed in a teeny car instead of a teeny cabin, riding down a back road in rural Texas the Dean way—blowing by road signs at sixty miles an hour, windows down and music up. Sam’s shotgun. You’re content to sit behind him, catching his eye in the side-mirror as he pretends to hunt around newspapers for a new case. His hair flutters in the wind, outlining his face in the most enchanting way.

“I don’t know how the hell the two of you stayed up there the whole week!” Dean hollers over his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape, which he could turn down whenever he wants to. He throws you an unenvious look from the driver’s seat, “You must’a been bored out of your fuckin’ gourds!”

You’re honestly surprised that Dean didn’t automatically assume sexy shenanigans occurred at the cabin. Sam doesn’t move to answer, deeply engrossed in his reading. Where Dean can’t see, you curl your fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and caress his scalp, which earns you a look that promises that sexy shenanigans can happen anywhere. They can happen in motel rooms. Click. Even Impalas, when Dean’s gone. Click click click.

You shrug at Sam’s brother, shouting over the music with an unsubtle grin. “We entertained ourselves!”

Tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration

READ PART TWO.

#sam winchester #spn #supernatural #uncouthspn #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader headcanons #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester smut #user uncouth

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ceilidho · 9 months

Text

prompt: ex special forces ghost working as a “travel companion for hire” and reader hires him because she’s too nervous to go solo travelling

It’s not the first time you’ve been somewhere on your own, but it’s the first time you’ve realized that maybe solo trips aren’t for you.

It’s in Germany, three drinks in and stumbling back to your hotel room, paranoia gripping you every time you pass a dark alleyway or take a right onto a deserted street. It’s the man walking your way on the same side of the street that has you stuffing your hand into your purse, clammy fingers gripped tight around your keys.

On the flight home, you’re wiped. Beat. Finally untethered from a week’s worth of anxiety slowly reaching a boiling point. You’ve traveled on your own before, but it’s the first time you can remember being acutely aware of your vulnerability. Granted, before this trip, it’s not like you’d traveled all that much on your own, especially outside of the country.

Ghost comes as a recommendation from a friend of a friend. You’d hemmed and hawed about the whole ordeal the Monday after getting home from your trip—working the front desk at an auto-body shop means that there’s no shortage of people to talk to. The guy picking up his car (fender bender, a wicked crack down the front that’s since been fixed) listens to you gripe with an absent look on his face, but you’ve learned to tune those out. People will listen to you even in spite of their indifference when there’s nothing else to do.

“Y’know, I know a guy that does stuff like that,” he says, cutting you off halfway through another half-baked rant about airline fares these days. Your mouth puckers into something quizzical. Tell me more, it says without saying. “Ex-special forces. Left because of some medical thing, I think. Dunno. Anyway, he’s been all over the world—built like a brick shithouse, that one—and last I heard he was, uh, renting out his services.”

“Services?”

“Like, he’d go with you, hang back while you do your thing, but basically the muscle. There to back you up if someone fucks with you.”

You’re just fresh enough off your vacation (an entirely miserable week, lest you explain the whole thing all over again) to give him your number. He promises to put you in touch with the friend of a friend who’ll put you in touch with one Simon Riley. He then gives you shit about the price on his bill and you knock ten percent off begrudgingly because the piece of paper with your number written on it is still crumpled in his palm.

No good deed goes unpunished or whatever.

“He’s not actually in the country right now,” Laswell, the friend of a friend, explains over coffee, Biscoff cookies spread out on a little tea plate between the two of you. “Or the continent.”

“Where is he?”

“For the rest of the month? Indonesia. He’s supposed to be back on the ninth. Should I let him know that you’re interested in his services?”

It’s a toss up at first. The thought of sacrificing your dignity (he would be more or less your babysitter) for adventure is tricky. With the way the dates line up—when you plan on traveling and when he gets back to the UK—you also won’t have much time to make his acquaintance before setting off.

But there are places you want to go, sites you have scribbled down in a pocket-sized notepad folded up in the inner lining of your backpack. So you give her your permission and promise to join her and her wife for dinner sometime (repayment, and also it’s only been a few months since you moved, so you currently have a dearth of friends in your life anyway).

The first time you see him when he stops by your workplace, you can’t help the double take. It just doesn’t seem possible. You know from Laswell and the guy at the body shop that Ghost is ex-military, but you’d been expecting some buzz-cut, slightly smarmy army reserves guy, maybe six-foot and decently muscled. What you don’t expect is the tatted beast that’s near twice your size. Only the top half of his face is exposed, the rest hidden beneath a black mask; you think briefly of asking him about it, but chicken out under his withering stare.

He doesn’t seem impressed when he meets you. “What’s your list?”

“Um…just around Europe. I haven’t thought about it too much.”

He stares down at you. “You wanna hire me just to run around the continent?”

“I haven’t thought about it!”

“Well, best give it a think fast, doll. Haven’t got all day for you to figure it out.”

You do have to think fast. He doesn’t leave until you’ve spelled out exactly where you want to go, until he’s watched you book plane tickets over your shoulder, heavy at your back while sweat beads at the nape of your neck. He’s entirely too intimidating to be looming over you like that.

You watch him whip out his phone and fire off a couple of texts; your phone pings with an email telling you that you’ve been reimbursed for his flight and when you protest, he brushes you off by saying that he’ll invoice you for everything at the end of your trip.

Then what was promised falls into place. Free of burden, free of anxiety or restless energy, new possibilities open up to you: countries where you don’t speak the language; countries where the sites you want to see are spread out across a wide enough area that it warrants having a man packed beside you in a too-small taxi, his thigh a hot line against yours; hiking trips through national parks, where you don’t feel like you might slip down a hill and twist your ankle, stuck without water or cell service.

You only have two weeks worth of vacation, so you use them wisely. A week traveling across Switzerland and Austria, and then a week in Cairo to see the pyramids.

Ghost hangs back most of the time while you traipse around and do your own thing. You can feel him at your back when you approach the stands where the local vendors have set up shop, perusing silver trinkets and jewelry, only returning to your side when someone stands too close to you.

He fists a hand in a pickpocket’s shirt when they try for your purse, giving them a shake and sending them off.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you mutter in his direction as you watch the young man scurry away. Not sure if you’re blushing or sunburnt.

“You hired me to deal with this shit my way. Don’t get mouthy now.”

You think it might be the former because while you might not be the best at reapplying sunscreen, Ghost has been gentle-parenting you this whole trip. He pulls you off into corners and growls down at you while squirting a dollop of sunscreen into the palm of his hand to spread across your face. You close your eyes when his rough hands trace over your face and breathe out heavily when he spins you around, big hands engulfing your shoulders and spreading down your back.

You don’t think it could get worse. It gets worse.

He won’t spring for his own room. You stare at him in disbelief in the lobby of the two star hotel where you’ve booked a room with a single bed. There’s a vending machine in the corner of the lobby that only sells coke (all of the other buttons are broken). One of the ceiling lights flickers on and off, an ominous buzz filling the room. Ghost doesn’t so much as blink.

“You didn’t tell me—I didn’t know that was my job,” you rebuff, anxiety a fist in your throat. You’ve already asked the front desk for another room, but they’ve been sold out for weeks, the woman at the front desk informed you with no small amount of pity. It’s the busy season; even two-star hotels get booked up in the dog days of summer.

He cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Never had to before. My job isn’t to book shit.”

“I sent you my itinerary.”

“That’s not how I work, love. Where’s your room?”

It’s nothing short of humiliating to have him follow you back to your shabby little hotel room. Your hands shake when you unlock the door, opening it to something no bigger than a closet. You’d purposefully gotten a smaller room than you usually would, anticipating the cost of Ghost's invoice at the end of your trip. No good deed goes unpunished.

He ushers you into the room with a hand on your back, shutting the door behind him. You flick on the only light in the room, a bulbous thing hanging from the ceiling. No bedside lamp.

When he settles on the end of the only twin bed in the room, the bedframe groans under his weight. Your hands are already clammy. He’s already making himself at home, unbuckling his belt with a single hand; it makes you almost dizzy to look over at him so you try desperately to avert your eyes.

“At least wait until I’m in the other room,” you hiss, rifling through your suitcase faster to get your clothes for after your shower.

“Quit moping, love,” Ghost scolds, resting back on his elbows and toeing off his boots. “We’ll make it work. Just gonna have to get comfortable together.”

You scurry off to the bathroom with your pajamas clutched tight to your chest, paying no attention to the fact that he doesn’t sound as upset as you thought he might.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod simon riley #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost/reader #ghost cod

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thefreakandthehair · 8 months

Text

The tile floor is disgusting.

Not Starcourt disgusting, but disgusting all the same. Grime build-up colors the grout lines, the back of his head is damp from condensation that drips down the sink he’s resting against, and there’s a damp spot beneath his left calf that he sincerely hopes is just the aftermath of someone washing their hands. A single lightbulb hangs in the center of the ceiling, dim but not flickering.

Thank God, it’s not flickering.

It’s not the place to have a meltdown— he knows it’s not— but rationality is just the latest in the ever- growing list of things fighting the Upside Down took from him. After all, the dingy basement bathroom of a stranger’s house party is better than the densely populated living room of a stranger’s house party.

He wishes Robin was with him, but he can’t bring himself to tear her away from the first real party she’s enjoyed. It’s not her fault that crowds set him on edge these days, or that he can’t stand the feeling of unfamiliar bodies pressing against him anymore, or that small talk about how humid it’s been lately makes him want to rip his hair out because how can anyone possibly give a fuck about the weather when the world nearly ended six months ago? No one outside of the group he’s come with gets it and he wonders if even in that group, even with the people he’s bled with, if he’s an outlier.

No one saw him sneak down here.

He’s not expecting anyone to come looking for him.

He should’ve known better.

“Steve?” A voice whispers from outside the door. “Steve, it’s me. Open the door.”

Robin. Of course.

Steve drags a hand down his face, hovering near his nose where his fingers tremble at the bridge, and lets out a deep exhale before reaching over and unlocking the door.

Wordlessly, he rights himself against the sink again as Robin locks the door behind her and sits cross-legged next to him. Silence sits with them, a welcome guest now with Robin’s comforting presence, her head tipping to lean on his shoulder and his falling to rest on hers.

They sit like this for long moments, silence and the scent of Robin’s strawberry shampoo grounding him in the present. There’s no emergency, no threat, not when Robin is safe and clean and warm right next to him.

Finally, he breaks the stillness. “You don’t have to sit here, you can go back to the party. It’s fucking gross down here.”

“It’s way more gross upstairs without you there.”

“Oh c’mon, everyone’s up there. Eddie, Nancy, Argyle, Jonathan. Vickie.” He looks down and grins, one eyebrow quirked up.

Robin rolls her eyes playfully and gently elbows him in the side. “Shut up, oh my God. She’ll be there when we go back up or I can call her tomorrow. Besides, she’s with Nancy and Jonathan looking for you.”

“Looking for me? Fuck, I didn’t think anyone would notice—”

Robin pats his thigh and cuts him off. “It’s fine, they all know you’re okay but we just didn’t wanna leave you alone in the Brain Tornado.”

“Brain Tornado?” Steve asks.

“Argyle’s words, not mine. But it’s fitting, don’t you think?”

Steve contemplates for a few seconds, considering the years worth of fighting and hoping and living that spin him around in untethered and unpredictable circles.

“Yeah, yeah it is.” Steve sighs. “How’d you know where I was anyways?”

“I know you.” Robin says, simple and matter of fact, as if it’s not the best response he could��ve gotten. She readjusts her position to stretch out both legs in front of her and Steve reminds himself that they’re both in jeans and not Scoops uniforms.

“I just don’t know how to fucking relate to people anymore, Rob. And the crowds, if something were to happen and I couldn’t get to the bat in my trunk fast enough, or get to you or Nancy or Eddie—”

“Hey, it’s okay, we’re all okay,” Robin rubs her thumb in soothing circles into his bicep with her opposite hand. “We’re safe. We won. It’s gone.”

She says this like an oath and Steve wants to swear to it. It’s just hard.

“I know. But it’s still… I don’t know. This huge thing happened and no one else knows, so we’re in this sea of people who have no idea we all nearly died six months ago? And they look at me like I’m still Party King Steve Harrington when that guy did eat it three years ago.” His heart begins to slow and he sighs, less anxious and more confused.

“I’m not gonna pretend I know what to say to that because you’re right, but there are at least five other people here right now who get it. And we’re the lucky sons of bitches, getting to know the Real Steve Harrington anyways.”

Steve can’t help the delicate thing that blooms in his chest when he’s reminded of the odd little family he’s built around himself. Or, in some cases, that forcibly built themselves around him.

“Besides,” Robin smirks and Steve immediately knows what’s coming, telepathic communication and all. “Some people upstairs really like the Real Steve Harrington. And he might be going a little insane looking for you outside with Argyle.”

“Shut up, oh my God.” He mimics her tone from earlier and drapes an arm around her shoulders, his voice softening. “We’ll go up in a few minutes?”

He doesn’t need to say it. Steve knows Robin hears what he means.

Just a few more minutes with you, and then I can face the world.

happy (sorta belated) birthday to @stobinesque! I know I already sent this so it's not technically late but the last couple days have been a little wild so I'm just late to posting. <333

#steve harrington & robin buckley #steve harrington #robin buckley #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #st fic #steddie #myblurbs #platonic soulmatism my beloved #stobin

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sweet-as-an-angel · 9 months

Text

Yandere Kencanons

Warnings: Kidnapping, Abduction, Major Spoilers for The Barbie Movie, Unhinged Post, Possessive Ken, Ken Just Wants to be Loved, Petnames, Ken Being Condescending, Post-Patriarchy Ken, No Pronouns Used for Reader Except 'You'.

Simply put, you’d charmed Ken. Made his non-existent heart flutter and a feeling he always associated with Barbie to overtake him. Been in the wrong place at the right time. Hence, less than a few hours after your meeting with Kenneth, you were in Barbieland. Sorry - Kendom Land.

You’d made the mistake of asking him for the time, in a rush to make it to work. And, with a twinkle in his eye and a seeming newfound sense of purpose, he proclaimed that “You respect me!”

Dazed and with little else you could say, you shrugged. “I mean…I guess…?”

And that was enough for him.

“I must go – get back to Barbieland – spread the news about patriarchy!”

You'd humoured him, more for the promise of your own safety than actual agreement, and he tipped his hat to you, billowing away in the direction of Venice Beach in a haze of his own world.

You managed to dodge him initially, untangling yourself from his vacant stare and making it to work unscathed.

On your way to lunch a few hours after, however, you were accosted again.

Of course, by none other than Ken Carson.

Who, having put all he’d learnt from his books on horses, the Wild West, and patriarchy, literally lassoed you and threw you onto his shoulder.

“We’ve gotta get you back to Barbieland – the Kens are not gonna believe this !”

On your journey back to this mysterious place, Ken explained to you how Barbies usually rule everything while the Kens are left with nothing.

“But, with you at my side, I’m sure we can make it right!”

You genuinely chalked this guy up to be insane, if at most, an escaped patient.

However, as you traversed 2D landscapes, you were more inclined to believe him. That this fabled Babrietopia did in fact exist.

And, once you get there, you become Patriarchy Ken’s personal servant.

He tells you to “Brewski Beer” him, all the while talking about how his initial conception of patriarchy had been that it was “Horses who ran the world, but it’s actually men — and horses are men extenders.”

He calls you his “bride-wife” or “groom-husband”, which, compared to the other Kens’ long-term distance low-commitment casual partners, seems oddly…endearing. Dangerously permanent.

With no idea how to get back to the Real world, you’re stuck with Ken and his entourage of fellow Kens, the Barbies either indoctrinated into their way of thinking or in hiding.

Speaking of, you are basically Ken’s property.

And he treats you as such whenever one of the other Kens tries to accost your service.

His tone is low, eyes sharp. “(Y/N) is my long-term distance low-commitment partner, not yours, Ken.”

And, to show as much, you get to sit on the floor next to Ken as he watches the Godfather with his Kentourage, talking through the whole thing, commenting on its ingenuity and nuance.

He also makes you stay nearby whenever he changes outfits - which is just him changing into another faux mink coat, pants and headband.

Despite being this new, independent, untethered Ken, he asks your opinion on things which seem largely inconsequential. Still, you sense something unstable. Insecurity, perhaps.

"What about...this coat?"

"Isn't that the same as the last one you showed me?"

Ken looks at your glass reflection in the wardrobe doors. His smile glitches, falters. He replaces it.

"Yeah, course - I was just testing you, seein' if you were paying attention."

Whenever you get a moment alone, away from the madness of the Kens, it’s short-lived. For Ken is never far behind, seeming to materialise in the doorway of whatever room of the Dreamhouse you’ve adopted as your refuge.

“What’s wrong, tiny baby?” He says, sauntering over to you, snake-like.

“I want to go home, Ken,” You tell him, voice racked with sobs, tears in your eyes.

He just gives you a narrowed, confused look, adopting an almost incredulous posture as if to say ‘Why?’

“First of all, I don’t like your tone, Doll,”

He steps towards you. You step back.

“Second of all, why in Kendom Land would you wanna leave ?" Another step forward. Another step back. "This is the dream of any patriarch’s partner to be where you are now; it should feel just like home !” Another step forward, another step ba-

Your legs hit the edge of the bed.

It doesn’t matter how hurt - or frightened - you look. Ken doesn’t listen.

“And besides, do you know how many Barbies would kill to be where you are now ? I know Weird Barbie would.” And he smiles – smirks – as if he’s triumphed you in some way only he is aware of, hands on his waist. The image of power.

Ken tends to test his boundaries when it comes to physical affection.

Seeing as he received none with Barbie, he seems to want to try his luck with you.

And yes, this does include him puckering his lips and staying stood in front of you until one of you caves.

Usually, it’s him, causing him to retract and act as if nothing happened. Which it didn’t.

But when he really wants a kiss, he can persist for hours.

You timed him. Two hours and three minutes until you relented and pecked him.

“Wow,” he says, every time, as if it’s the first time, his eyes clouded with dreams and what you could only pen as whimsy.

He’s incredibly touch-starved. Show him an ounce of willing and he’ll be overjoyed in his own, new, macho way. Though, he does have a hard time containing a squeal whenever you touch skin.

Secretly, he's entranced by how...human you are. how different you feel and talk to the other dolls in his Kendom.

He's developed an obsession interest with your hands, holding them in his, telling you how small and soft your hands are compared to his.

He squeezes them whenever he gets the chance, commenting on how "Squishy" your fingers are, despite you having a skeleton beneath your skin - a concept that blows Ken away every time you explain it to him.

He also adores hugs. Though, he only hugs you/lets you hug him when out of view of other Kens. He needs to protect his image as the stoic leader, after all.

Loves a cuddle; goes stupid crazy for them.

He favours holding you to his chest and resting his chin atop your head. He finds your warmth a foreign comfort. While you find his lack of a heart – and a beat – a discomfort.

“S’nice and warm,” he says, eyes closed, the image of laxity. "Being here with you."

He mumbles that last part. You know not to inquire further. The Kens consider any form of genuine affection to be a weakness.

It’s in your best interest to just let him stay there and talk about whatever it is he’s fascinated himself with, lest you wish to incur a temper tantrum or the cold shoulder.

Aside from being a fan of hand-holding, he's also a partaker in wrist-holding.

If you ever do something to aggravate him, he tends to grip your wrist hard enough to make you wince, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.

“Something wrong, Babe?” He’ll say, tone deep with simmering wrath.

You know not to push it with Ken.

Despite how platinum and perfect he is, he does harbour a resentment which, whether caused by you or not, he seems to target you with.

Talked to a Ken for too long, or in a way he didn’t like?

He’s going to embarrass you in front of him. Make you seem undesirable to all who are not himself.

He knows he can’t make you disappear, given the fact that you’re mortal. But he knows he can make other Kens disappear; an idea that, the first time it appeared to him, frightened him, made him confront a darker half he’d repressed. But, as time went on, he’s learnt to harness it in ways you’d never have suspected from a Ken.

Not that you’d know it from the way he treats you, but he does actually care for you.

Perhaps…as much as, even more so, than he does — did — for Barbie.

