#and that's where all the half finished sets get stored >.>

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 14

Simon loves you. So goddamn much

All parts here

2,403 words

(Pictures aren't mine. Gotta love Pinterest.)

(And this is basically an AU that I made up. Still set in, and a little before MW 2019, so eat up bitches<3)

“We still gotta go shoppin’, love,” he murmurs against your hair.

You chuckle, rubbing his back softly. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

He huffs. “I’ll deal with that attitude later. C’mon, go get dressed.” He pulls away and turns you toward the bedroom.

You roll your eyes and start walking, but before you disappear around the corner, you throw one last thing over your shoulder—just to make his breath catch.

“You should move in. Just sayin’.”

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the spot where he last saw you—like you’d just said the most beautifully absurd thing in the world. His legs move before his brain does, following after you without hesitation.

And when he reaches your bedroom, you’re half-dressed, slipping on one of his shirts like you own it.

Like you own him.

Which—let’s face it—you do.

He stands there, stunned. Speechless. Like maybe he didn’t hear you right. Until the words tumble out in a single, breathless rush:

“What did you just say?”

“I said, you should move in,” you repeat, more casual now. “You’re basically living here anyway. Maybe I don’t want it to end when you go back to work.”

You finish buttoning your jeans and glance up at him. The dumbfounded look on his face makes you chuckle.

“Is it too fast? Do you not want to? I just thought it’d be better than those old beds on base—”

“No.” His voice is soft. Immediate. “It’s just unexpected, is all.”

He steps closer, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Do you want that? Me to move in?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around him. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want it, Si.”

"Guess I'm movin' in then." He kisses your head, but you squeeze him so hard it steals his breath.

"Jesus, small but fuckin' mighty." He chuckles.

"C'mon then. Shopping time." You release and head out of the room with a new light about you.

He shakes his head and follows after you, rubbing his ribs from your tiny arms.

The drive to the markets is comfortable and quiet. Simon fills the silence with questions about your dad and small squeezes to your thigh as he drives.

"What should we make him for dinner?" He glances at you for a second before focusing back on the road.

"He likes steak. Typical man. Happy with whatever is hot and edible. Like you."

He laughs. "You sayin' I'm easy to please?"

"In certain aspects of life. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. So you're doing good thinking about how to please my dad with dinner."

He hums, squeezing your thigh once more.

"I don't have a grill though." You murmur, pulling out your phone to look for one.

"I've got it. Don't you worry sweetheart." He pats your thigh before parking.

You reach into the glove compartment and pull out a black surgical mask, handing it to him. "Here."

He smiles softly at how much you know him before securing it on his face.

You both walk to and through markets, buying small things and necessities for dinner tomorrow, and groceries for the week. You pout every time Simon insists on paying. Your final straw is the £285 wood pellet grill you had picked out.

"Simon, you've spent enough. Let me at least pay for something."

He doesn't even respond. Just chuckles and takes the bags you're holding from you AND wheels the buggy holding the grill box out of the market.

You hate it. You hate how he's being such a goddamn man. How his forearms flex beneath the weight of the grocery bags. Jesus Christ, you're done for. No more independent woman here. Just an utterly ruined girlfriend.

While he packs the car up you point out a store you wanna go to, alone. He says no at first—not wanting you to go by yourself, but you lie and say it’s some girly store and tell him to wait in the car. Which isn’t a complete lie—it’s a jewelry store, for fuck’s sake.

You stride in with one thing on your mind. Ownership. Whether its of you or of him. Something.

You browse before your eyes land on the necklaces. There are the name ones, but your eyes land on the initials. Knowing Simon would like to keep your name out of things if a situation would arise that needed anonymity.

You pick out two silver chains,—one with an "S" on it for you, and another with your initial on it for him. It's subtle, yet that's the best part. He's all about practicality with low visibility. He could put your initial right on the chain with his dog tags, and you'd always be right next to his heart. You obviously buy them both immediately.

You get the little bag to carry them in and walk to the car as if nothing happened.

"What's in the bag, love?"

"A surprise for when we're home."

He raises a brow but doesn't question it, just puts the car in drive and drives home. His home. Your home.

He brings all the groceries in, and insists on building the grill alone. Which gives you the perfect chance to take the little initial charm and slide it onto his dog tag chain. It rests perfectly right over the tags. Small. Subtle. But meaningful nonetheless. You put yours on and wait for him to notice.

Which does take hours, since he's out on the back patio, cussing out the instructions for being so damn stupid. You call him in for dinner, telling him to take a break.

He enters the kitchen and hugs you from behind. He sighs and you feel the stress drain from him as he holds you.

"Hungry?" You ask, rubbing his hand on your abdomen.

"Fuckin' starving, love." He kisses your head before plopping down in his spot at the table.

You bring him a plate and set it down, taking his hand and putting his chain in it. His brows furrow as he looks at his dog tags. "What's this about?" He starts before you see the realization when he turns them over. "You didn't..."

A pause.

Then he huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh—one of those rare ones, the kind that barely escapes his chest but hits you like a sledgehammer.

“You’re serious?”

Your smile falters for a second. “You don’t like it?”

Simon blinks. “Don’t like it?” he repeats, like the words offend him.

Then he’s up—just like that—pushing his chair back with a scrape, grabbing your hand, and tugging you gently but firmly into his space.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. One hand slides to the back of your neck. The other curls protectively around your side, like he’s shielding something fragile.

His forehead drops to yours.

“I fuckin’ love it, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to breathe before he kisses you.

It’s not hungry. Not rushed. Just firm and slow and steady—like he’s pouring everything he doesn’t know how to say into that single moment.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his hand over the chain at your chest.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Everyone’ll know.”

“You’ve always been mine,” you whisper back. “This just makes it obvious.”

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your head before releasing you. “We better eat before we get all fuckin’ sentimental.”

You shake your head as you grab your plate and sit beside him. Dinner is filled with quiet conversation and casual touches—his knee brushing yours under the table, fingers grazing your wrist in passing—until the food is gone.

You stand, collecting the plates.

“I’ll wash up and come help you outside in a minute, okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t move.

Both of you freeze at the sudden knock at the door.

You glance at him. He glances at you.

You’re the first to move, padding toward the entry with Simon following behind, shoulders tense.

You open the door—and his heart drops while yours leaps out of your chest.

Your Dad.

MacMillan.

“Dad!” you exclaim, throwing your arms around him.

He hugs you back with a chuckle.

You huff softly. “You’re early! You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he replies, ruffling your hair. “Figured I’d catch him off guard. Make sure he’s treatin’ my little girl right.”

He locks eyes with Simon.

“Dad, of course he is. But I had things planned! We were gonna make dinner, I haven’t even baked anything yet—”

“Enough of that. It’s just me. Don’t need dinner or dessert. A cold one and a sit-down with this one’ll do just fine.”

You let him in, feeling Simon practically vibrating beside you with restrained nerves.

“Simon Riley,” your dad says, appraising him with a veteran’s stare. “The Ghost. I’ve heard great things.”

“Thank you, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” Simon offers his hand, firm and steady despite the storm inside.

Your father takes it without hesitation—a quick, tight handshake with weight behind it.

Then you break the tension, practically herding them like a sheepdog.

“Alright—c’mon. Beers. Couch. Let’s go.”

You set the beers down on the coffee table—one for you, one for your dad, and one for Simon, who still hasn’t sat down.

MacMillan takes his with a nod, easing into the chair near the couch like it’s a briefing room chair. The man has presence, even when relaxed—calm, controlled, observant.

Simon finally lowers himself onto the far end of the couch next to you, careful, composed. His posture straight, back rigid. Like he’s about to be debriefed after a mission gone sideways.

You perch between them, leaning forward to pop the cap off your own bottle. But Simon, grabs it first and does it for you, handing it to you before opening his own.

Silence stretches.

MacMillan studies Simon over the rim of his beer. “So,” he says finally, voice low and dry, “you’re the one.”

Simon doesn’t flinch. “I suppose I am.”

“And what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”

You turn, shooting your dad a look. “Really? That’s the opening?”

He ignores you. Never looks away from Simon.

Simon doesn’t blink. “To be worthy of her. To be worthy of a future with her. Every day I’m lucky enough to be around.”

That makes MacMillan’s brow rise—just a fraction. But the corner of his mouth twitches, too. Approval? Maybe.

“You know what she does when you’re not around?” he asks, cracking his neck as he leans back. “She talks about you. Tells me stories. Some funny. Some painful.”

Simon swallows but nods. “I know.”

“And you? You talk about her to anyone?” MacMillan asks pointedly.

Simon hesitates. “No, sir.”

Your dad gives a short nod. “Smart man.”

You look between them like you’re watching a fencing match. Neither giving ground. And somehow, it’s thrilling.

MacMillan sips his beer again, eyes still fixed on Simon. “I’ve trained a lot of men. Lost a lot of them, too. But you—I’ve heard your name for years. Hell, Laswell called you a stubborn bastard. Price called you a bloody miracle.”

Simon doesn’t respond. He’s listening. Processing.

“But none of that means shit,” your dad continues, “if you hurt her.”

You sigh, "Jesus, Dad—"

Simon straightens his shoulders, jaw tight. “Would rather die than do that.”

Your father stares at him. Long. Hard.

Then he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and holds out his hand again.

“Well then. Glad we understand each other.”

Simon grips it without hesitation. Firm. Respectful.

When they finally release, the room breathes again.

You lean back on the couch, heart pounding.

“Well,” you say, “that went better than I thought.”

MacMillan grunts. “It’s not over yet. I’m staying the weekend.”

Simon exhales—slow and sharp. You see the panic hit him like a wave.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, and you can’t help but laugh.

"You must be hungry. Let me go heat dinner back up for you," you say, giving Simon’s hand a quick squeeze before heading into the kitchen.

The moment you’re out of sight, the room quiets again—just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant clatter of you pulling dishes from the cabinets.

Simon doesn’t shift in his seat.

MacMillan doesn’t speak right away.

Just sips his beer. Slow. Deliberate.

Then: “You love her?”

Simon’s answer is immediate. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” MacMillan says, setting his bottle down on a coaster. “She’s not easy to love. She’s stubborn. Got her mother’s spine.”

Simon smirks faintly. “I’ve noticed.”

“Means you’ll have to be twice as steady,” he adds, eyes cutting toward Simon. “Because if you make her doubt herself—she’ll run before you even know you’ve lost her.”

Simon’s throat bobs with the swallow. “She’s already got me anchored, sir. Has from the start.”

MacMillan hums at that. Leans back, folding his arms.

“I’ve had soldiers under me break under less. But you—” he eyes Simon up and down, as if trying to read his soul, “—you don’t seem the type to run.”

“I’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be,” Simon says quietly.

The older man gives a slow nod. “Then we really understand each other.”

Another quiet stretch. Then MacMillan leans in just slightly, like he’s offering a rare gift.

“She laughs more around you. Talks faster. Sleeps better, I think.”

Simon blinks, caught off guard.

MacMillan doesn’t let it show, but his voice softens, just a touch. “So whatever it is you’re doing... keep doing it.”

Before Simon can respond, your voice floats in from the kitchen.

“Hope you two aren’t trying to out-intimidate each other in there.”

MacMillan chuckles under his breath, just once. “Not yet.”

Simon exhales a quiet breath of relief.

Not full approval, yet—but respect.

And from a man like MacMillan? That might be even better.

Simon’s still lost in that thought when MacMillan speaks again—calm, direct.

“You thinkin’ about proposing?”

Simon blinks. Stares. “I haven’t... not thought about it.”

