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whoevenisjavier · 2 months ago

Text

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same, sometimes with a fresh coat of paint, and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive that you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit, looking big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,�� he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right. You’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body, from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster or worse: Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. This sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you, because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent, but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down, from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Cumshot of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry is your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear, loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private, that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #mine

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nikibogwater · 11 months ago

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Actually while I'm thinking about it, I just wanna say that the more live-action remakes Disney shlups out like shoveled manure, the more amazed I am that Cinderella (2015) exists. It breaks literally every standard of Disney's LA remakes.

It's not a shot-for-shot remake of the original 1950 animated film, though it does include small references and homages to it, but only when such things can be incorporated organically into the story.

The creators understood and respected the cross-cultural significance of the Cinderella story. They didn't want to "fix" it, or add some wacky twist to it, they just wanted to make the best possible version of the Quintessential Cinderella that they could.

Everything that could be done practically was done practically. The carriage was a real, the horses pulling it were real, and all of the other animals (with the exception of the mice and lizards, since their performance was a lot more involved than the others') were real living animals, the lizard footman and goose carriage driver were wearing prosthetics instead of just having their animal features added in post, the Fairy Godmother's dress had little LED lights sewn into it so that it would actually glow for real, the ballroom set was built by hand and included real chandeliers with more than 2000 total candles that were all actually lit for the scene, and I could go on but you get the point.

There's a ton of attention paid to little details that make the world feel real and lived in. Ella's shoes are always a little scuffed and dirty. Her farm dress is faded and wrinkled. When she breaks down and runs away to the woods, she rides her horse bareback (which, once again, was a thing Lily James actually did, no stunt-double or editing in post), because not only is that something a country girl like her would know how to do, but it also makes sense that with as upset as she is, she wouldn't want to waste time with saddling the horse. When she's dancing with the prince, it's visually obvious that he is leading her and giving her cues because of course Ella wouldn't know the latest ballroom dances, and would need him to guide her through it.

Hey speaking of dancing, y'know what else this movie does that no other LA remake has been allowed to do (at least not to this extent)? ROMANCE. Land sakes alive, this is one of the most unabashedly and yet still tastefully romantic movies I've ever seen. Ella and Kit are just oozing romantic chemistry from the moment they lock eyes for the first time. It all comes down to the fact that these two characters both have the same core values of courage and kindness, which makes their admiration for each other feel grounded and believable. Richard Madden also really sells Kit's feelings for Ella with the way his eyes go all big and soft whenever he looks at her. And don't even get me started on Lily's performance as Ella. Her quiet awe that someone as powerful as the prince loves her. The timidity and fear that she's not really worthy of that. The selfless determination to protect him from her family's cruelty, even if it means she'll never see him again, I'm just-- *banging my fist against the table and screaming into a pillow*

Absolutely god-tier costume design. No notes, I think Sandy Powell's work speaks for itself. Btw, in case you were somehow still wondering, yes, Ella's ballgown is fully practical--those layers upon layers of dreamy silk skirts are real. CG was only used to brighten up the blue color to make her stand out from the crowd more.

Wicked stepmother was allowed to actually be wicked. The movie never tries to make you sympathize with Lady Tremaine, or shift the blame off to someone else. And her villainy is given an extra layer of depth with the reveal that she is a dark reflection of Ella. They've both lost people they loved, but where Ella refused to let her grief get in the way of kindness, Lady Tremaine became utterly consumed by it. She views the death of her first husband as a sort of twisted justification for pursuing all her worst impulses. She despises Ella for her ability to flourish even while enduring terrible suffering, for being everything Lady Tremaine was either unable or flat-out refused to be.

Also Cate Blanchet absolutely SLAYS in this role. Hands-down my favorite portrayal of the wicked stepmother character.

Anyways, TLDR: Cinderella (2015) is the only Disney live-action remake that can justify its own existence and that's because it actively defies everything the LA remakes are today.

#niki rambles #cinderella 2015

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just-some-random-blogger · 6 months ago

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Tormented Spirit | 12

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i would just like to bring everyone's attention to the fact this fic is called tormented spirit. BTW some of yall might wanna read my weasely twins fluff cuz 😀 yeah you should read some fluff! leave comments/reblogs ok!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

Since your sister's wedding, there were two things you no longer did: speak to your sister and go to your father. Everyday, instead of having the Lord Hand accompany you to your maester, you were accompanied by one of your wards.

At first, you were apprehensive with the change. After all, they were your knights, but neither of them were the father to your babe, and even fathers were rarely involved with prenatal care. Though, the patience they extended is not unusual, you were surprised that Erryk and Arryk took time asking the maester additional information concerning things that might need their attention in the future.

Today, you walk to the maester's ward, one hand on your belly the other on Erryk's bicep. As he opens the door, you freeze when you hear the voices in the room.

"Daughter." "Sister."

These words are spoken at the same time. You clench your teeth and turn to Erryk, whose jaw is set. You take a breath and decide to simply come back later.

Alicent stands the cot she sat upon and raises a hand, "please! I'm finished. You can come now."

Finished? Why is she being examined by the maester?

Otto is angered by your persistence to ignore them. He scowls and glares at Erryk, "you remind your princess to practice some humility," he points a finger, "her actions are affecting the queen, who is now carrying an heir."

Your face drops as you turn to her.

She is already staring at you. You watch her pick her nails. You catch the redness of her cuticles.

Erryk is equally shocked. He stutters before nodding in regard, "congratulations, my queen."

Alicent shakes her head, forcing a smile, "t-thank you, ser."

Your father's eyes remain on you. He waits for you to offer the same sentiment, but his anger only intensifies at your continued silence. He scoffs, "will you not even congratulate your sister?"

You clutch your pronounced belly and turn to your maester, "may we please do the examination? I cannot bear to stand for long."

Otto and Alicent watch you move past them. The latter is resigned to your commitment of not speaking to her, the former seethes and laughs dryly. He offers his arm to the queen, "come, daughter. Let us pray that your sister's impertinence is merely as side effect of childbearing."

Your sister spares you a glassy glance before taking Otto's arm and leaving with him. You watch as they leave, feeling yourself grow hard of breathing.

The maester asks you to sit, but before you do, you snatch his arm, "is she truly with child?"

He looks at your teary face. He feels the tremble of your hand as he places his own atop of it. He carefully speaks "it is joyous news, is it not?"

You release a shaky breath as he helps you sit.

"Princess," the maester warily says, "breathe for me. We cannot proceed if you overcome by your affliction."

You place both your hands on your belly and take a couple deep breaths. You close your eyes and resist the sob that threatens to come. A couple of tears wet your cheeks, but you manage to remain intact. You wipe your face and mutter to yourself, "it's barely been a moon since they've wed."

Your maester hears it though and offers, "your sister is blessed with a fertile womb."

You wish he had not tried to comfort you with such an idea.

You try not to think of Alicent as you do your daily examination, but she is all you think of. You think of how frightened she must be. You think of how your father surely told her about your daily visits to the maester. You wonder if he would force her to do the same, just to get you to talk to her. She wouldn't need daily examinations like you; she is perfectly healthy, stronger than you, as she said herself.

You are so deep in thought, you don't even realize the maester was finished with you, up until he says something that demands your full attention.

"What?" you knit your brows at him.

"We will be more certain of it as the moons wax and wane, but considering you are a twin yourself, and, again, because of the rather rapid growth of your belly, chances are my deduction is correct."

He helps you up and Erryk is quick to take your arm. You mutter through a shaky breath, "I'm carrying twins?"

Your maester nods, "highly likely."

You turn to Erryk, who offers you a reassuring smile, "I... congratulate you, my princess."

You stare at him for a moment and blink rapidly.

"You might give birth to a boy and girl who will have the same devotion you and your brother have," Erryk says in an attempt to take away some of the fear written across your face.

It does actually. You recall your visit to Oldtown and find yourself nodding, "I... I must write a letter at once."

Many moons come and go, but across the sea, the sun shines. Daemon's day has just started. His mood is nothing but sour, as it always is. He is loathe to start his day, but he does, and with a grunt, and leaves his tent to break his fast.

We eats with the Velaryons, Corlys, Vaemond, and Laenor, and though he did not hold any particular fondness for them, there was something in the way they all spoke in nothing but High Valyrian that made mornings not completely unbearable.

"My prince," Corlys greets him in their mother tongue. He hands Daemon a plate, "duck."

Daemon raises his brow at it, "with salt?"

"And pepper," Leanor says with a half-amused expression.

"My," Daemon sits down with them, "I am spoiled."

Corlys waits for Daemon to have a few bites before continuing conversation. He clears his throat, "before the day passes, allow me, my brother, and my son-" he looks between the said people, earning furrowed brows from Laenor, "-to greet you, both on behalf of House Velaryon, and as your comrade in battle for you—"

"Oh, yes!" Leanor interjects once he remembers, "congratulations, my prince!"

This earns him a look from his father, and his uncle. Laenor, who had been grinning, slowly raises his brows, "a-... apologies for interrupting, father."

Corlys sighs, "as I was-"

"And have we won the war overnight?" the prince says, rather uninterested, both in small talk and in his duck.

Corlys is confused by this, "I... no." He slowly tilts his head, "does your lady wife not write to you?"

Daemon is immediately on edge at the mention of you, "and what of her?"

Corlys narrows his eyes. He puts him to the test, "... you are aware your brother, the king, has remarried?"

Daemon whips his head his direction.

"And that also he expects an heir to be delivered come spring?"

"Remarried?!" Daemon repeats in offence, "and which scheming cunt managed to tricked him into marriage?"

Corlys turns to Vaemond, who turns to Leanor, who turns back to Corlys. The latter clears his throat, "your bride's sister, my prince."

His eyes widen. He looks between the Velaryons, then scoffs dryly. He begins to laugh, "that roach of a Hand has Viserys's bollocks shoved down his fucking throat."

Their faces contort at the foul language. Vaemond, in particular, is so offended that he cannot help but ask, "doesn't the princess write to you every day?"

Daemon clenches his plate

"And she never mentioned thi—"

"WHAT USE HAVE I TO READ THE WEEPY WRITING OF MY WIFE?!" the prince snaps, coming to a stand as he chucks his plate to the ground.

Corlys understands then Daemon's initial shock. However, he is still confused, "have you not read any letters from your wife?"

"Would you rather I be distracted, Corlys?" he snaps again, hands now clenched into fists.

Corlys is not intimidated by Daemon's anger, but he is also unincited by the idea a fight. He raises his hands in surrender, "most men gladly welcome distractions in the heat of war."

Daemon chuckles dryly, "I am not most men," then storms all the way back to his tent.

"Jiōragon hen ñuha ñuhoso!" he snaps in High Valyrian still, shoving the unwitting soldier aside. Get out of my way!

He returns to his tent. Another unwitting victim is there. "My prince," he bows, "a letter from Lady H-" Daemon snags the letter from him and shoves him away with exceeding anger and force.

He enters his tent and immediately chucks the letter to the floor, as if it was a vase he intended to shatter into a million pieces. It doesn't, of course; the paper remains intact, along with its seal. He crushes it beneath his heel then grabs the sack containing all your unread letters. He empties it on the floor and violently begins to stomp all over them.

You were his. You were meant to be his! Yet here you were, a pawn in someone else's game. His lust and infatuation has blinded him from this truth. You and your sister were mere tools of your cunt father to manipulate the throne.

He continues to trample your letters until they are brown with the dirt. He catches a lone letter that managed to evade his violence. He picks the unscathed object and only now does he realize its red waxen seal had an imprint of a dragon with a long neck that resembled Caraxes. Daemon scoffs, even his dragon you covet.

He breaks the seal. The letter was sent nearly a moon ago.

𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫, ℑ 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔥𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩. ℑ𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔪𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔬 𝔒𝔩𝔡𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔫, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 ℑ 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔰𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔫𝔬𝔴. ℑ 𝔫𝔬 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤'𝔰 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢; ℑ 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡. ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢, 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔲𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔱 𝔒𝔩𝔡𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔬𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔫, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫. 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔢

A good place to raise children?! He scoffs and crumples the paper away. You fantasize of bearing his seed now? He laughs at the idea, chucking the paper across his tent. His amusement goes dry when he realizes it must be your father's ploy.

He's read enough.

Back in the Keep, you too receive a letter. It is from Gwayne, whose weekly response has finally arrived. You do not mind that he does not write to you daily as you did; you are grateful to receive a response at all.

You were set on reading his response, but as is was, you were experiencing terrible nausea and found yourself unable to sit or lie still. For some reason, the only thing that could combat this was walking around. You instead had your ward read your brother's words aloud for you.

Arryk's eyes trail back and forth you and your letter. He comes to your side when you gag, "princess."

You place a hand on your mouth, walking away from him. He watches as you circle your bed, "perhaps, I-"

"Please," you sigh, "do not make me beg you to read it."

Arryk stiffens and shakes his head, "my apologies, your grace." He turns to the parchment, "my twin."

" Louder," you grunt as you momentarily lean on your bed.

"My twin," Arryk repeats slightly louder, "I pray that your health is good, that you have been eating and sleeping as goodly as you did in the days of your visit here."

You take a deep breath and walk towards nothing in particular.