He doesn’t feel like he’s tethered to any one job or image when he’s with you; his identity is not an extension of yours. But, he does try to treat yours as if it is an extension of his.

“Babe, hurry up with those beers — the game’s about to start !”

He knows you’re impervious to the effects of his brainwashing, given that you’re from the Real World, so he feels that you’re the most genuine person in Kendom Land. Hence he tends to treat you with equal harshness and care.

This also often leads to Ken asking you things about your world. Things he doesn’t yet have the answers for.

His favourite pastime is to lay his head on your thighs while you sit against the headboard of his bed, asking you any and all questions that come to mind.

“What’s your favourite colour?”, “Where does the sun go when it’s night time?”, “What did you do at your job?”

Personal ones like that last one often cause you to tense, and Ken can tell. He tends to refrain from asking you such questions now, seeing as any reminder of your life prior to this cause you to, what he has learnt to call it, cry.

Despite how tone-deaf Kenneth can be, he is actually rather intuitive. Or, rather, considerate.

When you’d told him your favourite colour, he’d painted his bedroom walls in it. Albeit a slap-dash job of it, given how interior design is not in his box description like Interior Design Ken, but he tried !

Despite his small acts of kindness being his attempts to imitate comfort, they do little to calm you. For everything he says, does, discussing a future with you in Kendom Land, changing aspects of his world to cater to your preferences, feel as if you are to take up unwilling, permanent residence here.

And, while you wait and plot for a way to escape, you exist as a perpetual puppet for Ken to mither and berate and order around.

In the real world, a doll has started appearing on shelves – a new range of ‘Misery Barbie/Ken’ dominating the toy aisles of every supermarket and toy store, your visage wrapped tightly in every box.

Tears, an outfit demeaning enough to make a grandmother faint, and the unwavering expression of the need for freedom.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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nariism · 8 months

Text

come out and haunt me

pair. itoshi sae x ghost!reader

content: fluff, angst/comfort with a happy ending, reader is a ghost, platonic + romantic interactions, strangers to friends (to more?), slight pining

synopsis. sae is 13 years old when he moves to madrid. his temporary apartment is old and cheap, and worst of all it's haunted. but he finds your company better than nothing, even if you do tend to knock all of his belongings over.

wc. 5.7k

You are dead.

As it comes to all mortal humans, you have died. You can't remember when, or how, or why— only that it is your duty to haunt this home, that you are abysmally cold, and that you are dead.

You don't know if you had any last words, what it was like to draw a breath, or how to stop feeling so cold. Cradling yourself somehow makes it worse. But you are dead, so what does it matter if you can't remember?

If you had aspirations and meaning in life, then you suppose you should try to find them in death, too. So you float around empty halls, deliberately bump into things just for the fun of it, and pretend that you aren't dead. It is purposeful enough.

There's a boy who lives with you.

You are dead, and he is alive, yet he seems completely unbothered by your loud, obnoxious presence.

Sae feels more dead than alive.

He is 13 years old when he moves into his temporary home in Madrid. It's old and worn. It is all his parents could afford with Yen in a foreign country.

His new home is despairingly lonely. It makes the heart in his chest sink into the pit of his stomach. He misses Rin. His parents. Japan.

He should be thankful. He doesn't mean to be a brat. But the small apartment is cramped and cold and smells like mildew. He's allergic to something in the walls. His light buzzes horribly when it turns on.

And, well. The place is haunted.

You are a ghost haunting an old, rickety apartment in Madrid.

You've never seen your reflection in the mirror, but you're pretty sure you look scary. There has been others before him— a young couple with a dog; a retired carpenter; a businessman complaining about how shitty work is over the phone. Each and every one of them have left you the same way: screaming, crying, colour drained from their faces and packing their suitcase before you could even say hello.

It's a little lonely, being a ghost. Sometimes you wish you came off a little friendlier. You have no ill intent, you're just bored. Bored and lonely and wishing to know why everyone thinks you're so terrifying.

The boy who lives with you is the first. He's the first to look you dead in the eyes and shrug you off. He's the first to fall asleep knowing your presence is watching. He's the first to leave out a bowl of warm, steaming rice for you even though he seems to know you can't physically eat it.

His company is silent, as is yours. It's better than nothing.

Sae is 13 years and 5 months old when he tells Rin his apartment is haunted.

"A ghost? Seriously?" Rin sounds unimpressed even through the static of the phone call. Take it from the kid who watches horror movies in his spare time. Freak, Sae thinks.

"Seriously. I have a picture."

He can hear his brother pulling his phone away from his ear to look at the image he just sent. The call goes quiet for a moment, and then Rin is scoffing in the microphone again.

"Quit messing with me." The younger Itoshi sighs. "This isn't funny."

Rin is only 11. He lives at home with Mom and Dad. He's not alone right now, in a place where everyone speaks a jumbled language he can't decipher yet.

He doesn't understand that even if Sae isn't being haunted, he shouldn't crush his brother's hopes that someone, or something, is watching over him.

"I'm not," Sae deadpans.

"Yeah, okay, and what does this ghost do, then?" He still sounds skeptical.

"Mostly just knocks over my books and stuff."

From his couch, he watches you bristle in embarrassment and scurry away into the darkness of the hall.

You are some sort of untethered soul, unsure of where your actual body rests. It could be 10 meters from this apartment. It could be in Antarctica, for all you know.

Okay, well, Antarctica is a bit of a reach, but you're certain that your body is somewhere. You wonder what kind of clothes you used to wear; what kind of music you used to listen to; what kind of hairstyle you used to prefer.

You wonder if these things are anything like Sae's.

He's all you have right now. It would be nice if you had some things in common. Maybe you could be friends, if he was ever going to acknowledge you to your face instead of gossiping to his brother.

You watch him quietly from the kitchen table, waiting for your bowl of rice. You must make some kind of face when he instead places a plate of eggs in front of you.

He almost laughs, you think. He hasn't shown any sort of emotion in response to you thus far, so it's hard to tell.

"Coaches told me I have to be stricter about my diet," he says out loud. It's the first words he has ever spoken to you. It's the first words anyone has ever spoken to you.

He eats his bland eggs silently after that remark, eyeing them disdainfully.

You have that in common, at least. You miss your warm bowl of rice.

Sae thinks you are funny.

He's only ever known ghosts to be malicious, benevolent beings. Things stuck in purgatory with no way out, forced to wander the mortal plane and thus turning into baneful monsters. Watching spooky movies with Rin has ingrained this into him— hardwired his brain into giving him goosebumps whenever you're around even though he knows you're harmless.

He has to wonder how anyone could ever find a ghost like you genuinely scary, with your avoidant eyes and that patience while you wait for breakfast.

He doesn't mind doing twice the amount of dishes. Not if it means he doesn't feel alone.

You do silly things, like shoving his belongings over when you want his attention, or sitting on the floor and blowing bone-chillingly cold air into his face when he's taking his midday nap.

He's discovered that your inconsistent corporeal interactions with the world are quite amusing.

"What's your name?" He asks one day over eggs that he's shoving around on his plate.

Silence. Of course.

"Don't have one?"

You shake your head, but really, you don't know. You can't remember.

Sae has never been the talkative type, but for some reason he just can't keep his mouth closed. Being a complete shut-in and not having anyone to talk to outside of his team would do that to him, he guesses. He's thankful that you at least don't seem to have a language barrier when he speaks Japanese.

"Should I name you?"

Your offended expression screams: What am I, a pet?

He just smiles, placing his fork down and observing you carefully. And the name he decides on dances at the tip of his tongue, sounds so sweet coming from his lips.

You can't help but think the name was meant for you, in life or in death.

You like listening to Sae talk.

He has a voice smooth as silk, so charming and boyish. He's young, you think. He told you once that you also looked rather young, and asked you how old you were when you died.

Even if you had an answer for him, it's not like you could have told him.

Sae is famous for his age, you discover one night while watching television with him. You're sitting on the floor and he's on the couch. You cause the TV to frizzle and crack with static but he doesn't shoo you away. Maybe he finds your presence more valuable than the background noise of the screen.

He's in a recording, playing what he calls "football"— light blue uniform, eyes wide with adrenaline, sweat sticking to his forehead and a proud shine in his expression. He isn't smiling by any means (you've also discovered that he rarely does), but you can tell he's happy.

"I'm going to be the greatest striker," he says from the couch. He talks about his dreams a lot, which is apparently what he used to do with Rin, but you don't mind filling in that role temporarily. "I'm going to be the best in the entire world."

You don't know anything about football, but you believe him anyways.

Sae is 14 years old when he gets his first contract payment.

This is his chance, he realizes, to move out of his shitty little apartment and into an actual livable home.

He has to consider if you'll feel lonely, if you even can feel lonely, and if you'll like hanging out with your next housemate, whoever it is that's unlucky enough to have a ghost befall them.

He's getting soft. If it were any other point in his life, Sae would have taken the chance to move out without hesitation. But you've been there for him since day one, kept him enough company — no matter how quiet — for him not to go literally insane.

You're the only thing he has in Madrid that he can come home to right now. You’re the only reason he even comes home at night instead of just sleeping in the locker rooms.

If not him, who else would feed you crappy bland eggs in the morning?

You, football, sleep. You, football, sleep. You, football, sleep. At some point, it became his routine.

"I was thinking of moving out."

Your head tilts to the side. You seem perplexed by his statement.

"Like, leaving. Leaving here."

You blink at him, head tilting the other way. There's a look in your eyes that tells him you understand. There's also a look that tells him it's not your first time being abandoned, left in this terribly lonely, smelly apartment.

"I can never tell what you're thinking," he huffs.

You're still for a moment, just staring at him as if you suddenly can't understand Japanese. But then you get up from the table, walk over to the container of dry rice that's been untouched for so long that it's gathering dust, and knock it over.

"Hey," he scolds sharply, chair screeching as he stands. "I have to clean that, you know?"

You start moving the spilled rice into place. He watches curiously as you sort dry rice into a pile. You don't know any Kanji, he isn't surprised. But you know enough to draw him a universally understood symbol.

When he peers over at the messy counter, he finds himself staring at a giant X. Stay, it means. Don't leave.

That night, when he knows you've retreated into the closet where you seemingly go to sleep, he crumples up the lease for his new place without signing and burns the paper.

It's because he needs to make you eggs tomorrow morning. Only he would know to do that.

"Do ghosts ever have dreams?"

You raise your head from the edge of the bed. You've made it a new habit to protect him in his sleep, from what he can tell. Perching yourself on the floor beside the mattress and resting there, head in your arms, making his sheets cold.

You shake your head. Of course not, he internally smacks himself. What a ridiculous notion.

He rolls himself over onto his side, looking at you from under his duvet. "So when you sleep, you don't see anything?"

Another shake of the head. He isn't sure you're understanding him. There's another pause as he peers at you, and then he sighs, eyes sliding shut.

"Do ghosts ever have dreams?" He asks again, this time emphasizing his words in a different way and hoping you'll answer him the way he wants.

Your eyes shift away for a second, as if pondering. When you look back he's surprised to see that you look... bashful?

You point at him, then at yourself, then shy away again.

You. Me. Friends.

Sae feels silly that it makes his heart ache a little— the sadness carried in your face and a loneliness so powerful he feels it rattling in his own bones.

Well, the two of you have a lot more in common than he thought. How long had you been alone? Was that really all you ever dreamed of? Having a friend?

Suddenly, his doubts about his own dreams feel immeasurably small.

He reaches out to pat your head. His hand goes through you.

Sae is 15 years old when he packs up his belongings for a flight to Japan.

"I'll be back," he promises with a small smile. You believe him. He doesn't lie to you.

You wait patiently at the door for him for two weeks, three days, and sixteen hours. When he comes home, he finds you sitting on the floor like you always do with your head in your knees and a sleepy expression on your face.

He seems colder. More withdrawn, for some reason.

"Miss me?" Sae asks, but he's not even looking at you. He makes his way over to the kitchen and dumps a cup of rice into the cooker, suitcase abandoned at the door unpacked.

You trail behind him curiously, watching him in confusion as he washes it in the sink. He pauses, finally glancing at you before reaching over and dumping a second cup of rice in.

"I stress eat. Don't tell my coach."

The words don't make much sense to you, but you nod anyways.

For the first time in months, he places a bowl of warm rice in front of you. You do as he does, say thanks for the food in your head even though you can't eat, and observe him. You both sit quietly in the dim light of the apartment, moonlight beaming through your single rickety window.

He only gets four bites in before he puts his head in his hands and sobs.

You've never seen someone cry so hard before. Usually, they only do it when they first catch a glimpse of you and flee in terror. You've never known it to be such a painful sound— like a bird singing for the sky but never finding it.

Sae sits there for a long time just crying to himself, not caring that your presence is still watching. It's not like you'd ever judge him or have the voice to speak this secret, anyways.

"Fuck—" he hiccups, wiping up his face. "—Sorry."

You look at him funny. He has no reason to apologize. He's just a kid. A 15 year old kid who needs to stress eat in the solitude of his lonely apartment right now. It makes your chest squeeze; an unfamiliar, horrible feeling that's completely new to you. You wonder if this is what all the anime he watches calls a heart.

By the time he finishes crying, his rice is cold. And when he looks up, his eyes widen. Your lips are trembling and you look like you want to shout at him, but you can't. You are dead. You're a ghost. You can't yell some sense into him, even if you tried.

In the pale moonlight shining into the room, he can see tears illuminated on your cheeks.

Sae is 16 years old when he meets his first partner.

"They're nice," he reassures you as he slicks his bangs up with gel. You shake your head in disapproval and he rolls his eyes. You always liked his bangs down, thinks he looks better that way. "Well, I can't stay single forever."

You scowl at him and swivel on your heel to stubbornly deny his claims. He just laughs.

"You're seriously jealous?"

You shoot him a glare.

"If you really don't like them, you could always scare them away. You are a ghost, aren't you?" He reaches up to pat your head as he always does. And as always, his hand phases through you.

He turns around to fix his hair again, leaning into the mirror to see himself closer.

You're not sure if you even have human features. You can't see them in a reflection, anyways. Even if you did, you're sure they're pretty scary.

You glance at Sae in the reflection. He looks as good as ever, no longer a scrawny little 13 year old kid who eats rice for breakfast every morning. You wonder if his partner is pretty like he is.

He must notice the chill in the air grow ten times colder— a telling sign that your mood is dropping. He turns around to see what has happened, only to find you sulking.

"What?"

You pout, gesturing to the mirror. He looks to the vanity, then to you, and he shakes his head with an exasperated smile.

"I was wondering when you'd ask," he says as if this was a conversation he's been waiting for. And then he talks. Talks more than you've heard in a long time— since he came home from Japan, probably.

He's gotten meaner over the years. He was always a rude little kid, but being pushed around in football must have given him thicker skin and a sharper tongue. You've never known him to be a saint of a human, someone who speaks so eloquently in their descriptions. But here he is now, defying your every expectation like he always does.

He tells you what colour your hair is. Compares the shape of your head to a fruit you can't recall an image of. Gives you a detailed explanation of all your flaws and marks and why he thinks they're so perfect because it proves that you were indeed alive and human at some point.

"You're beautiful," he concludes casually, as if he's not turning the entire world on its head right now.

Silence fills the room as he waits for your response. You don't do anything but gawk at him, and he chuckles.

He doesn't show up to his date that night.

"Your hair got longer," Sae points out one day while he's scrolling through his phone.

Your eyes flutter open from where your head rests on the coffee table. You hadn't even noticed. Can ghosts grow?

"You know, I used to think you'd stay the same forever, but you've been growing up with me. It's cute."

Have you? Is it cute? Are you seriously so tethered to him that you've been unconsciously changing to match him?

Sae puts his phone down at your confusion. "Should I give you a birthday if you're going to grow up?"

You don't know what a birthday is. When he tries to explain it, you're even more perplexed. Ghosts don't have birthdays. They have... deathdays.

He puts a cake in front of you anyways and lets you blow out the candles.

Sae is 17 years old when he gets the eviction notice.

Four years. Four long, hard, unbelievably painful years later, and he's finally being kicked out of his house.

13 year old Sae would have celebrated. All he feels now is despair.

He doesn't tell you. He can't. How can he explain that he won't wake up every morning at 6am sharp to make you eggs? That you won't have someone around who will tell you every little thing that's changed about you from the last day? That you won't be able to doodle him little incomprehensible blobs with dry rice anymore?

He shouldn't care so much. You're not chained to this Earth. You might just disappear once he leaves, inperceptable to anyone else. The thought makes him so sick that he throws up that night. He tells you he ate some bad food.

Sae doesn't want you to feel sad or lonely, but it's not like he can just become a squatter in this place. His dream is to play football, not be thrown into jail.

You wake up one morning, and he's gone.

There isn't a note. There isn't an explanation anywhere to be found. There isn't even a trace of evidence that Itoshi Sae ever lived here.

Well, except for the plate of eggs and bowl of rice sitting on the stove.

You thought you would have been used to being alone by now. For some time, you were used to it. But that was many years ago.

You're not sure how long you've been haunting this apartment in Madrid, nor do you know how much time passes after Sae leaves. The world seems to come to a halt, actually. Without him, what fun is being a ghost?

Now you're just a lost soul like all the others. There isn't anything special about you. You're just the ghost that used to haunt Itoshi Sae and wake him up from his naps.

For the first time in years, you only know one thing. A singular fact that keeps you bound to this world: it's your duty to haunt this home. There is nothing else.

No one moves in after Sae leaves. No one new comes to be haunted. No one dares to set foot into this apartment. You remember that there were moments when life flickered inside of you, if even for just a fraction of your infinite time. The reason for that has abandoned you without explanation.

There's a knock on the door one day. You can't open it, and the person outside doesn't bother sticking around to see you phasing through the door to look around.

There's a birthday cake on the floor with candles that say '19' sticking out of it.

Only one human in the entire world would have deemed today to be your 19th birthday. He's nowhere to be seen.

He moves back to Japan on his 21st birthday. Sae is having trouble remembering what you look like, despite seeing you in his dreams every night.

It's a terrible realization. So terrible that it makes him sob into his pillow at night when no one in the world is awake to hear his anguish.

Japan is lonelier than Madrid. He never thought it would happen, and he blames you entirely.

He doesn't have anyone waiting for him when he opens the door to his luxury penthouse apartment. He only washes one plate in the morning. He wakes up from his midday naps undisturbed and rested.

Sae misses you deeply. And he can't help but wonder if you feel the same.

(You don't know what the yearning ache inside of you is. You don't know what to call it.

You miss him, too. You just can't put a name to the feeling.)

He doesn't stop seeing you in wisps; little blurs in his peripheral that make his head turn fast as lightning. Wherever he looks, you're gone.

It's not fair that you're a ghost who both literally and figuratively haunts him. He'd like to move on in life and forget about those 4 miserable years he spent living in that damned apartment.

He can't. Sae is incapable of moving on from that place. The irony of it is that you actually can't move on from that place, for some reason.

He would give anything to have you haunting him again. It doesn't matter where in the world the two of you are, if you were together everything would be okay. He's impossibly lonely without you.

You start to think that you're the selfish one.

The idea of leaving this terrible apartment in Madrid scares you to your very core— whatever soul is resting in your incorporeal body. It's not fair to place the blame entirely on Sae. Not when you're too wimpy to leave this place and find him.

Death is lonely without him.

One step forward, one day at a time. It's the advice Sae used to mutter to himself while getting ready in the morning.

One step forward, one day at a time. One step forward, one day at a time. And day by day, you're slowly inching closer to the door.

Sae talks to Rin and all he can think about is your confused smiles and head tilts. He talks to his parents and all he can imagine is how cold the room would be if it were you. He talks to his fucking therapist and thinks that all of her shitty advice can't compare to your quiet understanding— that your tears of solidarity are the only thing that could make him feel better.

It's fucked up, really, that he can't move on. His body is in Japan going through the motions: playing football, being famous, being interviewed and going home to nothing. His heart is in Madrid. You took it with you and refuse to let go.

You're the closest thing to love he's ever felt, perhaps— his only friend in Spain. His only reason not to leave. A ghost from his childhood that protected him in his sleep and ate bland eggs for breakfast across the table from him every morning. A ghost that would sit on the floor and wait for him to come home every day. A ghost that kept him company when he had no one else.