MacMillan shifts in his seat. Reaches into his coat pocket. Pulls out a small velvet box and holds it out.

“That was her mother’s,” he says simply. “She’s always wanted it. Was waiting for her to find a man good enough to give it to her. So when you’re ready—you have my approval.”

Simon forgets how to breathe.

His eyes drop to the box. His hands move slow, careful as he takes it. The weight of it sinks into his palm like a stone.

“Thank you… sir.”

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[sadboyeddie]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫

Thank you to @sunfloress for the idea! This is so cute!

Summary: Miles craves some familiarity of his childhood so he decides to make the pies for the display case himself.

I'm thinking about adding another part to this, maybe make it one or two chapters long with Reader and smut. let me know what you think.

Warnings: Not proofread, a bit sad but otherwise no warnings.

A/N: Okay so I have the feeling that Miles is either really good or really bad at making pie so here we go.

WC: 900 words

Miles lets out an exhausted huff as he places the last sack of flour in the pantry, with customers becoming so scarce the deliveries don't come as often but when they do there's always plenty of stock.

In the off season the El Royale is pretty much abandoned, the occasional high profile politician comes in with a dolled up lady and an extra $20 bill slipped across the desk but other then that it's just him alone with his thoughts.

He hates that.

He hates who he is, who he has become. He hates how enticing the needle looks sitting on his makeshift nightstand, the control the substance has over his life.

He mourns for who he used to be.

So today instead of half heartedly dusting and listening to the same tunes on the jukebox he decides to do something old, something familiar.

He decides he's going to make the pies.

Usually he orders them from the grocery store, finding cooking to be entirely too much but he remembers how he felt baking with his Grandma, the shared laughter and the sneaking a taste before placing the pie in the oven.

He yearns for that. He misses his Grandma.

He goes to grab some of the old recipe books the previous chefs left behind when they were laid off but decides against it, it's been a while but surely he can remember how to make something as simple as pie.

He makes a list of the desserts he's going to make: apple; a classic, strawberry; his Grandmas favourite and cherry; his favourite.

He spends the next twenty minutes gathering the ingredients, placing them haphazardly on the metal bench before grabbing out pans and mixing bowls.

He sets about making the pastry, the faint sounds of the jukebox filling in the empty space as he mixes and rolls, making a huge mess in the process, (how did he end up with flour in his hair?) before setting them aside and preheating the oven.

He washes and peels the different fruits, cutting, slicing and removing the pits. He's no professional and the rough looking pieces of fruit prove that but he's more then satisfied when he places them into their individual mixing bowls.

He can't remember the precise measurements of the cinnamon, sugar, lemon or any other extra spices but he's sure that won't matter in the long run.

He hopes. But if he does mess up it'll probably only be him eating them anyway.

He stirs around the filling and lets it sit for a while as he cleans up some of the kitchen, mainly just putting things in the large basin to soak until he can be bothered to finish the job.

Oh how he misses there being more staff at the hotel.

He brushes away the excess flour on the bench and slides the pastry and filling to where he needs them, taking a large serving spoon he starts to scoop the ingredients into the pie base.

In theory this should be a relatively clean part of the job, but sticky globs of fruit chunks litter the bench, the juice getting everywhere and he's suddenly reminded why he prefers to buy the desserts pre-made.

After filling the bases he lets out a soft disgruntled sound, taking in all the left over fruit still left in the bowls. Maybe he should have read the recipes.

After making a basic lattice design for the top of the pies, placing a piece of each fruit on top of the lid to signify which is which he makes the quick decision to make one more crust.

It's only a quick job because his motivation and energy are dwindling and he can feel the itch under his skin to get back to his room but he made a small commitment and he want's to be able to do just this one thing.

He makes quick work of scooping the left over filling into the last pie base, surely apple, strawberry and cherry won't taste too bad mixed together. It'll probably be the best of the four.

Instead of doing another lattice design for the lid he just rolls some pastry flat and lays it over the top before using a fork to poke a few holes on top.

That'll do.

Making sure the oven is the right temperature he takes a second to poke around the first pie, making sure to get some filling on his finger before popping it between his lips.

He lets out a soft content sound as the juice from the cherries mingle with his taste buds and he's suddenly feeling like a little kid again. Surrounded by the warmth of the oven and his Grandma combined, as he closes his eyes he swears he can still hear her playfully scolding him right before she sneaks her own taste.

The memory quickly fades as he opens his eyes, clearing his throat to distract from the burning from inside his chest and behind his eyes.

He really misses his Grandma.

He makes quick work of placing all four pies inside the oven and shuts the door with perhaps too much force as he hears the metal racks vibrate slightly.

He leans back against a metal bench and rolls the tight muscles in his shoulder once, twice, three times before building up the motivation to put the dirty dishes in the basin with the rest.

He sets the timer on the oven and sits on a bench as he waits for the pies to bake, a small smile graces his lips as the pleasant nostalgic aroma starts to fill the kitchen.

Not a bad afternoon.

Unfortunately his peace doesn't last long as the sound of the front desk bell rings out followed by a voice. He startles from his position, knocking off a mixing bowl as he jumps down and tries to make himself presentable.

He allows himself to take a deep breath before rushing out to the lobby.

How'd I do? Should I continue?

[mad-as-a-box-of-frogs]

I was determined to save my baby. I didn't want [Tony] to get that hunger that possessed Ali. I made decisions. There was a chance he wouldn't inherit his father's powers or urges, so yes, I hid the truth. When he turned 17, the djinn marks started to show, and I couldn't explain those away. And then one night, he walked right into my dream, and he saw everything, including the fact that he terrified me.

Ada Monroe in Legends of a Mind (1x05): Best of SPN WIN Gals and Nonbinary Pals [22/?]

[starpros-sunshine]

ADHD combined with ennui and the "eh how hard can it be I'll manage somehow" mindset will have you fixate on one specific idea in your head and maybe potentially end with you making unwise impulsive financial decisions. On the other hand I really want that bass guitar. I have no idea how guitars work all I've ever played were key instruments and I'm not even particularly good at those. Head in hands.

[ekingston]

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using 

his dyslexia; 

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and 

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there. 

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain; 

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and 

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again. 

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice. 

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later: 

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether. 

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them. 

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that. 

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation. 

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

PLEASE check my later versions of this post via my main page to make sure you have the latest version of this post before you reblog. All the information I’ve been able to gather is in my reblogs below, and it's frustrating to see the old version getting passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much!

[teaandspite]

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

[verstappenverse]

Can you do one where max is teaching reader how to sim race and is really bad but when max is gone to races reader is secretly using his sim setup to get better and one day reader surprises max showing they got better? I feel like this made no sense 😭 I really love your writing thought you could make this idea come to mind 🫶🏻❤️

Ghost Laps

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: What starts as Max teasing you over your terrible sim racing attempts turns into a secret mission to impress him. (Requested)

1.8k words / Alternate Scene / Masterlist

You’re awful at this. Comically bad. You spin out in the first corner, crash into a wall in the second, and somehow end up driving in the wrong direction before Max can even stop laughing.

“I just don’t get it,” you groan, half-laughing, half-threatening to throw the wheel across the room. “How am I already off track? I haven’t even hit the first corner yet!”

From the couch behind you, Max chuckles. He’s draped lazily across the cushions, an arm slung over the backrest and one leg bouncing with idle amusement. “You missed your braking point again,” he says, far too calmly for someone witnessing you virtually crash for the third time in five minutes.

“Maybe if you gave better instructions—”

“You’re the one who missed the turn,” he deadpans.

You spin around in the seat to glare at him, cheeks warm. “Because you said left while pointing right!.”

Max bites back a grin, eyes crinkling. “Come on, you can figure it out. You’ve watched me race a million times.”

“You don’t watch Gordon Ramsay and magically become a chef,” you shoot back, gesturing wildly to the sim setup. “This thing is terrifying. Why is it so sensitive?.”

Max gets up and saunters over with that usual quiet confidence that borders on cocky. He rests his hand on your shoulder and leans down, his voice lower now. “I think you’d rather argue with me than try again.”

You tilt your head up, lips quirking. “Oh because you’re so patient and humble when I spin off into a wall.”

Max laughs, soft and warm. “Alright, fair. But you’re doing better than you think.”

“Really?”

He hesitates. Then lies. “Sure.”

You shove his hand off your shoulder, laughing. “You’re the worst.”

“Okay, maybe this is not my calling,” you mutter, yanking off the headset.

Max kisses your temple, still smirking. “Told you. But hey, it was cute watching you try.”

You should be annoyed, but you know he’s not actually trying to mock you and it’s impossible to stay mad when he looks at you like that, so instead you lean into his side and grin.

“I’ll find a different hobby,” you say.

But later, when he leaves for the next Grand Prix weekend something tugs at you. You find yourself staring at the sim rig after he goes. You are bad at it. Really bad. But maybe not hopeless. And Max, for all his teasing, had been annoyingly kind about it.

The screens glow in standby mode, waiting. Your fingers hover over the power switch.

Just one lap.

That’s how it starts.

You drive.

You crash.

You swear.

You adjust the pedals, crack your knuckles, and whisper to yourself: don’t spin it this time.

And you try again.

Max's sim rig is intimidating, and you know it’s expensive, plus it’s precise and utterly punishing. You don't dare touch his settings, so you make do. One YouTube tutorial turns into five that tuns into ten. Then you’re watching old onboards, listening to the pitch of engine sounds like you actually know what you’re doing. You’re scouring the web late into the night researching for any tips or tricks you can find.

You stop crashing by Day 4. By the end of the week, you can finish a lap. A clean one. You start setting decent lap times by Day 9. By Day 12, you’re doing consistent laps

Two weeks in, you're chasing ghosts. Literally, you race against Max’s stored ghost laps on Spa, watching the glowing blue car pull away in Sector 2 and vowing to close the gap. Every night after work it's a routine, tie your hair up, grab a water bottle, and boot up iRacing like you're training for something. You even start logging your lap times in your notes app like a serious amateur.

It becomes your own secret ritual. A way of being close to him when he’s away that doesn’t hurt so much.

Max texts you in bursts during the two week. Voice notes between debriefs, a quick facetime from the paddock, a few rants about tyre degradation and setup frustrations. He always asks how you’re doing, what you’re up to, and every time you somehow manage not to mention the hours you’re now secretly spending in his sim.

Can’t believe it’s been two weeks since you traumatised the virtual car. time flies. would 100% pay to watch it again.

You’re grinning when you read that one, but you keep the secret anyway.

You don’t know why you’re keeping it a secret. Maybe it’s because it started as a bit of fun, or maybe it’s because you want to surprise him. But part of you also just wants to do something for yourself. Just to prove you can.

He comes home on a Monday.

His flight arrives at midnight, and you meet him at the door, hair a mess from waiting up and eyes barely open. He’s still in his team hoodie, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and when he sees you, he drops everything just to pull you into a hug.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your hair.

He looks exhausted, eyes rimmed with fatigue, but he’s smiling like he’s never been happier to be home. You help him carry his stuff inside, and once he’s showered and curled up beside you in bed, he finally asks:

“So… do I get another performance on the sim this week?” Max grins, nudging your side. “Could use a good laugh.”

You shrug casually. “Might’ve had a little go while you were away.”

That gets his attention. He sits up slightly. “Wait, seriously?”

You toss him a look, still deliberately casual. “You were gone, I was bored. Figured I’d mess around a bit without the peanut gallery laughing this time.” You narrow your eyes at him, just for emphasis.

“I never laughed at you,” he insists, way too fast.

You raise a brow. “Max, you wheezed. I thought you were going to pass out.”