"While I confess a certain light has been lost in the halls of our Oldtown home since your leave, I..." your ward knits his brows, "disagree with your sentiments to return."

"What?" you gasp softly, turning to Arryk.

He looks at you and hesitates, "I... will not honey my words: you disappoint me with your coldness towards our youngest."

You clench your teeth as you feel another gag coming up, "fucking, Gwayne."

"She has written to me more than once to lament your severed relations since she's wed."

Your scoff makes Arryk pause. You look at him as you walk over, "do not stop."

He looks at you as you walk past him. He clears his throat, "I did not speak of it until now, for I believed you to be wiser than your betrayal."

"Ha!" you scoff, eyes immediately watering, "incorrigible pest," you grunt and rub your belly. You pace faster, "unyielding. Unfeeling."

Arryk watches you pace and takes a few steps back and forth so to remain arms reach of you.

"Continue!"

He stiffens, "I—," he turns back to your brother's words, "you've written you believe it will be better for you both that you away, lest your childbearing interlope with hers. I disagree. Consider me a fool-"

"He is," you scratch your eyes.

"-a man who knows nothing of childbirth, which I am, but I know my sisters— I know you at the very least." Arryk watches you as he says the next words, "leaving Alicent will haunt you, your satisfaction short-lived."

You stop in your tracks. You feel your dress tighten around you.

"Lay down your pride and allow yourself to reach for your sister who understands your struggle unlike anyone in the Seven Realms now more than ever."

You feel sick, sicker.

"Upon doing so, see then if you still wish to come to home."

You heave as you continue walking around.

"I offer many prayers to the Mother for both you and our sister. We are truly grown from the same womb, for I too share in your hope that you give birth to a twin boy and girl."

You rub your belly, as the thought softens you a fraction.

"Mostly, I speak thanks and praise for I am to be doubly an uncle. I pray your births come timely and smoothly, and I pray the Lord Hand has extended nothing but gentleness to you both," he folds the paper, "Your Twin."

"See now," you turn to Arryk, "even my twin betrays me, abandons me," you feel tears run down your cheek.

He slowly walks towards you, "that is not what he's done, my princess."

"Then what?!" you shake your hands, "am I not allowed even my anger now?!"

He is taken off guard when you shove him back.

"Even you are against me!"

Arryk steps back, though you barely mustered enough force for him to need to. You quickly pace around again. He feels the flesh beneath his steel you touched begin to push. His lips part "do not accuse me so harshly."

You whip your head back, glaring at him with red eyes, "SHE COULD HAVE BEEN MARRIED TO A LORD IN THE RIVERLANDS! OR HIGHGARDEN!" You throw your hand out, "ANYWHERE BUT HERE, BUT HERE SHE IS!"

His face falls when your rage makes you crumble. He gasp your name out as he catches you just before you fall.

"And for what?!" you wheeze as you are dragged to your bed. You rip at your collar as your chest tightens and tightens and tightens, "for me?"

"Princess," the knight's voice breaks with worry as he sits you down, "I beg you, ple-"

"Undress me," you mutter as you strugggle for air, "unlace my dress, I-"

He does not wait. He is quick to undo your bodice. He is so frantic, he nearly cuts your ties.

You moan as you feel a pressure leave you. You rip your dress off you, thinking of nothing else but catching your breath. Arryk helps you undress and you find it slightly easier to breath once you are left in nothing but your chemise.

Your ward struggles with himself; he does not wish to take advantage of this moment to ogle you, but he also cannot avert his gaze completely, lest you need his assistance. He clenches his jaw and lowers his gaze to his lap, muttering your name softly.

"Never mind my inadequacies, Arryk," you sigh in between deep breaths, "never mind that I will forever be second best to my father, who even wed me to his greatest enemy... who I am to make grandsire to not one but two Targaryen babes."

"Princess," he shakes his head, "I do not wish to-"

"I am used to his insistence of my dimness," you rub your chest, "of my capacity only for tears and succumbing to my own pain," your lips wobble, "but my sister—"

He stiffens and turns to you as lean into him. Your breath is too short and your head too heavy for you to keep yourself upright. Arryk calls our your name as he shifts, bringing his arm around to pull you upright.

"No," you wince, feeling a sharp pain in your belly, "hold me please."

He is immediately alarmed by how you clutch your side, "princess, are you-"

"Please," you rest your head on his armor, "hold me, even if you do not want to."

His hand twitches before, placing it your bare arm. He leans close, close enough to press his lips on your head, but he does not dare. He rubs your skin and whispers, "I want for nothing else."

You are too distracted by yourself that you do not hear him. Uncomfortable as the feel of his armor was, he lulls you into calmness.

When you feel well enough to realize how compromising it would be if someone were to witness you both, you pull away.

He says nothing, does nothing. He simply sit besides you, taking in your sad face.

You a tear drip from the tip of your nose. You rub it away before mumbling, "I had well-made plans for her... plans to shield her, to prosper her."

His eyes fall. He looks at the hand you had on your lap and dares to take it. It is cold and clammy, which is why he rubs it, eager to spread warmth.

The gesture makes goosebumps form on your arms. It makes your breath hitch, but not in a painful way. His gentleness encourages you to continue, "I once thought she looked up to me," you sniffle, "but when she said she was stronger than I," you lower your head.

He frowns.

"I knew then," you look back at him, "she sees only my weakness, along with the rest of the world."

He cannot help himself. He reaches for your cheek and wipes your tears.

You lean into his touch, "I can be strong, Arryk," you both his hands and squeeze them to prove a point, "can you not feel it?"

The gesture makes his heart break. He squeezes your hands in return, "you need not prove such a thing to me," he rubs your skin with his thumbs, "perhaps she does not want you to be strong... not for her."

You huff, "I am her older si-"

"But for your babe."

You are frozen by his words. You open your mouth but find nothing to say.

"Your brother," he gives you a solemn expression, "he says he prays the Lord Hand extends his gentleness to you, but I wonder if all that remained of his gentleness manifested into his daughters' beings."

The thought brings a tear from your eye, "Arryk."

"My princess."

"Should I speak to my sister come the morrow?"

He squeezes your hand again before slowly nodding.

The next day, you do everything in your power to do just that. You found Alicent breaking her fast, but you did not want to inadvertently ruin her appetite with your sudden appearance, for you knew how fickle it was in these times. Later, you found her in her chambers napping, but you didn't wish to interrupt her then either.

The rest of the day, you started feeling unwell, and you could not find it in you to leave your own chambers. When you finally did, the sun had set and Alicent was nowhere to be found. As a last resort, you ventured to the king's chambers.

Erryk announces you once you reach Viserys's door. You look at your knight with apprehension but he only returns a reassuring nod. There is a rather... sickly smell that assaults your senses when the door opens. The king himself answers, brows quirked in surprise.

"My king," you barely manage a curtsy. Erryk nods, "your grace."

Viserys regards you both then asks, "what brings you to my chambers at this hour?"

"I wanted to know if my sister was here," you absentmindedly rub your belly, "I wish to speak to her."

The king catches your belly, "oh, yes." He places a hand on your shoulder, "you are also with child," he chuckles, "I keep forgetting to congratulate you face to face."

You are taken aback by the half-hug he pulls you into.

Viserys chuckles as he pulls away, "well done, my dear. You have made the realm, and more importantly my brother, all the more richer for this."

You are rigid as he beckons you inside. Viserys motions to Erryk dismissively, and he nods. You wards gives you a silent look, and you know he'll wait for you outside.

Once you enter, you are assaulted by a scent that has clearly been attempted to be masked by fragrances. It makes you gag slightly, but it is not so bad that you cannot comport yourself.

You had expected to be lead to your sister, but instead, the king leads you to a massive diorama of what you could tell to be King's Landing.

"I am unsure where my wife is presently-"

His regard to your sister makes you clench your jaw.

"-but she visits me oft at this time of hour. Might as well show you my miniature figurines whilst waiting," he grins as he motions to the said object.

You feel an uncomfortable twinge in your stomach as you walk over to him.

Viserys immediately beams over his creation, recounting the trouble he had carving out the tower, exclaiming how much he enjoyed shaping the bridge. You have never seen him in such a light and it makes you wonder if this was his true self. Did he regard your husband this way? What were they like as children?

As he handed you two separate failed attempts of carving his fallen dragon, Balerion, you listen to him muse how the beast's skull was preserved in the basement bellow, and how he would gladly bring you there if you wanted to see. You groan and slightly lurch when another painful sensation ripples within you.

Viserys notices this. He quickly takes the figurines from you, "oh, where are my manners," he pulls a chair to your side, "sit, sit."

You gratefully take a seat and take a couple deep breathes as the king continues to drone about his diorama.

"You know, I used to make toy soldiers for Daemon growing up. I was aghast when he came back to me with severed heads."

You chuckle at his words, but instantly regret it when it adds to your pain.

"I still made him new ones, but this time, I put less effort and detail," Viserys speaks before noticing your reaction, "are you alright?"

"Mmm," you shake your head, "I think my babes are moving."

His brows quirk, "ah. That's right. You are expecting twins, are you not?"

You release a sigh when the uncomfortable sensations finally wane. You take a breath and offering a smile, "so says my maester. I hope it to be a boy and girl, like me and Gwayne."

He smiles, "it is quite fortunate that you and your sister are to have children at the same time," he looks over his miniature castle, "don't you think?"

"I think..." you turn to your belly, another groan leaving your lips, "Alicent is not ready to have children."

Viserys turns to you.

You look up at him and purse your lips, "nor am I."

He chuckles softly, "none of us are," he places a hand on your shoulder, "but I assure you, you learn as you go."

You find no comfort in his words.

"You know who has been ready though," he raises a finger, "Daemon."

The thought nearly makes you flinch.

He chuckles, "do not look so averted. There is gentleness in him," he turns back to his diorama, "do you not perceive it?"

You begin to feel sick.

"I tell you, when Rhaenyra was born, his face shone."

Your brows tighten at the smile the king offers you.

"I could tell as he held my child, he thought her the most precious thing in the worlds," Viserys face softens, "I could tell he wanted to have something precious to hold as his own," he absentmindedly examines a chisel, "the gods bless me with a wife who is going to birth me something precious," he turns to you, "and a good-sister who is going to birth my brother something doubly precious."

His words make your heart tinge. You are blindsided by how genuine, how vulnerable your conversation is. You wonder if Alicent saw this amidst the cruelty of the world and decided to settle for it rather than the uncertainty from another man. As he falls deeper into another fond tale of his brother, you feel a dull pain spread across your hips.

"That reminds me," he claps his hands, "do you have any names picked out yet?"

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, "well... I've-" you huff, "gone through some books that held Valyrian names," you inhale, "and found a few names for boys, namely Vaerus,—"

"Ah, Vaerus," Viserys repeats, "meaning genuine."

"Eadan—"

He grins and points, "little fire."

"—and Alaeric," you huff.

"Hmm," he turns to the ceiling in thought, "no, I don't know that one."

You are restless because of your pain. You groan as you stand, "I- mmm- prefer the last one the most because it is similar to my mother's name, and I should like to name my boy and girl after her."

He chuckles, "you seem quite set on a boy and a girl."

"Mmm," you hum uncomfortably, "I- I hope for it." You rub your belly, "I hope they have fondness for each other like me and mine own twin."

He knits his brows at your demeanor, "a son and a daughter would suit you well," he smiles fondly, "what was the name of your late mother again?"

"A-" you groan, "Alyrie."

Viserys finally reaches for you, "are you quite certain you're alright?"

You hum as you take the king's bicep, squeezing him tightly, "mmm, I should like to lie down now."

"Yes, of course," he shakes his head, leading you to the door.

Just before you can reach the entrance, a great pain forces you to lurch forward and yelp. You grip onto Viserys's arm for dear life and he grips you with hands. He thinks to grab the chair he pulled for you again, but as he looks back , his eyes widen at the trail of blood that leads to it. "GUARD! GUARD!"

You are in too much pain to react to the king's screams. You can only screw your eyes shut.

Erryk bursts through the doors, face white, heart racing.

"CALL THE MAESTER AT ONCE! SHE'S BLEEDING!"

Your eyes widen at the word, "bleeding?" You momentarily manage to gather enough wits to see what Viserys was speaking of.

Erryk does not linger in his horror. He bolts out and sprints down the halls, screaming for a maester as if his life depended on it because yours did.

The sight of your blood is mortifying. You lift your skirt as pain continues to seizes and a horrified noise leaves you when you find the red that pools by your foot.

It all happens at once after. An ache so great forces you to the floor. You are burning hot yet shivers run down your spine. You do not know if Viserys is speaking as you slowly crumple your knees but you do know that you are screaming loud.

Then it passes. Serenity ebbs and flows. You manage to sit on your bum, but then it's back with a vengeance. You resist the squeal that morphs into to a shriek and then— you gasp, "no."

Viserys watches, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms watches as you rip your skirt up and tear your ruined undergarments down, powerless.

Your scream makes his stomach curdle.

Your hands tremble as you reach for the two small bodies between your thighs. You bring them into your chest, uncaring of all else, how wet they are, how red stains you, how Viserys speaks your name. Your babes are are small; they are both far, far too small.