He loves you. He doesn't. He needs you. He doesn't. He misses you. He doesn't. Whatever. What does it matter now?

"So playing football has always been your dream?"

Sae stares blankly at the interviewer. He's reminded of a distant conversation: he is laying in bed looking at a ghost with a lump in his throat, and then he makes his first and only friend in Spain.

"Yes."

"And now that you're back in Japan, will you be playing for the national team?"

"I have no interest in playing on such a weak team." In other words, he has no reason to stay in Japan.

"So where will you go?"

Anywhere but here, he wants to say. In reality, he doesn't know where to go anymore if not to his old apartment in Spain. He just knows that he wants to come home to your sleepy face.

(That night, he makes two bowls of rice. He cries like he's 15 years old again and just ruined his relationship with his brother.)

You've never been outside before.

You've heard about it, almost entirely from Sae but also from little snippets of anime he liked to watch. It's brighter than you imagined it to be, and warmer. You're not sure you've ever felt so warm before— it's hard to when you are a walking freezer.

There isn't anyone to tell you where to go. No one pays you any mind. You wonder if you even exist anymore outside of the small confines of that old apartment.

Something tells you that you do.

You don't know where to start looking. He could be all the way across the globe for all you know, though he did used to talk about his home country.

You have no map. You have no sense of direction. You have no one to ask for help.

All you have is the soul caged within your ghostly body tugging in one direction, and wispy feet dragging your body along in response.

Sae is 23 years old when he finally signs the contract to play for Japan, after months of being pestered by Rin about it.

His relationship with his brother is complicated. On one hand, he feels as though Rin will never truly forgive him for what he did when he was 15. On the other, he looks so ecstatic to be playing football together again that Sae wonders if their discourse was imaginary.

Japan is just a smidge less lonely with Rin in his life.

He wants to tell you all about it. That everything worked out and it's fine now. That you can stop weeping for him and to wipe up the tears that fall into nothing.

He counts the distance between you. Fourteen thousand kilometres separate him from telling you how he's living his new dream: playing football with his little brother again.

Fourteen thousand kilometers, ten years of needing you, and a reminder set on his phone to buy you a birthday cake again this year.

His heart aches.

Japan is loud and busy and everyone is always in a hurry to get places.

You have to wonder if Sae really grew up in a city like this, and how he turned out so calm and unmovable. The street names are all in Kanji you can't read, but your soul tells you that you're going the right way, anyways.

There's a crowd gathering when your feet finally come to a halt. Lights flash and there are fancy looking people with microphones clamouring toward the center.

It's only a fraction of a second that your eyes meet, and then someone shoves him into the back of the car and they drive off.

He must be famous here, too.

Sae is 24 years old tossing and turning in his bed, wondering if you were just a figment of his imagination or if you were truly standing there under a streetlamp watching him.

It wouldn't be the first time he dreamed you into existence; on some occasions you feel so real that he nearly reaches out to attempt to pat your head, like he always used to do when he was younger.

He goes back to that spot a couple hours later. The crowd is long gone and it's the dead of night— no one would be around to witness Itoshi Sae looking psychotic.

He doesn't find you in that spot. Instead, you're two blocks down and crouched in front of the window of a 24 hour shop. There's an ad for sparklers, and though you can't read the poster itself, the picture makes you stare with wide eyes.

He crouches down beside you as if 7 years of distance never existed between you.

"Do you want one?" He asks. You look at him in a strange way and his knees grow weak beneath him. You nod.

He comes out five minutes later with a few packs in his hand, walking away from you down the street to the park. You follow him quietly as if 7 years of distance never existed between you.

Sae holds one out, flicks the lighter in his pocket open and ignites the first sparkler. You watch it in fascination, ghostly form illuminated in warm orange and yellow light.

He smiles at you as if 7 years of distance never existed between you.

When the sparkler dies out, he lights another. And another. And another, until he's gone through all the packets he could afford with the Yen in his wallet right now.

As if 7 years of distance never existed between you, he reaches out to pat your head. His hand falls through you.

You think Sae's new apartment is pretentious, but it's clean and open and doesn't smell like mildew.

It's hard to imagine what kind of purpose you had before him— all your memories are flooded with his hands and eyes and bangs and small smiles reserved for you. You think that the only reason you were ever materialized into the mortal plane was to haunt him, and only him. Itoshi Sae's permanent looming presence.

He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, you've noticed he's been smiling more lately since you started waiting for him to come home by the door.

Sae is 25 years old when you fall asleep beside him in his bed.

You don't care that he's a kicker or a blanket hog in his sleep. It's not like either of those would affect you. He watches your sleeping face carefully, waiting to see if he would ever wake up from this blissful dream and be alone again.

But every time he wakes up, there you are.

You've grown since he left you in Madrid— you don't look like some lost little kid anymore, at least. He wonders if your souls are truly so intertwined that you would change alongside him, regardless of the distance.

Your eyes flutter open and his breath catches in his throat. You blink at him slowly in the pale moonlight, brows furrowed.

You point at him. Then yourself.

You. Me.

He nods in understanding.

When he drops a plate of protein pancakes in front of you for breakfast, you look confused.

"Oh, sorry. Do you want rice?"

You shake your head. You don't care what's for breakfast, as long as you're sitting across from him while he eats it.

"I'm going to be the world's best midfielder," he tells you one day. You're on the floor and he's on the couch, and it's like time had never even passed.

You don't know what that means, but it's his dream so it must be important. The most important thing in the world.

What you don't know is that it's not his entire dream. World's best midfielder doesn't mean a thing if he can't come home to tell you all about it.

You are dead.

You're a ghost haunting Itoshi Sae— one that followed him from Madrid all the way to Japan. You don't remember how, or when, or why you died. You can't remember what your face looks like either, no matter how much Sae tries to describe it to you.

You are dead. You're a ghost knocking over Sae's belongings to get his attention when you want it. You're the ghost curled up in bed with him even though he has to wear two layers to stay warm because of it. You're the ghost watching him rotate through different breakfasts that he says could never compare to a good old warm bowl of rice.

You are a ghost, and Itoshi Sae gave you a name. A birthday. A purpose greater than being a loud nuisance.

You are a ghost who likes to watch him light sparklers on his balcony. Who feels the things described only in the books he reads to you. Who learned to love somewhere along the way.

You are dead, and somehow alive at the same time.

(One day, Sae will be brave. One day, he will tell you he loves you. One day, he will thank you for waiting for him at the door when he comes home.)

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charmac · 3 months

Text

Unspoken tension ahead of Charlie Work, a wound left open in Family Fight

The Production Order (the order in which the episodes are written) always seems of some value to me in Sunny, but 10 I find especially substantial. With half of the scripts of the season written by RCG, 4 are back-to-back (with their 5th one, Psycho Pete, being 2nd in order).

The run begins after The Gang Spies like U.S. Going off that into Charlie Work, as opposed to into that off Charlie Work, paints a very different narrative for the timeline.

We leave the reveal that Mac and Dennis are jerking off together into an episode that starts with high tension between Mac and Dennis. Dennis is frustrated that Mac isn't being direct, won't look him in the eyes, he's avoidant, timid. That's interesting, because Mac isn't usually any of those things, he's direct and abrupt and loud. Off 9, fully establishing Mac is gay, juxtaposing his closeted behaviour to Country Mac's openness, 10 focuses hard on the fact that Mac's confidence is continually battered as he refuses to step out of the closet. The Gang is tired of it, but Dennis is frustrated. His words maybe cut even deeper than the scratch, "Come to me like a man. Talk about being tough all the time, can't even look me in the eyes."

We leave CW and go into Family Fight, written right after, also by RCG. This episode has big focus on Dennis' obsession with public perception of himself, and the Gang. Though he can initially handle masking his demeanor, his tone of voice, what he can't mask are his words. He's smiling, he's 'joking', but there's deep truth in what he’s saying. He's frustrated, though his frustration in the moment is intended for Frank, Mac feels it directed at him. There's a fresh wound between them, because Mac fully understands what his feelings for Dennis are now, and that’s irreparably shifted their dynamic.

Misses the Boat is the last RCG-written episode of the season. From Charlie Work, where we’re kinda first faced with the fact that Mac is now overly-concerned with how Dennis perceives him, to Family Fight, where Dennis' masks slip completely and he has a public breakdown, they both veer hard to straighten themselves. Mac, very quite literally, goes straight, and Dennis resolves that he needs to cut ties to get back to being ‘cool’, he’s going to be a cool guy who has a cool car and hangs out with a babe and is cool.

But what we learn in Misses the Boat is that how they think the world views them, or should view them based on how they believe they present, isn’t who they are. They can’t actually function well in these situations. Dennis, untethered, somehow can’t control his rage as well as he can when he *is tethered* to the Gang. Mac, well, he isn’t straight, and he realises pretending to be into women is miserable.

Dennis gives him the offer: Do you want to go back? (To not addressing it, to a standstill.) And Mac quickly, excitedly takes it. Looping back to where they are in Charlie Work, back to where they settle for too long: Mac, absorbed in himself, clawing for approval from Dennis, and Dennis lashing out, tired of telling Mac what to do.

And I think this is why I love 10 more than anything, it finally addresses the issue the audience knows. With Charlie, Dee, and Frank, too. They’re going nowhere, spiraling in circles because they refuse to address the roots of their issues, and Misses the Boat makes them, themselves, fully aware of that fact. They’re miserable together, but they’re worse off alone. And they go into 11 and beyond knowing this, and all kind of resenting each other for it, until 14. Where they acknowledge it again, and decide they’re going to keep playing the game even though it’s set.

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charliemwrites · 5 months

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/charliemwrites/734894560372785152/i-feel-like-johnny-would-keep-his-pet-in-a-place

could you write a one shot about this please?

Hi there! Sure, I can take a crack at it.

(Warnings for chasing and crying, shy thing does not enjoy this game of tag)

It takes a month for Johnny to let you outside. He coos that you’re too skittish and little to be out there even with supervision - something will scoop you right up!

But you’re desperate enough to get even a glimpse of the outside world again that you fully commit to asking. Legs tucked under you on the couch, hands on his chest, eyes big and mouth soft.

“P-please?” You ask with just a little whine in it. “I wanna see the rest of my home.”

Even though he’s kidnapped you, lying never feels good on your tongue. Like tiny needles injecting venom into your tastebuds, it’s bitter.

But it works.

Johnny takes you out back with your hand firmly in his, fingers interlocked like a couple. Your heart sinks a bit when you see just how isolated this cage is. Forest as far as your eyes can see, dense and untamed. No fence or walls though…

You tell yourself you’re biding your time and strategizing when really you’re just working up the courage. The consequences for failure, you’re aware, could be fatal if not painful. Or both. You try not to think about it as the luxurious, soft life he says he’s offering becomes ever more tempting.

One day he lets you out untethered. He’s been letting your radius for wandering expand a little more each time, assured by your consistent return when he calls. Today he gets a call, left his phone inside but you both can hear it from the yard.

“Ah, that’s the LT’s ringtone. Behave, doll, I’ll be right back.”

You only wait until he’s past the doorway before bolting. Have no idea where you’re going or what you’ll do. Just need to get far and fast. Branches and brush scrape at you, you almost trip three times. Feel like your heart is beating out of your chest because this has to work. You’re terrified of what it means if it doesn’t.

It feels like you’ve been running for a small eternity when you hear it - a loud snap behind you. You chance a look over your shoulder and nearly scream. Hes right there. And that grin on his face….

You dart between trees, hop fallen logs. Every step of the way he’s right behind you, pacing you.

You see a break in the trees up ahead, pray it’s a road or something and run as fast as you can, burst through the tree line-

“Gotcha!”

Johnny takes you tumbling down into the soft grass, covering your head and face, rolling with the momentum until you’re pinned under him. Tears are already spilling over as he laughs above you.

“Silly baby,” he coos, “should have told me if you needed some exercise! That was so naughty.”

You stutter out an “I’m sorry” praying for mercy now.

“Now, I’ll be nice since this is your first time, but you are getting punished.”

You shudder, tears coming faster. He tsks and gathers you, starts walking you both back towards the house.

“Now, now,” he chides teasingly, “if you’re brave enough to go wandering in the woods, you’re brave enough for a little discipline, aye?”

#asks #my writing #thoughts™️#cod #keeper/kept au #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #keeper johnny

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chibsandchill · 3 months

Text

A blood red setting sun

Fandom: HOTD (House of the Dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x GN!Dragonrider!Reader (reader’s house is not specified)

Warnings: Death, toxic relationships, Aemond needs therapy (like a lot), sui§ide, Dark!Unhinged!Aemond, bad language, blood and gore (described), unreliable narrator (Aemond), grammatical and spelling errors. This is a dark fic

Summary: Rhaenyra changed her mind and sent you instead of Daemon to guard Harrenhall, and a battle between you and Aemond one-eye ensues far above the Gods Eye. Inspired by Love crime by Siouxsie and the Hannigram cliff scene.

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Alys clung to his back, her breath warm on the side of his neck. It made his skin crawl,

he loved it.

That feeling of wrong that washed over him every time they touched. The disgust that sprung down his spine when he joined himself with her. How his breath caught in his throat when she kissed him, when she pressed herself against him,

the instinct to flee.

It was familiar,

unlike with you,

when everything felt right.

Aemond shifted forward in the saddle once he spotted the charred ruins. Alys moved closer, her rounded belly pressing against him to the point of discomfort. Disgust rolled in his stomach at the thought that she carried his bastard. He tugged her closer still, chasing the feeling, and yet, despite his efforts it ebbed away, just like it always did. He chased and chased like a dog with a bone,

but even that would abandon him.

Aemond scoffed and pushed her arm away. He would push her away, off his dragon were it not for the fact that he was addicted to her. She was a witch,

his Alys.

His.

It rushed through him again, the loathing. It set his nerves on fire, his chest aching and heart screaming in protest,

oh how he loved it.

“There, my Prince.” Alys whispered in his ear. It made his skin crawl. Oh, how he loathed her touch.

But true indeed, there you were. Waiting for him by the ruins and the great old tree. Your dragon stared them down when he ordered Vhagar to land. No respect, no… fear, either of you, he thought, for both dragon and rider neither flinched nor moved away when he landed his Queen of Dragons recklessly close.

“Kinslayer!” You named him. “You came at last.”

He helped Alys down from Vhagar. Her touch chased away the delight he felt at hearing your voice again. “I hear you’ve been seeking us.”

“Only you.”

“Hm.” A smirk grew on his face. “I rarely leave my Lady’s side.”

You frown at the sight of the witch’s belly. “Clearly. I see Aegon’s lesson stuck after all. Tell me, Lady,” you turned to Alys, “did he cry as he spilled himself inside you?”

Your fire excited him. He found he didn’t even mind that it was his past you used to tear at the frayed edges of his wounded heart. It was you he had cried to that day Aegon had taken him to the brothel. He had cried as the old whore forced him to his peak,

a whore who looked like Alys.

Perhaps that’s why he chose her. So he can relive it time and time again. So that when he dreams he can hide in your arms again, where you press him to you to the point of pain. It grounded him,

unlike now,

Aemond felt untethered, like a kite who’s string had been cut and was left to waste away in the wind.

His witch stood tall. Perhaps a bit too tall. Rigid. “Hardly.”

“Ah,” you lean back against the tree, “you’re upset about the gift I left you, witch.”

Alys tensed and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Aemond wanted to look at your hands but he refused to tear his eye from yours. Were they bloodied with Alys’ bastards? Or had you scrubbed and scrubbed until your hands bled. Were your arms marred with tiny scratches as they fought back?

How did it taste?

How did it feel to have your soul tainted with their blood?

Could you still taste the iron on your tongue as he did?

You were the same,

tainted,

doomed.

You had left them all in a pile. Poor Alys could barely recognize them, much less identify what pieces belonged to which of her children. She had cried that night as he took her. He had licked the tears from her face and her misery warmed him.

He wanted to thank you for it,

for the high.

Could you do it again?

“I had thought murdering children was Daemon’s brand of cruelty.”

“As did I, kinslayer.” You worried your lip between your teeth, face a perfect mask of indifference. “I do believe the saying to be ‘an eye for an eye’, not ‘an eye for a life’. Let’s not forget about sweet Lucerys,” you pouted and stepped closer. “He was Rhaenyra’s favorite, you know. Was it worth it?”

Always, he wanted to say.

Aemond the One-eyed kinslayer with a heart as black as the night he slayed his nephew.

“No.”

“Liar.”

Perhaps a little.

“And how is the whore of dragonstone, hm? I hear they heard her screams all the way to Dorne.” Aemond placed Alys in front of him, pressing himself against her. “And her daughter? A sign from the gods. My sister is more beast than woman. It is not so surprising then to find our uncle rutting into her so.”

“You think I am here for her?” You laughed.

Aemond bristled at the sound. He stood before you, a warrior, bloodied and proven,

and you laugh.

“No, Aemond,” his trousers tightened despite Alys pressing back against him, “I am here for you. It is time we end this. It is time we see who will win this deadly game. Say goodbye to your whore.”

Alys twisted in his arms with outrage, but Aemond said nothing. He wanted to disobey, if only to see what you would say,

what you would do to her,

to him.

Would you tear the bastard from his arms? He tightened his arms around Alys. Would you? Could you see it in his eyes? The desire?

Take her, he urged you in his mind.

Take her. Take her. Take her. Take her.

Take me.

In his dreams you called him ‘yours’.

Eager to chase it all away, Aemond forced Alys around and pressed his lips against her hard and fast without an ounce of kindness. They were already bruised from last night and she twisted in his hold to get away,

but he wouldn’t let her.

She saw much in the fire, his Alys. Surely she saw into his very core and knew the beast that waited there, ready to devour all that tries to take what belongs to another,

what belongs to you.

Piece by piece Aemond fed Alys to it.

Who did you feed to your beast, Aemond wondered, or had you left it starving until he returned? Did you wait for him like you swore? He refused to believe you had. He did not. So you did not. What if you had? If he touched you would the beast take him? Would it turn against him?

He wanted to try.

If you consumed him,

he would be glad.

You had lain with another. You must have. Or else… He refused to believe you had not, refused to believe that you had not betrayed him for that meant that it all was for nothing.

He could see it in your eyes. You taunted him with it. A piece of you had been given to another. It must have been. It had been. He could see it. He saw the lack of it. You lacked it. You could not give it to him. It was gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

Just like you.

Where did you go?

He tore his face away from Alys and pushed her out of the way.

There.

You were mounting your dragon.

The die had been cast, it seemed. Now to see who would survive this dance of theirs.

Aemond clambered up the chains to Vhagar’s saddle.

“Kinslayer!” You interrupted him as he was about to fasten the chains around him. He looked up, and there you were. Upside down in your saddle. He scowled. “Don’t bother with the chains. This won’t take long.”

“Soves!” Aemond barked at Vhagar, who grumbled and growled in protest at his tone, but the she-dragon obeyed.

Your dragon was smaller and swifter than the old she-dragon, and quickly the pair of you disappeared in the clouds above. Because of her size Vhagar was much slower and had taken to ascending in ever widening circles, forcing them out over the vast lake. The waters of Gods eye shimmered like molten copper under the setting sun. It was rather peaceful, Aemond thought.

And then,

your dragon emerged from the clouds from his blindside. Teeth like swords wrapped around Vhagar’s throat and talons ripped and ripped at her soft underbelly. Vhagar twisted in your dragon’s hold, tearing herself further at his teeth in her desperation to be free.

“Vhagar!” He shouted in horror.

Her roars of pain echoed across the land. She turned and turned, lashed out with her tail, her claws.

“Dracarys!” Aemond commanded her. “Dracarys!”

Fire spouted from her maw, so bright that it looked like the clouds themselves caught on fire.

Your dragon let go so that he could get a better grip but Vhagar banked to the side and the two dragons grappled at each other. Talons tore at hide until blood rained down on the fishermen below.

And yet, through it all, you remained quiet. Such was your bond with your dragon. It needed no words.