He winces, then grins. “Okay… maybe a little.”

Your heart stutters, but you smother it with a smirk. “Wanna see or not?”

His brows draw together, curious now. “Right now?”

You’re already sliding out of bed. “Come on champ.”

You lead him to the sim, flick on the lights, and sit down in the chair. The screens flicker to life, the whirring of the pedals and wheel now familiar.

Max watches from behind you, arms crossed, leaning against the chair but sweatpants and a sleepy smile.

“Alright Verstappen,” you say. “Watch and learn.”

You load into Austria. Red Bull Ring. Home turf.

The loading screen fades, and you place your hands on the wheel. Your shoulders relax. You take a breath.

And then you start.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

You hit turn one with precision, clipping the apex just right. Brake late into turn three, hold your nerve through the uphill. You’re smooth on throttle. Confident in your braking points. Sector by sector, you thread the lap with a rhythm that feels second nature, because it is now.

By the time you cross the line, Max is no longer smiling. He’s blinking at you like you’ve just grown a second head. He’s still now, standing upright. Eyes fixed on the screen. His smile has slipped into something else entirely, something bordering on disbelief.

You spin around in your seat, heart pounding, breath a little tight in your chest. “Surprised?”

“What the fuck?” he breathes.

You laugh, unable to hold it back. “That bad?”

“That good,” he mutters, eyes flicking from you to the sim, then back again. “That was… really good.”

You beam. “No crashing this time.”

“That was more than just not crashing. That was… I mean you nailed every corner.” He cuts himself off, watching the replay. “You practiced this much?”

You nod, a little shy now. “Every day whilr you were gone.”

His brows shoot up. “Every day?”

“Morning. Night. Whenever I had time.” You shrug, trying not to sound self-conscious. “Just wanted to see if I could do it.”

Max stares at you. Then at the sim. Then back at you.

“You practiced,” he says again, but this time it’s not disbelief. It’s something closer to delight.

“While you were away, yeah.” you repeat, gentler.

He glances at the sim again, then back to you, voice almost reverent. “You used my rig.”

“Every day.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you change the settings?”

“I never touched your settings,” you say quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I'm not suicidal.”

Max laughs, breathless. “Holy shit.”

You grin, smug. “Wanna see how good I am?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches out and cups your face in his hands, his touch suddenly soft, steady.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“Thank you,”

“I love it.” He pauses, then adds, quieter now, “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel bad. I was just messing around, but if I made you feel silly—”

“You didn’t,” you say, but he presses on, voice rougher now.

“I love you and I love that you care about something I care about. That you even tried. That means more than you think.”

Your cheeks flush, but you lean into his touch, heart thudding.

“Maybe I wanted to impress you,” you admit.

He grins. “Well consider me impressed. And slightly terrified.”

You laugh. “Terrified?”

Max kisses your forehead. “Yeah. If you’re this good already, you’re gonna start beating my lap times soon.”

He pauses after that, smile softening, something quieter flickering behind his eyes. Pride. Admiration. Maybe even awe.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and pulls you gently up. He slides into the rig like it’s second nature then reaches for you again, tugging you back down into his lap. His arms wrap securely around your waist, chin settling on your shoulder.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and lazy against your neck, “we should do a proper race. Side by side. Full setup. Winner picks dinner for a week.”

You raise a brow, fighting your smile. “You sure? I am pretty good now.”

“I’ll just punt you into turn one,” he says, without an ounce of shame.

You gasp, dramatic. “Cheater.”

“Champion,” he corrects with a wink, far too pleased with himself.

You laugh, loud and honest, your head tipping back against his shoulder. The sound vibrates between you, soft and full of affection. You don’t move right away content to just sit there, cocooned in the moment. The hum of the rig beneath you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, the smell of his shampoo and the way he still hasn’t stopped touching you.

Maybe it started as a joke. A way to prove something to yourself.

But now?

Now it’s just another thing you love doing together. Another reason to love him. Another way he loves you.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo

[anothertimdrakestan]

living with the batboys headcanons!

req: begging on my hands and knees for what it's like moving into an apartment w/ the batboys/yj boys. like just gimme all the domestic fluff you can think of and all the things they'd be annoying abt yk

jason:

- he would be sooo annoying just wanting to sleep on the floor and leave everything behind

- "all we need is each other! let's forget the world babe!" to which you'd remind him "jace you literally have no clothes here and i'm not letting you spoon me on the wooden floor, i need a bed!!"

- begrudgingly, your strong man would move the boxes and happily hang any high-up decorations

- under your supervision, the apartment would become beautiful

- jace would put little locks on the windows so he could crawl in at any time of night, and his red hood gear would probably be strewn around until you put it back in the closet

- friends would come over and say "love what you've done with the place" to you, and give jason a thumbs up for trying

- he'd also bolt the bed to the wall so it doesn't shake when you- you know. yeah. it's jason todd after all.

tim:

- mr. gadget definitely has a techy house, the type where you can turn the lights on with your phone and set the AC from bed

- he's be sure to get a penthouse with a view and a grass balcony. he knew how you'd always wanted a pet and somewhere breathtaking to read, while gotham isn't the most beautiful, an ocean view would do!

- he never wants to stress you out, so he'd take it upon himself to schedule movers and place furniture in the ideal style

- he'd happily push the giant IKEA cart around if it meant he got to watch you skip through the store happily pointing at the things that would make your apartment a home

- champagne and a small get together once everything was finished, he'd be unable to look at you without a little tear in his eye, he never though the universe would grace him with your warmth, he'd buy you a million more houses if it meant you'd be calling his arms your home

- after long vigilante nights he gets a little too excited guessing where you'll be in the home, watching tv on the couch, curled up in bed, trying another internet recipe- he still gets butterflies when he opens the door and smells you in the air, and his heart skips a beat when you give him the first smile of the day in the morning

- though everything was moved in efficiently, you two still take trips to art galleries and farmers markets, looking for local treasures to bring home

- when you're at a wayne ent. gala tim waits excitedly for you to say "ready to go home?" because finally, home means being together

dick:

- richard asked you way too soon to move in

- you accepted because you needed your goofball around as much as possible

- with a rented u-haul and a dream you carried your stuff together. left airpod in his ear right in yours. showtunes, rap, and pop blasting at all times

- once the apartment was passable, you both slumped into chairs with bowls of cereal

- dick was excited to invite his family over to see the new place and you couldn't help but agree

- the family had a move-in party where everyone helps unpack the final pieces

- now looking at the mantle makes you think of roy, the animal-centric artwork of damian, new computer set up had to be tim, and the beautiful silk sheets and candles in the bedroom had to be dick himself. jason did leave a half drunk bottle of brandy though which was as warm a welcome gift as you expected

- for you and dick, it was home because the people you loved were there. it was rare to get time alone, but that's how you both preferred it, wrapped in the presence of the people you care about

- they say home is where the heart is, and your heart has never been more full than it was curled up in bed with dick, watching the batboys rip each other apart- hey everyone has their own definition of peace!

damian

- damian, when he's paying attention and not thinking about one of his many pets, is scarily good at reading your mind

- the minute you started thinking "this commute is awfully long" and "wouldn't it just be better if we were in the same home?" he was signing the lease to your new dream home

- full of natural light for both of your art work and ample room for the few pets that would move with you, it was perfect

- except the "art of surprise" excited dami so much he forget to ask if you were ok with moving

- you came home to an empty room and though you were robbed

- technically you were? but ii was worth it when damian unveiled his master plan

- with a little tweaking and a few target trips, everything was perfect, and like the gentleman he was, he there would always be a driver parked outside to take you wherever you wished to go

- dami couldn't contain his excitement that you both got to create daily schedules that revolved each other, dog walks in the morning, gossiping over lunch, and exploring the city together at night. even when you went out alone, he would insist he couldn't sleep until you were at home in his arms

- though you would protest, secretly you were the same way. nighttime routines just weren't the same without those green eyes staring lovingly at your every move

[traveler-at-heart]

Stuck Together - Part 3

Summary: After Westview, Wanda and her children go into hiding. She's not happy with the person in charge of protecting them.

Wanda Maximoff x F! Super Soldier R

It’s the smell that wakes you.

You have no idea how long it’s been, or what’s real and what isn’t. All you know is that you’re starving.

“Oh, good, you’re up. I was starting to thing we’d have to hose you down”

Wanda walks by the couch casually, not even sparing a glance at you.

She knows it meant nothing, that kiss when you were dying. She’s also pretty sure you won’t remember.

“How long have I been out?” you say, hand around your neck. Fuck, that couch is uncomfortable.

“Day and a half”

“Fuck” you mutter, standing up to go to the kitchen.

There it is, the source of the smell. A neat stack of pancakes, and a bowl full of crispy bacon.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

You don’t pay Wanda any mind, stuffing your mouth with two pancakes, and looking frantically for jam or syrup.

“A-ha!” you say, taking a bottle and pouring the syrup directly into your mouth.

“You’re such a slob. At least chew the food” Wanda complains, trying to keep you away from the stove.

With a growl, you trap both of her wrists in one of your hands and push her against the kitchen counter. That finally shuts her up, and you eat three more pancakes without her interruption.

“Sorry, you were saying?” you ask with a shit eating grin, licking your fingers clean.

Wanda’s distracted by the way you moan around your digits, too lost in your own thoughts to notice her blush.

“I was about to say that you’re a brute and a messy one at that” she tilts her head to the floor, where you left crumbs.

“Hey, I always clean up my mess” you promise, hand still around her wrists.

This time, you do catch a little bit of a flush, but your eyes meet and Wanda pushes past you.

“Since you finished all the food, you might as well go get groceries”

“Gotta shower first”

“Yeah, you smell”

You’re about to answer when the two kids shriek and run, crashing against your sides.

“We were so worried about you”

“Uh… ok” your hands are up in the air, unsure on how to respond to their affection.

“Boys!” Wanda says, hands on her hips. “Get away from her, she’s dirty”

You roll your eyes, but the kids listen, stepping back and looking up at you with big smiles. You try to return the gesture, confused about their sudden affection.

It’s not like you’ve known them for long.

As their mother calls them to the living room, you find some clothes in the closet and jump in the shower. Your t-shirt is beyond repair, between the blood and the gash in the place where Agatha stabbed you.

There are some serious gaps in your memory. You remember using the stapler, the weird coloration in your skin. But as you inspect the wound, there’s nothing more than a scar, skin healing properly.

You also remember the way you were slipping in and out of consciousness.

And how you were dreaming about Natasha.

Would it have been so terrible to just let go? All you wanted was to see her again.

No, that’s not exactly true.

All you want is to turn back time and beg her to not go on that last mission. To stop thinking she failed the world, and come home to you, whatever home meant so you could have a life together.

With a sigh, you look at yourself in the mirror as you dry.

“Here’s the list of things we need” Wanda says the minute you’re out of the bathroom.

“Can we go with you?” Billy says and you’re about to say no when Wanda agrees.

“Excuse me? I’m not a babysitter” you glare at her, but the kids are already out the door. “Anything else I should know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they set things on fire? Levitate? Any weird shit that might get me in trouble at the store?”

“Tommy’s… fast. That’s all. They know how to behave”

“They better” you mutter, walking past her. “Backseat, both of you. And no funny business”

“Yes, Y/N” they say at the same time, buckling up.

Hoping they actually behave, you go back the road and drive for fifteen minutes. You’ve been in this safe house before and remember the small town that’s close by.

As you’re listenting to some music, the station changes randomly.

“Hey, I said no funny business” you look through the rearview mirror, and Billy laughs. “You are just like your mother”

A pain in the ass.