Anguish draws more noises from your throat. It doesn't take long until your voice is hoarse. You cannot keep your peace as you take in their tiny faces. You wipe them with your skirt, finding the silver of their brows and lashes. You also find the gods gave you a girl and a boy. You choke on a sob as you wipe the red away from their thin, white locks, "please wake for your mummy."

The words arrest Viserys. He recalls holding Baelon as life left him. He cherishes now more than ever that at least his boy gazed upon him once. He shares in your misery, yet does not know if how he should approach you; he does not know if he should. He does anyway, no matter how haunting the sound of your wails are.

You quiet momentarily as the man crouches beside you. Your lips wobble, "p-perhaps they'll wake up if you speak High Valyrian."

The thought is gutting.

You gently pull at one babe's eyelid, finding a violet eye looking back at you. Except it isn't looking at you at all and the thought makes you squall. You clutch your children tightly into your chest, rocking them back and forth, "forgive me, my loves. Forgive me for birthing you too soon."

Erryk finally arrives with the maesters. He is stunned in his spot whereas the maesters run to your side. He falls to his knees as you lift your children up. They do not touch them, but instead look at each other before muttering something that makes you pull your twins back into your chest.

Your ward is ashamed to face you. He has failed you. Erryk comes to a stand and dares to come near you. You do not notice him. You do not care for anything or anyone else in this moment.

Crimson grief trails behind you as you make your way to the maester's ward. Erryk meant to carry you, but you refused, knowing the walk there would be the last time you'd ever get to hold your children. He silently walks beside you, eyeing your every move.

You freeze when you see your sister by the door. Erryk looks between the two of you, ready to give you space.

Alicent is distraught. Her eyes are nearly as red as yours and you can how her hands tremble even as she picks at them, "sister, I-"

"I wanted to talk to you earlier today."

Her face falls and she immediately runs up to you. She reaches for you but stops herself.

You frown at it, thinking it was because you had been cruel to her, "forgive me, sister."

She rapidly shakes her head, "do not even mention it."

A tear fogs your vision, "very well," you sniffle as you lower your gaze, "would... would you like to see them?

She wordlessly agrees.

You step closer to her, "this is Alaeric... and Alyrie."

A hand comes to her mouth, "sister."

"They're perfect, are they not?"

She nods rapidly, "yes—" she shudders, "they are."

You sob with her as she brings her arms around you. Erryk cannot bare the sight. Hot tears run into his armor. Both him and Alicent stay with you as the maesters see to your health. They let you hold Alaeric and Alyrie until your examination commences, and then you confess that if they do not take them now, you will never let them be taken from you ever again.

You were exhausted as you lie in bed. Your body yearned for repose, but you could do nothing of the sort. You groggily stand and walk to your door.

Erryk starts. You caught him in the middle of scratching tears away from his eyes. You frown, "forgive me."

"No, princess," he shakes his head and turns to you, "how might I serve?"

You bite your lip, hating yourself for what you were about to request, "I know it is terrible..." you sigh deeply, "I know it is inappropriate, and wrong, and an abuse of my power over you," you tremble, "but please you sleep with me."

"My princess, I-"

"Please," you raise a hand, "if it is too horrible, per- perhaps-" you hiccup, "you can drag the set— the settee beside my bed-"

He silences you by taking your raised hand. You continue to sob as he shakes his head, "I would do anything you ask of me."

You sob and throw your arms around him. Erryk embraces you back, though he was afraid his hard uniform might hurt you.

Otto sees this exchange from across the hall. He had not been moved to tears until this moment. He scratches his eyes before they fall and steels himself away as he walks off. He mentally takes note to observe the Cargyll brothers and to sternly remind them of their duty and vows.

Erryk follows you to your bed. You crawl into your bed as he drags the settee from across the room beside you. You offer him a pillow and he gratefully takes it. You knit your brows when he lies down. You sniffle, "will you not take your armor off?"

"I..." he starts, about to explain it is inappropriate.

"Is it hard to remove by yourself?" you sit up, "I can help."

"I-" but his words go dry when you begin to undo his steel uniform with much ease.

All your years assisting Gwayne in and out of his armor has made the act come easy for you. You think nothing of it, but Erryk's heart races as you undo his chest plate. He sucks in a sharp breath as you put the metal down, then refuses your help, resigning to undo the rest himself.

You sink into your sheets as you watch your knight lay his armor down. It occurs to you in this moment that this was the first time you'd ever seen him without it. Even through his loose dress shirt, you can see his defined arms and torso. You even see a sliver of a scar from where his shirt opened on his chest and it makes you avert your gaze, knowing you've looked where you should not have.

Your lips begin to wobble as you think of Daemon and the scars he had on his skin. You feel pathetic as you begin to sob again.

Erryk hates the sound. He sits down on the settee and sniffles, "would you like me to sing for you?"

You wipe the snot on your philtrum as you look at him.

"I do not think I inherited her voice, but my mother used to sing to my brother and I when we were younger."

The word mother makes you feel sick, but you do not tell him that, and simply nod.

He clears his throat and takes a breath, "the fishes swim in seas of blue, and dragons breathe fire so red. All the birds sing sweetly for you, so come rest ye darling wee head."

A chuckle is drawn amidst your tears as Erryk continues to sing.

"The apples grow up the trees, and flowers rise up from the ground. All the stars shine brightly for you, so come rest ye all safe and sound."

You ask him to repeat this song over and over and he humors you each time.

The day breaks and Arryk comes to your door for his shift. He holds a basket of flowers and a frown. He knocks on your door and announces himself. He is surprised when he hears footsteps approaching. His eyes widen when Erryk opens the door for him. His mouth falls at the messiness of his hair, then it clicks. Arryk nearly drops his basket as he grabs his twin by the collar, "what in seven hells have you done, you fool?"

Erryk is stoic as he responds, "my duty."

"Your-" he looks over his shoulder and pushes his brother into the room, closing the door behind him. Arryk makes sure to keep the silence and spares you a quick glance. The sight of your sleeping form makes him slightly soften, but he still manages to glare at his brother, "did you sleep here?"

Erryk turns to you, "she asked-"

"Did you sleep with her?" Arryk snaps.

The twins glare at each other. Erryk's face contorts in disgust, "I slept on the settee, brother. What do you take me fo-"

"I take you for a fool!" Arryk quips under his breath as he points an accusing finger.

Erryk scoffs, clenching his fist, "and you would have left?"

"I would have waited for her to sleep and resumed my post outsi-"

"Please."

The twins turn, finding you sitting on your bed, rubbing your puffy face. They both instinctively step forward and speak in unison, "princess."

"Please," you repeat, "I asked him to stay."

Arryk turns to Erryk.

"I do not want you to argue because-" you cannot continue because you begin to cry.

Both their faces fall, but Erryk wastes no time in coming to you. He kneels beside your bed and takes your hand, repeating the song he sang to you last night.

Arryk immediately recognizes the tune. His heart tightens as he watches the display. He mutters under his breath, "what have you done?" He walks over to him and watches the way you squeeze his brother's hand. He thinks of how you did the same for him just yesterday and clenches the basket's handle tightly. He begins to sing with his twin.

"The fishes swim in seas of blue, and dragons breathe fire so red. All the birds sing sweetly for you, so come rest ye darling wee head.

The apples grow up the trees, and flowers rise up from the ground. All the stars shine brightly for you, so come rest ye all safe and sound."

These are the very words you sing to your sister's son.

Alicent was with child again, and you were giving her a much needed reprieve from her energetic boy who was now nearing his second name day. Aegon happily reached for flowers as you carried him through the gardens. He laughs with not a care in the world. It is strange how deeply happy and deeply sad the boy makes you feel.

Through it all, you smile as you sing. You bounce him in your hip once you finish, "right, shall we go back now?"

Aegon blissfully ignores you when his hand brushes against a flower. You pull him away before he can grab it, and push his hand down, "no, my love, we do not pick roses so carelessly."

Aegon cares little for your words and raises his hand again, "flower!"

You push his hand down and look at him, "you want the rose?" You adjust him in your arm, "you want to pick the rose for mummy?"

"Mummy?" Aegon repeats, turning to you to reach for your brown curls.

You chuckle when he tries to eat it and pull your hair away before he manages to, "silly boy. Shall we ask Ser Arryk to pick the flower for us?"

"Flower for mummy!" he bounces in your arms.

You bounce him back, making him giggle as you repeat, "flower for mummy!" You flip your hair back, "Ser Arryk, could you-"

Your mouth goes dry when you see Daemon staring back at you.

#daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fluff #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #daemon angst #daemon targaryen angst #daemon #daemon targeryan #house of the dragon

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cyberlsk · 4 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ pathetic ⋆ ˚｡⋆ᡣ𐭩˚⋆ ˚

LEON KENNEDY / FEM!READER smut

-> leon's pathetic when it comes to his cute, younger neighbor. simply put, he'll come up with any excuse to see you.

a/n: i love pathetic old man Leon who’s ridden with guilt at his crush on his younger neighbor…btw reader is in her 20s and leon is 38 (set after death island). based on this post i made a while back.

content warnings: dom!leon, daddy kink, ooc-ish (he's obsessed), unprotected sex, you’re both tipsy when the smut occurs.

If it was wrong, then why was he knocking on your door?

If it was wrong, why did he offer a meek, apologetic smile, unbefitting of a man his age? If it was wrong, why did he spit out a lie, shove his hands in his jean pockets to calm himself down?

God, he felt like a dirty, old man. Was one. He was downright depraved, he decided. Seventeen years fighting unimaginable evil, and a pretty girl made his morals go down the drain. He was better than that.

In his defense, he hadn’t been lying. He could use some technical support. His computer wouldn’t connect to the WiFi, though if he was honest to himself, he couldn’t remember the last time he stayed at this place long enough to bother installing it. When he wasn’t working, he hung out at your place–enough to consider you a friend. That’s right, a nice, albeit gorgeous, and intelligent,

…and sweet friend, but a friend nonetheless.

Now was his downseason. Each mission came with cruel amounts of paperwork, and over the past few weeks, he was finishing up the last of his reports. For now. He groans in anticipation of the work ahead.

“Leon?” Sweet eyes peering into his, sweet smile too. God, you were going to be the death of him. “Everything alright?”

He nods, pinching his nose between the bridge of his spectacles. “Yeah," he bites out after a long pause, "you could say that.” Fuck, was he losing his speaking abilities? Must’ve been the T-virus. Yeah…that. Not the fact that his heart whined seeing you in that little gingham dress with the lace decolletage, or the pendant draped on your collarbones, or the cheap DSO watch he’d won at a work party. His watch. On your wrist.

Leon squints through his square spectacles as you’re rebooting his laptop. “It’s okay, princess, I’ll look at it later. You want a drink?” he offers in an attempt to quell his nerves.

“Princess?” you question. “That’s a new one.” You wrinkle your nose, clicking through the various settings on his computer, and he swears he’s never seen anything cuter. Put simply, he felt pathetic.

To make matters worse, your free hand was resting on one of his forearms, slowly tracing along the veins on it. He held his breath, trying not to feel the heat radiating off of your body.

And then–and then you look back and flash him a brilliant smile. His heart whines in his chest.

"Do you want a drink?" In an attempt to assuage his own guilt (or rather, drown it), he hustles over to the cabinet, rummaging for some liquor. Drinking on a Thursday night, yeah...well. You were fresh out of college. Behind several bottles of whiskey, a dusty bottle of champagne sat untouched. Great. Way to go, Leon.

“I don’t have many options,” he laments. “They don’t exactly have grocery shops in the secret combat zones I work in.”

You laugh, and his chest puffs up in pride. “That’s fine. You got another mission coming up?”

“Nope,” he says emphatically. “Seems like bioterrorists take a vacation once in a while, too.” His confidence swells as you react positively to his one-liners, then plummets once you turn to face him, arms outstretched.

“C’mere. Can I give you a hug?”

Leon freezes, fist clenching around a half-open bottle, then nods. Too eagerly. Is he shaking? He can’t tell if it’s the abysmally cold temperature in his apartment or just you, but he has to close his eyes for a moment to stabilize himself once your arms wrap around his waist. Stabilize himself. God, Claire would’ve laughed her head off. Leon Kennedy, renowned flirt, falling to his knees because a friend asked to hug him.

He drinks in the sensation of your skin greedily. Soft hands pressed against his back, chest flush to his. When he doesn’t say anything, leaving his hands loosely on your hips, you frown. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s a bad man, he’s sure of it. He’s a creep, he’s weird, and he’s just a bad friend in general, because the second you pull away, he’s pushing a lock of hair from your face and basking in your worry. Yes, basking. Not that he enjoyed seeing you upset, but you–you were worried. Because of him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He’s hardly sure if he’s breathing at this point. He thinks he must be dreaming, because you’re looking at him like he’s the most endearing thing in the world, art coming to life, a face that could be adored. He chides himself. It’s in his head. “You, uhh…you figure out what’s wrong with my computer?”

When you place a hand on his cheek, he’s a goner. “Of course, silly. Did you even install a router?”

“Yeah,” he says again, stupidly. “Uh, it’s in my room. In the closet. I’ll go get it.” Before you can say another word, he darts away, clambering to his room and shutting the door. Leon takes a deep breath.

“Fuck,” he swears to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” It was wrong. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, and he should send you on your merry way. Back to your apartment, away from weird old men like him who perceive every gesture of kindness as an advance.