Vhagar’s claws caught on the soft underbelly of your dragon, and her teeth on his wing, but the she-dragon was dying. Her great wings slowed down, her fire a mere ember glowing in her throat. Your dragon bit at Vhagar again with renewed vigor, undeterred by her talons cutting straight through entrails.

“Oh, kinslayer!” Your voice echoed in the wind.

He looked up and only managed to draw his dagger as you leaped from your dragon. You slammed into him and your sword through him. Aemond gasped and sputtered. You were touching him.

Skin against skin.

Your face against his.

Blood coated your teeth.

You had never looked more beautiful.

He barely noticed Vhagar’s dying shrieks, or that the three of you began plummeting towards the water.

The feeling of her,

it rushed through his veins,

burned up his skin.

Your chest heaved, but you smiled at him. You smiled and pressed yourself closer to him. Would you impale yourself on your own sword to get closer? Bleed into him as he bleeds into you. For what was this but you killing yourself? You and he were the same.

Then you gasped, and Aemond was broken from his trance.

You were still falling,

falling together.

But his dagger? You had fallen straight onto it. Red gushed out onto his hand. Horror filled his chest. He brought his hand up to his face. He wanted to cover his eyes and pray, pray, pray until he woke up in his bed and this was all a bad dream.

He hardly felt his own pain over the pain in his heart. The beast rattled at the bars of the cage, breaking his ribs to crawl out of her chest and be reunited with you.

Aemond’s eyes flew open at your touch. Calm acceptance waited for him in your eyes. He knew then that you also knew that this would never end in any other way. You were never meant to survive the war, for what was there to live for if not the other. You were always meant to burn together,

die together.

Happiness. You were happy,

happy with him.

He could see the water now. It would be your grave. But you would be together. He wondered if you knew what would happen when you decided to jump from your dragon. Had you seen his dagger? Was this your design all along? To die together at each other’s hands?

The one piece of you that you could give to no other. It was his.

His. His. His. His. He was yours.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

You brought his blood coated hand to his mouth, and without looking away he licked at the wetness there. You pressed it harder against him and he licked and licked until it was gone and his face was stained with you. You. You. You.

You threw yourself against him again, your lips pressed against his. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. But it was perfect. He chased your lips as you pulled away. You had never looked as beautiful as you did then, lips smeared with blood and wide-shot pupils.

You clutched at his tunic, to bring him closer or push him away? Aemond didn’t know. You pulled and then you pushed.

And then,

blackness.

Aemond looked up.

A blood red setting sun.

Water filled his lungs. He didn’t feel cold and it was okay,

because he had you in his arms,

and now you would never be apart.

#aemond imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #hotd imagine #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond x you #aemond x reader

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moni-logues · 9 months

Text

BDE

Pairing: Chan x gn.reader

Genre: pwp/smut but it's a little fluffy, established relationship

Summary: Chan tries to insist he has BDE when all he really has is a BD.

Word count: 2.1k

Content: Chan has a Big Dick, oral sex (m. receiving inc deep throat and choking), sexual activity in public toilets (but no one is around)

A/N: this started with, who else?, @minttangerines. I honestly don't even remember how the conversation started but then we were talking about a fic about Chan's Big Dick struggles lmao and this idea was born. That was weeks ago now and she finally wrote it. Thank you to Lia @quarter-life-crisis2 for reading this so late at night to reassure me it didn't suck balls.

“I don’t know about these, y’know...”

“Well, I told you, didn’t I? You should have sized up!”

“But I always get this size!”

“And they’ve changed their sizing! I told you! And you didn’t listen so now you have to suffer.”

You turned away from Chan and back to the mirror while he fussed, trying to adjust himself comfortably in his new boxer briefs that were, quite clearly, a little snug.

“I don’t know if I can wear these,” Chan groaned, sitting heavily on the bed with his trousers unzipped.

“You don’t own that suit; you cannot go commando. And I’m not letting you wear any of mine.”

Chan groaned again, loudly aggrieved, and lay back on the bed.

“Can’t believe I’m being hoisted by my own petard! Too much big dick energy!” he cried and you turned to deliver a withering look.

“My darling, I am not sure you know what any of those words mean. You do not have BDE.”

He was back upright in a flash.

“What?! How can you say that?! We are literally having a conversation about how I don’t fit in my fucking pants right now.”

“Having a big dick is not the same as having big dick energy?” You did not, before this moment, realise that your boyfriend was quite this stupid. It gave you second thoughts about the entire relationship.

“It’s in the name? BIG DICK energy.”

You gestured wildly, looking around the room as if there were anyone else there who could back you up.

“Big Dick Energy. You might have a big dick-”

“-I do, thank you ver-”

“YES, fine! You do have a big dick, but that is not all that’s required. And I will neither accept nor tolerate your saying that it is.”

“Putting me down in my time of strife. What a loveless relationship we have.”

You give him an exaggerated wink and turned back to the mirror once more to apply your lipstick.

With no solution to his problem, Chan had no choice but to zip himself up, make himself presentable, and pray to the gods that the circulation to his dick wouldn’t get cut off. There are some losses no mere mortal could survive.

“Stop fidgeting!” you hissed to him as he squirmed on the red carpet next to you.

It was bright and overwhelming and you were reminded why you so infrequently accompanied him to these events. This time, though, he had been nominated for an award so you wouldn’t have dreamt of missing it. The camera flashes made your eyes hurt and the cacophony of paparazzi calls blurred into a singular, uninterpretable noise; it was like entering a completely inhuman world, where you were devoid of your usual senses, disoriented, out of place, and, were it not for Chan, completely untethered.

This time, you were also distracted by his wriggling.

“I can’t help it!” he hissed back. “I’m losing circulation down there, I swear!”

“You’ll lose more than that if you keep touching your fucking dick on a red carpet!”

He huffed but duly held still for the rest of the photos, shooting off into the toilets as soon as you got into the building.

He was uncomfortable. He could barely keep his hands away from his crotch. You noticed. You were sure other people also noticed. You were not sure that this was in any way good. You slipped one hand into his and pulled it into your lap. That didn’t stop him. The night was going to be long – already had been long and had so far left to go. You felt as though you were going to have to take things into your own hands.

Not literally.

Maybe literally.

You leant over, your mouth close to his ear.

“If you can leave yourself alone until the ceremony is over, I’ll make it worth your while,” you whispered, letting your lips just barely touch the hinge of his jaw before sitting back in your seat.

He didn’t turn to look at you but you saw his Adam’s apple bob and he squeezed your hand tight. His free hand moved to the arm of the seat and stayed there.

“This counts, right?” he was asking before you were even out of the door. “It’s over?”

He was pushing you gently, steering you into the nearest dark corner, and then pressing against you, his hands at your waist, his nose in your hair.

“Have your boxers cut off the circulation to your brain, Chan?” You pushed him, a little less gently, backwards. “We are still in public! You really want me to suck you off right here?” You were whispering, eyes flicking beyond Chan’s head as more and more people filed out of the auditorium on their way to bars, after parties, bathrooms.

“Honestly?” he asked, eyebrows raised, saying ‘yes’ without actually saying it.

“I am not breaking public indecency laws for you.”

“I’d do it for you!”

“Oh, you’d go down on me here, would you?”

He was genuinely lowering to his knees before you had finished the sentence and you scrambled to haul him to his feet, your face burning hot with embarrassment.

“You’re incorrigible!”

“No, baby, I am fucking desperate. Desperate to get these piece of shit boxers off me and your mouth on me.”

You had promised him. So you wandered, as inconspicuously as possible, around to the other side of the building, to find some toilets that weren’t so busy. Rather, you were hoping for some that were empty.

And you were in luck.

“Shit, it’s my lucky night!” Chan whispered as you pushed open the last stall door, confirming that they were all empty.

“Honey, you didn’t win the award and your underwear is slowly strangling your dick. What about that is lucky?”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, in about one minute, I won’t even be able to remember my own name, let alone all that other stuff. Stop using your mouth to be smart and let me choke you.”

You rolled your eyes and sank to your knees as he eliminated the space between you. He hesitated as he unzipped, then rolled his own eyes, stooping to kick off his shoes, take off his trousers and stretch, roll, and pull the offending underwear off, muttering all the while about how stupid they were and how much he hated them and the strongly worded email he’d be writing. Then he stood, naked from the waist down.

“Oh yeah, you’re all BDE now. Y’know, Winnie the Pooh, he really fucks.”

When Chan looked at you, you expected him to laugh or smirk or hell, roll his eyes back at you, but he didn’t. He just looked down with that dark intensity in his face, the one that said he wasn’t going to take it easy on you. He gestured with two fingers for you to come closer and you shuffled awkwardly on your knees. Then he traced your face with a featherlight touch. You reached your own hand up and used the same lightness as you ran your finger down his length.

As his fingertips reached your jaw, he held you, his fingers starting to press, harder and harder as you opened your mouth wider. He ran a thumb over your bottom lip as he sank his teeth into his own. You stuck your tongue out to lick at his thumb as it passed and he nodded at you.

He held you like that, mouth open, tongue out, looking up at him, as he took himself in his free hand, stiffening quickly, pumping slowly. He made you wait until the pre-cum was dripping from his head, until he was quietly huffing little satisfied groans, until you were shifting uncomfortably on your knees, your legs going numb, your stomach tightening with anticipation, your mouth watering—saliva flooding, making a mess of your clothes when you hadn’t even had a taste of him yet. You knew better than to ask, better than to protest. He’d only make you wait longer. Even though it was him who wanted this, who was ‘desperate’ for it, you knew he wouldn’t hesitate to make this a punishment for you.

When you thought you would fall over, pass out, fling your hands into the air and grab hold of him, he nudged his hips forward, only the very tip of his dick touching your tongue. You lunged forward, wrapping your lips around him, expecting him to move backwards, to tease some more, to make you show him how patient you could be.

He didn’t. He really was desperate. He let you take him to the hilt, eyes springing with tears when he hit your throat, those tears making tracks down your cheeks as you swallowed him, as you pushed until your nose hit his skin.

“That’s right,” he sighed, his head tipping back, his fingers winding in your hair. “You fucking know- shit, you know how to do that right.”

You did. When you first got together, he had very shyly confessed to you that he’d never come from a blowjob before, because people were intimidated by his size, because he was self-conscious of it, all too aware that it was too much for most. He never felt like he could ask for what he wanted, how he liked it, didn’t want to demand or pressure or make his partners feel uncomfortable. So he’d just sucked it up and, eventually, gone without. It was ok, he had said with a light shrug; he didn’t really mind; he knew it was a lot. He had said many things that he had convinced himself were true. That he didn’t matter. Not really. That his partners shouldn’t try to make him feel good, that they shouldn’t work together to make all parts of sex a mutually enjoyable experience.

But you weren’t easily intimidated. You were quickly and easily infatuated and then in love with a man so sweet, he spiked your blood sugar; a man so smart, he raised your IQ; a man so hot, he was targeted by climate change activists. And you were determined to show him what he had been missing. Determined to show him what he was worth. Determined to show him that no big dick was going to get in the way of you getting him all the way off, using just your mouth.

He whimpered, the pitch of his voice tremulously high now, his dick leaping in your mouth so you gagged, choked a little, made him really feel the tight squeeze of your throat. He was whispering under his breath, swearing quickly, calling to god (as if he could help, as if he could do anything you couldn’t), breathing your name in a way that made you physically ache for him to fill you.

You had this down to an art. You knew his every twitch and every hitch in his breath, could time, down to the second, when he was about to finish. Still bobbing up and down, drooling along his rigid length, you took his balls in one hand and squeezed, slowly and evenly, pressing and rubbing on his taint with the other. You felt the full-body shudder go through him and the gasp which always accompanied his release. You took it all, every drop, every time.

Chan stood, his hands fallen from your hair, limp at his sides, his eyes closed, mouth open, breathing gradually evening out. You sat back and watched him.

“I can’t believe I have to put those fucking boxers back on,” he said when his feet touched back down to earth.

You laughed.

“Don’t make me say ‘I told you so’ again.”

You stumbled as you rose to your feet, your legs fizzing back to life and making you unsteady. Chan held you securely.

“You know I like you a lot more with my dick in your mouth?”

But he was smiling, dreamy-eyed, putting his warm, solid hands on your waist and pulling you in for a kiss. It was more than you had expected: not a peck, his lips firm against yours, opening slightly, the pressure as he sucked at your bottom lip making your knees go weak again. You smiled at him when he pulled back, dazed, a haze of love and lust swirling around you.

You hummed lightly.

“Well, if you’re a really good boy for the rest of the night, I’ll put it back there when we get home.”

He grinned, smirked actually, and gave you another quick kiss.

“Can’t resist my big dick energy, right?”

Your face fell as his lifted into a shit-eating grin. You walked away, out of the toilets, leaving him scrambling to re-dress himself and come after you.

#chan x reader #bangchan x reader #chan smut #skz x reader #skz smut #bangchan smut #chan fic #bangchan fic #skz fic

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auspicioustidings · 6 months

Text

The Ghost

Blue Blood Part 6

Summary: The conclusion to Blue Blood, you are finally hunted by the Ghost.

Words: 1.8k

CW: Most of this chapter is smut!

“It’s too much, it’s too much!”

You thought you might die. The marble altar you were on was cool beneath your skin but you were on fire. An hour of fragrant ritual oil being massaged into every inch of you had already gotten you unbearably wound up, but now Johnny had three fingers massaging inside you and Kyle was right by your ear giving you delicious little praises that made you squeeze involuntarily at the fingers and John was standing just looking with such an intensity in his eyes that it was difficult to look away.

“You can take it Duchess” the Duke said firmly.

“I can’t! Please I-” you begged, a moan cutting your words off when you tried to move your hand to touch yourself where you needed only for the Prince to grab your wrists to stop you. Johnny pressed his thumb hard to your clit, not moving, just pressing almost painfully.

This must be some form of torture, not letting you cum. You felt so dazed, like you were starting to float outside of your own body. You tried to move your hips so that Johnny’s thumb would change from an uncomfortable pressure to getting you to the high you wanted, but he pressed a hand to your stomach and held you in place. You think you may have been babbling incoherent curses at them, threatening them with anything you could think of to just touch you properly. There wasn’t even a burn from the stretch anymore, the drooling from between your legs was encouraging the fingers pumping in and out if anything. You think you screamed when they left you.

Desperation was not something you understood before now. You needed more, there was nothing outside of that need anymore. Emptiness and want was all that there was, the need to be full and touched. Without their hands on you, you felt untethered, not even aware of what you were saying or doing.

“Fuuuck ye beg so pretty don’t ye?”

You were vaguely aware then that you were reaching out to Johnny, begging him to come back to you. Begging him to use you how he wanted, satisfy himself with your body if that meant he would let you cum. The Duke grabbed onto his hair and yanked him back sharply, stopping him from getting his hands back on you. Stopping him from putting more than his fingers inside you. You all but squirmed off of the altar, finding your knees weak and legs shaking at trying to even hold up your weight. Johnny looked near feral, the Duke now having to put in some effort to hold him back.

“Kyle!”

At Price’s shout the Prince moved to back Johnny against the wall. The Duke came to stand in front of you then, blocking your view of Kyle going to his knees. What a sight you made, the oil on your skin making it shine in the moonlight pouring in through the skylight of the little ritual chamber, your eyes wet and shining from unshed tears of frustration. You looked up at him so wide-eyed and trusting that if Duke John Price were a weaker man he would have taken you right there and then.

“You’ve already done so well little bird, just a little more. It’s time for you to run” he said, hand coming to caress your cheek. “It’s going to be scary but you need to trust he would never do anything that would permanently hurt you. You’ll not be able to see me, but I promise I will be right there if you need me.”

With a hard squeeze to your hip you were all at once outside.

–

You are running. The earth beneath your bare feet is soft and damp. The moon is high and bright, light filtering down through the trees and turning the woods into some otherworldly realm. Time isn’t linear here, you think you may have been running for hours, yet only seconds ago you had been married. You are scared of being caught and yet your body craves it. Every glimpse of the figure stalking you heightens your nerves until you lose the ability to hear anything but the blood rushing through your veins and throbbing needily between your legs.

You are caught.

–

The Ghost panted above you, his cock throbbing even through the layer of fabric at your ass. You wanted to turn and see him, but you were pinned down into the dirt, face barely able to turn so you could breathe. He was growling lowly, shifting so that you could feel his hot breaths right on the shell of your ear.

“Thought you could run from me? Stupid thing, there is nowhere you could go that I would not hunt you down.”

There was the tear of gossamer as he ripped at your gown. If either of you had any sense then it would just have been rucked up, the thing was designed for easy access, but you were both so far gone that it didn’t register. You writhed under him, scrambling to get away or get closer with no sense of certainty on which. He wrenched one of your arms to pin it painfully to your back and you howled out in protest as your other hand clawed at the dirt to try and drag you forward and away from him.

“Quit fucking squirming. Think I can’t see how needy that cunt is little girl? Fucking gagging for it.”

He was mean and your hips pressed back against him in response. You had turned into something mean too.

“Throwing stones at glass houses, you feel plenty needy.”

He barked a laugh and used his free hand to pull his cock out of his clothes, stroking it only once before running the head through your soaked folds. When you felt the heat of it against your clit you fought as hard as you could against his hold to try and rub against him.

“Want it pretty girl? Want my cock inside you?”

You whined and kept trying to move back against him in answer which only caused him another mean laugh and a sharp smack against the flesh of your ass which you screeched at.

“You were so happy to talk back, what happened? Use your fucking words. Beg for me.”

It didn’t matter that his cock had already caught on your hole, that he was already starting to push into you. You were getting what you wanted but you were so gone, so desperate to get everything he could give, that you choked out an answer anyway.

“Please please, need you inside me! Take me, I’m yours. Ah! I’m yours! Please I- ah!” you screamed as you felt the heat of him sink into you inch by inch. “Full, m’too full.”

“You can take it Duchess.”

Him repeating the words that Price had said had you choking on your own saliva with the possibility that the Duke had given him advice on how best to handle you. When you thought there could not possibly be more inside of you he let go of your arm to put his hands on your hips and pull them up, your chest still pressed into the dirt with your ass now high. He sunk impossibly more into you and you whined long and low. It felt like he was in your fucking stomach.

“Fuck you’re tight,” Ghost groaned as he gave a few slow thrusts, making it deeper each time until he bottomed out.

When one of his hands came to press low on your stomach, when you both realised at the same time that he could feel himself there, you felt your walls flutter and pulse around him and came very close to cumming from his moan alone. His hand on your hip tightened until it was bruisingly tight. He was fighting himself.

“I can take it.”

That snapped any self control Ghost had and he started fucking you with a fury. The air was punched out of your lungs with every hard and deep thrust of him inside you and you were light headed from the lack of oxygen. It was intense, it was too intense. The hand on your stomach moved back so he could ram you back onto his cock again and again, using your body for his own pleasure. It was intense and pain and pleasure and if you did not cum you would die. You couldn’t verbalise it, the only noises you could make were sobs and moans as he ruined you.

“Perfect cunt, all wet and squeezing at me. Want you to cum on my cock, try fucking strangle it.”

His fingers only had to touch you for moments before you were screaming your throat raw, the orgasm making you see white. Your pussy choked on his dick the way your throat had on Price’s, body overwhelmed and trying to force him out.

“Fuck, take it!”

He fucked you hard through your orgasm and gave one last push, spilling himself deep inside of you. You went completely boneless, head totally empty and body exhausted. It meant you didn’t notice how despite him being in the same situation, he still made sure to catch himself on his forearms as he collapsed on top of you to protect you from his weight.

You were barely conscious by the time he pulled out and rolled off of you, dragging you with him so he could hold you close there on the earth and Simon Riley could mutter soft praises into your hair, telling you how sorry he was for hurting you and how proud he was of how well you had done. He told you he loved you.

As the darkness of sleep took you, you couldn’t help but think that despite how little you knew the man holding you, you loved him too.

–

“I like rainbow butterflies so much!”

“Aye? Is that right wee yin?”

“I pick red, your turn!”

You hide your laugh in Ghost’s shoulder, but he does very little to hide how funny he finds the sight of the scary Blood Druid once again hanging on every word of nonsense your toddling daughter says. The War Duke is happily sat right next to the two of them, following orders and picking out a gemstone which earns a delighted laugh and an exclamation of “blue!”.