“Langague” Billy says and you groan. For the rest of the ride, you try not to think about anything, especially on how much you’d wish you could just drop out of this mission already.

The kids run inside the store, heading straight for the candy.

“Hey, your mom’s gonna kill me if you get all that” you say, hating how afraid you sound of Wanda.

As if you care what she thinks.

“Can we take just one candy bar?” Billy asks, to which Tommy adds.

“Each”

“Just one” you say, annoyed.

How embarassing, all your training, years of service… and you’re babysitting at a grocery store located in buttfuck nowhere.

“Alright, let’s get the stuff your mother asked”

It’s all basic things, enough to not starve for the next few days. You take double portions of everything on the list, though, as your food intake is higher than the average human.

“You guys new in town?” the cashier asks as soon as you get everything.

“Just staying for a few days” you answer politely, handing over a couple of bills to pay.

“Well, we’re having a fair this week in case you want to stop by” she says and you smile, picking up the bags easily.

“Thank you, I don’t think…”

“Can we go, please?” Tommy says and you huff. They both jump around you, eager for you to answer.

“We’ll see, kids. Come on”

You should have picked up some Advil, anticipating their incessant chatter as you drive back to the cabin.

By the time you park, Wanda is sitting comfortably in the porch, sipping from a cup of tea.

“Had fun?”

“Mom, there’s going to be a fair! Can we please go? It will be so much fun”

Thank God, now they’ll pester her about it and let you off the hook. You’re walking back to the house when Wanda stops you.

“Excuse me”

“What now?”

“Get the groceries”

“I already went to the store to buy them. Get off your ass and do it yourself, Maximoff”

Oh, fuck.

Wrong thing to say.

Wanda tilts her head, eyes turning red. Before you have a chance to run away like a coward, she sends a ball of energy straight to your legs, making you fall on your ass.

“You were saying?” she looks down at you with a shit eating grin.

“I hate you” you mutter, knowing only she can hear you.

“Feeling’s mutual, darling”

After the humilliation of being overpowered by someone so damn short, you get the groceries to the kitchen, getting another earful as Wanda finds out the kids ate candy.

Once you get all the bags, you get a beer and walk to the porch, hoping you won’t have to hear Wanda’s voice for the next couple of hours.

Thankfully, she’s busy in the kitchen and you pass the time looking at the birds, and then entertain yourself when Tommy and Billy play with a ball.

You notice that Tommy is controlling his speed so Billy can keep up with him.

Interesting. Did he get that from Wanda’s brother? You don’t know a lot about him, except from what Natasha told you, which wasn’y very detailed. Siblings were always a touchy subject for her.

“How fast are you?” you say, arching an eyebrow.

“I dunno. Fast” Tommy shrugs his shoulders. You stand up, removing your jacket.

“I’ll race you”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Billy, help us out”

You let the other boy decide the route, and be the one on the finish line to witness who gets there first. The three of you are so busy arguing over rules that you miss Wanda looking out the window.

She didn’t think you’d be that good with kids, considering how you always looked miserable around them. Or maybe you just didn’t really like Wanda at all.

Well, whatever. She would find a way to live with that.

“Ready, set, go!” Billy says.

As you start running, you consider whether or not you should let Tommy win. If he doesn’t, he may get upset and you really don’t want Wanda to knock you out again. Your ego is too bruised to take another beating from a witch.

Tommy’s going at full speed, though, and you lose sight of him in the blink of an eye.

No, that can’t be.

Except that he does. He’s incredibly fast. Blink and you’ll miss it; hell, you might be able to see him just because of your enhanced eyesight.

“Ok, so you are very fast. Interesting” you say when you catch up to him. “Playing ball might be fun, after all”

The boys giggle and jump around you excitedly. And ok, you’re partly doing this out of selfishness. Way back, only Rogers could keep up with you. And it’s not like Bucky is into any recreational fun.

So, you prepare to throw the ball, holding back but still at a considerable speed. Tommy catches it after a few bounces.

“Not too bad, kiddo”

For the next hour, you keep throwing and watching as Tommy improves his form, catching the ball midair most of the time. You start to throw harder, jumping and cheering every time the kid returns with the ball.

“That’s fucking amazing” you say, too excited to notice the bad word that slipped out of your mouth.

“What are you doing?” Wanda says stepping out for the first time in hours, and you wince at her tone. The distraction only makes you throw the ball really high, and you see a couple of birds flying out of the tree, scared when you knock down a couple of branches.

“Nothing”

“Uh-hu. Lunch will be ready soon. Get cleaned up”

You sigh, looking at the ball that got stuck up high. It’s going to be a pain to get it down. But, as the kids go inside the house, you begin to climb, testing every time you step on a new branch, hoping it won’t snap. Not like the fall will kill you, but you’d rather save yourself the trouble.

Just as you’re reaching for the ball, a wisp of red pushes it between the branches, and you watch it fall to the ground where it bounces one, two, three times.

“You bitch” you mutter, looking at Wanda waving at you from the porch.

A second later, the branch you’re standing on snaps in half, and nothing stops your fall to the floor.

“Fucking great”

—

You love quiet. Quiet is good.

Except when you’re around two boys. Then, quiet means trouble.

Your suspicions are confirmed after a few hours of silence. Apparently, playing ball left the kids exhausted, but after a long nap, they’re ready to go to the fair. The thumbs up you give is not good enough.

They insist that you join them.

“No, thanks” is all you say, though Wanda’s giving you that look. You hold her stare, and to your shock she doesn’t insist.

“Come on, boys”

The pouts they provide when they realise you’re not joining are not enough to persuade you.

“We’ll bring you a hot dog, if you’d like?” Billy offers and you nod.

“Have fun”

“Get in the car, I’ll be right there” Wanda asks, and you want to groan when you think she’ll give you another scolding. But instead, she just plays with her hands, avoiding your stare. “I don’t have a clue on why they like you so much… but they’re good kids and we’ve been through a lot. They just want to include you”

You sigh dramatically, walking past her.

“I’m driving” you say, not waiting for her to turn around. That’s how you miss the smile on her face, thinking you’re going soft.

Wishing, really, that you want to spend time with her.

In the end, it’s not as bad as you expected it. The town is small, and so the fair doesn’t take up that much space either. It’s just a couple of small rides and games.

The kids insist that you play to get them some plushies, so you have to pretend to throw the ball with a normal amount of strenght. Still, you knock the bottles with just one throw, Tommy picking his prize with a smile.

The second time, you catch a glimpse of red holding the bottles together.

“Stop that” you turn to Wanda, glaring.

“Then at least pretend you’re having a hard time knocking them down” she leans close to you, and her breath against your ear makes you feel surprisingly warm.

With a roll of your eyes, you throw two more balls, and this time Billy’s the one selecting a stuffed animal.

“Nice choice” you comment, looking at the yellow shark holding a basketball.

“Fine, let’s go” Wanda says when they’re both happy with their stuff. You stay rooted to the spot, handing over another dollar bill to the clerk. “Hey, play time is over”

“You still haven’t gotten your prize” you mutter, avoiding her stare.

“Oh” is all she says, watching you throw. The kids cheer when you knock the bottles, and Wanda points at a purple axolotl. “That one”

“Not that one” the clerk says and you turn to glare at him.

“Why not?”

“Because” he shrinks under your intense stare. “That’s a bigger size, you need to knock down three piles of bottles in a row”

“Fine. Tell you what, I’m doing it with my eyes closed”

“I don’t need a plushie, I’m a big girl” Wanda takes your arm, trying to ignore how your muscles feel under her hands.

“Well, he’s ripping people off so it would be my pleasure to pay it back. Now, move aside, princess”

Three balls, three piles of bottles. As promised, you close your eyes, and knock them down in record time. You know some people are staring by the time you’re done.

“Here” the man grumbles, handing the prize to Wanda. “You can’t play here anymore”

“Fine”

Of course, the boys decide it’s a good time as any to get ice cream, but you’re happy to indulge in this. You’ve always had a sweet tooth.

“Will you go on a rollercoaster with us?” Tommy says when you’re walking around, eating ice cream.

“Sure”

They cheer, running to get in line.

“Your kids are so different from you, in the sense that they like me a little too much” you ponder, enjoying the taste of chocolate ice cream.

“I never said I don’t like you” Wanda sounds a little too defensive, and you turn to look at her, surprised.

“Sorry, I was under the impression that throwing me around was an indicator of bad blood”

“Right. I hate you so much that I saved your life” Wanda snaps, regretting her words instantly.

You don’t remember and it's better that way. The last thing Wanda wants is to make you feel like you owe her. Before you can process what she just said, the line for the ride moves and you end up sitting next to Billy, while Wanda stays in the cart behind you with Tommy.

The first time you go down, you’re surprised to hear Wanda screaming over and over again. You turn to look at her and she’s absolutely terrified.

“Kid, hold your mom’s hand, will ya?”

“Ok” he says, torn between enjoying the turns and drops and taking care of his mother.

By the time it’s over, you jump out of the cart and see the younger woman breathing heavily.

“You ok?” you kneel next to her, motioning for Tommy to get out. Wanda doesn’t answer, nodding and closing her eyes. “Well, you don’t look ok. Why don’t I help you out?”

You figure she’s feeling so bad that she doesn’t protest at the idea of accepting your help. Either way, you reach for her hand, helping her up, and telling her to keep her eyes closed. You carry her to a bench, the kids following behind.

“Take your time, ok?” you say, sitting next to her. You don’t think much of it when she leans her head on your shoulder, her hand holding on to yours with a tight grip.

After a couple of minutes, she finally opens her eyes.

“Sorry”

“It’s ok. Looks like we had enough fun for a day. Let’s go home. Come on, kids”

They carry their prizes and their mother’s, chatting about what they liked most from the fair. You walk behind them, pretending to look around at the lights but actually doing it to make sure Wanda’s feeling ok.

As soon as you get in the car, the boys fall asleep. Once again, you turn on the radio, the volume low to not disturb the children. At some point, you get annoyed by the song and reach forward to change stations. Wanda has the same idea, and your hands meet awkwardly.

“Sorry” you rush to say.

“No, I’m sorry. Go ahead”

“You don’t like The Strokes?” you joke, switching until you find a station playing Billie Holiday.

“Not when I’m dizzy from that damn rollercoaster” Wanda says and you laugh.

“I’ve seen you floating around buildings, and you’re telling me rollercoasters make you dizzy?”

“Yes. We all have our weaknesses, don’t we?”

“I guess we do” you admit quietly, driving in silence for the rest of the road.

You take it upon yourself to carry the children to the bedroom, walking out when Wanda’s removing their shoes, cooing them so they don’t wake up.

Opening the small fridge, you find a beer and walk out into the porch, looking up at the sky. Out of habit, your hand goes over to the wound you had not long ago, and your mind goes back to the thing Wanda said. She saved your life?

It’s all a mess in your head, and you’ve never been one to dwell too much in the past. Throughout your life you’ve been close to dying so many times that one more hardly makes a difference.

Except she saved you.

How?

You’re about to go back inside when you run into her at the entrance of the cabin.

“I have a question”

“I don’t care” she hurries to say, walking around you.

Of course, she probably knows what you’re going to ask.

“What did you do? What happened that day?”

“I enjoyed peace and quiet instead of your smart mouth and stupid ways” Wanda hurries to say, walking to the car.

“You’re not getting off that easily, Maximoff”

“You don’t remember, why does it matter? You’d remember if it was important”

And of course you don’t remember the kiss.

“Just tell me” you insist, taking her by the hand. She tries to break free and you pull her closer to you. “Why do you always make everything so god damn hard, Wanda?”