Does he do that?

No.

Instead, he preens his hair in the mirror across from his bed, straightens his suit lapels, and steps back into civilization. Where normal people had normal thoughts and feelings about their friends, especially their significantly younger ones.

When he returns, you’re sitting at the kitchen table (yes, he wasn’t a total imbecile–he did have furniture). You're sipping a glass of whiskey as delicately as one can, given the acrid taste, and absently shaking your leg. And, since you were sitting, your dress rode up your thighs. What had been a hint of legs became almost the whole expanse of skin, soft and supple and so tempting to him. Tempting? What a creep.

“Hope you don’t mind that I started without you.” He nods tersely, pouring himself his own glass and avoiding eye contact.

As the whiskey hits his throat, he finds himself slowly unwinding. His moral reservations from before begin to loosen, then slip from his grasp entirely. He was just a guy with a crush. He was hurting no one. Slowly, his confidence comes back to him.

Leon yawns, stretching so that his V-lines peeks from under his shirt. "Muscle cramp," he lies, running his fingers through his hair and making flirtatious comments that you returned, perhaps innocently, but returned nonetheless.

“Leon?”

He realizes that he'd gone quiet for a moment.

“Sweetheart, can you help me out with something else instead?”

If it was wrong, why did your breath hitch when he placed a hand under your jaw? If it was wrong, why did your fingers snake behind his neck? If it was wrong, why did your eyes fan shut as he kissed you ravenously? Pulling you onto his lap, hoisting you into the air and leading you to the living room couch?

Usually, when men try to initiate sex, they’re crass, aggressive. But Leon–he’s just desperate. When he throws you down on the sofa, he groans. He never stops talking between kisses, fuck, baby, you’re so pretty, can’t believe I got so lucky, drags his hands along any and every part of you that he can. It makes your heart soar, the fact that this big, esteemed government agent was falling apart because of you, and you’d hardly done anything yet.

“Leon…,” you gasp, and he short-circuits. You’re under him, hair and dress splayed prettily to your sides, silently begging him for more, legs wrapping around the back of his thighs. Pawing at his back as he kneels over you, wanting, needing more. Closer. More.

Leon complies with your wish, leaning back in for a kiss. This one’s slow, deep, makes your insides burn up. He tries to learn every inch of your lips, the crevice of your mouth, the underside of your tongue. Is it gross? A little. He knows that it’s way too wet, but with the way you invite him in, the way you claw at his back and beg for more, he can’t help himself.

If he’s a dirty old man that has fantasies of his younger neighbor, so be it. Just for tonight.

“Where’s your router?” you tease, running your fingers along his stubble.

“Fuck, uh,” he swears. “I don’t have one.” You laugh, pulling him back in for a kiss.

“Knew it. You always use my network when you’re home.”

“Can I make a ridiculous comment about our connection?” Before he can continue, you yank him by the collar, teeth colliding with the impact of it. His blazer hits the floor, then his shirt (way too many buttons, you grumble), then your dress, but before you can unlatch his belt buckle, he has you pinned with one hand while the other runs down your chest. “May I?”

“Yes.”

Leon swears he’s losing his sanity. He latches onto your chest, swirling his tongue around the buds and sucking sharply. Moaning almost as loud as you. Bathing your chest in kisses, dragging his mouth along the undersides, nipping lightly at the skin and leaving a trail of pretty purple marks.

When he reaches your pussy, he’s noisy with it. Messy. He flattens his tongue inside of you, groaning and lapping up every inch he can get. His nose nuzzles against your clit repeatedly, roughly, and when he tilts his head up to suck on the sensitive nub, the entire area is coated in your slick. It would’ve been embarrassing had he not been moaning louder than you.

“You like when this old man takes care of you?” he practically purrs, diving back in with a punctuated suck on your clit. When you moan out in response, he presses slow, heated kisses along your labia, then drags the expanse of his tongue up your slit. “Oh, you like that? You like it when I take care of your princess parts?” Then flicks the tip of his tongue along your clit, alternating between kitten licks and long swirls.

“Yes, yes,” you pant, mewling so loudly that you have to bite the back of your hand. Leon won’t have any of that.

“Oh, baby,” he purrs, replacing the hand on your mouth with his. “Can’t take a little attention? Your cunt is that desperate?”

His thumb brushes against your lower lip. On a whim, you maneuver it so it rests in your mouth. Leon could’ve cum in his pants at the sight.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” You give his thumb a light suck at his words, and he retaliates by giving you a smothering kiss on your cunt. “So pretty. So pretty just like this, yeah? Need me to take care of you, not any of those younger guys who don’t know how to treat you right?” Leon finishes his rambles by replacing his tongue with his fingers, crawling forward to give you a searing kiss. His lips were wet with your arousal, and when you moved your head away, mumbled something about how his face was soaked, he laughed.

“Look at you, baby. So fuckin’ wet that you made my face all drippy. You want this old man’s cock that bad?” You nod desperately. “Clean it up, then. I can’t take care of my girl if my face is drenched because of her. Wanna be clean for my pretty girl, right? Not dirty.”

You nod your head, making quick work. All dignity thrown to the wind, you lap at his cheeks, then his nose, and finally, his mouth, eating away all the arousal you’d left on him. “That’s my girl,” he says throughout all of it. “That’s my good fucking girl.”

You palm at his slacks, still stubbornly on, and he damn near whines. Talking about how he’ll get a desk job, transfer departments, hell, quit his fuckin’ job at the DSO, just so he can come home and take care of you every single night. Fuck, only for his pretty princess. Only for you.

“You’d do that for me?” You bat your eyes at him, mascara running down your cheeks from how good this feels.

“Anything, princess.” Finally, he undoes his belt, making quick work of the rest of his clothes. When he finally frees himself from his boxers, your eyes water.

“You want it?” he taunts, swiping a hand over the angry red tip. The same veins that travel up his arms are on his dick, pretty and pink and twitching.

“Yes, daddy,” you say, half-joking, half-serious. He smiles sweetly.

“Aw, you want daddy’s cock?” he coos. “I bet you do.” Leon kisses down your chest, then your stomach. You feel like you’ll burst if he doesn’t just fuck you then and there. Looking up at you, big blue eyes, before he gives your pussy another experimental lick, but it’s enough to leave you keening. He’s insatiable. He sucks on your clit so hard that you see stars, swirls his tongue around inside you, groans the whole fucking time about how pretty you are. Kisses all over your thighs, sucks marks into them. You prop yourself on your shoulders and notice that he’s humping the bed while eating you out, eyes narrowed but refusing to shut—to see you coming undone by him. He looks pathetic, but how can he help himself when it’s you?

And finally, finally pulls away, face glistening with your arousal, as he guides his tip toward your entrance.

With how wet you were, he could’ve sheathed himself fully in one thrust. Instead, he prolonged this as much as he could. You knew he was fucking with you because he could. Because he liked to see you cry pretty tears for him, so what? You were just so pretty, and seeing you want him that bad made him want you even more, if that was possible.

“More, more,” you beg. Leon just laughs.

“There’s one thing that younger men get wrong. They think that faster means better. Once she cums, you’ve finished the job. But when you’re my age, you want to fuck a girl so good that she doesn’t stop cumming. So I’m gonna take my time with you. I’ve waited thirty-eight years to fuck a girl like you.”

His eyes nearly roll into his head. You’re bouncing back on his cock, sharp whimpers leaving your mouth. And your cute little pussy just keeps sucking him up, a little creamy ring dripping onto his balls. His tip nudges your walls and you pulse around him. “Pretty girl. That’s it, sucking me in so pretty.” You babble incoherently, as he pulls your back to his chest, one hand kneading your tits while the other bounces you up and down on his cock.

“Look at that,” he purrs. Your eyes flick toward him in the mirror, his stern gaze splitting you open as if his cock wasn’t doing that already. You hadn’t even noticed that was there. “So pretty. Look at yourself, pretty girl. Wanted you for so long. And look at you now–pathetic.” A pit in your tummy warms, making you clench tighter and him thrust harder. You look like a mess–your head is barely upright, bobbing with each slam of his hips, your chest is practically purple, and the sound of him fucking you is so wet it should’ve embarrased you. But you couldn’t be, not when he waw fucking you this good and he looked so pretty, big blue eyes devouring you whole, stubble nuzzling against your shoulder as he craned his neck, showering it with kisses.

“Mmm, Leon,” you whine. “Gonna cum. Please, please, can I cum?”

Leon groans at the desperation in your tone. Normally, he would’ve corrected you, taken you over his knee until you knew who was fucking you (daddy, not Leon. Leon was for outside the bedroom only). But you were so cute, and he’d dreamed about this moment for so long that he couldn’t say no to you. “Go ahead, princess. Cum for daddy.” With that, your vision went white, pussy spasming around his dick. Leon couldn’t hold back much longer, either. Swearing under his breath, he tenses up, gripping the flesh of your sides tightly before he cums–

–so much. When he finally finishes, he cums lots and lots. There’s so much coming out of him that he feels drained, your release and his wetting the sheets. A strangled noise comes from the back of his throat, one he didn’t think was possible. You clench at how hot he looks coming undone like this–and he just keeps going. He fucks you past your orgasm and his until you’re making a mess everywhere and you’re both shaking and whimpering from the overstimulation.

“ ‘S too much daddy, please,” you cry, hot tears pricking your waterline. Leon feels his heart melt, instantly coming to a stop.

“You okay, baby?” he asks gently, stroking your hair. You nod.

If there was anything that was understated, it was the fact that older men weren’t just better at sex. They were unreal with aftercare. Leon pampered you, showering you with kisses, cleaning up your fluids with a wet wipe and even carrying you to the bath after. While you scrubbed your hair, Leon hummed away in the kitchen, a towel hanging loose around his lower half.

When you finally re-emerged, wearing one of his old RPD shirts, Leon tosses you a lopsided grin so handsome that your heart skips a beat. “Hungry?”

You gape at him. “Leon, I can’t. You’re too kind.”

Leon plates the food. “I figured you might be hungry.”

As the two of you dine, exchanging light conversation, you frown. “How’d you know I like this dish?”

Leon rubs the back of neck sheepishly. “Well, every time you ordered delivery, I noticed that you got this.”

“Weirdooo,” you groan, playfully jabbing your fork in his direction. Leon chuckles, a red hue coating his cheeks.

Soon enough, he’s washing the dishes, refusing any help because "he’s the one who caused you the inconvenience of helping him." You give him a hesitant smile, glancing at the door.

Leon catches your eye and feels his heart sink ever-so-slightly.

“Sooo, wanna get dinner sometime?” he asks before he can help himself. “It’s not usually my style to fuck a girl before I’ve taken her out first.”

“Of course, Leon.” His jaw hurt by how much he was smiling, but you weren't any better. Leon was pathetic when it came to you, but were you any better?

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader smut #resident evil smut #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x you smut #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy x reader fluff #leon s kennedy smut #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader

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ka1rin · 6 months ago

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A Match in Munich (part 1)

— kaiser x fem reader

summary: You move to Germany to pursue your studies and volleyball career, adjusting to a new life in a foreign city. Along the way, you meet a confident soccer player, and the growing tension between you both sparks an unexpected connection, leaving you unsure of what comes next.

author note: oikawa is mentioned here btw!! And I posted this at 3am without proofreading so if there’s a mistake, don’t be surprised. (T—T”)

The hum of the airplane engines faded into the background as you leaned your head against the window, watching the cloud-streaked horizon. Moving to Germany was a big step, but it was part of your plan—pursue your studies while preparing for your future as a professional volleyball player. Volleyball was your passion, but your education was equally important.

As you stepped into the bustling Munich airport, you spotted a familiar figure waiting for you. Noel Noa, your cousin and one of the world’s most famous soccer players, waved at you, his platinum hair catching the light.

“Welcome to Germany,” Noel said warmly, pulling you into a brief hug.

“It’s been too long,” you replied, smiling up at him.

Noel helped you with your luggage and led you to his sleek car parked outside. As he drove through the charming streets of Munich, you took in the cobblestone roads and beautiful architecture, feeling both excited and overwhelmed.

“I’ve set up a place for you near your university,” Noel explained. “It’s small, but it’s close to campus. You’ll like it.”

“Thanks, Noel. I really appreciate it,” you said sincerely.

He nodded, then glanced at you. “Actually, I need a favor.

You raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

He chuckled. “I’m swamped tomorrow. Can you pick me up after practice? It’s at the Bastard München stadium. I’ll send you the details.”

“Sure,” you replied with a shrug.

The next evening, you drove to the Bastard München stadium, parking near the players’ entrance. While waiting for Noel, your eyes wandered to the field, where the team was practicing. Their movements were precise and calculated, a testament to their elite status.

One player stood out—blond hair shining under the stadium lights, his confidence radiating as he effortlessly commanded the field. You couldn’t help but watch him.

Then, as if sensing your gaze, he turned. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks.

When practice ended, Noel approached, towel slung over his shoulder. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for the wait.”

“No problem,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Before you could leave, the blond player walked over, his stride casual but purposeful.

“Noa,” he greeted your cousin smoothly before turning his attention to you. “And who’s this?”

“This is my cousin,” Noel replied, his tone guarded. “She’s a professional volleyball player studying here in Germany.”