The Wild King is holding your sleeping newborn, gazing down at the baby with soft adoration. It had caused quite the scandal when your second child had been so clearly not your husband’s, but behind closed doors the only tension had been Kyle endlessly teasing the others that they would simply need to try harder next time if they didn’t want every other child you had to have the same soft brown skin as him.

“Are you happy, my gentle little Duchess?” your husband asks.

“Blissfully.”

#mhairiwrites #cod #cod au #fanfic #tf 141 x reader #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #john price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #look besties Mhairi is pretty ok at writing fluff but not as ok at writing spice #so this is low key mortifying

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cyberpunkboytoy · 23 days

Text

You know what? Fuck it. Here's my current theory about the endgame for Alien Stage:

Cure has put the story in a very interesting and unexpected position, especially considering the next matchup. Till feels very untethered right now, with Ivan supposedly dead, Mizi currently not at all focused on him, and his next competitor Luka having basically no connection to him. To me, it feels as though he's at the center of a lot of conflicts that are uninterested in him, caught in the middle. Why is he still here? Where is the story going to take him?

What if: he's the unexpected last man standing?

Here's how I see it playing out: someone (it could be anyone at this point) takes out Luka. Mizi does some sort of sacrifice, accepting her death as it both supports the cause and reunites her with Sua. Hyuna & co are either lost in the conflict, or push the following events into motion: only Till is left.

He could be a symbol of rebellion, which would suit him (to an extent—what initially motivated him is gone now). But he could also be framed as 'winning' Alien Stage, as the show needs someone to win & will manipulate the tragedies as necessary to make it happen. Till, crowned the winner of a competition that has only ever hurt him and those around him, that put him through hell, that chained him like a dog and treated him like a lab rat.

As either the symbol of rebellion or Alien Stage, it would feel like they'd dragged the shell of him into a cause he didn't care about and didn't want. It would be fittingly gutting for the finale of a Vivinos project. I can see it happening.

Apparently we're only halfway through the series, so there's plenty of opportunity for me to be wrong, but 👁️👁️

#alien stage #textpost #if this ends up even slightly correct I'd be thrilled forever #so for that very tiny possibility I'm saving this for posterity #alien stage theory #alnst

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endless-ineffabilities · 1 year

Text

never tear us apart

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

part five of the prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part one: don't you love me? - part two: and what of your love? - part three: the flames that divide - part four: the aftermath

themes/warnings: injury, language, dragonrider!reader (her house is not stated)

word count: 6.1k ▪︎ masterlist

The Blacks make an attempt to lift the curse cast upon the reader. Aemond does everything he can to reach Dragonstone, in hopes of seeing the reader again. A sinister plot forms, threatening to cast everything into further chaos. Or set everything right. Only time will tell.

Alys Rivers is no stranger to pain.

When she was discarded by her mother at the steps of her apparent father’s castle at a tender age of 10, she felt it.

When her father did not completely recognize her as his daughter, relegating her to be one of the workers of his estate, she felt it.

When she had to fend off an attacker, using all of her meagre physical strength, digging her nails into the man who attempted to overcome her and take her girlhood, she felt it.

Pain is no stranger. And it is no friend, either.

But pain was something that she merely accepted, until she found the Lord of Light. Her mother sought her out years after she abandoned her, telling her that it needed to be done. She needed to leave Alys, so that she might be able to devote her days and nights to the one true Lord.

Alys should have been angry. She should have wept upon seeing her mother again, hurled questions and accusations at her as to why she left her only daughter. But strangely enough, she could not find it in herself to do so. She did not feel it was important then. Does that make her emotionless, devoid of even the slightest connection towards her mother? Perhaps, perhaps not.

All she knew was that she understood her mother’s motives. She found a sameness in how her mother was ready to sacrifice everything to Him.

The Lord of Light. The Red god. Alys found him, but already knew of her. He already knew of her pain, and he promised to take it all away. He promised her a saviour carved out of the very same pain, and strength, and sapphire-blue. The one chosen for her as a vessel into the light. Whether to love or to use as a mere tool to spread the Lord of Light’s power, she does not believe it to be in her hands. What matters is, her one-eyed prince would come and her very being would be devoted to him.

What Alys Rivers did not anticipate was that her one-eyed prince’s heart would already be spoken for. The flames did not impart that she would have to fight tooth and nail for it. For him.

She did not know that Aemond Targaryen’s heart would already be yours.

But then again, she is no stranger to pain. She felt it in the way Aemond squeezed her neck, in the way he dug his fingers into her skin until she almost turned a sick shade of sapphire-blue. Its talons buried themselves deep in her heart when her prince beloved Aemond, in all his unbridled rage, promised that he would never truly love her. Not in the way that he loves you.

No matter. He is merely lost, and I can bring him back into the light. Her delicate fingers graze the bruises on her neck, feeling him. She has already set her plan into motion, but nothing is certain. There are ways to bring you back, and she is aware of this. Her best hand is yet to be played, and there are things about to unfold. Things that will bring untether Aemond from you.

He will be mine, once y/n is consumed by the flames. After all, how can he still love you when you are gone?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Aemond has always been perceptive, ambitious, insightful. Eager to overcome any slight that his disability has added on to his existence, real or imagined.

Even before the fateful injury, he has already possessed a similar sense of pride. Self-preservation, borne out of being a Targaryen prince without a dragon, who also stands to inherit nothing. The second son. Everything he wants, he has had to carve out for himself. To take for himself.

As if to pour salt on the wound, it is clear to everyone that he is far more capable and more suited to the throne than his older brother Aegon. But this matters not, at least not whilst Aegon survives, and his sons along with him.

This thirst to prove himself, to make sure that whoever encounters him sees him as worthy, has always stayed with Aemond. He did all he could – ensured himself to be knowledgeable about the histories, philosophies, High Valyrian, battle strategy and combat expertise, the religion of the old gods and the new, and all else. There isn’t one important volume in the castle's Great Library that Aemond has not gotten his hands on, living and breathing the words, memorizing them.

Every bit of knowledge, each newly honed skill, forms into a new facet of his being. Making him better. Making him whole. All Aemond ever wanted was to belong. To be whole.

But he never thought he could achieve this without effort. Without strife to overcome. This invisible yet ever-present need to prove himself became something like a burden he has to carry. He never felt that he could belong, truly, until you.

But you had seen him. Accepted him. Aemond did not need to woo you with any embellishment, he did not need to tell you how he had memorized the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. It mattered not that he might be the most skilled swordsman of his age, having painstakingly trained each day since his tenth nameday. The allure of his status, of the power of his family, was not something that drew you to him. He quickly discovered that he never needed to impress you, he only needed to love you.

Aemond tried to fight it, but that did not last long. After all, is it not useless to deny oneself what calls out to the heart?

The day Aemond Targaryen allowed himself to love you, and be loved in return, was the day that he finally belonged.

And without you, the one-eyed prince would be unanchored.

Aemond remembers the night that you first met as he sits in his chambers, waiting. Years ago, you had rolled your eyes at him, at a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, when he said something out of turn about your friend Rhaena’s lack of a dragon. You were quick to retaliate, sharp and biting with your words. But the morning after, when you came across him sitting all by his lonesome in the library, you apologized.

Granted, you demanded his apology first, but there was something in his violet eyes. A certain awareness, a melancholy. There might be some darkness creeping in Prince Aemond’s heart, but there is an undeniable light there, too. A remnant of lost innocence. You caved in, and curiosity got the better of you. For hours, you spoke to your heart’s desire, each new subject brought up only increasing your interest in the one-eyed prince. And his interest in you was piqued in turn. From then on, countless days and nights were spent together in the comforts of the great library.

His heart swelled, perhaps for the very first time in what felt like forever, when you had fallen asleep on his shoulder one night, as he read to you about the chronicles of Princess Nymeria.

He hasn’t been the same since.

The night that has passed since he has heard of your affliction has been long and torturous, leaving him increasingly restless and stricken with worry. He had wanted to take Vhagar and fly to Dragonstone right away, without any mind to what his arrival in enemy territory would entail for him. He almost relinquished his part to play in the war. This ceaseless game that is being played out for the Iron Throne is what drew the two of you apart in the first place.

Until his mother stopped him, promising a better plan.

And so he waits.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

At the height of the hour of the owl, in one of the royal chambers of the castle in King’s Landing, something is evidently afoot. The room is bathed in warm candlelight, the shadows reflected on each individual’s sombre faces. Their voices are low, in hushed whispers, ensuring the matter at hand to be clandestine.

Alicent is stern when she commands, “You shall help your prince in this matter, Lady Mysaria. You are, after all, in the debt of your King, and by extension, our family. Whatever slights you had to endure by our hand, we implore you to forget them. Have we not made good upon our word to eradicate the fighting pits in Flea Bottom? To ensure the safety of all the children?”

Mysaria studies the Queen, her shrewd eyes taking her in. She knows that she is not being presented with a choice, not truly. Not with this matter. She notices the grey shade of exhaustion right below Aemond's empty, glazed eye, caused by hours upon hours of worrying over you. His stance is taut, like a viper prepared to strike. Eagerly awaiting whatever impediment will stand in his way, so that he might destroy it swiftly. He would do whatever is needed, even the most distasteful of actions, simply so she would assist him in reaching you.

Aemond continues to say nothing. His eye boring straight through Mysaria. She knows right away that he does not give any mind to her. She is merely a tool for him to use, so that he will see you again.

Mysaria says, in her silky, sly tone, “I know you understand our arrangement, my Queen. I come and go as I please. I give you information as I please. You have had much use for the whispers that I provide. If I were to help you now, it will be of my own volition.”

Alicent purses her lips, “Of course. That it not being contested - ”

Aemond interrupts her impatiently, “Know this, White Worm. I am commanding you to do whatever you must so that I can reach Dragonstone, discreetly. Although,” he stalks towards her, “I will see y/n again, with or without your aid. Should you choose to help me, you shall continue to walk free. Otherwise,” he turns his head away, knowing his point has already come across, “hmm.”

“Are you threatening me, Prince Aemond?”

Slowly, Aemond turns to look at her once more. Mysaria was initially resolute in meeting his gaze, showing him that she will not cave easily. But his eye darkens, his expression a quiet type of menacing, but shadowed with a sense of grim that brought a chill to her very bones.

At once, Mysaria realizes that her Prince Aemond is not to be trifled with.

“I can get you to Dragonstone soon,” she starts.

“Today,” Aemond emphasizes, determinedly.

“On the morrow,” Mysaria counters, “there will be the timed arrival of resources by ship on the island. I can arrange to have you on that very ship, accompanied by some of my trusted… whisperers.”

“That’s not soon enough.” Aemond paces away from her, not satisfied with the solution.

“You should know, my prince, that the Blacks have employed the aid of a certain priestess of the Red religion. Someone who might be capable of countering the effect of the curse laid upon your paramour. They will attempt to conduct a healing ritual tonight,” Mysaria says, knowing every word strikes true in Aemond, hope slowly creeping in his expression.

“And this priestess… Can she be trusted?”

“She has not shown any sign of being otherwise. Rest assured that once you land on Dragonstone, I can have the Lady Y/n in some place which can be easily reached by you,” she pauses, careful to add what follows, “That is, if she will awaken.”

“She will.” Aemond’s eye snaps straight to hers, burning through. “She must.”

Mysaria merely nods once, before addressing Alicent, “Queen Regent, I trust that our arrangement is to your satisfaction? Now that you know how your son will be transported to Dragonstone under my care, do you still wish to move forward with this plan?”

Alicent takes a deep breath, knowing that no matter what her decision might be, Aemond’s mind is already set in stone. He will get to you, one way or another. Better to do it in the safety of the shadows, away from the malicious notice of the Blacks.

Alicent did not fully trust Mysaria, but she trusted that this Mistress of Whisperers understood, that should she play a hand in harming Aemond, then she would not hesitate in subjecting this waiflike serpent from Lys to the worst torture imaginable.

“If Aemond wishes it, then it shall happen,” Alicent finally says, looking to her son for confirmation. Aemond straightens, before nodding, “I shall await your counsel regarding this journey. I trust that you will get everything done right, won’t you, White Worm?”

There is a vague threat lacing the end of his words, one that does not go unnoticed.

The corner of Mysaria’s mouth lifts in acknowledgement, and she curtsies slowly, before making her leave, her translucent skirts billowing behind her.

A mere moment passes, before Alicent strides closer to her son, and takes both of his hands in hers. “Aemond, this will no doubt be perilous. There is no way of knowing what the Blacks might do should they discover you. Is this truly your desire?”

Two seconds pass, four, five. It is not the first time that Aemond has been on the receiving end of his mother’s worried pleas, and he knows it will not be the last.

Taking a deep breath, and comfortingly squeezing her hands in turn, he only has you on his mind. “Yes,” he finally says, “it is.”

Alicent need not ask why. She assents, “Alright. I trust that everything will go well, and you will return to us afterward.”

The last sentence, she says mostly to herself, in desperate need of reassurance. In hopes that no harm will come to her favoured son.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The atmosphere in the room is thick with despair and anticipation. A mixture of strange aromas infiltrate the air, making it hard to breathe.

From one side of the room, Daemon Targaryen’s face scrunches in disgust. And a whole lot of impatience. His fists are clenched on his sides, one foot tapping as the bloody witch continues her work on the seemingly vital concoction.

The Lady Cerrah kneels by the side of your bed, a small cauldron fuming by her side. Her voice comes out in deep, hushed whispers, as she performs the bulk of the spell. Her eyes are shut, and for a task of such importance, she does not seem to give off any sense of worry or agitation.

That fucking witch looks so calm. Daemon paces to another corner of the room. How the fuck can she look so calm with y/n’s very life on the line?

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra beckons to her husband, reaching for his hand, “she will be alright.”

“She best be in perfect health after all this sorcery,” he huffs in response, “otherwise, a certain witch won’t be leaving Dragonstone in the same state in which she arrived.”

Still with her eyes closed, Cerrah calls out, “Make no mistake, my prince. My hearing works just fine. We would not want to distract me from my work, lest it lead to any complication. It would not bode well for the poor Lady y/n here.”

“Our apologies.” Rhaenyra replies, also on behalf of her sulking husband, who continues to irately glare at Cerrah as if she possessed two heads.

“The rest of it, if you please, Maester.” Cerrah says, and Maester Gerardys walks forward and places a wide silver platter beside the cauldron.

Cerrah studies the contents, her fingers drifting over them as if feeling for a pulse. She takes a handful of charred wormwood and drops it in the cauldron. Next, she takes the sliver of dragonscale, retrieved from the hide of a slumbering Fyraxes, and it follows suit. The mixture hisses and bubbles as a result, the fumes growing ever stronger and more pungent.

“Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla prūmia. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ñelly. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ābrar.” Cerrah’s chanting increases in intensity, her tone sounding harsher, the words muddling over one another like a single drawn out command.

A cold, biting gust blows inside the chambers, causing the shivers to erupt on the skin of its occupants. The flames of several candles flicker then die out.

Rhaenyra’s hand tightens around Daemon’s, as she senses his distress resurfacing.

Cerrah lifts the chalice of young goat’s blood from the platter, and pours it in the cauldron, which suddenly begins to expel a bright, blue flame. It rises several feet high, the resulting heat so searing that it warms the entirety of the chambers.

Maester Gerardys and his two attendants have to wipe at their foreheads to keep beads of sweat from entering their eyes. But the Targaryens stand still, unperturbed by the blazing heat. The blood of the dragon rings true. Queen Rhaenyra’s violet eyes mirror the flames in their vibrance, fierce and unblinking.

“Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla prūmia. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ñelly. Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ābrar.” The words echo again and again, as Cerrah lowers her fingers into the cauldron, her face struggling to mask the pain it brings. Her fingers come out stained, and she stands, relentless in her chanting. She drags the potion from your hairline to the tip of your nose, painting your skin deep red, the colour of the god R’hllor.

Cerrah’s words wash over you, prayers to her high beloved. “Lord of Light,” she pleads, “take hold of her heart.” The ritual is centered on the healing of your heart, as it had been the target of Alys Rivers. Your heart had to cease, to symbolically be set in stone, so that it will not yearn to be united with its other half. The very one belonging to Prince Aemond.

Love has been the catalyst of all this pain, and only love can bring you back. The Lady Alys never would have set her tainted sights on you, had you not been the keeper of Aemond’s heart.

As you still are. As you will always remain.

“Āeksiot Ōño,” Cerrah rasps, passion punctuating her every word, “gūrogon zirȳla prūmia lenton.”

The flame in the cauldron disappears, as does all the flickering candlelight around the room. Everything is enveloped in shadow, with only the pale moonlight peering through the shutters.

All is silent, save for Cerrah’s hushed whispers.

A long moment passes, until Daemon’s growl breaks the stillness, “Why will she not awaken? This procedure has taken up nearly the entirety of a fucking hour.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra chastises, “perhaps you should wait outside.”

Daemon sulks, lowering his head, “No. I want to be here when she awakens.”

Rhaenyra comfortingly strokes his back, almost amused at his disposition, “Very well then.” She understands his qualms over the situation, over the notion of entrusting your wellbeing to this strange priestess. But they were at their wits’ end. They needed you back, hale and healthy.

Cerrah’s chanting stops abruptly. She lays a hand atop your nightgown, just above your heart.

“Is something the matter?” Daemon asks.

“There is… something missing.” Cerrah sighs. “I can feel the Lord calling out to me in return, but he cannot fully take a hold of myself and the Lady Y/n. It does not seem as if he can heed my plea due to a missing piece.”

“What piece, my lady?” Rhaenyra questions, growing nervous.

“A piece of her heart.” Cerrah breathes. “I need a piece of her heart.”

“You’re bloody demented, witch, if you think I will allow you to cut her open like some fucking boar.” Daemon strides forward without much thought, allowing his emotions to overcome him.

“Daemon, don’t - ” Rhaenyra tries but her words fall to deaf ears.

“You said you would bring her back to us,” Daemon grabs Cerrah’s shoulders, gripping tightly, “so, bring her back.”

“I said I would try, Prince Daemon.” Cerrah meets Daemon’s eyes unwaveringly, unperturbed by his anger. “I just need a piece of her heart. Not in the literal sense, mind you. If only you would give me a chance to explain myself first.”

Daemon releases her, stepping back, “You are in no position to reprimand me, my lady.” He adds the title mockingly. “Tell us what you need.”

“I can’t be certain about the object,” Cerrah muses, addressing everyone in the room, “but I need something that she owns, or something that was given to her out of love. A piece of her heart. Something laced with love. True love. Yes… yes, that is what we need.”

“Laced with love,” Rhaenyra whispers, something coming to mind.

Maester Gerardys looks perplexed, unable to come up with an answer. Daemon looks around, his eyes landing on your sword resting on the mantle, “What about her sword? She has fought with it since her youth. Surely it holds a special place in her heart.”

“That may not be enough.” Cerrah shrugs.

“Wait,” Rhaenyra says, before walking over to the round desk in the middle of your chambers. On top of it rests the boxes sent many days prior, the ones containing gillyflower from your own secret field. A thin layer of dust is displaced as Rhaenyra lifts the lid of one, revealing the remnants of wilting gillyflower inside.

She takes them gently, careful not to crumble the fragile flowers in her palm.

“Laced with love,” she declares, meeting Cerrah’s eyes across the room. The priestess only nods in understanding. She does ask any questions. She can feel it, feel that the dull flowers in the Queen’s palm hold something more vivid that anything else in the room.

It is, in essence, a piece of a heart. From your Aemond, for you.

“It will not work.” Daemon grumbles, gripping Rhaenyra’s wrist as she approaches Cerrah, “Look at y/n. How can that one-eyed idiot claim to love her after having caused this.”

“We have no other choice, Daemon.” Rhaenyra shakes out of Daemon’s hold, and extends her palm to Cerrah, surrendering the gillyflower.

In one swift motion, Cerrah lowers the gillyflower in the cauldron. She resumes her chanting, her confidence renewed, “Gūrogon bisa jiōragon. Iā piece hen zirȳla prūmia. Iā object hen drēje jorrāelagon. Dovaogēdy, mijegon sȳndror, vok.” Take this offering. A piece of her heart. An object of true love. Unsullied. Without the strain of darkness. Pure.