Because, I like you. Because I wish you didn’t see this job as a burden. Because I wish you looked at me the way you looked at her.

“I can’t wait to be away from you, you idiot” she hisses. “Now, let me go or I’ll blast you to the other side of the road, and you know I’m not joking”

You’re ready to keep arguing, but there’s something in her eyes… and the warmth of her body.

Maybe you do remember some of it. How you were agonizing, and Wanda came to you, eased your mind, made the pain go away.

Something else happened, and you have a feeling you know what it is, when Wanda’s eyes get a little too focused on your lips. Without a thought, you lean forward, and kiss her.

It’s not a really nice kiss, considering Wanda groans against your mouth, pushing you away. As soon as you step back, she closes her hand in a fist and hits you. It probably hurt her more than it did you; what’s weirder is how she huffs a second later, taking you by the collar of your shirt and pulling you down for another messy kiss.

You drag her back with you to the porch, leaning against the bannister so she can continue her assault on your lips. Then, she’s moving to bite your neck, her breath hot against you. When her hands travel to the button of your jeans, you let out a moan.

But of course, there’s always some shit happening.

Too distracted by Wanda, you don’t listen to the footsteps until the person speaks, clearly amused.

“Sorry to interrupt”

[littleslaywrites]

first name basis | aaron hotchner x bau!reader

summary: the team comes over to your place for dinner, and your secret relationship with aaron becomes not so secret. 

word count: 1.7k

cw: fluff, alcohol consumption, yes i know i wrote something similar in january and I didn’t realize it felt familiar until like halfway but here it is anyway because i like the premise

For once, you didn’t have a case on a Friday night.

You’d moved into a new place a few months ago, and you’d been trying to get the team over for dinner since then. But just like everything else in your life, the plans had been interrupted by case after case. 

But today, you had a free evening. So after work, you went to the grocery store, preparing for dinner with the team. You'd laid out the ingredients, breaking in the kitchen with your first real feast in your new apartment.

And after a few hours, you hear a knock on your door. It’s Penelope and Morgan, and throughout the next half hour, the rest of the team follows suit. 

“This is an amazing apartment,” Emily says, looking around. 

“Thanks. I’m just glad somebody could see it,” you say, opening the wine Rossi had brought and handing Emily a glass. “It's been two whole months without anyone on the team having time to come look.”

Really, that’s not the truth. There had been one team member who’d come to visit you. Quite often, actually. Aaron had visited you at any moment he could find between late nights at work. He’d become familiar with the place, knowing what’s in every cabinet and behind every door. 

He shows up last, staying behind at the office to complete paperwork, as usual. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he changed before getting here, wearing a polo and jeans instead of his usual formal suit. Unfortuately, you can't let your gaze linger on his arms, knowing you have to behave while the team has their eyes on you.

He’s brought a case of beer, knowing you well enough to be aware you’d like it more than wine. You smile as casually as possible, putting it in the fridge before checking the oven. 

Aaron stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “Need help with anything?”

“Would you mind setting the plates on the table?”

He nods, opening up the cabinet to grab dinner plates. 

Rossi doesn’t miss this exchange, watching as Aaron opens up the cabinets. 

“How’d you know where the plates were, Aaron?” 

Hotch gives Rossi a look, silently telling him to stop profiling him. “Lucky guess,” he deadpans. 

“Lucky guess,” Rossi repeats, taking a sip of his wine. 

You refuse to make eye contact, awkwardly pretending to be busy with mixing up a salad. You can feel Rossi’s eyes on you, but you hope that if you just focus on that salad, all the tension will disappear. 

“It’s so well-lit in here,” JJ says from the living room. 

“Isn’t it? That’s why I chose the unit on the corner.”

Spencer chimes in. “South facing, too. Statistically speaking, it improves mood levels during winter months.”

“Too bad you can’t see the sunrise, though,” Aaron chimes in as he finishes setting the plates down. 

Rossi raises an eyebrow. You know you can brush it off by saying anyone would know you can’t see the sunrise if your apartment faces the South. You will admit it’s a suspicious comment, though, especially for someone who's already scrutinizing your behavior. 

You meet the rest of the team in the living room, taking two beers from the fridge, one for you and one for Aaron. Your hands touch when you give it to him, and even though your heart flutters, you turn back around and give your attention to the group. You're trying to play it as cool as possible, even though you're sure you’re failing. 

The team falls into conversations about anything but work, enjoying the night of finally not being surrounded by gruesome scenes. The group being in your living room is starting to make the house feel like home. 

After a few more minutes, the timer on your phone goes off, and you set the main dish on the table. Emily helps bring out the sides, laying everything out. 

“Dinner’s ready,” you call out, and everyone sits down, serving up the food. 

The smooth flow of the conversation is interrupted by Morgan’s voice. “So are you planning to stay the night, Hotch?”

You give him a sideways glance, trying not to show the internal heart attack you’re having. “Hm?”

“Well, he’s had two beers. Usually he has half of one because he’s all responsible and crap.”

You laugh it off, realizing you’re not caught. “Maybe he’s just letting loose for once.”

“I won’t complain,” Emily says. “Let's hope he’ll be less grumpy come Monday.”

The team all laughs. You let out a small sigh of relief, hoping that’s the end of the questioning for tonight. Obviously, Rossi will have something to say, but at least he won’t call you out in front of the whole team. 

At some point between dinner and dessert, a glass gets knocked over, spilling wine onto the floor. 

“I’ll get the mop,” Hotch says, going to the broom closet.

“Thanks,” you say as you set the glass upright. You don’t notice the look Emily and Derek give each other when he returns with a bucket and mop. 

Emily speaks up when you start to mop up the spill. “Did you profile the apartment to know where to find that?” 

Hotch looks at her. “Maybe.”

It’s not a good excuse, but at least they’re distracted by their own conversation. You set the mop back in its bucket by the kitchen, washing your hands to get ready to serve dessert. 

“Aaron, will you get the cake from the fridge?” You don’t even notice you use his first name, or that Garcia perks up at your words. 

“Wait,” Penelope says with a gasp. “Wait, wait, wait.”

You set the plates for dessert on the table. “Wait for what?”

“The sitting together on the jet, and the knowing where the mop is, and her calling you by your first name,” Penelope says. “I’m connecting the dots here.”

Aaron is currently standing behind you, holding the lemon cake as awkwardly as humanly possible, tension evident in his shoulders while his feet stay stuck to the spot. 

“I’m no profiler, but you two… are you…?”

JJ looks over at Aaron at that. “No way.”

The two of you simply stand there, frozen to the spot, knowing you can’t deny it any longer but unsure of how to fess up. 

Rossi gives a chuckle. “It’s about time.”

Emily gasps, lowering her wine glass. “Seriously?”

You look to Aaron, who gives you the most minuscule of nods. You nod back with a small sigh. 

“Yeah. Seriously.”

Spencer almost drops his fork at that. “How long?”

“About seven months,” Aaron answers. 

The table almost erupts at the revelation.

 “Seven?” Emily sets down her glass so she can fully focus on getting all the information out of you. “How didn’t we notice?”

“I knew it. He’d always look just slightly less grumpy when she was in the room,” Garcia adds. 

JJ looks at you. “How did you hide this from us for so long?”

“We didn’t mean to,” Hotch says. “We just didn’t want to make things complicated for the team.”

He finally moves, setting the cake down on the table. You take that as your cue to sit down, the two of you joining the rest of them at the table. 

“You two forget who you work with,” Rossi says with a smirk. “We’d figure it out eventually.”

Aaron reaches for your hand under the table. You almost forget you don’t have to hide anymore, but then you take it, knowing it doesn’t matter if everyone sees. 

Emily smiles, holding up her glass. “Well, cheers to you two, for being the best secret keepers on the team.”

“And cheers to Hotch, for finally getting a date,” Morgan adds as you all clink glasses. 

The team laughs as Aaron gives him a look.

“What? I’m still processing the fact that Hotch has a dating life,” Morgan says as he takes a sip. 

You all laugh again, and the team falls into asking all the questions in the world about your relationship while eating dessert.

Later that evening, you’re in the kitchen, drying the dishes you just washed while the rest of the team chats in the living room. You feel a hand on your lower back, instantly knowing it’s Aaron’s. 

You turn around, meeting his eyes. 

“You handled that well,” he says.

You lean back against the counter. “You weren’t too bad yourself. Once you got over yourself and stopped being frozen in place.”

He laughs softly. “I know, I know. I was trying to hide behind the cake, I guess.”

You giggle, drying your hands. “It had to come out eventually.” 

“I was hoping for later. Maybe next year. Or next decade.”

“Yeah. But better here than in the middle of a case.”

He nods, taking your hand. “I think Rossi’s been onto us for weeks now.”

“I think he was onto us that morning you brought me coffee and said it was ‘from my favorite place.’”

He hums, and you look into his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“I don’t like hiding you,” he says, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “It was nearly impossible to pretend not to be in love with you all the time.”

You freeze for a second, tilting your head. “That’s the first time you've said that.”

“I mean it.”

He gazes at you, as steady as he always is. “I know. I mean it.”

You smile. “I love you, too.”

The corners of his mouth curve into that small smile that hardly anyone but you gets the privilege of seeing. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. 

Behind you, you hear a squeal that could only come from Penelope. 

“Oh my god, you two are so cute,” she exclaims. 

“We’re never hearing the end of this, are we?”

You wrap your arms around him. “Nope.”

But as the laughter of the team fills the apartment, you’re not even close to embarrassed at the revelation in the way you’d expected to be. You’re happy, excited that the team is just as excited about your love as the two of you are. And as Aaron wraps his arms around you, you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything but joy. 

author's note: ignore that this is like the same story i've written before just in a new setting. anyway i will get to requests but i've been in such a fluffy mood and all of them are smut/angst but i promise i will get over this writer's block and start working on them.

[celandeline]

The Throne Was Meant For Us, My Dear

Aemond x Targaryen!Reader, mostly canon compliant (yes, people are still dying/getting maimed), heavy on the smut, incest (they are targaryens, obv), a little angst

9.5k words (buckle up)

You were born at the end of a long summer’s day, just as the last sliver of sun was sinking below the waves of the bay. Your sister was born on the same day, just after the sun had completely disappeared below the horizon. Twin Targaryen girls, Helaena and Jaenara, the second and third of Alicent Hightower’s children. 

The summer has always held a special place in your heart - not only because of your nameday, but because of the way the heat of the day lingers in the air long after the sun has set. The sound of a warm breeze as it rustles through the courtyard flowers, spreading the lovely floral scent. The feeling of the sun on your skin - the taste of fresh fruit grown outside the city. You’ve always loved the summer. You love it especially now, the only thing making this godforsaken funeral bearable. 

Next to you, Aegon snags two more glasses of wine from a passing serving girl, handing one to you with a limp wrist and a sigh. He downs half his glass in one long draught. “I don’t understand why Helaena.” He grumbles, gesturing to where she sits on the ground with his glass, the wine sloshing inside. “If I must marry at all, why not you?”

You take a long sip from your own glass, leaning back against the store railing overlooking the sea. Driftmark, while much more drab than the Red Keep, has one thing going for it - the pleasant smell of salt in the air, and the sound of the waves against the shore. “Our mother thinks that if we were to be wed, I would enable you.” You say. 

Aegon snorts, finishing off his drink. “As if Helaena will do anything to stop me from my hedonistic desires.” He jokes, quoting Alicent. “If it’s not to do with grasshoppers, it’s not to do with her.”