The player extended a hand, his smirk deepening. “Michael Kaiser. A pleasure to meet you.”

You hesitated briefly before shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you too.”

His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary, his gaze holding yours until Noel cleared his throat.

“All right, Kaiser, don’t bother her,” Noel said, ushering you toward the car.

As you left, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Kaiser’s eyes on you, his smirk etched into your mind.

A few days later, you found yourself at the stadium again, this time after classes. Noel had asked you to pick him up, but when he arrived, he had other plans.

“Sorry,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “I have a meeting downtown. I’ll need to leave my car here for now.”

“Okay,” you replied, shrugging.

Before you could drive off, Kaiser appeared, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Noa, heading out already?”

“Yeah,” Noel replied, nodding toward you. “(y/n)’s heading back to her place. You live in the same direction, don’t you? Why don’t you ride with her?”

You blinked in surprise, but Kaiser grinned. “If (y/n) doesn’t mind, I’d be happy to.”

You hesitated, but his relaxed demeanor made it hard to say no. “Sure, why not?”

Kaiser slid into the passenger seat after Noel left, his presence immediately filling the car.

“So,” he began, breaking the silence. “What’s a professional volleyball player doing chauffeuring her cousin?”

You laughed lightly. “It’s a one-time thing. I just moved here, and Noel’s been helping me get settled.”

“Ah, a newcomer,” he said, studying you with curiosity. “How are you finding Munich so far?”

“It’s beautiful,” you admitted. “But I’m still adjusting. It’s a big change.”

“You don’t seem like the type to be overwhelmed easily,” he remarked, his smirk returning.

You glanced at him, caught off guard. “And you can tell that from a ten-minute car ride?”

He grinned. “I’m good at reading people.”

When you arrived at his stop, Kaiser lingered, his hand on the door handle. “Thanks for the ride. I owe you one. How about I buy you coffee sometime?”

You hesitated, unsure if he was serious.

“It’s just coffee,” he added, his smirk softening.

“Okay,” you agreed, smiling despite yourself.

A few days later, you met Kaiser at a cozy café. The atmosphere was warm, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the air.

"So," Kaiser began after taking a sip of his espresso, "why aren't you playing volleyball right now? You're clearly passionate about it."

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. "I want to finish college first. After that, I'll focus on volleyball completely—no distractions."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "No distractions, huh? What's the plan after college?

"Brazil," you said, your eyes lighting up. "I have a friend there—Oikawa. He's one of the best setters I know, and training with him will push me to my limits. I'll stay there for a few years, then join Japan's national team."

Kaiser raised an eyebrow. "You've already been offered a spot on the national team?"

You nodded. "Yeah. It's a dream come true, but I want to be ready. I don't want to hold back when I step onto that court."

He leaned forward, his blue eyes locked onto yours. "You're playing the long game. That's rare. Most people I know rush into success without thinking."

"I'm not most people," you said, your tone teasing but firm.

Kaiser grinned. "I noticed."

After finishing your coffee and a shared plate of pastries, Kaiser leaned back in his chair. "So, what now? Should I call you a cab, or do you want to walk home?"

You glanced out the window at the calm evening streets. "I'd rather walk. It's not far, and I like the fresh air."

He stood up, slipping on his coat. "Then I'll walk with you. Munich's safer than most cities, but I don't trust it with you walking alone."

You laughed softly but didn't argue, letting him accompany you.

The walk was quiet at first, the cobblestone streets glistening under the streetlights. The city seemed to glow, a mix of old-world charm and modern energy. Kaiser walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, his usual confidence seemingly muted by thought.

"So," he said suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Where will you be staying in Brazil?"

You turned to him, surprised by the question. "Oikawa's already reserved an apartment for me. It's next to his."

Kaiser stopped walking for a moment, his expression darkening. "Next to his?"

You nodded. "Yeah, he insisted. Said it'd be easier for us to train together."

He began walking again, his movements a little stiffer than before. "Are you and Oikawa... a thing?"

The question caught you off guard. "What?"

"You know," he said, his voice flat but laced with irritation. "Dating. Together. Is he more than a friend?"

You stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or be annoyed. "No, Michael. Oikawa's just a friend. We've known each other for years, and that's it.”

Kaiser's shoulders relaxed slightly, but his jaw remained tight. "Good. Because if he were, I'd have a lot to say about him reserving an apartment for you."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to keep walking instead of engaging. Kaiser, however, wasn't done.

"You're really going to spend years with this guy?" he pressed.

"It's not like that," you replied, exasperated but amused by his persistence. "We're both focused on our goals, and training with someone as talented as him is an opportunity I can't pass up. That's all."

Kaiser didn't respond right away, his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. When you reached your apartment building, he stopped a few steps away, his expression softer but still guarded.

"Well," he said, his voice lighter now, "thanks for the walk. Try not to let this Oikawa guy push you too hard in training. And don't let him distract you from finishing college."

You smirked, raising an eyebrow. "I can handle myself, Kaiser."

He gave a small wave, his usual smirk creeping back. "Goodnight, (y/n)"

"Goodnight, Michael," you replied, watching as he walked away.

You climbed the stairs to your apartment, his words still lingering in your mind. Kaiser was nothing if not persistent—and somehow, you didn't mind that one bit.

The morning came early, as it always did in your life. The prestigious university you were enrolled in wasn't for the faint of heart, and each day felt like an uphill battle. Despite your passion for volleyball, the weight of academic expectations was just as heavy. You had to be at your best—on the court and in the classroom.

As you made your way through the crowded halls, your mind raced with formulas and historical facts, preparing yourself for another grueling round of tests. Being at the top of your game academically wasn't easy, but it was a challenge you gladly accepted.

The tests, assignments, and lectures blurred into a routine, but one thing was always certain—you thrived under pressure. Each paper, each exam, was a chance to prove yourself, to show that you weren't just another student passing through.

After hours of studying and a few brutal tests, you finally wrapped up the day. As you walked out of the university, exhausted but satisfied, the familiar call of coffee beckoned you.

A quick stop at your favorite café gave you just enough energy to power through the night. It was already 10:00 PM, and you had one final task before you could call it a day: picking up Noel.

You pulled into the stadium parking lot, scanning the area for Noel. It was a late-night session, and the stadium lights cast long shadows over the empty spaces. As you waited, the sound of footsteps caught your attention, and your eyes flickered toward a familiar figure.

It was Michael Kaiser, standing near his car, surveying the area with that same confident posture. His eyes caught yours immediately, his lips curling into a familiar smirk. You felt that familiar rush when you saw him, but this time it wasn't just curiosity. Something more lingered in the air between you.

You approached him, not even thinking twice. Kaiser turned to face you, his expression neutral but something flickered in his gaze.

"You here to pick up your cousin?" Kaiser asked, his voice smooth.

"Yeah," you nodded, scanning the area. "Where is he?"

"He's just speaking with someone," Kaiser said casually, though you could tell his focus was elsewhere. "Noel's always talking to someone. Could never get him to keep his head in the game."

You chuckled lightly. "You sound like you know him well."

"I do," Kaiser said, his tone still flat, but you couldn't help but feel that there was more behind his words. His gaze shifted to you, and after a brief pause, he leaned in slightly, almost like it was an afterthought. "I never got your number."

You blinked in surprise before pulling out your phone. "Right. You didn't."

He reaches for his pockets and pulls out his phone, he presses the power button, yet the screen remains black. “Shit my phone’s dead, can I type in my number instead?”

“No problem at all” You handed your phone to him, and without hesitation, he typed in his number. When he returned your phone, his fingers brushed against yours briefly.

"I've got somewhere to be," Kaiser said, checking the time. "But I'll talk to you later." His smirk deepened, and with a final look, he turned to leave.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Noel arrived, waving from a distance. You smiled and waved back.

"Oh, you're here?" Noel asked, jumping into the passenger seat of your car.

"Yeah," you replied, slipping your phone back into your bag, your mind still on the brief exchange with Kaiser. "Let's go home."

As you started the drive, the silence between you and Noel wasn't uncomfortable—it was more a reflection of how tired you both were. The night was peaceful, the streets of Munich empty as you made your way home.

"You were talking to Kaiser?" Noel asked after a long pause, breaking the silence.

You glanced at him, surprised by the question. "Yeah, I ran into him at the stadium. Why?"

Noel didn't immediately answer, but you could sense his curiosity. "He's a good player. But I didn't think you two would meet like that."

You shrugged. "We just talked for a bit. Nothing big."

Noel didn't press further. Instead, he looked out the window, his thoughts likely preoccupied with the training and his performance on the field.

As you neared your apartment, you couldn't shake the feeling that your encounter with Kaiser wasn't a coincidence. There was something about him that kept drawing you in. Maybe it was his intensity, or the way he seemed so effortlessly confident.

You pulled into the parking area of the sleek apartment complex where Noel lived, the car slowly coming to a stop. He'd been silent for most of the ride, probably too tired from training, but now, as you were about to part ways, he seemed to have a few words left to share.

"We've got a game tomorrow," Noel said as he reached for the door handle, his voice carrying a certain level of seriousness. "You should come watch, after all tomorrow is Sunday. We're playing a strong team, and it'd be good to have you there.”

You glanced at him, curious. "A game tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he continued, grinning a little. "And, you know, you should come and give Kaiser some motivation. Maybe he'll need it." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, "I'm sure he could use some cheering up."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "Haha, very funny," you replied sarcastically. "We're just friends, Noel."

Noel gave a dramatic shrug as he opened the door, but there was a teasing glint in his eyes. "Alright, if that's what you say..." He paused, then added with a smirk, "But I'll still reserve some tickets for you. Just in case you change your mind and decide to come."

You chuckled. "You're impossible," you teased, but the offer still warmed you. "But fine. I'll see about it. Goodnight, Noel."

Noel stepped out of the car, turning back to give you a grateful smile. "Goodnight, (y/n). And thank you for picking me up, really. I know it's late, and you must be tired." He gave you a sincere nod before heading toward the entrance of the building.

"Anytime, couz. Get some rest. You've got a big game ahead," you called after him.

You watched him disappear into the building, your mind still buzzing from the day's events. You were excited for tomorrow's game now, especially after Noel's hint about Kaiser. It seemed like things were definitely starting to shift in unexpected ways.

As you drove home, you couldn't help but feel the pull of the upcoming game—and maybe, just maybe, you'd get a chance to see Kaiser again.

The second you arrived home, you didn't even bother taking off your shoes before you plopped into bed. The exhaustion from the day's work and everything that had happened weighed down on you, and before you knew it, you were under the covers, your eyes slowly closing.

Just as you were about to drift off, your phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling you out of your drowsy state. You reached for it, blinking a few times to focus on the screen. An unknown number flashed across your phone.

You hesitated for a moment, then opened the message. The text read:

"Hey, this is Kaiser."

Your eyebrows furrowed in surprise. What was Kaiser texting you for? You quickly opened the message, eager to see what he wanted.

The next message appeared:

"Do you know about the game tomorrow?"

You blinked, then typed back, "Yeah, Noel told me. He's been talking about it all day."

Kaiser's reply came swiftly:

"The game starts at 1 PM. Don't forget to come and cheer us on. It's going to be intense."

You let out a small laugh, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you decided to respond. "You should sleep now, it's almost midnight, and you have a game tomorrow."

Kaiser's reply was almost immediate:

"I'll sleep when I'm ready. But you're right, I need to rest. See you tomorrow at the game."

"Goodnight," you typed, a smile tugging at your lips as you sent it.

You dropped your phone onto the nightstand, turning off the light. As you settled back into the pillows, your thoughts drifted to the game tomorrow—and to Kaiser. Something told you tomorrow would be interesting, to say the least.

With that, you finally allowed yourself to drift off to sleep, ready for the day ahead.

You wake up with a sudden jolt, stretching your arms as you try to shake off the remnants of sleep. Your body feels heavy, but the realization hits you like a splash of cold water. You glance at the clock.

12:15?!

Your eyes widen in shock. You've slept way longer than intended, and now the rush is on. The game starts at 1:00 PM, and you have so much to do before heading out.

Scrambling out of bed, you grab a basic tee and a pair of shorts from your wardrobe. As you lay them out, a small doubt creeps in. What's the right outfit for a game like this? You hadn't thought about it before—just assumed anything would do. But now, standing there, it feels strange to show up unprepared.

After a moment's hesitation, you shrug. Whatever. Simple works.

You quickly pull on the clothes, grab your sneakers, and rush out of your apartment with your essentials—phone, wallet, keys. Locking the door behind you, you head to your car and drive toward the venue.

The trip is quick, but by the time you arrive, it's already 12:45. Just enough time for a quick stroll before the game starts. Noel had reserved a seat for you, so finding a spot wasn't a concern. But as you approach the entrance, you notice something that makes you pause.

Everyone around you is decked out in jerseys—some Bastard Munchen ones, others generic team merch—but they're all representing. Looking down at your simple tee, embarrassment creeps in. You feel out of place.

Scanning the nearby stalls, your eyes land on one selling jerseys. Perfect. You make a beeline for it, browsing through the racks until you find a Noa jersey. Excitement bubbles up, but it's short-lived. They don't have your size.