She dips her fingers once more in the deep red mixture, and flits them over your lips. With your mouth now stained crimson, the flame reignites in the cauldron.

From the shadows, your spirit awakens. You faintly hear an unfamiliar voice, a woman calling out to you from the void. You sense a light, glowing in the periphery.

“Ivestragī jorrāelagon jemagon se ñuhoso.” Let love lead the way, you hear the voice again.

You gather your strength, aching to find home in your body once more. Struggling against the haze that confines you to weightlessness, disconnecting you from reality, you will yourself to return.

For the final time, the flame dies in the cauldron. The room is neither warm, nor cold. Everything becomes still. Quiet.

All at once, your crimson-stained lips part, panting for air. Your fingers curl at your nightgown, seeking to feel something again, anything.

Nobody can attempt to conceal their amazement.

“Gods be good,” Maester Gerardys gasps in awe.

“God,” Cerrah haughtily corrects, all the more feeling that she has a right to, as she gazes upon the result of her work.

“Silence.” Daemon commands, as he walks over to your bedside, “Y/n?”

At the height of the hour of the owl, nearly a fortnight after being cast in the shadows by Alys Rivers, the Lady Y/n finds her way back to the light. To the living world filled with suffering and bliss. Of hatred and desire.

Ultimately aided by Aemond Targaryen’s love, you had been coaxed out of the darkness.

In the caves underneath the castle in Dragonstone, one particular dragon shakes back into consciousness. A deep, resounding growl builds in Fyraxes’ chest, threatening to escape.

When it does, it reaches even the farthest corner of the island.

Finally, you open your eyes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Your muscles ache as you reorient yourself with movement, leaning against the windowsill. The cool morning air is nothing but a welcome sensation, and you cannot resist taking deep breaths of it, the smell of the sea creeping up your nostrils. Rolling out your neck, you let out a faint groan.

“You should rest, y/n. The maester has advised you from engaging in strenuous activity of any kind.” Rhaenyra suggests. She and Daemon have steadily kept you company since you had awoken, themselves forsaking the comforts of slumber.

“I’d wager that the maester prefers me to not make any movement at all,” you jest, walking over to the table, and sitting down slowly. You take another plum from the plate brought over by your lady-in-waiting, and devour it eagerly, juices flowing down to your chin.

“Easy there, y/n,” Daemon chuckles, “or you might just exhaust Dragonstone’s supply of fruit.”

The doors open, and in enters Jacaerys, a relieved expression on his face.

“Y/n,” he rushes over to you, and squeezes you with both arms, “don’t you ever do that to us again.”

“Alright,” you smile, “I’ll try not to be put under some inexplicable curse. What a burden it turned out to be.”

“Right,” Jace nearly punches your shoulder in jest, but catches himself at the last second, “I am glad you are finally awake.”

“Jacaerys,” Daemon says, “why don’t you arrange for Fyraxes to be taken at the eastern coast, somewhere close to the docks, so that y/n might reunite with her dragon as well as enjoy the morning sunlight.”

Your face lights up at the thought, “She is okay? I would love to see her again.”

“Of course,” Jace nods in agreement, before quickly planting a kiss on your cheek, “leave it to me. Y/n here could benefit from a bit of fresh air. Besides,” he winks at you, “you kind of reek of stale sheets and sweat. The outdoors should do you a world of good.”

A hearty laugh escapes your lips, the first one after a very long while.

“You arse,” you call out to Jace’s retreating back.

“You mean, royal arse.” He counters lightly, humour lacing his tone. He politely nods to his sires, before leaving the chambers.

It is not long after his departure before Rhaenyra decides to address the low hanging question, “Perhaps we should talk about this… curse that you were dealt. A grievous harm had befallen you, and by extension, us. Rest assured that the one behind this assault will be put to justice.”

“I trust that you have some inkling as to who possesses the ability and the motivation to harm you, y/n.” Daemon adds, looking out the window in thought.

Rhaenyra says, “We have determined that it had been the work of a priestess - ”

“A demented witch.” Daemon interjects, sneering.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, before continuing, “It was a priestess of R’hllor who did this to you. The consensus seems to be that it may have been Alys Rivers, Aemond’s apparent consort. Well, at least she was. Word has reached us that the wedding has been called off, by none other than Aemond himself.”

So, he has followed through on his word. You straighten, letting the news settle over you. They are not to be wed, but what does this entail? He did mention something about keeping her in his employ.

“And if it is that wretch who placed a curse upon you, then it must have been at the behest of her master.” Daemon determinedly says, not a trace of doubt in his mind.

You feel empty. In the literal sense, as you had not been able to consume anything for too long, before this morning. Your head feels light and floaty, like you are a newborn babe finding her bearings.

But it is another matter entirely, the way that possibility makes you feel hollow inside. That Aemond may have been behind this ploy. That he had tricked you, and is not to be trusted.

“He couldn’t.” your voice comes out weak, tinged with doubt, “He would never do this to me.”

“I must admit that I feel inclined to agree with you, as it was the gillyflower sent by him that rendered the ritual effective. We needed something given out of love, and it worked.” Rhaenyra reaches for your hand, “However, it might be best if you do not see him. Even if he did not play a hand in the curse, as you believe, he could still lead Alys to you.”

You shut your eyes, leaning back against your seat. Nodding your head once, you attempt a smile at Rhaenyra, but it does not reach your eyes, “I wish to see Fyraxes.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra stands, “I shall fetch someone to escort you.”

“No need,” Daemon says, “you’ll find Ser Erryk waiting outside. I had anticipated your desire to see your dragon, y/n, and I have already alerted the knight to keep a close eye on you.”

Rhaenyra pauses, this knowledge not having been shared with her, but she lets it pass. After all, Daemon truly cares about you, and would only be attending to your needs, especially in your fragile state.

“Thank you, Daemon.” You take his arm as he escorts you out of the room at a sluggish pace, your body still lacking its former vigour.

You hope that seeing Fyraxes might keep any thought of Aemond at bay, even though you already know that it will be for naught. Sooner rather than later, he will find his way back to your mind. To your heart.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The waves have been harsh and unrelenting, the wind threatening to make Aemond’s hood fall to his shoulders. He kept a tight grip on his cloak, as he sat in the quarterdeck of the hunkering supply ship. His royal garb has been exchanged for commoner’s clothing. All measures had to be taken to conceal his true identity.

The White Worm’s supposed whisperers were a pair of fishermen, regular workers on the ship, responsible for gathering the greater part of their freshwater fish reserves. They had stood to the side, always a few feet from the Prince, should any trouble come up.

But fortunately, it did not. The long journey from King’s Landing to Dragonstone remained uneventful.

The ship had docked nearly half an hour ago, and the two fishermen led Aemond further onto the island. The small group had only been walking for a quarter of a mile, before one of the men turns to address Aemond, “Continue down this path,” he gestures forward, “for just a good few minutes, my prince. Then you will find what you came for.”

Aemond looks to where the man is pointing, seeing nothing but the same jagged rocks. There is no path. This might as well be a fucking ambush.

The taller of the men notices the prince’s hesitation. “Head down this way, Prince Aemond. It is understandable if you think that your trust is misplaced in us, but know that the White Worm does not turn back on her word.”

Aemond turns away in contemplation, watching as the waves slam against the eastern edge of Dragonstone.

“Hmm.” What other choice does he have, if he wishes to reach you?

Mindfully keeping his hand on the dagger by his belt, he marches forward, tilting his head in acknowledgement to both men as he passes them by.

Aemond is only partially giving mind to any potential threat, his focus unconsciously straying back to you. He is not even certain of what he will find as he walks further, but he wants only one thing.

To see you again. He holds on to the hope that whatever ritual conducted has been successful, and that you are free from the clutches of Alys’ spell.

That is the one thing that can set things right. The very thing keeping his sanity intact.

You are the final strand of light keeping Aemond from completely yielding himself into darkness.

Not too far away, Fyraxes stretches on a clearing amongst the rocks. Your hands glide over her scales, the feeling of her immediately making you at ease. She groans in satisfaction, mirroring your relief.

Your brow furrows as you notice her tense abruptly, craning her long neck to the side, seemingly sensing a new arrival.

“Skoros iksis pirta?” What’s wrong?

Leaning against her, you can’t help but brace yourself against danger. Dragonstone might be a steadfast fort, easily defensible against explicit attacks, but you now know better than to underestimate the reach of dark magic.

Fryaxes groans, not one of displeasure or alarm, but rather, recognition. Familiarity. A call you knew all too well. Whomever she sees coming is far from an enemy. Could it be Daemon? Rhaenyra? Surely it cannot be Ser Erryk, who has just taken leave to allow you some time alone with Fyraxes.

You take a few steps toward the direction she watches in anticipation, the faint sound of rapid footfall reaching your ears. You think to call out to ask who goes there, but the words never leave you. You see him.

Aemond comes into view, and your knees almost buckle from underneath you, your body seemingly remembering how delicate it has become.

His familiar shapely lips are parted in amazement, taking you in. Reaching up, he lowers his cloak, his silver hair a stark contrast to the dark cloth.

“Aemond,” is all you can say. And that was all it took. Aemond’s legs move on their volition, drawn to the sound of your voice. He pauses right in front of you, his hand reaching to caress your face, and you cannot find the strength to protest. You are not certain that you even want to. Whatever peril he might pose, your skin still yearns for his touch.

His hands gently hold either side of your face. He notices how you appear slightly gaunt, frailer, and it torments him. Immediately, he is compelled to punish the woman who caused you to be this way.

But for now, he relishes in the elation that only you can bring him.

“Y/n,” he whispers, his voice breaking. Carefully, as if fearing that you might break against him, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Aemond,” you say, stronger this time. A hundred questions threaten to spill from your lips, but you reel them in, save for just one. “What are you doing here?”

He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. “What am I doing here?” He repeats, making it sound like the answer is supposed to be the most obvious thing in all the realm.

“What am I doing here?” he scoffs, repeating the question yet again, and right away, you know.

“Avy jorrāelan,” Aemond says, quelling whatever worry remains in you, “That is why.”

I love you. Of course. It truly is the most obvious thing in all the realm.

Your lips meet, finding home in each other once more.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

In another part of the sprawling castle, a clandestine meeting takes place. At the bottom of a turnpike stair, at the end of the long and narrow hallway, there lies a room cloaked in shadow.

Three individuals stand inside, only able to speak freely to one another in this very room. At least, when it concerns Aemond Targaryen… and you.

“Has he reached the island?” The mastermind speaks. Who else can it be but the Rogue Prince himself?

Mysaria replies, “Indeed he has. He is convening with Lady Y/n as we speak. Everything is unfolding according to your plan, my prince.”

Daemon sneers, “Very good.” He turns to the other person in the room, “And you made certain that the Queen remains unaware of what transpires?”

“Queen Rhaenyra does not know that Prince Aemond is on Dragonstone, my prince.” Ser Erryk affirms. “I swore fealty to the Queen, and as you said, this plan is solely carried out in her best interest. I will not turn my back on this.”

Daemon’s pride swells. Soon enough, his beloved nephew will atone for his crimes.

And the rest of the Greens shall fall.

So who suspected that Daemon may be up to his usual serving of chaos? Alys Rivers will still play her role, but the more realistic threat to yours and Aemond's romance will be our very own uncle-daddy. You guys seriously didn't think that he would just everything slide, did you?

Wow did this take so long to post!?!?! I still don't think that long of a wait was worth it, and I'll try my hardest to get the next part done sooner :)

Thank you thank you to all of you who follow this series, routinely flooding my inbox with requests for the next part when I take too long. 🖤 Hehe yous are aces.

Apologies if I missed anyone on the taglist - it has gotten all too long (which is a good thing, after all) but I suck at organizing it, so I hope this post finds you well if I failed to tag you. 🤍

Series taglist: @crazylokonugget @xinyourdreamsx @raging-panda @zelzablues @whitejuliana1204 @caught-in-the-afterglow @a-demon-daughter @meilikki @carlottalhn @aemondswh0re @afro-hispwriter @xcinnamonmalfoyx @ietss @writer-lee5 @solacestyles @noneedtosearch @umavvitch @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @inpraizeof @evye47 @kellzlib @janelongxox @daydreamerblues @hearmeout-inc @marrianena @poisonedsultana @lithebunnyq @nushy @foras @thesheelfsworld @abcrosia @anangelwhodidntfall @kyrieshoka @katefullerrr @gxthicwxrm @bluscryn @lwqfhp @vampxra @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels @justsumtuffstuff @verycollectivecreator @chiyausu @mistalli @buttercupstrand @cullenswife @blacpiink @darylandbethfanforever9 @pockcock @alexayoonlee (continued in comments)

#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen fanfiction

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yinses · 1 year

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all and half pt. i

in which your fate intended is the one person you can achieve true pleasure from

pairing: modern au! alhaitham x fem! reader, minor kaveh wc: 10k+ (i wrote over 70k+ words for genshin alone last year, that's crazy talk) rating: mature 18+

a/n: so we have two people to thank for this. 1. @mystic-sky rescued my sanity with this fic. i always worry about characterization and plot sense. she's actually the culprit who got me into genshin so really it all started with her. and she made me tear up a bit so here we are. 2. you guessed it, @mediocrityexpert who never failed to mention this man at all opportunities with pictures included until i became the simp you see now. this fic is meant to be her wish banner charm! hope this story brings as much joy as his homecoming

you had a plan.

a simple and easy one-step outline that was meant to be fool-proof for a lifetime.

avoid your fate intended and you wouldn’t have any problems

the idea of connecting with another living being on a level of complexity assisted by the archons would be thought to be a spiritual venture. except the very gods who wrote the lining principals found more value in physical compatibility rather than soul binding merit.

it was proclaimed, since what is thought to be the beginning of teyvet, that an individual's soul would be tied to another through the carnal utopia found at the peak of an orgasm. scholars liked to believe that it was a forethought with intention to cultivate the proliferation of humanity; but you like some just inhaled a little too much meditation incense.

if you never reached true nirvana then there was nothing for you to compare it to. thus, you could go about enjoying the frivolousness of life and it's untethered freedom.

there was something to say about 'true love' when your soulmate could only be found at the peak of an orgasm. they say for those who have had sex in the past that nothing is commensurable beyond that. you don’t even have to love the person. the sex is just that good.

apparently it’s the worst for virgins—never knowing what came before and rarely having the courage to experience anything less.

the idea of soulmates was a broken concept of love. ruining stable relationships for the desire of an infallible sexual experience. to think fates were willing to reduce passion down to its most carnal physical form and bind people to it.

it was the forbidden fruit for some.

or what was left after it fell from the hands of celestia.

you weren’t in a relationship; had nothing to tie you down. but you refused to have your body hijacked by one person who could only rock your world because of erotic devine intervention.

it didn’t make you easy by any terms, just determined to always have a taste for what else the world had to offer.

there was good sex out there.

mind blowing, leg numbing sex.

and not everyone needed the most expensive cake in the shop to achieve satisfaction.

and that had been the testament of your life thus far, until today.

you were there, edging over the line you’d come to know like a second home, when it all just stopped.

the sheets shifted as the figure hovering above used his hold against your headboard to halt the progression of his hips.

“sorry, i just can’t.”

and the dessert began to crumble.

his face pinched in a way that was far from sexy, “it’s not you.”

of all the times.

“i just thought it was all myth and legend you know. it wasn’t possible for one person to hold the key to your sexual awakening, right?”

and now he was pulling out. no, no, no. you head hit the stale fluff of your pillow with a thump.

“or maybe it’s just you-.

you found flimsy satisfaction thump in the sound that came from knocking the second pillow into the blonde head of hair.

“okay, okay. not you. it was great before. but now it’s just—“

archons.

groaning into the mattress, you accepted that the mood was beyond repairable, left to simmer in the rustled sheets and sticky wetness connecting your thighs. honestly what was fate thinking ruining a perfectly good thing.

“you don’t even love them, kaveh.” you grumbled out crassly. maybe it was a little insensitive. but it was true.

he’d run into them on a whim, no more bound to you than you were him. it had only taken one night and and a short consideration to make a difference it seemed. kaveh had once he was a pessimist like you; willing to stick a middle finger to fate and find your own asylum without discovering the road paved out for you.

the two of you shared stories, marking your own sexual discoveries while exploring ones of your own. you could have married him.

maybe.

eventually, possibly, after accepting that you had unearthed all you could from your back- and other various positions.

were you selfish to deem it unfair ?

you’d taken a chance. you filtered through all the variables in an attempt to beat the odds. only to have it slapped in your face. and they even took away your orgasm with a last hoorah.

“it’s fine.”

it wasn’t.

well, you would move on. he was the best so far but there were plenty of fish in the sea it seemed as if he caught a bigger one, so to say. it wasn’t the least bit awkward as the two of you gathered your clothing, less of you as in the comfort of your own home you were comfortable in just a shirt and panties.

an old shirt of his in fact.

the last of your collection.

he has the nerve to actually look guilty at the door and you can’t bring yourself to weigh him down any further.

“hey, we were in a mission to find all the wonders of sex. be happy you get to clock out before your dick fell off.” the pat on the shoulder you give him feels lacking, but you had to stretch to get there so it wasn’t without effort.

his lips split into a small cautionary smile.

“hey, maybe yours is—“

no. nope. no evil spirits in your house.

all hospitality leaves you as you press and prod him through the door. just because he was content didn’t mean you were ready to accept the deal.

“don’t let your next orgasm send you into a coma. baby steps, kaveh.”

he laughs like you expect him too, waving you off with a wider grin as he departs, likely to slip into the bed of his dreams.

and now you were left with an absent orgasm and one less reliable partner.

great.

| ⚘⚘⚘ |

it’s funny how something so soul binding can’t even be properly taught in school. it's wholeness left for young people to discover on their own experience and limited research on the subject available to the general public. teachers spoke lightly on the topic of becoming one with another through body and soul.

the only interesting thing to come from joining the akademiya was dissertations being written as close to erotic novels.

you convinced yourself to take it easy-ier over the last few weeks since kaveh's unforeseen retreat. you were not that desperate for a good lay and fate would end up handing you want you didn’t desire if you weren’t careful. so instead of your usual nightclubs and after hour ventures, you found yourself wasting hours in lighter pubs.

maybe not completely losing time. a decent drink and sound music was as good a stress reliever as any.

relaxing into the bar seat, you manage to keep from losing your balance. the lack of back support seemed like a latent encouragement of chances of falling to the floor, but you were only two glasses in at the moment. as your fingers traced the edge of the glass in languid circles, you wonder if you should just call it a night.

it had been quite awhile since you’d let yourself wander into bars. back in your early undergrad days, it had been in the accompaniment of friends to alleviate any stress built up over the semester. it was safe to say you’d matured a little since then; or at least discover an alternative that was just as satisfying.

but then kaveh had to go and ruin that.

it was as equally frustrating to admit you were both dissatisfied with the abrupt departure as you were pleased it ended before it festered into something too entangled for you both to escape. though 'finding your soulmate ‘ route was still well outside your expectations.

nearly a year ago, your introduction to kaveh had been fortuitous. he was a graduate, senior to your status, but a frequent of the akademiya due to renovation projects. he had been a pretty face, an easy distraction when his latest construction was near the vahumana school grounds.

all it took was a pair of wandering eyes and a few smiles to strike up a conversation. after a cursory drink here and there and a night out of fun, the kindling chemistry began.

it had never been an intention for either party to make it more than that. one shot too many had kaveh confessing about his mountains of debt that put him in direct servitude to the akademiya.

and you had no desire to date either, at least not while the sages were still prickling your nerves about research. but you also were willing to admit that you were getting a little too old to be bar hopping for a night out.

kaveh fit comfortably in the midst of both criteria.

he was a reliable lay and it helped that lately it took effort to run into one another. he was always focused on a new project and you spent more time in the library than your own apartment. which was ironic, because the majority of your ‘meetings’ occurred at your place rather than his.

something about a belligerent roommate.

now he was out gallivanting in the desert in the pursuit of creative inspiration; an interesting metaphor when he was towing his newest obsession along for the ride.

but apparently that was a thing of the past as you found yourself in an establishment that was better referred to as a tavern than a bar, or at least one less frequented by akademiya students. the campus bars were always full and bursting with a cocktail of students and occasional faculty members. it was a dangerous mix of egos and alcohol.

it was why you found it worth it to venture to port ortmos on occasion to the habour tavern. the lack of boisterous music was nice, but the atmosphere was empty of intrigue. not to mention the place hardly offered a promising selection. not a favorable gift of wine, and top shelf liquor was hardly in their vocabulary, let alone supply list. you decided eventually not to waste time trying to explain the ingredient of a zaytum sunrise.

a sigh tickled you lips and your shoulders sagged an inch lower. really there were more pressing issues than laminating over bed partners. you were rapidly approaching the end of your scholarship, making you one step closer to your dissertation. which was still a prospective theory with no hardened evidence worth presenting.

it took something akin to guts to challenge the age old belief of soulmates. in sumeru, it was the equivalent of a religion and you stood as the outsider throwing rocks at the stained glass chapel.

what you believed wasn't meant to be interpurted as hate, but clashing ideology tended to paint one side as the villain in order to raise the value of the rest.

you didn’t want to topple the pedagogy, but be given the opportunity to confront it fairly. but with a theory so widely supported in droves, it was no surprise that no one took it seriously. the akademiya hadn’t even blinked when you had proposed it, not threatened in the slightest.

nor had you wanted them to be. all you wanted was to be heard and given the chance to provide a new perspective.

your mentor had been rather agreable about the matter, offering encouragement and diffusing tension in equal bouts. but they also had their concerns, more so for your future than the present.

though not insistent on deterring you, they often hinted at your growing fascination in conservation and rejuvenation of old practices to save the future. the histories of the past often held secrets for the future, they liked to say. vahumana was as proud as any house, determined to make their mark on the world and the research that gave it life.

but you liked to argue that the past also had plenty of mistakes as well, a shaky ground to dispute your soulmate theory on but one worth grasping all the same.