You neglect to snicker along with him, simply pressing your lips to the rim of your glass as you watch your dear sister pass a spider back and forth between her hands, muttering under her breath. She’s always been something of a dreamer, your Helaena, something the rest of your family doesn’t seem to notice. But you, always in tune to your sister from the moment you were born, know. Threads of omniscience run through her mutterings, though deciphering them sometimes is beyond you. 

“Some could say the same about you, with wine and whores.” You say, glancing knowingly at Aegon. “We all have our compulsions - some worse than others.”

“I only jest.” Aegon says, defensive. You can tell he’s getting drunker, his movements becoming more loose, his words louder. 

“Hm.” You finish your glass, setting the empty cup on the railing beside you. “Is it truly in jest if you are the only one laughing?”

“Perhaps it is better that I marry Helaena instead of you.” Aegon says, leaning close enough that you can smell the wine on his breath. “You do have a way of inciting my annoyance, Jaenara. No, I do not think you would make a good wife.”

You lean even closer, all too ready to play Aegon’s game. Your teeth scrape over his ear as you retort, “No, you’ve always liked the ones who won’t fight back, haven’t you?”

The tension breaks as Aegon laughs, tossing his head back as he steps away, putting a respectable amount of distance between you again. You chuckle as well, until another voice - softer, younger - cuts through your chortling. Aemond.

“What’s funny?”

Aegon, not subtle at all, rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

“We were just discussing Aegon’s betrothal.” You say, shifting so that Aemond can lean against the railing beside you. You’ve never understood Aegon’s disdain for your baby brother - something your nephews seem to share. “Or rather,” You cast a joking look to Aegon. “Aegon was complaining about it.”

“‘Tis your duty.” Aemond says, ever so serious. 

Aegon rolls his eyes again, gesturing widely at Helaena. “Look at her.”

“Aegon-” You start.

“I would do my duty, if only mother had betrothed us.” Aemond retorts. 

Aegon flaps a hand. “The both of you.” He dismisses, eyes scanning through the thin crowd. “I’m going to get more wine.” And with that, he’s gone, sliding between chatting relatives in the wake of a serving girl, chasing after the wine she carries. 

You place a hand atop Aemond’s head with a sigh, gently carding it through the silky silver hair there. “He can be such an ass, our brother.”

Aemond looks up at you with a thin smile. “Mm.”

The blood on your hands is not yours, but your brothers, smeared across your forearms from when you’d clutched his face in your hands, holding closed the gash across his eye with your thumbs as the maester stitched the wound back together. Now, he smears tears and snot across the bodice of your gown, the good side of his face pressed against the thin fabric of your nightclothes as he clutches you with shaking hands. 

Your mother is screaming. Aegon is huddled against the wall of the room, no doubt already suffering a hangover from how much he drank. Helaena stands to your left, her eyes fixed on the wall behind the scene before her, gaze absent. You watch in horror as your mother wields a knife against Rhaenyra, spitting insults like venom. Ser Cole is pressed almost chest to chest with Daemon. Your little nephew, Lucerys’ face is bloodied. 

You have no idea what happened. But Aemond is missing an eye. And Vhagar is now his dragon, instead of Laena’s daughters. You knew - known, now - that his lack of a dragon had always been a sore spot for Aemond, but you never would have guessed that he would go to such drastic measures to claim a beast of his own. And Vhagar, no less. 

You expect him to cry, to whimper in pain, to react, but he just holds onto the gauzy fabric of your nightdress and keeps the unmarred side of his face pressed close to your chest. Hiding, almost. 

You soothe a hand down his back, pressing him closer. “It’ll be alright.” You say, your voice lost amongst the carrying on. It won’t be. He’ll be scarred forever, he’ll have to re-learn how to walk, how to write, how to do anything that requires vision. It’ll take him years to recover fully. 

“I know.” He says, voice soft. Level. Even. 

And it’s his calm reassurance that makes you believe your own words. It will be alright, one way or another. 

Hand in hand, you walk your brother through the halls of the Red Keep, towards the training yards, for his swordsmanship lessons. Servants and nobles alike avert their eyes as you pass, some out of respect, some out of disgust. It’s true - the scar across Aemond’s face is nothing delightful to look at, a motley of yellow and purple swollen skin, the scabs leaking pus. But you do not look away. He is your brother, and he receives enough torment from Aegon already. 

He clutches your hand tightly, holding it like a bannister as he puts one foot in front of the other, his good eye steadfastly looking ahead. Sometimes his balance sways (especially around turns or on the steps) but he’s getting better. “You’ll be able to come and go as you please again soon.” You say, not bothering to hide the pride in your tone. 

He scoffs. “I can’t stay a cripple forever.”

Aemond was never sweet. But the loss of his eye has only soured him more. You roll your eyes, teasing, “You’d do well to save your bitterness for someone who’s not capable of causing you to fall down the stairs at a moment's notice.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. “Apologies, sister.” He mumbles.

You sigh. “I only joke, Aemond.” Aegon has ruined him, picking at all of his insecurities without remorse until he bristles at the slightest hint of humor, thinking an insult is coming. 

His good eye shifts away from the hall in front of him for a moment to cast you a sidelong glance. 

“Not all of us are Aegon.” You insist, rounding the corner with him to step outside into the afternoon sunlight. Ser Cole is already waiting, whirling his sword from hand to hand idly as Aegon straps himself into his practice armor. Aemond lets go of your hand as soon as he sees Aegon, taking shaky steps onto the field proper, alone. 

Aegon pays him no mind, his gaze falling on you. “Jaenara. Come help me.”

“Your lack of manners is appalling.” You say, walking over to him anyway, taking the leather straps of his breastplate from him and tightening them over his shoulders. “What would mother say?”

Aegon just grins. “Meet me tonight.” He says, his voice dropping into a more conspiratorial register. He doesn’t have to say where - you’ve snuck out with him before. You know the route. “A traveling troupe has arrived in Flea Bottom, supposedly.”

“Sunset?” You ask, dropping your hands from the straps on his shoulders to the ones near his waist. 

“Mm.” He watches you work, still grinning. 

“Alright.” You say, stepping back. 

His grin widens into a smile as he twirls his sword. “What fun we’ll have.”

The sun has begun to light the sky when you stumble back into the Red Keep with Aegon, giggling under your hoods as you sneak past the white cloaks back to your chambers. Really, it can barely be called sneaking anymore - you know they see you return, you know they saw you leave. The only reason they don’t trail you through the streets of the city is because Alicent doesn’t know, and hasn’t ordered them to, so why do the extra work? 

You sway into Aegon’s shoulder as you walk, all the wine that you drank making your head spin. Taking you by the arm, he only makes it worse as he begins to waltz you down the hall, jauntily humming the same tune you’d been dancing to in a tavern earlier. Laughing like a fool, you tip your head back and let him dance you about, until he deposits you against the wall by your bedroom door, caging you in against the stone. 

You know he’s going to kiss you - he always does, at the end of the night. Gently, he presses his lips to yours, and you smile into it. He doesn’t kiss you like he kisses his whores - nor do you kiss him as you do yours. It’s a chaste thing, only a moment before you’re both pulling back to look at each other. 

“As sweet as wine.” He whispers.

“Mm.” You bite your lip in a grin. “Goodnight, Aegon.”

“Good morning.” He giggles, pushing away from the wall to stumble back to his own bed. 

You slip into your own room, dropping your cloak and dress from your shoulders, one after the other, as soon as you are inside. Just in your shift, you turn to flop into the soft comfort of your bed, only to see a lump under the covers that wasn’t there when you left. Slowly, you peel back the sheets to reveal Aemond, face pressed into your pillow, soundly asleep. 

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips as you climb into bed beside him, doing your best not to disturb his slumber. He stirs anyway though, good eye cracking open with a jolt, softening when he realizes it’s you. Extending an arm, you make space for him to curl up against your chest, and he does, tucking his face under your chin.

“You were with Aegon.” It’s mildly accusatory, but mostly sleepy.

“Mm.” You don’t deny it, stroking a hand through Aemond’s hair. “And you were here. In my bed.” You press your nose to the top of his head. “What troubles you, Aemond?”

“My eye.” He says. “The pain. It’s more than just the skin, it… it stabs me through the skull, sometimes. Makes it hard to fall asleep.”

“We will see the maesters in the morning.” You say, still gently stroking. “Perhaps they will be able to come up with some tincture to soothe you.”

He lets out a sleepy little hum, and settles more against you. Your own eyes flutter shut, and your stroking hand moves to wrap around his shoulders instead. It’s quiet, for a while, and for a moment you think he’s drifted off, but then,

“Will you take me with you, once?”

“To Flea Bottom?”

“Mm.”

You pause for a moment. “If you wish. Perhaps when you’re a bit older.”

“How old?”

“At least as old as I was when Aegon first took me with him.”

“And how old was that?”

You smile into his hair. “Give it a year.”

“Mm. Alright.”

The quality of Aemond’s eye improves drastically over the course of a year, so that by the time he dons his own cloak and takes to the streets of King’s Landing with you and Aegon, it almost blends into his face. The scar is a long pale thing that trails down his cheek, and the only part of the injury that escapes the eyepatch. Under the shadow of his hood, it’s barely noticeable. 

He trails a half-step after you and Aegon, clearly unsure. You don’t blame him, it’s quite a change from within the walls of the Red Keep, but an exhilarating one at that. Arm in arm, you and Aegon lead the way, moving smoothly through the crowds to one of your favorite haunts, a little brothel tucked away near the edge of the city. 

You can hear the sounds of pleasure emanating from within before you even step foot in the building, and the area around the door is crowded with hangers-on, men who can’t pay their whores dues. Aegon pushes through them all easily, and you glance back to make sure Aemond isn’t lost before following him inside. 

The place reeks of incense, barely covering the smells of sweat and sex, but it’s familiar to you. On instinct, your eyes scan the crowd of the main chamber, searching for your favorite whore, a beauty named Falyse with long lashes and plump lips. You can feel Aemond pull closer to you in the presence of such debauchery, and you glance down at him again, to find him already looking at you. 

“This is a brothel.” He says.

“Aye.” You grin, glancing at Aegon. 

Aegon smiles wide, clapping Aemond on the shoulder. “Tonight is the night that you become a man, brother! Your first taste of the best pleasure the world can offer.”

Catching sight of a familiar shock of black hair, you turn, meeting Falyse’s eyes through the throngs of men. “I must take my leave.” You say, petting Aemond’s head. “But you are in good hands with Aegon. And I won't be far.”

“Alright.” Aemond says. He’s still unsure, clearly, but there’s no time for hesitation once Aegon’s swept Aemond up in his frenzy. You slip away, weaving through the writhing bodies until you reach the other side of the room, where Falyse is pouring a glass of wine for another patron. She’s barely clothed, so you can feel the goosebumps that rise when you snake an arm around her middle and rest your chin on her shoulder. 

“Princess.” She greets you with a sultry purr. 

“My lady.” You return, laying your lips in the junction of her neck. “I’ve missed you so.” 

She’s quick to pull you away from the main room, behind a thick curtain to an empty bed. It’s a familiar dance that you do - she makes a show of ridding you of your clothes, running her soft hands up and down your body until you’re dripping. Then she lays her mouth on you - her wonderful mouth that could pull honey from even the most stalwart of noble women. She never lets you rest with only one peak, no she delights in working as many from you as she can, until you’re pushing her away. Then it’s your turn to return the favor, licking at her until her sweet moans fill the air and you can feel her clenching around your tongue. You’ve earned her devotion in that way - on more than one occasion, she’s confessed that no man has ever thought of her pleasure, on their own. 