You frown, disappointment threatening to take over. But then you spot another jersey—a Kaiser one. That'll work.

You buy it and head to the bathroom to change, the fabric feeling a little stiff but comforting in its own way. As you glance at your reflection, a small smile tugs at your lips. You may not have planned this, but at least you won't stand out awkwardly in the crowd.

Alright. Let's do this.

You hurry to your seat just as the game begins. The energy in the arena is electric, the crowd roaring with every play. Your heart races as the teams battle it out, trading points in a nail-biting match. By the time it's 2-2, the tension is almost unbearable.

Then, the final set begins. Your eyes are glued to the court, watching as Kaiser moves with precision and determination. During a brief break, his gaze sweeps the crowd—and lands on you. For a moment, your eyes meet. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you quickly look away.

The game resumes, and with one powerful strike, Kaiser seals the victory for Bastard Munchen. The arena erupts, fans cheering and celebrating wildly. But before joining his team in the celebration, Kaiser glances at you again. This time, a smirk curves his lips, as if silently acknowledging you.

The crowd was chaotic, with players and staff bustling about in the player's area. You were searching for Noel Noa, your cousin, but the sheer volume of people made it nearly impossible to spot him. Frustrated, you pushed forward, determined to find him.

You bumped into someone solid, nearly losing your balance. "Tch, watch it," came an annoyed but familiar voice. You looked up to see Kaiser, his sharp eyes narrowing at first, then softening with recognition.

"Oh, Y/N? What are you doing here?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"I'm looking for Noa," you said.

Kaiser let out an exaggerated sigh, brushing a hand through his hair. "Figures. Fine, I'll help you. Stay close."

He started cutting through the crowd effortlessly, his confident presence parting people as he went. You followed closely, grateful for the help.

"There he is," Kaiser said, nodding ahead. Sure enough, Noel Noa stood tall, deep in conversation. "Go on, talk to him."

You stepped forward, but just as you called out, a journalist swooped in, pulling Noa aside for an interview. He gave you an apologetic look as he was whisked away, leaving you stranded in the middle of the bustling crowd.

Suddenly, the noise felt deafening, the people pressing in too close. Your breathing quickened as panic started to set in.

A hand grabbed your wrist, steady and reassuring. "Hey, I've got you."

It was Kaiser. He pulled you out of the crowd and into a quieter, more open space. The relief was immediate, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"You good?" he asked, his tone unusually gentle.

Before you could respond, a voice called out. "Hey!"

You turned to see an interviewer with a camera pointed at you, a curious glint in her eyes.

"Hey! Aren't you the star volleyball player invited to join the Japan national team?"

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. Turning, you see an interviewer, her camera pointed right at you.

"And," she continues, her tone teasing, "are you two a thing?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the heat rising in your face. The camera clicks, capturing you and Kaiser standing close, his name clearly visible on your jersey.

Before you can respond, Kaiser steps in, a charming grin on his face. "We're just talking," he says smoothly, his voice carrying an easy confidence. "But I guess the press loves a good story."

The interviewer isn't deterred. "So no romance, then?"

Kaiser laughs, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Nope. Just friends," he says with a playful wink. "Though I'll admit—she has excellent taste in jerseys."

You glance at him, half-annoyed, half-amused, as the interviewer snaps another photo and moves on, satisfied with her scoop.

"Well," you mutter, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, "that was... something."

Kaiser chuckles. "You'll get used to it. But hey, we looked good, didn't we?"

You can't help but laugh, his lightheartedness easing the tension. "I guess so."

"See?" he says with a grin. "You've got a fanbase now."

Shaking your head, you reply, "I just hope they don't start spreading rumors."

"Let them," Kaiser teases. "We'd make a great duo" His tone softens, and he gives you a sincere look. "But seriously, you okay?"

You nod, offering a small smile. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for handling that."

"No problem," he says with a wink. "Just another day in the spotlight."

And with that, the tension melts away. Standing beside him, you feel like you can take on whatever comes next.

you realize that being around Kaiser isn't as overwhelming as you thought. His charisma, while undeniable, has a way of putting you at ease.

As then crowd thins out, he gestures toward an exit. "Come on, let me walk you to your car," he offers, his tone casual.

You nod, falling into step beside him. The evening air is crisp, and the noise from the stadium fades into the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence oddly comfortable.

"You know," Kaiser begins, breaking the quiet, "you're full of surprises."

You glance at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Most people I meet are either intimidated or trying too hard to impress. But you? You're just... you. It's refreshing."

You let out a soft laugh. "Well, I could say the same about you. For someone as confident as you seem, you're not as much of a showoff as I expected."

Kaiser raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Not a showoff? Did you not see that goal today?"

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "Okay, maybe a little bit of a showoff. But not in a bad way."

He chuckles, and for a moment, his expression softens. "Thanks for coming today. It was... nice having you there."

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm. "It was fun," you admit. "You guys are incredible to watch."

As you reach your car, Kaiser leans against the door, his hands tucked into his pockets. "So, about that coffee," he says, his smirk returning. "How about we make it dinner next time?"

You blink, surprised by the sudden shift. "Dinner?"

"Yeah," he says casually, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "You need a proper introduction to Munich. And who better to show you around than me?"

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if he's teasing or serious. But the look in his eyes tells you he means it.

"Alright," you say finally, a small smile playing on your lips. "Dinner it is."

His grin widens, and he steps back, letting you open your car door. "Good. I'll text you the details."

As you drive away, you can't help but replay the day's events in your mind. Somehow, amidst the chaos of your new life in Germany, Kaiser has managed to slip past your defenses. And while you're not sure what that means yet, could you possibly have feelings for him?

#blue lock #bllk #micheal kaiser #blue lock fluff #slow burn #michael kaiser #blue lock season 2 #amatchmadeinmunich #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock x y/n #kaiser x reader #kaiser x you #kaiser x y/n #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser fluff #michael kaiser smut #michael kaiser angst #blue lock smut

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rose24207 · 3 months ago

Text

no wall is strong enough to keep us apart

Summary: A family torn apart by the Berlin Wall reunites in an emotional embrace the night it falls, proving that love endures even the strongest barriers.

'89s!Dad!Lando x '89s!Mum!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, historical

TW: mention of DDR, Stasi, Berlin wall, propaganda, separation, timeline is not chronological correct for the sake of the story, I know the wall has been up 28 years!

A/N: Yes I know it’s completely different from what I normally post but I really like the topic and the stories behind the families and friends that were separated back then! Let me know if you want more of historical events - btw I’m listening to Pink Floyd rn.

Navigation

Berlin, 1959

The air smelled of fresh bread and strong coffee as the bustling streets of Berlin came alive in the early morning sun. You weaved through the crowd, your fingers laced with Lando’s as your little daughter, Emma, skipped ahead, her blonde curls bouncing.

“Slow down, liebe,” (love) you called after her, but she only giggled, twirling in her little dress.

Lando laughed, pulling you closer. “She’s got your energy.”

“She’s got your stubbornness.”

“And your smile.”

Life was simple, full of love. The three of you lived in a small apartment in Mitte, not far from Alexanderplatz. Lando worked as a mechanic, saving up to open his own shop, while you worked part-time at a bakery. You didn’t have much, but you had enough.

West Berlin was only a tram ride away. You’d sometimes take Emma to see the grand department stores on Kurfürstendamm, or visit family in Charlottenburg. There were no checkpoints, no barbed wire—only a city still healing from the war, divided but still connected.

You never imagined that in just two years, everything would change.

August 12-13, 1961

The night was humid, the air heavy with something unspoken. You stood by the window, unable to sleep, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. Lando was in West Berlin, fixing a car for a client. He was supposed to come home tomorrow.

But then—

A knock at the door.

Your neighbor, Frau Keller, stood there, her face pale. “Turn on the radio.”

Confused, you hurried to the small wooden set in the corner. As the static cleared, a voice crackled through:

"Starting at midnight, the borders between East and West Berlin will be sealed off indefinitely. All crossings will be closed. A new security measure to protect the people of the DDR from imperialist threats."

Your heart stopped.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no—”

You ran outside, past confused neighbors, past uniformed officers already unrolling barbed wire. In the distance, at the Brandenburg Gate, soldiers hammered wooden posts into the ground.

The wall was already being built.

Your stomach dropped.

Lando.

Morning came, and with it, devastation.

A crude barrier of barbed wire and armed guards now split the city in two. Families screamed across the divide, reaching for loved ones they could no longer touch. Desperate people jumped from windows in border buildings, trying to land in West Berlin before they were sealed in. Some made it. Others did not.

You stood among the crowd, Emma clutching your waist, sobbing.

You spotted him—Lando.

On the other side.

“Lando!” You screamed, your voice drowned by the chaos.

His head snapped up. His blue eyes met yours, wide with horror. He tried to run forward, but soldiers blocked him, rifles raised.

“Bitte!” (please!) he shouted. “Meine Frau! Mein Kind!” (my wife! My child!)

“Step back!” a soldier barked.

Lando’s fists clenched. His face twisted in anguish as he reached toward you, separated only by meters—but it might as well have been a world away.

Emma wailed. “Papa!”

Lando pressed his hand against the barbed wire, his knuckles white. “I’ll find a way! I promise!”

Then—

A soldier raised his gun.

“MOVE BACK!”

Your scream died in your throat. Lando’s face twisted with helpless rage, but he stepped back, his hands trembling.

The last thing you saw before being forced away was his eyes, burning with a promise neither of you knew if he could keep.

And just like that, your family was torn in half.

The months that followed were a blur of despair. Overnight, the DDR had become a prison. The border was reinforced—first with more barbed wire, then concrete. Guard towers rose along its length, manned by soldiers under orders to shoot anyone who tried to escape.

Friends and family disappeared. Some fled in hidden tunnels, others were caught and sent to Stasi prisons. Fear seeped into every corner of life.

Emma stopped asking about Lando. Not because she didn’t miss him—but because it hurt too much.

One night, as you listened to a smuggled West German broadcast in secret, you heard his name.

"A man attempted to swim across the Spree River today in an effort to reunite with his family in East Berlin. He was spotted by DDR border guards and forced to retreat before he could reach land. Sources confirm his name as Lando Norris."

Your hands trembled. He was trying. He hadn’t given up.

But the wall still stood.

And so did the distance between you.

In the Night of November 9, 1989

For years, the wall had been unbreakable. But tonight, the whispers began.

You sat by the radio, Emma—now seventeen—beside you. Your hands gripped hers as the news played.

"A government official has announced that, effective immediately, citizens of the DDR will be allowed to cross freely into West Berlin."

The words hit like lightning.

Emma shot to her feet. “Mama—”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed her hand and ran.

The streets were chaos—thousands of people surging toward the border, tears streaming down faces, disbelief mixing with hope. Some shouted in joy, others in fear.

You reached the Bornholmer Straße checkpoint, breathless. Soldiers stood rigid, gripping their weapons, unsure whether to enforce the wall or let history decide its fate.

Then—one man stepped forward.

Then another.

And suddenly—

The guards stepped back.

The gates opened.

The crowd surged forward.

Emma yanked your hand. “Mama, we have to find him!”

You pushed through the sea of bodies, your heart hammering, your breath ragged. People embraced, wept, screamed with joy.

And then—

There.

Lando.

Standing at the barrier, his face frozen in shock.

For a moment, the world stood still.

Then you ran.

Your feet barely touched the ground before you crashed into him, your arms locking around his neck. He held you so tightly it hurt, his chest heaving with sobs against yours.

“Mein Gott,” (my god) he choked out. “It’s real. You’re real.”

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled back, your fingers trembling against his face. “I never stopped waiting.”

Emma stood a few feet away, her lips parted, her entire body shaking.

Lando turned, his breath catching as he saw her properly for the first time in years.

“My baby,” he whispered.

Emma exhaled a broken sob before throwing herself into his arms. Lando held her, his hands buried in her hair, rocking her like she was still the little girl he’d lost.

“I missed everything,” he whispered. “I missed everything.”

She clung to him. “But you’re here now.”

The three of you held each other, shaking, crying, whole again for the first time in years.

Around you, the wall crumbled—not just in stone, but in the hearts of the people who had been divided for too long.

And after all these years, Berlin was finally one again.

Just like your family.

One Year Later

The remnants of the Berlin Wall stood in pieces, now just another relic of the past.

Lando’s hands ran over the rough surface, his fingers brushing against the graffiti left by those who had longed for freedom.

Beside him, Emma held his other hand, her eyes bright. “I think you should take a piece.”

Lando smiled, chipping off a small fragment and tucking it into his pocket.

You leaned into him, inhaling the crisp autumn air. “What will you do with it?”

He turned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Keep it. To remind me that no wall is strong enough to keep us apart.”

And for the first time in decades, you believed it.

Because the wall had fallen.

And love had won.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

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catiuskaa · 3 months ago

Text

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬.

[ synopsis. ]: you have stayed behind. it’s a bitter truth you come to realize, as you stand surrounded by friends who feel distant, the feeling cracking inside you like a small spark that threatens to become a big flame when exposed to oxygen. everyone had partners, plans for the future, a life together, and you were hopelessly alone and melancholically lonely, with a myriad of comments that were meant to help, but only managed to suffocate you. changbin, always attentive, lost in an inferno of heat, had also stayed behind. he had heard on the radio that someone was missing, and as a fireman, he couldn't help but return to the burning building. he found you in your flat, distorted in smoke and tears, and found himself physically unable to separate from you, because, as a firefighter, even if changbin was aware that fire leaves scars, what he didn’t know was that though the scars you left in his skin tore him open just a little, they would end up teaching him a lot about love.