“maybe i should just summerise my conservation efforts,” you grumbled audibly, reluctantly tipping the ice-melted drink down the back of your throat. it was the easy way out. the more practical route with postgraduate application as well.

discussing soulmates with anyone felt too much like a religious sermon. the emotional process was part of the passion needed to drive the evidence behind the dissertation. half of the presentation was to comfort the audience of your opinion and you had plenty to say on the matter.

cutting your gaze back over your shoulder, you gradually took in the atmosphere of the tavern. it was small, likely a family owned heirloom passed down generations, a homey style that you’d seen quite a few bars back in the city try to replicate. frankly, it was dusty, cracked and you missed the appeal but it seemed popular with the quieter population. perhaps not as full tonight, but most tables were occupied by one or two patrons. sensibility correcting your wandering gaze, you reluctantly trained your eyes back forward. no need to garner anyones attention, there was hardly anyone here for that kind of late night ventures. mature men were a stark difference from akademiya students. you shudder off the imaginary thought of a stranger’s touch.

eventually you set your glass down for the last time, signalling the bartender without a word as he rounded back to check on you. in their approach you considered balancing one more round on your psyche. it’d been only been your second glass, watered down at that. you’d linger longer if need be to sober up. but archons, did you just want a glass of wine.

you parted your lips to initiate the order, the bartender not far away to request, but then his gaze was snapping beyond you. a slow tilt of familiarity formed his lips, followed by a polite wave. mannerisms encouraged you not to turn your head, but curiosity was a painful pinch. it was almost too difficult to resist. you were grateful when the bartender moved for you, not even perturbed when he bypassed you for a few seats down.

the quiet bustle was still too heavy for the distant conversation to carry. idly you twist at the mini straw floating along the melting ice as you way.

it took a few more moments for the bartender to return to you, an apology muted at his lips but you shrugged it off, sliding the glass closer. “just one more. no ice.” he gave his affirmation, the soft smile still lingering. you weren’t piqued by his brightened service. he’d been nothing but amicable to you, but it was something to take notice of.

the moment his back turned, the burning itch came back. just a peek. everyone got first looks, it wouldn't put you on the spot. you was sure it was nothing you hadn’t seen before but now you had to be certain of it, the tethers of inquisitiveness pulling at your gaze.

okay, well you definitely hadn’t seen that.

he was certainly something to observe. the first thing that caught your attention was his musculature, mainly the girth of his arms that were propped against the bar as unaware of the potential interest they could draw. not to say it was the first time you had been impressed, but he was filled out in a way that tore a page out of a different volume. you had grown use to the leaner builds at the akademiya.

but it wasn’t just his build, his presence alone took up so much space it was already hard enough to miss him without that silver threaded hair. he held an air of authority that felt strangely familiar yet foreign in the port.

the click of glass against the counter brought heat to your cheeks as you were caught, your head whipping back to attention. “thank you,” but he was already gone, moving on to the next attendant.

you filtered through a quiet breath, pretending to be engaged by your phone with spotty service. at this point you were nearing an issue you weren’t ready to admit to at such an early stage. while you were comfortable in saying you could go quite a while without kaveh, the eccentric architecture; kavrh jr’s absence was starting to have some drawbacks.

to think the bastard was possibly warming someone else’s bed while you refrained from tempting your own. what you refused to believe was that it was the best time of his life. you brought that man closet to the archons than anyone could.

yet here you were siting alone in a tavern nearly undressing a stranger after hardly a few weeks of no intimacy. what were you thinking even considering the idea? the bartender floated neatly around him but aside from that he hardly gave the impression of being approachable.

archons ... and weren’t you just imagining how uncomfortable it would be to be approached by someone from this bar. but technically weren’t you one encroaching now? had this been just another city establishment, for one you’d have some proper wine. but at the very least you’d usually just talk. if the receiving end didn’t like it, then oh well, you weren’t circling them like they were the sun.

so he wouldn’t be any different.

besides, if you didn't say anything now you’d be running scenarios of this moment until you really did go insane. you dreaded the thought already.

you were slightly attracted to him- okay, pretty attracted. and you were still a young adult, it was the season of flings and one offs. surviving your final year at the akademiya thrived a little excitement. cutting your eyes sideways, you recalculated your chances. maybe he-

“if you have something to say, say it. your flittering is just as distracting.”

if warmth described you before, flames were dancing beneath your skin now. the man wasn’t discreet in the slightest, not caring who listen to the exchange. or maybe he was speaking to someone else- oh no, he was looking at you and he was not very intrigued. for a pause you were caught by a churring sea of turquoise.

you stumbled over deliberation shortly before a new emotion countered the transition. weren’t you just accepting cutting losses? if he was lacking interest then what was the point.

against your internal will, your lips pulled into a scowl at the potent irritated disinterest in his voice. “yes, because i’m sure it’s me that’s distracting”

well, that was not exactly how you intended to start this whole scenerio. playing hard to get was already a slippery slope and your face of indifference was faltering. you could see it mirroring back from the look of reflection on his face. or maybe that was just him contemplating the consequences of just leaving. or maybe he was truly in with the owner enough to kick you out.

for another moment it looked like he might just, and then something shifted. he reached for his glass again, the amber colour much like your own but in a higher volume. the amount of his intake challenged yours as well, or so you would have noticed if you hadn’t been so entranced by the movement of his adam’s apple.

“-students.”

what?

you caught the tail end of fostering chagrin but you knew you were rapidly eating up his reserves for patience. really, he could have just been here to relax, not get harassed by some akademiya scholar.

the man stared at you for a second longer, then scoffed. “apparently the standards have dropped. what school are you from?”

“i…” you trail off, feeling a little nonplussed by the implied merit. “vahumana.”

he hums, a sound audibly dry with scrutiny. “the study of history and the past of our predecessors. fitting to dig into the business of others as you cant seem to mind your own.”

you narrowed your eyes at him,” and you must have been haravatat.”

he huffed in amusement and reached for his glass, the rim tips against the tilt of his lips. he didn't diffuse your assumption. “why's that?”

“because only you would be so far up our asses to know what business we were sticking into.”

there was a smile, but the tone was serious. “cute. what year?”

“final.”

“good. any longer and you might have become unbearable.”

you shot him a look of rebuke,”those same standards would imply that you got kicked out.”

“aw, its adorable that you think we’re held at the same degree,” he said. “i’m afraid i simply out grew their expectations.”

you scoffed. he was so stupidly cocky. “uh huh.” you prepared to turn away when he chirped back, amusement bleeding into the heart of his motive.

“done biting already? didn’t think you would bend to authority so quickly. but i suppose akademiya students know when to fall in line.”

you shot him a chiding look. he came across as tall but the way his torso seemed to stretch even seated. it would have been impressive enough without the additional bulk that added an unfair amount of definition to his clothing—attire that had speckles of familiarity in both its design and colour scheme.

“you work for the akedmiya.”

he watches you silently. allowing you to work through the calculations. he obviously wasn't a teacher, you would have at the very least heard of him by now especially since he was confirmed haravatat. he had maybe a year or two on you, just enough to be an established graduate.

looking back now, he did look a bit distinguished. the fine details of his clothing hinted equally at quality and prestige. though the material was tighter to form than usual robes, but you would admit it had it's own unique sense of flair. still it didn't give the full answer you were looking for.

“that’s all you can differ? disappointing.”

“if i’m so unsatisfying, why bother holding a conversation?”

he gives you a look over and you realise you weren't the only one noticing a few things. he was just more subtle.

“with your mouth closed, you’re mildly appealing.”

you could barely resist the roll of your eyes. “funny, most men would say they might prefer it wide open.”

“you must have a lot of soulmates with that kind of confidence.”

this time the effort was for naught as you turn away.

“oh, sore topic?”

his voice carried despite the action, a touch more smug.

“well i’m assuming your odds of not finding your true partner are promising enough.”

surprised into reacting, you twist your body in his direction. it was an odd choice of words given the subject. it almost felt as though he were implying something.

“i have your interest then?”

the intrigued man angled his body towards you leaving you no room to misinterpret his attention. “we both agree that there is physical attraction. and though i doubt i need more points, the likelihood of us discovering the epitome of pleasure is a low possibility.” the offer is so blunt as he roves you over with calculating appreciation, but those eyes… that blue-green fire-

don’t find that arousing. he’s being a dick.

feeling a bit unsettled by your desire, you averted your eyes briefly before raising them back to his handsome face. you had never once considered yourself weak, the spirit alone strong enough to challenge the akademiya worth its weight in mora.

pure stubbornness was your greatest defence against a lot of things.

but temptation was a trial fought time and time again.

he read your resolve like an open book and finished his drink in an impressive swallow before rising to his feet. he waved down the bartender with a quick hand and then put down a few notes of mora with the other. he walked with intent, hardly harbouring an inch of reprieve in any direction. whatever he was, this was his hunting grounds and he set his sights on you.

your mouth was dry, glass still untouched as you visibly shuddered under his shadow, “i’m not some easy student-”

archon be willed, you denied yourself the privilege of running your sight down the length of his arm as it benched securely between you body and the bar. there was a smart smirk on his face that you hadn’t witnessed yet, a challenge that you’d be dragged through whether you wanted to or not. “no, you’re just spun too tight and could benefit from new lesson.”

you parted your lips to rebuttal but he silenced you with a hum. “i’m not going to play the role of some authoritative figure you desperately need. you can either come along or play games with someone else.”

a streak of heat crackled along your nerves at the rawness of his words. to be honest, he looked absolutely done with your presence but there was a primal edge of something you couldn’t place rooting him there. whatever drug him down to this bar was still devouring away at him, tightening his defences to the peak of stress.

yeah, you bet he could use a stress reliever alight.

your eyes slipped close as a low groan escaped you.

| ⚘⚘⚘ |

it had taken you an embarrassingly small amount of seconds to fork over common sense as you hastily scrambled to procure payment, only to have your attempts overrun by another careless slip of a few bills to cover much more than you had spent that night. it was no wonder he was so popular here.

he didn’t just walk like he owned the place, it certainly seemed like it as he guided you out of the door with a firm hand at the small of your back. not one pair of eyes crossed your paths and from the corner of your own you witnessed the bartender already moving to clear your spot.

a minute later, you were outside in the slight chill of the nighttime air. but where you were expecting the man to hail a car, instead urged you along the cobble-stone path.

“you live in port ortmos?”

“is that a problem?”

“i just …”

he lifted his chin slightly, “expected me to live in sumeru city? no, i stay there enough for work.”

you hum thoughtfully at the new information,“so that’s why the bartender was so familiar.”

“or maybe he just likes me.”

“or maybe he just likes your money.”

“why are you so sure that i have money?”

it takes effort not to mention the cash he’d tossed so carelessly onto the table top. there could have been one too many stuck to gether, but he had not even paused to check. instead you gesture marginally to the fine clothing stretching over the girth of his arm.

“well at least i know you're only after my body.”

“it's certainly not your personality,” you respond flatly.

“you would prefer the bigger of the two.”

you click your tongue and look away, determined not to snort at the smooth jest.

the short trip ends when he taps his key fob against the entrance of a modestly built apartment complex overlooking the port.

“anyone you need to inform of your nightly ventures?" he breaks the silence as he hits the bottom for the elevator to jerk into motion.

it occurs to you with no great pleasure that he was indeed right. you had followed the man with only the speculation that he was part of the akademiya in some capacity. at least you had confidence that he hadn't drug you to some seedy part of town and as long as the bartender didn't sell you out, there would be an evidence trail.

still you shot off a quick text to a friend, letting them know of your location in the port.

“good girl.”

you scowled to which he returned the gesture with a broad smile.

fortunately, the elevator door opened before anything more could spark. he stepped out first, leading you four doors down before unlocking it and flickering on the first light available. he waved you in with a nod of the head.

if he was a secret murderer, he was one with good tastes. from the entrance, the home opened up into a modern looking living room with panel windows hanging high above the quiet streets. to the right, an impressive kitchen held more appliances than you even knew what to do with. you assumed the final hallways led down towards the bedroom and other accessory rooms. overall, it was quality living. something to dream of after finally graduating from the akademiya. yet it still did not offer anything more of his position.

overly curious, you ask, “what is it you do again?”

he smiles, all mischief, “i’m just a feeble scholar.”

the man expects your scoff, lip curling higher as he vaguely gestures to the darkened kitchen,“i’d offer you a drink, but then i’d have to cut the night short. i don't sleep with drunks.”

you shrugged off your jacket, folding it over before lying it on the couch. “i’m not a lightweight.”

he tucked his free hand into his pocket, “but you’re in my home. house rules for guests i’m afraid.”

his shoes echo off the floors as he walked towards you, teasing closeness until you stepped back in turn. a second later, you were backed against the wall connecting the kitchen to the hall.

you swallowed hard to control the nerves flaring under your skin. it was infectious with the way his eyes travelled slowly from your eyes to your lips. he was shameless, continuing down past your collor bone to the subtle swell of your breast until the weight of his gaze dampened your breaths.

eagerly, you arched your spine,” how else do you treat your guests?”

his eyes retuned to your face,” i suppose you’ve earned that much.” he shuffled closer and trailed his thumb along your jawline, then leaned in and kissed you. his other hand came up to cradle the other side of your face as his lips tugged gently at yours before coaxing them apart.

then his tongue slips into your mouth and you whimper. its an embarrassing sound that pulls a reaction from him as he breaks the kiss.

he’d never been close enough before to take in the spicy smell of his person, an additional spritz of expense. something about it burned your nose from this proximity, like he was activating too many of your other senses to not notice. his hands were hot and heavy as they groped at your body, following the curve of your hips and testing the weight of your breast.

his tongue lapped at your neck, each action only a span of minutes already accumulating a pool at your core.

you just wanted to kiss him again but he seemed to conveniently remain out of reach. to test it, you craned your neck again only to have him counter by nipping at your ear.

“did you come to that place just to get laid, sweetness?”

you were beginning to edge away from the dry tone of his voice but he had yet to be proven innocent from the other assumptions. blood finally returned to your hands, rendering you with the ability to move as you grappled at his own body, lavishing in the not so hidden display of muscle. “did it look like it?,” you eventually responded back.

that earned you another nip, obviously not the answer he was looking for. it wasn’t a gentle one either. the sharp bite of it was still echoing through your nerves and ripping a yelp of arousal from your lips.

“i just wanted a drink.”

he bit you again.

you quickly wailed out the truth of the matter, a short sentence about your growing frustration before waiting for another reprimand but the firm pressure of lips responded instead and you sagged into the warmth of it. you dared to ask the same of him but you doubt you had enough strength behind your teeth to get him to comply.

his pace was ruthlessly, hands sliding and discarding clothing, certainly not interested in prolonging the moment.

“you’re going to miss that attitude when i’m done with you.”

the weight of his words should not have produced the reaction that it did. but god did it make you so wet. this man would probably fuck anything. and everything would let him fuck them.

you’re grappling on to his bicep, meaty muscle probably tenderised from long hours at a pricey gym. he loops one of your legs around his waist, leaving the other standing to allow more room for himself. his fingers are dry when they first touch you, though not for long as they absorb the slickness your body throws at him wantonly. a thumb tweaks your numb and your breath hitches into a pant as he curls two thick fingers into you without warning.

his face remains refined but his touch is explorative, teasing the spongy walls as he stretches them to their limitations. “unexpected debut but not a bad way to end the night.”

you wished his words would have less of an effect on you, the dichotomy of them and his touch making you out to be a blushing virgin.

and he keeps talking.

“akademiya girl, huh? bet you think you’re so smart. “

you keen lowly as he introduces a third fingering, forgoing rudimentary scissoring to just plunge them into your depths. you arch against his hold bucking with no ground to stand on. his hitches your leg higher as a reminder, threatening your barely there balance.

“look at you, all spread out for me. i said what five words to you? did they not teach you manners? a lot has changed.” he presses with the intent of stretching limitations, and you’re grateful for the debauched ministrations. science and biology taught you more than enough about anatomical proportionality.

“no resistance. you’d let me fuck you for less wouldn’t you? ” but with the way words just kept off his tongue without preamble, you were nearing certainty that he’d ride the glide of your channel without much resistance.

he works a hand up the loose material of your shirt, sending your bra into disarray as he tweaks a nipple sharply. the pain is acute, shuddering through your body like a ripple. your groan rolls into a soft hiss as he does it again, enunciating the action with words.

“i asked you a question.”

the pressure returns and your body squirms. it's enough to plunk the strings of obediency as your mouth is quick to answer.

“yes!”

his fingers rip from you, cutting the strings of your impending release and you hear the tell tale signs of a belt jingle. the material of his pants shifts, but unlike you they never leave his hips.

“fuck.” he frees himself, af the musk of him permeates the air. it’s almost intoxicating, urging you too look but you fight the urge. “i knew it. you came to that tavern looking for someone to bit that edge off.”

you don’t have to, because he’s pressing into you thick and hard and your walls flutter around him. with efficiency, he hitched your last standing leg up as well, leaving you suspended at his mercy. “good thing i came in, i bet you were getting unbearable to your little friends.”

the wall reverberates against the knocking of your body, the offbeat staccato telling any nosey neighbours all they need to know. that's if they weren’t already use to the frequency of overnight guests.

“just needed a few pumps to set you right. “

you tilt your head back and his immediate reaction is to latch back onto your neck, no doubt intending to bruise you both physically and mentally. he’s not immune to his own sounds, grunting through explications with each thrust. archons, it’s so hot, feeling the weight of him dragging over the wet hole, soon to be coined as a delicious ache before the night’s end.

it’s uncertain if he drew blood, the sticky wetness of your throat a toss up between the possibility and perspiration.

his name. you need to know his name. desperate to whine it, cry for it, tattoo it onto your tongue. you ask as much of it without realising.

-haitham.

you’re supposed to learn of it so soon but don’t disappoint the expectation following the admission.

“my name is alhaitham.” his name rolls off fluidly and you bite down to savour it before it’s gone.

your head rolls back against the wall, mouth parted for air as your eyes squeeze shut. your breast rise and fall with each hurried breath as alhaitham pins his focus on the thrum and the heat of your clit.

he’s back at your throat, nosing against the constrictions as your voice strains high and desperate.it was dominating, overwhelming, and even though you could accept that you enjoyed it, you still couldn’t understand why. domineering had it’s attractive qualities, sure, but it was arguably a delicate matter. one that took a fine tuned perspective to account for any aversions and hone in on the pointes of gratification.

and he knew.