“Well, I am no man.” You’d responded. 

It’s an exhausting affair, this dance, so it often ends with you curled around her on the bed, listening to her share the latest gossip of the smallfolk whilst you twist her hair into intricate braids, the kind only Targaryens wear, a sign she’s been with royalty. You’ve just finished your handiwork, laughing along to a story about the smallest cock she’s ever seen, when the curtains part, and Aemond slips into the room, clearly close to tears. 

Immediately you sit up, paying no mind to the fact that you’re completely bare. “What’s wrong?”

Holding back tears, he hesitates for a moment before climbing into your lap, pressing his face between your breasts with a shaky sigh. You clutch him to you, guilt and regret sinking into your heart. Too young. He’s always been more sensitive than you, or Aegon, you should have waited to include him in your revelry. Too young, too young. 

Falyse sits up as well, raising a questioning brow. You shake your head, and run your fingers down your brother’s back. For a while, the room is silent as Aemond’s breathing calms, and then he pulls his face away, sliding out of your lap to sit next to you instead. Looking down, he hides behind long curtains of hair, but not before you catch a glimpse of his expression. Shame.

Gently, you break the silence. “Aemond, this is my friend, Falyse. Falyse, my dear brother.”

Falyse smiles warmly, peering underneath Aemond’s hair. “A pleasure to meet you, my prince.”

“You must tell him what you were telling me.” You say. “Oh, it’s hilarious, Aemond, you must listen.”

He perks up slightly, as Falyse starts her story again - and she does get him to laugh, but the hurt doesn’t leave his eyes, and the guilt begins to pool in your stomach. 

The sapphire is weighty in the pocket of your gown, and bounces heavy against your leg as you rise from the dinner table, dipping your head towards your father before you take your leave, following your siblings out of the hall. Aemond’s nameday feast was a small affair, per request of the prince, and he only received books from both of your parents - leatherbound histories of Valyria that look entirely too large in his little arms as he carries them back to his bedroom. 

“Aemond.”

He turns at the sound of your voice, and you pluck one of the books from his hold, tucking it under your arm. With your other hand, you pull the sapphire from your pocket, and hold your closed fist out to him. “Here.”

Looking at you curiously, he holds out a hand, and you drop the sapphire into it. “A sapphire.” He says. 

“For your eye.” You explain. “I had the masons fashion it so that you can slide it into the socket. I thought it might suit you.” Jokingly, you add, “And perhaps improve your standing with the court ladies.”

He huffs out a little laugh, examining the gemstone with a careful eye. “Thank you Jaenara.”

You smile, reveling in the first laugh you’ve won from him in a very long time.

Ser Cole and Aemond behind you, you lead them through the streets of Flea Bottom in the early morning light. It feels like a bit of a betrayal, showing them all of Aegon’s usual haunts, but the situation is dire, and your brother needs to be found. Your father is dead, and it was his dying wish, your mother said, for Aegon to be king. 

The brothel looks different in the daylight, drab and empty. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you bound up the steps to the door and bang the heavy knocker twice on the wood. With any luck, you can get a hold of Falyse - if Aegon was here last night, she will let you know, free of charge. 

It is not Falyse that answers the door, but the brothel Madame, Sylvi. A familiar face to you, albeit one that you have not had the pleasure of knowing under more intimate circumstances. Her eyes scan over your face, and then Aemond and Cole behind you. Stooping into a short curtsy, she asks. “And what can I do for you, my lady?”

“I am looking for my brother.” You say. 

“He seems to be behind you-”

“My other brother. Aegon.” You clarify. “Was he here last night?”

“I’m afraid not.” She says. 

You turn back to face your companions. Cole sighs, glancing around the streets like he might spot Aegon passed out in the mud. Aemond’s eye is on the Madame, a mixture of contempt and something else stirring in his gaze. 

“Where else, then?” Cole asks. 

“I don’t know.” You wrack your mind, tracing through all of the taverns and brothels you frequent with your brother, all places that you’ve stopped before arriving here, all with the same result. “This was the last place I could think of.”

Cole swears under his breath. 

Aemond breezes back down the steps, his mouth set in a determined line. “He must be somewhere. Come, we will try the fighting pits next.”

You murmur your thanks to the Madame before following after Aemond and Cole, worry sinking into your gut. Leave it to Aegon to get swallowed up by the city when the realm needs him most. 

Meleys’ breath washes over you as you stare down the dragon’s maw, expecting to see the glow of fire any moment, signaling your end. There is no time for action - in the few seconds you would have before flame reached you, there is no way you could reach your own dragon, Vermithor, to have any hope of combatting Rhaenys. Instead, you grasp Helaena’s arm and try to ignore how your hands shake. 

Aemond steps in front of the both of you, obscuring your view of Rhaenys atop her dragon with one hand on his sword. As if something as feeble as that will do anything against a dragon. 

You wait, feeling your sister with whom you shared your mother’s womb tremble underneath your grasp. 

You wait, watching Aemond’s shoulders rise and fall with each breath in front of you.

You wait, watching as your mother steps in front of Aegon, one hand wrapped around his wrist like a vice. 

A tidal wave of relief floods through you as Rhaenys pulls at the reins, and Meleys backs off, slipping through the doors of the dragonpit just before they swing closed, casting the room into semi-darkness. Alive. You’re alive - as is Helaena, and Aemond and Aegon. All of you, alive. You watch your mother almost fall to her knees as the relief washes through her, and then you are wrapped up in Helaena’s arms as she crushes herself to your chest. You return the hug with vigor, your eyes finding Aemond’s over her shoulder. 

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Something is happening. They’ve been locked in the small council chamber even since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. It’s been hours since your brother dismounted Vhagar, soaked to the bone and looking more shaken than you’ve ever seen him. You have no idea what happened, or what’s being discussed. Now, more than ever, you curse not being born a man. 

Still, there is nothing to do but wait. 

So you do, steeping in the burning hot waters of Aemond’s bathtub, idly flipping with damp fingers through a series of poems you’d found in your great-grandfather Jaehaerys’s saddlebag when you’d claimed his dragon. Some of them you recognize as things he’d copied from other poets, some are his own musings about his wife, Alysanne. He wasn’t half bad, in your opinion. 

You snap the booklet closed as the door to the bathroom opens, and Aemond slips inside, still dressed in his soaked riding leathers. He stills when he lays eyes on you, obviously not expecting anyone to have been waiting for him. But you just smile, and set your book aside. 

“I had them draw a bath.” You say. “I figured you would want a soak, after flying in the rain. Scalding, of course.”

He smiles, and starts on the buttons of his overcoats, the fabric falling to the floor with a wet slap. His trousers are next, and then his eyepatch, set on top of your book before he slides into the bath behind you with a sigh, his head falling back against the edge of the tub. 

“Very thoughtful of you, sister.” He says, eye fluttering shut. 

“Mm.” You turn around in the tub, collecting a rag that you’d draped over the side and dipping it into the hot water, beginning to run it over his skin that isn’t submerged. For a moment, the only sounds are the echoes of droplets falling back into the tub as you wash him, until you speak again. “What business kept you in council so long?”

A tension settles in his jaw. “Lucerys Velaryon was also at Storm’s End.”

“You failed to win their allegiance?” You ask, surprised. 

“No. Lord Borros was easily won when I promised myself to one of his daughters.” You brother opens his eye. “But Lucerys is dead, at my hand.”

You set the rag aside, your mind spinning. Lucerys, dead. As if things weren’t already pointing towards all out war after your father changed his mind about the succession. “How?”

Something in his expression shifts and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to burst into tears. “Vhagar.” He says, his voice cracking slightly. “I only meant to scare him, but she knows my anger… I cannot pretend that I did not fantasize about killing him. I did not think that she would…” He swallows, collecting himself. “Our mother is less than pleased with me.”

“Our mother could never understand the bond between dragon and rider.” You say, consoling. You lay a hand gently on his face, over his scar, and run your thumb under the sapphire that sits in his eye. “You cannot be blamed for your anger at the boy who maimed you. Vhagar cannot be blamed for sharing that sentiment.” You pause. “It is a regrettable accident. And I am sorry for Rhaenyra and her children.”

He takes a shaky breath before wrapping his arms around your middle, and pressing his face into your shoulder, holding you to him as tightly as possible. Already wet from the bath, the few tears he sheds onto your skin make no difference. You say nothing, but pick up a comb from the short table beside the tub and begin to work it through his hair. 

You wake up to a sharp pain in the side of your neck, like the skin has been sliced open. One hand flies to the wound, and the other slips under your mattress, pulling the long dagger you keep there free of its sheath in a smooth motion. You sit up, the knife brandished before you, only to find your bedroom empty, the only motion being that of the curtains fluttering from the breeze of your open window. 

You pull your other hand away from your neck, expecting to see blood. Your palm is blank, the skin unmarred. In the reflection of your blade, you inspect your neck, only to find nothing. A phantom wound, perhaps from a dream. Anyone else would have simply gone back to sleep. But this is not the first time you and your sister have shared each other’s injuries. 

You rise quickly, knife still in hand as you dart from your chambers, heading down the hall at a quick clip. It’s eerily empty - not a white cloak in sight. Something is wrong, you’re sure of it, the echo of your footsteps on the stone only serving to further put you on edge as you approach the nursery. The door stands ajar, flickering candlelight seeping out into the hall from within. 

Slowly, carefully, you peer around the door. The room is empty - silent. The door creaks as you edge your way inside, turning to glance at the children’s beds. It is then that you see it - the headless body of your nephew, blood still seeping out of the stump of his neck into his bedsheets. Your blood runs ice cold, and then burning hot as rage fills you. Your gaze drops to the blood spatters on the floor, little droplets lead out into the hall. 

Readjusting your grip on your dagger, you break into a sprint, following the trail. 

Your bare feet slap in harsh rhythm against the stone, your eyes flicking back and forth from the floor to the hall in front of you as you follow the blood splatters. It is too late now. Jaehaerys is dead already, but you have to do something, you must. You can see candles being lit as you whip past door after door, the Keep slowly waking as the horror sets in, but you do not stop. 

You do not stop even when you turn an ankle as you round a corner, because there he is, a tall man in a hooded cloak, a burlap sack tightly clutched in his hand, blood dripping through the fibers. Stumbling, you push yourself back up with your hands, and with a mighty scream, leap at the mans back, knocking him forward. 

The bag tumbles to the ground, and Jaehaerys’ head rolls out, jaw slack and eyes wide. 

“The fuck-” The man growls, knocking you from his back. You fall to the ground, but force yourself to your feet again, diving forward, your dagger poised to strike. Bigger and stronger than you, he grabs your wrist, bending the bone until it snaps. Tears flood your vision as the pain washes over you, but you do not stop. Gritting your teeth, you drive your dagger into the soft skin of his side, between where his ribs end and his hips begin. 

He groans, releasing your wrist, and you leap at him again, clawing at his face as you sink your teeth into the side of his neck, biting as hard as you can. You can feel the blows he’s raining on you, but you hold on, savoring the taste of his blood as it floods your mouth, coppery and strong. His hands wrap around your broken wrist, and you wail again, your voice muffled by his skin in your mouth. 

But then there are hands around your waist, and the clank of armor fills your ears. Two white cloaks tackle the man to the ground as Aemond pulls you from his grasp, pressing your back to his chest. 

“Kill him!” You shout, eyes locked on the man as the guards beat him into submission before hauling him up to his feet. “Kill him!”

“Jaenara.” Aemond’s voice is low in your ear. “The maesters…”

You try to shake him off, but your brother doesn’t relent, gently steering you away from the guards and little Jaehaerys’ head on the floor, back into the relative calm of the halls. As the adrenaline fades, pain begins to wrack your body in waves, and you find yourself leaning against Aemond as tears fill your vision. 