[ word count. ]: 60k!

[ status. ] FINISHED.

firefighter!changbin x fem!victim.

[ full warnings. ] content! language, alcohol, hyunin is mentioned. angst! language, alcohol, fire and rescue situations, hospitals, mild emotional damage, trauma recovery, mild violence (action-heavy stuff), miscommunication (not with changbin but she had to be here guys i’m sorry). fluff! teasing and banter, they’re in love your honour, slow-burn romance? (at least I hope I pulled it off). smut! kisses, kisses, kisses, markings, protected piv sex (yes), and i think that’s all, folks!

[ also! ] available on AO3!

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

EP1: smoke and sparks. (20.7k)

syn. trapped in a devastating fire, you’re rescued by firefighter Seo Changbin, and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something more—either way, neither of you is walking away from this unshaken.

EP2: seven floors under ash. (17.4k)

syn. a drunk call brings a certain Seo Changbin back into your life, and an argument follows—sharp, charged, and laced with something neither of you is ready to name—, things is, the line between comfort and something more —desire?— has already begun to blur.

EP3: fire hazard. (10.6k)

syn. as much as he’d like to deny it —he wouldn’t, but still—, no one in the fire station will let him escape from the truth, but with you across the table, laughter on your lips, and something warm beneath the surface, it’s hard to refuse the truth.

EP4: tears, sweat, skin, flames (11.3k)

syn. a strained reunion with old friends helps set things clear—but a quiet visit to the fire station sparks inside both you and Changbin a flicker of something warmer. Wait until night, until he opens the door—then, that flicker catches fire.

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

[ a/n. ] ok first of all HIII i’m back from the dead with a REQUEST! by my baby @palindrome969 but I just have to say i’m sorry, I had started writing the first scenes and like mapping the fire and all in my head and then i texted @lyramundana and my wifey @knowbites (that btw y’all thank em’ bc they were a massive help beta reading, 10/10 moral support, and my wifey helped me with the synopsis) and I was like “girly pops help i’m at 5k and barely anything happened compared to my usual writing” but they loved it so much, specially marsy, so this is ALSO planned to (hopefully) be done (or i’ll publish the second episode at least) in her b-day!! everyone say yippie mars!! in the comments if you read this. but yeah! that’s why this is so long, because of my wifey’s support (hell yeah) but also probably because i’ve been reading too much from my darlin eff @seospicybin and the way i don’t even realize the amout of words i devour in each work of hers, just omg, total inspiration, as much as @leeknowsallyoursecrets who was another inspo for this post’s style and the sneak peaks and all bc i just reread one of her works and i’m so in love bc c’mon i’m just surrounded by awesome talented mooties like what can I do except show off 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️‼️ anyways this is a long author's note, but yeah, if you do plan to read this, i love you so much already 🎀 hope you like!!

[ permanent taglist! ] @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @/lyramundana @/cheeksung

[♦️☆🔥☆♦️]

~kats, who’s excited to publish all of it already, and even more excited to be back!! 🙂‍↕️‼️💗

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honeyryewhiskey · 4 months ago

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‧☕ ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪ morning brew

synopsis ☕︎ if you’re opening up the cozy cup café, you can count on the winchesters being your first customers of the day.

j’s note ☕︎ i definitely got this idea from a text post on here but i cannot find it :( this is so cheesy too like idk i forgot how to write idk

warnings ☕︎ getting flirted at by both brothers <3 NOT IN A WEIRD WAY I SWEAR and they are firefighters btw 800 word count

The morning air was crisp as you unlocked the door to the coffee shop, the familiar jingle of the bell echoing through the quiet space. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air as you moved behind the counter, switching on machines and setting out pastries for the morning rush. It was a peaceful ritual, the kind that made you feel at home, but there was one thing—or rather, two—you looked forward to the most every morning.

Right on cue, the bell chimed again.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice was smooth, warm like the coffee you were about to pour. He leaned against the counter, his fire department T-shirt snug around his biceps, suspenders hanging loose over his hips. His hair was slightly tousled, a sure sign that he’d either just finished a shift or rolled straight out of bed.

“Morning, trouble,” you teased, already reaching for his usual, bland cup of joe.

A deep chuckle sounded from behind him, and you looked up past Dean to see Sam, standing with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face. “You know, you don’t have to encourage him,” Sam chides, shaking his head at his brother before turning his full attention to you. “Morning, little miss. How’s our favorite barista today?”

You felt warmth creep up your cheeks at the way he said it—soft, like you were the most important part of his morning.

“Better now that my two favorite firemen are here,” you reply, flashing them both a grin as you start their orders. Dean’s large coffee, always paired with a cherry filled croissant. Sam’s oat milk latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon—he once rattled on about the benefits of cinnamon, good for the heart or something like that. You were too distracted by the way his head tilted and hands moved when he talked to really remember what he had said.

Dean let out a low whistle, resting his forearms on the counter as he leaned in closer. “Now, see, that’s not fair. You keep talkin’ like that, and we’re gonna start fighting over who gets to save you first.”

Sam rolled his eyes but grinned. “I think we both know who’s better at the whole rescuing thing.”

“Oh, please, Sammy. I carry people out of burning buildings for a living.”

“And I take care of them once they’re out of the fire.” Sam shot back, flashing you a dimpled smile as he took his cup from your outstretched hand. “Who’s the real hero here?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You two are impossible.”

Dean took a sip of his coffee, humming appreciatively before shooting Sam a look. “Alright, hotshot, if you’re so great, let’s see you top this.” Then, turning back to you, he dropped his voice, his green eyes locked on yours. “Sweetheart, if you ever find yourself in a fire, just know—I’d run through it to get to you.”

Sam groaned. “Really?”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh, but Dean was giving you that cocky little smirk that made it hard to breathe. Dean’s charm always seems to peak when he’s not trying, but his clumsy attempts at pick-up lines never fail to make you smile. Before you could respond, Sam leaned in, brushing his fingertips over yours as you handed him his change. “Or,” he interjects, his voice soft and teasing, “you could just come by the station sometime. We’ll give you a private tour.”

Dean scoffed. “That’s not even smooth.”

You grinned, resting your elbows on the counter as you looked between them. “You two end up doing this every morning, like clockwork, y’know that?”

Dean shot you a wink. “Only for you, sweetheart.”

Sam nodded, his eyes tracing over your figure. “Yeah. Only you.”

Your heart did a funny little flip as they both watched you, waiting, teasing, charming in their own way. And maybe, just maybe, you liked this game just as much as they did.

Sam let out a sigh and clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, steering him toward the door. “Alright, we’ve distracted her long enough. She actually has work to do, and we’re taking up too much of her time.”

Dean huffed but let himself be ushered out, turning at the last second to flash his boyish smile with a little wave good-bye. Sam, already halfway through the door, glanced back over his shoulder with a smirk. “We’ll be right down the street if you need us.”

The bell jingled as they left, and you couldn’t help but shake your head, grinning to yourself as you turned back to the counter, your morning just a little brighter than before.

tags ☕︎ @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @dulcescorderitas @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @snowluvvie

#dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #sam winchester x fem!reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam and dean x reader

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stvrnzcherries · 1 year ago

Text

› A TASTE

c. sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: Three strikes, two times Chris didn’t lean into the temptation and one time you both let go your deepest desires after you got into a fight with your boyfriend Matt, Chris’ brother.

warnings: soft dom!Chris, smut, a little angst, pet names, use of y/n, swearing, cheating (why would you do that?), use of drugs, making out, unprotected sex (don’t be silly), choking, toxic relationship, masturbating, oral sex (female receiving), praise kink and fingering.

word count: 4k

a/n: If you checked that I haven't posted for like a month, no you didn't.

01.

Your relationship with Matt has gotten worse during the past two months, he will get angry out of nowhere throw a tantrum over you, and ignore your texts for the rest of the day or even the entire week.

Fuck you, I fucking hate you, Matt.

The last text you sent to Matt and yet he hasn’t even replied to it. You hated him, you hated the fact that you couldn’t even break up with him because you were too attached to him.

Too attached to the idea of him being fixable, of being the version that he could be back again. The version of him that you fell in love with the first time you laid eyes on him.

The blunt on your hand wasn’t making this job of ‘forgetting’ your boyfriend any easier, it made things easier to cope, sure but it wasn’t doing what you needed to.

Move on.

Forget him.

Looking at yourself in the mirror across your room, you can see the traces of smoke flying away from your mouth, the dim light of the moon making those remarkable. The smell of weed intoxicates your lungs and senses, that sweet sound of being in a pool underwater filling your ears delicately.

You picked up your phone once more and yet no answer from him, the frustration getting more and more annoying for your fatigued brain. “Fuck…” You muttered as you placed the joint between your lips and inhaled a long puff of it.

Looking back at the ceiling, an idea came out of nowhere. Well, not out of nowhere since you've done this a couple of times so that Matt can notice you and forgive you for whatever nonsense he got mad for.

An idea that always worked but you hated.

Being closer to the mirror across the floor, sitting on the cold floor as your phone flashes to your figure revealing a white laced lingerie set on you, your thighs, hips, and waist being three things that are prominent from your body.

Looking at the photos that you took, you decided to send those to your boyfriend waiting for a response, you even added a small caption saying ‘Let me make it up to you.’

As soon as you sent those pictures, a notification popped up on your phone, and you eagerly checked if Matt answered.

And that's when you felt your blood pressure descend at an incredible pace when you opened to check.

CHRIS

Shit

Y/N????

I think you sent it to the wrong triplet, baby.

Shit

Sorry Chris, I thought I sent it to Matt

CHRIS

Not answering you again?

yeah…

CHRIS

He’s been in a mood tonight, so.

But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll text you in the morning

Btw

Wanna join me tomorrow night for a quick smoke?

Bought the good stuff yesterday.

Sounds good, count me in xx.

Even though your best friend didn't make this situation such a big deal, it felt like that for you. What if he tells Matt and twists the entire story? What if Matt ignores you for the rest of your life? The paranoia consumed you, eating you alive, biting your nails you send the pictures to Matt, double checking if you are sending this time to the right triplet.

You place your phone on the bedside table next to you, staring at the ceiling again.

What if you didn’t want to send those to Matt? What if something deep down in you wanted to be seen by someone else?

Someone who will give you the attention that you crave?

02.

The headboard bangs against the wall, your moans filling Matt’s ears making his cock twitch inside you each time he thrust deep back inside you. Meanwhile, you were cock drunk after coming like two times already, you could barely say a word other than just emitting sounds every time Matt pounded relentlessly abusing your red, swollen cunt.

Drool pooling over the pillow underneath your face, you could feel the strands of hair sticking to the corners of your face “F-fuck b-baby…” You panted letting your head fall once again against the pillow and closing your eyes as Matt came to his thrill. His thrusts became sloppier within seconds and his grip on your hips got tighter.

You felt the burning sensation once again on your lower stomach indicating that you were also close to your own high, you squelched your walls around his shaft gaining a groan from him. “Cum for me.” He demanded sneaking a hand into your throat and gripping it delicately while his other hand gripped your ass before giving it a hard smack making you squeal.

Not even a split second after the knot in your stomach snaps and you release, your juices covering Matt’s dick, and some spilled over his bed making a big mess between the both of you.

The sweet sound of wet skin slapping skin is like music to your ears, the warm feeling of Matt being deep inside your pussy makes you salivate even more than you already were.

Your mind was fuzzy from the sensitivity of Matt abusing your cervix, you barely noticed when his load shot into your insides, painting your walls with his hot seed.

The noise was too much, the moans were uncontrollably loud and the massive boner Chris had was killing him slowly. As he was lying flat on his back staring blankly at the ceiling while he waited for the noises to stop.

He could feel his dick begging for being touched, for some sort of contact with anything. The only running thought wandering through his mind was you and only you.

He wanted to feel your lips against his, those soft lips that he could remember very well every time you wrapped them around the joints that you both shared once in a while. He could imagine how those lips must feel around his cock, how he could make you moan ten times harder than his brother ever could.

Fuck.

‘I’m so fucked for thinking this way.’ He thought to himself.

But he can’t help it.

Sneaking painfully slow his hand through his clothed dick he could feel his precum spurt all over his tip and inner thighs, the contact of his cold fingers against the base of his arousal as soon as he cupped his hand around it, his pace was slow and careful until he heard the most intense moan coming out from upstairs he has ever heard his entire life causing him to fasten up his speed with his hand.

The groans and whimpers that were slipping out of his mouth were uncontrollably loud but he couldn’t give two fucks about it, he didn't care if you could hear him or Matt, he needed it, he needed you deep inside him feeling your tight walls wrapping around his shaft until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“mm- Y/N” He moaned, his eyes squeezing shut and his head falling backward as his hand edged him to his release, his heartbeat increasing incredibly fast as his hand moved up and down, his thumb running circles on the tip.