“you looked so pretty at the bar. i’m almost grateful you were so nosy. now you look even more gorgeous. pinned against my wall like a painting.”

a shower of sparks rain down over you and cracks open the door to the flash of lights stippling the dark behind your eyes. you rock yourself forward until it becomes clear that you’re fucking yourself on his fingers until theirs both slick and resplendent with your essence.

it should be the end, the cut off of your journey but the trip feels like it's leagues long until the horizon breaks and you’re no longer anchored to the terrestrial spear but floating within the realm of celestia.

he removes his fingers slowly, excruciatingly so, and smears your release over your clit and skin. your nerves feel as delicate as your bones feel weightless.

you're fortunate that alhaitham is close enough to catch you as you all but collapse against the wall, feeling like someone—no your fate intended—removed all the bones in your body. cheek pressed against his chest, you inhale the scent of his skin while wondering if this was the exact feeling kaveh had. it was indescribable. like you were racing toward the end of days, on the verge of expiring by your own inability to call back the breath that alhaitham had stolen from your lungs. it's a dichotomy of wonder and fear as you come to terms with a terrifying realisation.

you want more.

alhaitham lets out a throaty hoarse sound when you bury your hands in his hair and tug at the thick base. he presses his lips harder against yours, determinedly set on devouring you with teeth and tongue if he can get away with it. in turn, you wrap your legs back around the already familiar notch at his hips and squeeze, drawing your front flush against his.

his erection remains hard and insistent. it’s enough to make you sigh happily against his mouth, arousal blooming above her navel at the promising orgasm it will provide.

“i want you,” you gasp between kisses, cupping his cheek with one hand while the other continues to pull at his hair.

alhaitham grunts again at the action and sneaks a hand down between you two to cup your wet mound. two fingers press up, spreading your spend and is immediately reward with another sweet hasp from your lips as he teases the sensitive nub.

archons, just the faintest touch of his fingers against you is enough to drag back the reminder of the shattering kaleidoscope until the only thing you can think of is him—alhaitham— with either his soul-binding fingers or his cock buried inside. you don't care if it's a repeat performance or something new, as long as you come.

the truth is so palpable between you but alhaitham has sense enough not to mention it. instead he dips as his arm slips under your knee to pull you into his arms. he walks you towards the darkened hallway where the door at the end opens into his bedroom.

alhaitham pulls at your clothes and you let him, sliding them down until you’re left with nothing and reaching for his. he follows you onto the bed, bracing himself over you. he lowered his head to kiss you, holding you still as he ravishes your mouth until you’re forced to break apart, breath haggard from the effort.

you blink blearily up at the broad shoulder hovering just by your nose as you resist the itch to squirm. the grip holding you down had lessened dramatically in the last few minutes, the weight of trust holding you still. a soft sigh tickles your lip as his forehead rolls against yours, light and nuzzling.

“you’ve finally lost some of that attitude. that is good. you’re doing so good,” his voice is less dry, holding warmth and reverence for compliance. your head tilts up to seek his lips again, craving the gentle touch and the taste of exhalation.the sharp edges of thoughts fade away, leaving only room to consume and receive. a reward comes in the tweak of thick fingers returning to your apex, twisted deep within you and curling for purchase. in return, you sigh into his mouth, pleased, as you rock into the affection.

“think you can return the favour? let me see what all the fuss is about?” his smile savours the flavour of saccharine, both appealing and intoxicating and you find yourself nodding in acceptance without cause. alhaitham knows he has you anyway- always had- you’d crawl for his mercy if just to have a a taste of the nirvana only he could give you.

he feels the motion of your nod, pressed so close,” i’d like to know what it’s like. feeling your open mouth, the sounds of your gasp as you choke on my cock. ”

his hand remains low, twisting within you as your own rides the length of his body. it’s a stretch, but you manage to brush against the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein protruding against the surface. your heart thrums, seeking his praise even as his hand leaving you and his thighs shift upward until he hovers at your face.

the heat of him bobs from the movement, tapping your lip and smearing its tackiness. his hand cards through your hair, rumbling veneration as you lick it away then open your mouth to stretch around him.

alhaitham’s hand, girthy and wide, teases the nap of your neck, forming a brace without asking. the rhythm of your tongue is met with a heavy groan of approval, the volume increasing as you swallow around him. the coordination of suction is breathing is an erratic dichotomy but you managed- for him. your mouth continues to caress him as he grows, hips beginning to undulate in aid.

“you’re going to swallow it all, aren’t you, sweetness? for me?” he’s curled over you, blowing through harsh pants as he coaxes another inch down your throat. it still lacked the depth that he would have wanted, but you would still make it good for him.

tears bubble behind your eyes, though not from pain, from sacrifice as you nod once more. it’s still an impossibility to take him to the hilt, but with passion you come close. swallowing the bitter taste of him until the taste of it is tattooed on your tongue. it’s a musky bitterness, thick with salt.

his voice is but a whisper, rolling against your ears. “yes, sweetheart. make me proud.”

you splayed your hands against his thoughts, fingernails digging a little into the skin there but alhaitham could care less. in fact, you dared to say he enjoyed the pinch of pain. it most noticeably shattered his ability to prologe his release as his eyes closed and he allowed the orgasm to surge through him.

this close, it was impossible not the notice the intense ripple of sensations as his nerve endings sparked with a powerful wave that had his knees trembling above you. just when you feared he might topple, he leaned back, rolling to the side and combing a haggard hand through his hair.

then your eyes connected and the truth you’d damned up inside, burst forward, barrelling through your defences and overwhelming you.

this man. alhaitham was your soulmate. this stranger whom you’d let take you home, ravish you beyond your wildest dreams and given you an core shattering orgasm that you were still reeling from. alhaitham who had come to lean in closer than you realised, must have come to the same conclusion as his mouth sealed over yours.

the featherlight caress of your lips to his made your body yearn for something more than one-sided release, the promise of coming together as one—

a sudden feeling of panic gripped your gut as the final dreads of your euphoria dripped away. scrabbling for your bearings, you nudged at him until he had no choice but to pull away, leaving you more exposed than ever.

alhaitham’s face was flush with exertion, eyes to feverish but his face was unguarded with uncertainty.

“are you alright?”

no, you definitely were not and you wouldn't be until you got home. even then you likely wouldn't be okay. you never would be the same after tonight.

“i should go—i shouldn’t have—i just need to leave.”

your heart seized with the sudden ache as realisation weighed down on you. this was not how this was supposed to go. not at all. you pushed yourself off his bed and onto your feet, hastily scrabbling for your clothing.

alhaitham picked his movements carefully as he straightened up on the bed,” it’s fine if you need space. i know this is a lot but it’s late. you should stay the night.” he gestures out out the door,” my roommate is gone for the weekend, you should take his room.”

but you were hardly listening as you pulled your top over head and headed for the door while working your arms through the sleeves. despite his offer, you continued past the adjacent door until you neared the entrance.

alhaitham’s steps were heavy as you followed behind. his hand came to your back to steady you as you hoped from one shoe to the other until they fit snug.

“you are overwhelmed and it's too late. you're not thinking clearly. i don't want you out in the city like this.”

you turned on him before he could finish, “you don't know me. just because were—you—,” you guested widely between the both of you. “this doesn't change anything. “

reading the room, the man carefully held up his hands in surrender. it should have been a commercial sight for a man of his stature given his still nude state.

“okay, okay. just wait, please.”

it’s the agreeableness that gives you pause. its give him just enough time to round the counter of the kitchen and rummage through one of the doors. he spares the time to bring a pen to it. when he returns, its with a small card.

“i’m not asking for anything. but if you want to reach me, here. i wont seek you out. but you know where to find me.”

whether he was referring to the tavern or his home was vague. but the look in his gaze wasn’t. no matter how much he tried to hide it, it was there … the expectation.

you turned away and opened the door, clutched the cardstock in your hand as you hurried to the elevate and punched the downward key until it blinked and the doors opened. you threw yourself inside, not looking back not when the doors closed but until you were free of the building and ducking into the hailed car.

fucking kaveh, it should have never ended this way.

it had been quite a long time since you’d felt anything remotely shameful after a night in bed with someone new. with kaveh it had never been an issue as he’d wormed his way into a positon of comfort before he’d ever reached your bed.

the both of you had decided that you enjoyed the fragile lining between friendship and something more, confident that neither would seek out the unknown. he was focused on his growing list of projects to offset his student debt and you were still trying to make the most of your own expenses into your education.

it had been a simple arrangement that you had been forlorn to see it unravel. but you couldn't put stocks into blaming kaveh forever. he certainly had not led you to the bar housing your soul mate and had no ploy in getting you into their bed.

no the blame had been solely yours.

you had barely been able to look at your reflection in the mirror, finding it all the more damning to written the swollen redness of your lips and early signs of hickeys dotting your throat. there had been no point in examining the rest of your body as you slipped into the shower to wash away what you could. however the ache of his presence remained seeped into your bones even as you fell into your blankets.

there had been one too many unsuccessful attempts to silence your mind, your more reasonable half having a field day over-analyzing your choices.

eventually you'd given up on sleep altogether in favour of squinting against the glare of your phone. if you were going to be riddled by guilt, the best thing to do was to spin it into a web of evidence. for months, you had been trapped trying to craft a damning theory to challenge the damn-near will of the gods.

and in return they made you into your own attestation.

in your initial presentation, the sages had challenged your theory as one-sided, some even edging to accuse you of envy. at their age, it was difficult for you to speculate if one or any of them had found their soulmate. there was no rhyme or rhythm to discovering your fated partner.

some discovered them early, others had to wait until their last breath.

but in the city of sumeru, where the god’s will was paramount to divine expectation.

if anything the only thing worth of your envy was the free state of mondstat where the country had thrived under their archon’s guidance to seek out their own fate.

it was a plausible dream but sumeru was your home.

closing your eyes, you leaned back against the flatness of your pillow. but behind your eyelids, however, were the lingering traces of last night’s memories etched there. it began with those blue-green eyes, then the image panned out to reveal the entirety of alhaitham, broad and defined in ways built from a fantasy.

hissing out a sharp curse, your eyes snapped open to shatter the visage.

it was starting to feel like a never-ending joke. why could it not be as simple as falling in bed with an attractive man.

you’d barely typed out a sentence before you eventually gave up, signalling defeat with the snap of the device closing. rubbing your eyes, you kicked the device to the edge of the bed and sprawled back against the bed.

hopefully tomorrow would bring forth a more concise mindset.

| ⚘⚘⚘ |

you woke several hours later tangled under a sea of blankets and the lingering taste of zaytum peaches. the faint glow of sunlight coming through the window indicated that it was sometime in the afternoon. instinctively, you rolled over to reached for your phone, heart stuttering at the feeling of hard cardstock against your fingertips.

there had been no effort made to forget about what had transpired less than twelve hours ago, nor was it meant to be a rude awakening. those thoughts were better suited after a shower and something to eat.

for now you roll out of bed in pursuit of the bathroom, mint taste and burn of mouthwash would help restart your day on a better note. you considered a second shower as well. the heat and steam was always a nice balm on a clogged brain, always helping to clear your head and think.

the promise of peace lasted about as long foam forming from the slow drag of your toothbrush against your teeth. it didn't take very long at all for your mind to sink into reality; the fog dissipating somewhat as you realised with dread that this would not be something you could avoid without some confrontation.

alhaitham

the name did not come without an overhanging cloud of density. it was a weighted thing, something of a reminder but you could not figure out the source beyond the stranger you’d met at the tavern bar.

it was fairly customary name in sumeru though your tallied occurrences were low. perhaps a stray soul at the market in passing but nothing of significance. it had been an akademiya joke to place him in harvata without truly knowing, purely inspired by the natural flow of banter.

but there wasn’t an alhaitham currently part of the darshan that you knew of. to be frank, when the name alhaitham came to mind it was only accompanied by occasional whispers in the absence of a highly regarded graduate and now scr—

your brows rose with each fragment of proof as realisation dawns with nauseating clarity. the soothing shower quickly becomes a brisk wash as you will your mind to calm.

you were so stupid. so so stupid.

spitting carelessly into the sink , you stagger through your strewn clothes as you return back to your bedroom with renewed vigour. the card you had tried to forget was quickly snatched up.

alhaitham kaysani

grand scribe

he was that alhaitham. the name bringing forth sobering clarity that had evaded you while post-orgasm. you had only known him in name, never having the opportunity to meet him. he wasn’t just faculty, he was damn near a sage after his achievements and one of the youngest to get so close.

and he was your soulmate.

snarky

callous

rational

these were all phantom rumours stitched into the reality of the man you’d come to witness.

but he was also dominating

attentive

and responsible when baring you to the world and unravelling you at the seems. there could be little fault in you for not recognizing him at first given the circumstances. you had never met the man before yesterday.

now, in the safety of your own home, you can admit to yourself that deep down, twisting your perceptions, you'd be a little relieved to have found him. yes, you were scared— worried that fate might have skipped you in your doubt— but the fated milestone was reached. and he had wanted you, albeit sexually, the setting had made you desirable enough to bring you home. even after discovering the truth, he’d reached for more.

in the end, you liked it; the weightlessness of floating above yourself for a moment; the rush of endorphins that seeped into the still waters. just the memory of it all has you tingling all over, hairs rising in protest.

despite your misgivings, the reality of it was, what you’d left behind was unfinished business. there was no plausible way for you to just go about your lives without addressing what was discovered. you knew your stance on the matter, but it was equally as important to understand his so that there would be no confusion in the future.

you were both scholars, but he was more welcoming to the present evidence than you were. though given the abrupt shift in your reality, a bit of additional clarity felt like a needed kindness.

tossing the card back down, you returned to the bathroom with the first spark of determination kindling. if your thoughts were going to be set aflame, you knew who to invite to the bonfire.

| ⚘⚘⚘ |

“i thought you said you and kaveh were through?”

finding a friendship with dehya had been an unexpected but appreciative experience. sumeru city was built by and for the cultivation of scholars under the aged guidance of late archon of sumeru. the akedemiya prided itself on its accumulation of knowledge, though it had yet overcame its ostracism of the children of the desert.

it boiled down to conflicting views of the source of knowledge and whom it ultimately belonged too, but those like dehya hardly cared little of the dispute. it was old news kept relevant but elders who needed to let the new generation decide the future.

ultimately, she found interest in your defiance. shared stories among drinks and good company overwriting centuries of bad blood.

you drew the steaming cup warming your palm closer, finding solace in the simple smell of caffeine rather than the taste of it. dehya kept her inquiries limited when you had first requested her company at the portside coffee shop but now her curiosity was brimming as she scrutinized you from across the table.

“we are.”

“so this has something to do with the random quality of life text i got last night?”

the curl of her lips hinted that she already knew the answer, the slow grin widening further when you tossed her a less than impressed scowl.

“i found someone new.”

the sharp red of her freshly pained nails drummed patiently against the table top as her raised brow encouraged you to get on with it.

with a huff, you opted to just get it all out.

“i met a guy at a bar who ended up being my soulmate.”

the woman had the courtesy not to laugh outright in your face, but the quiet snicker that escaped through the side of her mouth couldn't hide her amusement.

“you know i was rooting for you. i thought if anyone could defy the odds it would be you.”

her support, while generous, was one-sided towards your benefit. dehya had her restraints when it came to the exaggerated nonsense spewed by the akademiya on the subject. but she couldn't deny it’s biological merits after discovering her other half in the form of her childhood friend and now girlfriend.

dunyarzad believed in a more muted rendition of the historic value of soul mates, a hopeless romantic that thrived on the magic of dreams. in a way you both humored the young woman, if only to be plagued with her infectious smile and outlook on life.

dehya smirked, leaning forward on her elbows. the flaky croissant you had purchased as a show of gratitude forgotten. “so you go out with a stranger and they rock your world … and now you’re in the same boat as the rest of us."

you stare at her blankly, “it’s not that simple.’’

“it is if you stick by the facts,” she answers smoothly. “so you had one good night, you’re not obligated to marry him. if anything, you're the one hung up over it. why not just leave it as that and move on?”

your body jolts with the instinct to protest, but the weighted gaze she holds over you keeps you rooted until the words seep in. you had hardly delved into the details of the night, but she was reading you like an open book.

society’s expectations weren't your reality. nor had alhaitham’s surmise given his perplexed but visible patience during your hasty escape. he had made the same discovery as you but didn’t hold you accountable for an explanation.

instead he gave you the option.

seek him out or leave it as it was.

knowing him would be an emotional burden but you had lived this long without encountering him and would eventually outlive the physical reminder.

dehya drew your attention back by the soft sound of her spoon clinking against the side of her mug.

“you’re my friend, but sometimes you scholars are all the same.”

setting the spoon aside, she leveled you with a look. “once you get a theory planted in your head, anyone outside of it is well out of reason. you all forget that the world is full of theories and opinions and there is so much more to explore if you would be more wiling to accept ones that aren't your own.”

her face softens as she reaches out to fold her palm over yours.

“you came to me for advice at least, so let me give it. everyone's soulmate situation is unique. your parents for example.” you flinch at the mention, years of memories solidifying the reason you sought out the akademiya.

dehya's fingers squeeze in reassurance as she continues. “at least hear him out. maybe their theory will compliment yours. and if not, well next time call me to a fight rather than a cup of coffee.”

the thinly veiled joke pulled a tight smile from your lips.

she was right though. as a scholar you had encouraged a new experience and were left to analyze the variables. the night had been an unexpected outcome but not a failure.

you managed to finish your coffee before dehya eventually coaxed you out of the shop, muttering about a fresh text from dunyarzad as you parted ways at the entrance.

the warmth of her encouraging hug still lingered as you plucked the contact card from its perch on your nightstand.

flipping the card, you found a neat scrawl of additional numbers, the intention clear.

with that in mind, you reached for your phone and typed out a message.

‘i’d like to talk.’

your thumbs tap against the screen idly, hoping he was awake and wouldn’t keep you waiting. it was a safe assumption that the man was a morning person when the reply was sent a few minutes later.

‘fine. would you like me to come to you?.’

you thought about alhaitham coming to your flat.

grand scribe alhaitham who was hardly as inconspicuous in sumeru city.

soulmate alhaitham who had yet to have his way with you in your bed-

the last thing you needed to think about was either of you coming.

‘no, will you be home in the evening? i can be there.’

his reply was simple.

‘4pm.’

you stared at the text with a writhing feeling in your gut. it definitely needed to happen, a talk like this was better addressed soon than later. but maybe this was too soon. there was no taking the words back now but how hard would it be to just delete them? a simple swipe and tap and they’d be gone.

you’d avoided alhaitham this long. and if you stayed away from a certain tavern you could continue to do so. he didn’t seem like a man who would put effort into something that lacked fruition.

exhaling slowly, you tossed the phone away before you made another rash decision. confronting it now would be the smart thing to do. it was the best way to keep yourself from spiralling down a path of the unknown. just because you discovered your soulmate, nothing had changed.

granted he gave you the best orgasm you’d had so far in your life, it was just that. a night of carnage that had you waking up with nothing but regret. how could anyone chase something so recklessly because they felt that the archons put their stars too close together?

yes, tackling this now would let you set the record straight. you didn't want a marriage proposal but that didn't mean— no, you wouldn't speculate or conjure up anything until you got on the same page. alhaitham seemed like a rational person, he likely didn’t believe in soulmates either. a good night in bed got the best of everyone.

for a long moment, you stood in the noon shadow of your bedroom before eventually returning to the bathroom to finish your routine. as you brushed your teeth and washed your face, you tried hard not to look too close at your reflection again.

picking back up the phone, you craft and send a quick message to kaveh.

‘hope you haven’t fallen into a coma.’

and you hoped you aren't falling into a deeper mess.

continued in part ii

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham fanfic #alhaitham imagine #genshin impact imagine #genshin impact x reader #al haitham x reader #al haitham imagine #al haitham fanfic #the wrong draft got uploaded early so sorry for the rough first post enjoy!

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