A slight burning sensation hit on Chris’ lower stomach causing him to clench his jaw as he felt his release. His hot seed leaked all over his hand. His chest heavily moving up and down as he removes his hand from his sensitive cock, his mind all fuzzy from the ecstasy that he just got.

He was so fucked up.

03.

“So this is the reason you’ve been treating me like shit for days?!” You spat sourly at Matt whose tears were all over his eyes. You’ve been staying over for the past three days and you thought things got better between you and Matt.

Seems like it was all an act to cover his lies, his disgusting lies. “I’m sorry…you have no idea of how I’ve been feeling the last couple weeks….” He replied wiping his tears away.

“No, no, no, no you don’t get to pull the victim card on me! I’m sick of your bullshit, we’ve been fighting for months just because you felt guilty for fucking another girl?” Your voice cracked each time you jumped back into the subject.

You knew Matt was a total idiot but not the kind of idiot to cheat on you.

Not the kind of idiot to blame it on the alcohol, not the kind of idiot to do something wrong twice or even a third time, not the kind of idiot to treat people like shit just because of repressed feelings.

“She didn’t mean anything to me! I know I was fucked up for pulling this shit but I regret it, so bad and I’m sorry.” His voice also cracked, the tears breaming down his cheeks, he looked genuinely hurt, and that made this more fucked up than it already was.

You shook your head, the rage was more intoxicating than anything “If she didn’t mean anything to you, you wouldn’t have done it three times and even worse blamed it on the fucking alcohol!” You shouted as your index finger pointed at him moving it up and down repeatedly when each sentence came out of your mouth.

“I know, I know I’m fucked up, alright? But this mistake doesn’t mean that we have to end things.” He said, the stuttering of his voice getting worse every time he watched your reaction.

“You’re so fucked up, Matt. You’re fucking unbelievable, we’re over.” You said sternly, walking out of the room, you felt your hands trembling the anxiety devouring your mind and body, your heart pounding as if it was going to explode any second, your blood pressure descending incredibly fast, your breath hitching each time the tears warned to advert from your eyes.

The thoughts on your mind got interrupted by something or someone abruptly stopping your steps, you look up to see Chris murmuring a curse and picking up something from the floor. Looking back at you, his face shifted to an annoyed expression from a worried one. “Y/N? Baby, what's wrong?” He asked, his hand gently resting on your shoulder now while his thumb caressed it.

That's when you can't handle your emotions anymore, the tears rolling down your cheeks as if you had a waterfall coming out from you, instantly his arms wrap around you rubbing your back gently as his voice soothes you, “Shhh, everything is going to be alright, sweetheart.” He murmured as he placed a soft kiss on your head, the tears kept falling at a slow pace now, gaining puffiness in your under eyes.

“Why don't we go to my room so you can relax? Hm?” He asked pulling back from you as his arms still wrapped around you, his fingers now brushing delicately the strands of hair that attached to your cheeks, your vision blurry from the tears that kept falling continuously.

The dynamic between you and Chris has always been something else, hanging out with Chris made you feel different than hanging out with Matt and Nick, it felt like you two were made to understand each other without the need to communicate, it was as if he could read your mind and you could read his mind and it was a connection that Matt never liked.

Either the fact that he always accused you that someday you might cheat on him with his brother or the fact that he could never get that kind of bond with you, maybe that was the reason he cheated on you or maybe he just wanted to take those repressed feelings on another girl's pussy.

But at this point, you didn't care at all, the joint that Chris was carrying when he saw you a few minutes ago was having its effects on you and you never felt more relaxed than you were right now, “So let me get this shit straight, he just admitted that he was fucking someone else and he expected that you forgave him?” Chris retorted taking a large puff from the perfectly rolled cherry-flavored joint he had between his index and middle finger.

You replied with a nod as Chris let the smoke out of his lungs a small trail of it escaping from his lips, you had to admit he looked a little too good when you both were smoking, it was a scenario that you couldn't describe at all. He passed you the joint as you took a long puff, letting the effects relax your thoughts.

Chris scoffed before speaking “Matt can be my brother and everything but I've seen the way he treats you, the kid is an asshole and doesn't deserve someone as beautiful as you.” His eyes bore into yours for a moment before taking the joint off your hand to give another puff to it.

Beautiful?

You couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth and it seemed that neither did he because the puff that he took almost got him choking out, the coughs escaping uncontrollably from his mouth as he was trying to search for his water bottle.

You giggled a little seeing the way he chugged the bottle at an amazing pace as he held back the coughs that warned to get out of his mouth, “Are you okay?” You asked as you tried to hide the sheepish smile from your face.

“Yeah, it’s just—” Chris interrupted himself to take another gulp from the bottle, “I took a long ass puff and my lungs were at the edge of collapsing.” You both cracked up, the weed kicking in incredibly fast, the sensation of being high washing you over once again.

“What we were even talking about?” He was the first to talk after a hot minute of laughter between the both of you, “I’m not sure, but I can remember very well that you said that I’m beautiful.” You teased him as you took the joint out of his hand and inhaled more of the content of it.

He rubbed his eyes before looking down, the pink tint on his cheeks started popping out, “Don’t do this to me.” He babbled nervously while fidgeting with his fingers.

“Do what?” You retorted playfully as you got closer to him, the sound of the wheels of the chair you were sitting on echoing in the space, you grabbed his chin softly lifting it so his eyes could meet yours once again, the blue hue losing up a bit by his dilated pupils.

“This, whatever this is. Don't do it.” He spat out, his tone a bit resentful as he expected to sound, his eyes shifting to your lips, his pursing in a thin line, that sensation that he had just a few nights ago, that thought coming back to him, the thought of your sweet lips against his, the thought of your moans making his crotch twitch against his sweatpants.

He needed you and as far as this seems you needed him too.

Something in common that can be easily done.

He didn’t hesitate to kiss you, he was eager to taste your lips for ages and it drove him crazy. He placed his hand right above your jaw, his thumb caressing your jugular vein that felt like it was going to explode any second, electric waves of adrenaline going down his spine. You gave him easy access for his tongue to slide into your mouth, and the clicking sound between kisses flooded your ears. Your hands flew to his hair grabbing a handful of it, messing it up as his hands moved to roam over your body; the kiss getting sloppier, and your breaths heaving by the amount of time this had been going on.

Chris began to attack your neck, trailing wet kisses around it as he lowered them further getting to your lower stomach, his eyes scanning every faction of your face, on the other side was a load of nerves.

What if Matt finds out?

Cheating on him wasn't a good way to get on his nerves, not even when it came to cheating with someone as close as his brother. And neither it was a good idea to fuck him while you were still wearing one of Matt’s shirts, his favorite one.

But this felt right, felt like it was meant to be.

However, you couldn't help but feel the guilt wash you over, “Chris, we shouldn't…” You spat out, your face contorted into a worried expression.

He kept playing with the hem of the black shirt, his eyes lingering from your eyes to your thighs “Why now?” His voice was deep now, a smirk showing off as clear as the crystal on his face.

You couldn't help but feel soaked to his response, your words coming out sloppier “Because I’m your brother’s girlfriend…” You replied nervously, he just scoffed softly the air hitting your legs delicately.

He looked at you before lifting your oversized shirt and spreading your legs wide open taking the sight of your soaking wet pussy, “Ex-girlfriend, baby.” He kisses your thighs, getting closer to where you need him most. “Do you think he deserves to taste you after what he did?” He kept getting higher and higher, his fingers grazing the waistband of your panties before pulling them down harshly.

He tsks before articulating his last sentence, “Now it's my turn to have a taste.” His mouth now making contact with your wet folds, his tongue trailing along your slick before sucking it, your head rolled back resting on the headrest as you let out the loudest moans you've ever had, your hand instantly gripping onto his hair as Chris kept devouring you.

Groans leaving his mouth, the vibrations cursing through your insides making the knot inside you get tight each time his tongue swirls around your sensitive nub. “F-fuck.” you panted, your tongue being dry from the amount of pleasure you feeling at this moment.

Chris’ fingers make contact with your entrance, his index and middle fingers sliding deep inside you as his tongue keeps working on your nub hungrily. Pornographic moans came out of you as soon as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you, curling them to hit that sweet spot of yours.

While you were ecstatic about the number of sensations you were having right now, Chris was enjoying the sight of you completely melting for his touch, his deprived touch, the way his tongue and fingers were driving you insane, and it was only making him harder and harder through his pants.

This was the moment he was waiting for his whole life, the moment where he could make you moan ten times louder than his brother ever could, the moment where he could claim you, the moment where he could make you feel good for the first time.

The moment when he gets to taste you, to see all of you.

Your walls clench on his fingers, the burning sensation in your stomach ready to snap any second as Chris works his way to make you cum for the first time in the night.

“Mmm—, y’like that?” He whispered as he pulled away, his other hand reaching out to rub your clit now as he kept fingering you, his tongue going back to trace circles.

You hummed in response, letting out a curse before the knot snapped, your juices dripping all over his face, a proud smirk smeared all over his face as he licked every single drop of your sweet liquid. Your chest heavily moved up and down as you tried to regain your composure, the grip that you had on his hair loosening up.

“You taste even better than I could ever imagine.” He said, sliding his fingers out of you a popping sound as he did so, and you squeezed your thighs by the sensitivity of the aftermath.

Chris leans to kiss you once again, this time it is rougher than the previous one, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Your hand places now on his hard-on, palming it through his sweats as you try to pull them down.

His hand stops you, pulling back to whisper in your ear, “You wanna fuck me? Hm?” He said, his tone dominant yet soft and caring.

You nodded desperately smashing your lips against his once again, his hands traveling to your waist as he picked you up and pushed you down to his bed, climbing on top of you in the process.

He signals you to take off Matt’s shirt and you don't even hesitate to think about it leaving the shirt tossed somewhere around the room, Chris' mouth moving to suck on your right tit and use his hand to draw circles on your left nipple, your back arching from the new sensation you've got.

You reached for his hoodie pulling it out of him as he helped you through the process, throwing it somewhere in the room as he kept working on your tits, his mouth switching sides to stimulate your nipples well enough.

There it was, once again that wave of pleasure hit your nerves once again.

Chris removes his sweatpants along with his boxers, his hardened dick hitting his happy trail as he did so, his tip now grazing against your swollen cunt making you flinch at the sensitiveness of your previous release.

He picked up one of your legs and rested it on his shoulder, the tip now making contact with your entrance sliding in slowly, his hand stroking your leg in the process.

His pace was slow and steady at the start, waiting for you to adjust to his size fully. You must admit that he was bigger than Matt and it felt ten times better than it has ever felt with his brother.

His pace picked up quickly, and his tip was now abusing your cervix sweetly, his cock was now pumping in and out of you at an ungodly pace, this angle that Chris had you on makes you see stars.

The moans coming out of you echo through the whole room, your hands gripping the sheets for dear life as Chris keeps thrusting in and out of you harshly, the sensation in your lower stomach returning faster than it did before.

Chris on the other hand was kissing your leg, his mind all fuzzy from your tight pussy, he could cum right there and right now but he knew that wouldn’t be the best timing ever. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. Taking me so well.” He whispered gently, his thrusts still going harshly.

You started to scream out loud his name, his hand went to your mouth to lower the screams “We can't let Matt hear, do we?” He said, the well-known knot getting tight, your mind was foggy from the raw ecstasy you were experiencing right now.

“So so close.” He groaned feeling your walls clench around his shaft his release getting closer.

That's when you felt the knot snap once again, a squeal escaping from your lips as your juices coated his dick, the overstimulation hitting as soon as Chris kept pumping in and out, tears forming in your eyes.

“Where do you want it?” He moaned as he looked down at you, his hand that was situated in your mouth slipping out to pick up a faster pace to reach for his high.

“Mmm-, inside.” You babbled, feeling his cock twitching inside you and then his hot liquid filling you up. Before he pulled out he gave a few slow thrusts, collapsing beside you on the bed as you both tried to catch your breaths.

Chris moved closer, cuddling with you now as he stroked your hair gently, “You did so well.” He kept whispering praises at you, causing you to smile slightly.

“We should get you cleaned up, baby.” He mutters giving your shoulder a peck before he walks into the bathroom to pick up a towel returning to you as he cleans your inner thighs.

“Thank you.” You whispered at him before you shifted into your sleep.

a/n: Was this a good comeback y’all? Bc I hope so, I’ve been reading a few requests and I promise I’ll be working on them soon! I rather do a good job writing each request instead of uploading trashy stuff (quality over quantity). Btw, I’ve been asked to write a third part for Brutal but tbh I don’t feel like writing anymore about Brutal, just lmk if you guys think it’s worth it to write a third and FINAL part of Brutal. BYEEE LOVE YALL (we’re so close to 500 wtf)

Tag list: @sturniolossss @tillies33ssss @chrisloyalgf @alorsxsturn @sturnioloslurps @cindylcuwhoknows @3mm4yung @chrissfavwh3re @blahbel668 @lov3bug @starsturns234 @junnniiieee07 @mstarniolo @sara2233445 @teenagetrash00 @mattsturnioloisbae @mbbsgf @thecynthh @braindead4l @freshsturns @lexisecretaccx @wh0resstuff

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets x reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x you #chris x reader #smut #spotify #angst #stvrnzcherries˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

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