“Helaena,” You gasp, chest heaving as sobs build up in your throat.

“With Cole, and our mother. Jaehaera, as well.” Aemond assures you. 

“They,” You say, working around the lump in your throat. “Put a knife. To her throat.” You bring your fingers up to the side of your neck, where the pain had awoken you. “Here.”

“I’m sure she’s being tended to.” He says. Gently, he pulls your arm up, inspecting your wrist, bent at an odd angle and already starting to swell. “We must tend to you too.”

Too exhausted to insist that there are more important things to be dealt with, you let him steer you along. 

You watch little Jaehaerys’ body bounce with the movement of the carriage in front of you, slightly obscured by the mourning veil you wear. Helaena sits beside you, pressed between you and your mother, eyes firmly pointed up at the sky. She’s empty, you can feel the echo of it in your own body, as you’re sure she can feel a hint of the festering anger you yourself are harboring. 

It will only be a matter of time now, before you don your armor and mount Vermithor for battle. You pity the fool who will fly to meet you. 

The wails of the smallfolk fill the city streets as you pass, petals filling the air as they toss handfuls at the carriages, shouting their grief in harmony. The news of Jaehaerys death had swept through the city like fire, just as your grandsire had suggested it would. Now, more than ever, the smallfolk hated Rhaenyra - there would be no public protest of the war that was brewing. 

But you cannot help but feel angered by the whole thing as your little nephew’s body shakes with the movement of the carriage in front of you. To be reduced to a martyr, at such a young age. And knowingly, by his own kin. It is an ugly, ugly thing. 

Helaena’s eyes finally drop from the sky, and your mother shifts, extending a hand to touch her arm. Helaena shrinks away instinctually, leaning further into you, and you shift, allowing her to press herself against your side, her head falling into the crook of your neck.

You do not need to speak to know what she is thinking. You rest a hand on the back of her head, and let her curl into you, feeling her heartbeat against your own. 

“Cole and I will cut them off entirely.” Aemond says, laying another marker on the map, over Rook’s Rest. “And with Rhaenyra confined to Dragonstone, it should be simple enough to take Harrenhal without interruption.”

You let your gaze sweep over the map, stopping at each marker Aemond had put down. “A clever plan.” You agree. “And Aegon also approves?”

Aemond scoffs at that, leaning back in his chair, the light from the fireplace dancing over his face. “What does it matter?”

“He is the king.” You say simply, lifting your gaze to look at your brother. “It is his war that we fight.”

“He is a figurehead.” Aemond says, rising from his seat to circle around the table, coming to stand behind you. “At the hands of our mother and grandsire. His only purpose is to lend them free reign.”

“He is our brother, and liege lord.” You say, standing from your own seat and turning to face him. “You speak treason, Aemond.”

“Mm.” Aemond hums, eye drifting over your face. “I forget, sometimes, that you are partial to him.”

“He is my brother.” You repeat. “And my Helaena is his wife.”

Silence permeates the room, and for a moment, the only sound is that of the crackling fire. But Aemond’s soft voice breaks through again. “Did you ever let him fuck you?”

The question takes you aback, and you laugh. “What?”

“In all your whoring together, did you ever let him fuck you?” He asks again, unwavering. 

“No.” You say. “I have no taste for his particular flavor of depravity.” Not that Aegon ever tried, either. That wasn’t - isn’t - the nature of your friendship. 

“Hm.” Aemond hums, turning back to the map sprawled across the table. “Vermithor will be needed to secure the Riverlands.” He continues, like the discussion never strayed from battle in the first place. He leans over the map, tracing a long finger over the stretch of the reach. 

“Of course.” You agree, confused. 

It’s been too long since you last did this. 

Wine flowing through your veins, you walk arm in arm with Aegon, leading the way to the old brothel, his friends and squire - the reason for the night - behind you. The crowd parts as you step through the brothel doors, a hush falling over the gathered patrons. The quiet only lasts for a moment before whispers take its place, hushed words about the king himself being a patron tonight. 

Aegon, of course, pays these whispers no mind, dropping your arm in favor of grasping his squire by the shoulders, speaking grandly about the pleasures of manhood. It makes you think of a similar night many years ago, when you’d brought Aemond to this very brothel. Guilt floods you for a moment, but is quickly quelled when soft hands wind over your shoulders, and a sultry voice whispers in your ears. 

“Princess.”

You turn, delighted to see Falyse - delighted enough, that with the wine already in you, you plant a wet kiss to her lips before resting your forehead against hers. “My sweet lady, my own heart.” You croon. “It has been far too long.”

She laughs, raspy and seductive, her eyes crinkling at the edges with her smile. “I did not know that all three of you would be joining us tonight.” She says, winding her arms about your shoulders. “Just like when you were younger.”

“Mm.” You find yourself agreeing before her words really register. “Wait, three? Is Aemond-?”

But it’s too late, you know it is as soon as Aegon’s raucous laughter booms through the room. You turn away from Falyse, finding your brother amidst the crowd, having abandoned his squire in favor of sinking next to Aemond on a bed, a wide grin crawling over his face. 

You can’t make out what he’s saying, but you can see Aemond shrinking in on himself, curling away from the Madame, who he’d been laying with. Winding Falyse’s hands away from your shoulders, you bring her knuckles to your lips, pressing a kiss there. “Another time, my lady.”

“Of course.” She says, understanding flashing across her gaze. 

You push through the gathered patrons towards your brothers, but Aemond meets you halfway, stalking through the crowd naked as the day he was born, clearly fuming. He pauses when his eye falls on you, clearly not having expected you to be here as well, and you watch his lip tremble ever so slightly. But he does not cry. 

“Aemond.” You say, unsure how to broach the subject. 

“Jaenara.” He returns, icy.

A pause stretches between you, and Aemond turns to leave, but you grab his arm, stopping him. “Come back home with me.” You say. 

You think he’ll spurn you, hiss some insult that’s more for Aegon than for you, but he sighs, “Fine.”

He does not speak to you until you stand at his bedroom door. You feel as though you should say something, apologize on Aegon’s behalf in some way, but you don’t get the chance before Aemond is beckoning you into his chambers with a quiet, “Come.”

You do, not realizing what he wants until the door is shut behind you and you’re pressed against it, your brother's lips pressing insistently into yours. You only hesitate for a moment before kissing him back, giving him what he wants. He melts into it, softening as he realizes that you won’t reject him, cradling you into his arms. 

When he pulls back, his voice is breathy. “I’m going to kill him.”

It sends a spike of fear through you, thinking of one brother killing the other, but the look in Aemond’s eye leaves no room for doubt. “I’m sure you will.”

Apparently the correct answer, Aemond resumes kissing you with a fervor, steering you away from the door and towards his bed. “I’ll kill him,” He says, rushed between kisses. “And without an heir, I’ll take his place.” His hair tickles the side of your face as he presses his nose into your neck. “Make you my queen, as he had Helaena.” He nips at the thin skin, making you hiss in pain, pulling at his hair. 

He lifts his head as he pushes you down onto his bed, crawling over you. “You’re betrothed to another.” You say as he begins to pull at the laces of your dress. 

“As are you.” He responds. You bat his hands away from the laces as soon as you hear fabric rip, and begin undoing them yourself. “Both empty promises made by our grandsire for armies.”

You shimmy out of your overdress, and kick it off the edge of the bed, left in your shift. Aemond strips himself of his shirt before tugging at the hem of your slip, urging you to take it off as well. Before long, you’re both naked, and he’s hovering over you again, trailing his nose along the swell of your breast. You take the opportunity to free him of his eyepatch, enjoying the glitter of the sapphire you gave him. 

His eye finds yours as he quietly asks, “Will you let me?”

As if you really even have a choice in the matter. “Yes.”

That’s all the permission he needs to lift your hips with one hand and slide his cock into you with the other. You wrinkle your nose as the sting of the stretch as he works himself into you, his eye fluttering shut. With a deep groan, he begins rocking himself in and out, grinding into you slowly. It’s not the most pleasure you’ve ever felt (no, he would be hard-pressed to compete with Falyse), but it isn’t unpleasant. 

You relax into the bed as he begins to fuck into you in earnest, whimpering to himself as he takes a breast in his mouth, lost in your body. You suppose you should have expected something like this, eventually. It was odd, that he’d asked if Aegon had ever fucked you, but you hadn’t thought that he himself wanted to. Now, his intentions in asking seem obvious.

He releases your breast with a pop before tucking his face against your neck, words trickling directly from his lips to your ear. “My Jaenara…” He moans. “Always so good to me. So kind, so sweet, so fierce. Hm.” He pants heavy, his hips knocking against yours frantically. “Seeing you covered in that mans blood, the chunk you ripped out of his neck with your teeth… my dragon.” He croons. 

You wind a hand into his hair, wincing as your wrist twinges in pain. It’s gotten better under the maester’s care, but it still complains when you move it in certain ways. The pain vanishes quickly though, and you begin to stroke Aemond’s hair just how he likes, pressing your lips to his temple. 

He whimpers again, almost like he’s in pain. “I will put us on the Iron Throne.” He swears, voice breathy. “Our dragons will burn Rhaenyra and her armies alive, and it will be our line that continues the tradition of our ancestors.” He all but growls it, snapping his hips with such force that you have to stop yourself from slamming into the headboard. “I swear it to you.”

“Aemond.” You gasp, overwhelmed with the vigor of his thrusts. The last thing you would have expected was for Aemond to get you to peak, but you can feel yourself getting closer, the combination of his rough fucking and devoted words stirring your insides. 

“Tell me that you are mine.” He says, demanding and begging at the same time. You can feel him losing his rhythm, pleasure no doubt creeping up on him the same as it is for you. 

“I’m yours.” You swear. “I’m yours, Aemond.”

He whimpers, and it’s the whining sound that sends you over the edge, your body tensing in his hold as you clench around him. With a loud gasp, you come, and Aemond’s thrusts reach breakneck speed. 

“You’re mine.” He whispers in your ear. “Mine, mine-” He comes with a rough groan, pressing his hips to yours and holding them there. He sinks into you immediately, collapsing onto your chest, his breath coming in pants against your skin. 

You bask in the quiet of his room as his cock softens within you, mind spinning as you take in what just happened. “Did you mean it? All that you said?” You ask softly, stroking his hair again. 

“Mm.” He affirms, sleep heavy in his voice. 

You say no more as he drifts off to sleep on your chest, cock still inside you. He intends to make you his queen. To kill Aegon and take his place. 

You love Aegon, you do. He is your brother, and one of your closest friends. But you would be lying if you said he was a good king. Perhaps it would not be so bad, if Aemond were to take his place, especially with you at his side. 

But does Aegon really deserve to die?

Aemond is insatiable now that he knows you won’t spurn his advances. You can’t say that you mind too much. 

Your elbows resting on the table before you, he takes you from behind as you both pore over a map of Westeros, markers indicating where your forces lay. A letter from Ser Cole sits open on the table beside you, informing Aemond of his most recent conquest as he nears Rook’s Rest. You run your fingers against the wood of the table, moving pieces along the map like chess, the sounds of Aemond’s breathy groans and the rustle of your skirts shifting as he takes you the only sounds in the room. 

“You will have to - ah - take flight on Vhagar soon then, if you are to meet Cole at Rook’s Rest.” You say. 

“Hm.” Aemond’s hips smack into yours as he leans over your back, moving the piece that symbolizes Vhagar to the edge of the crownlands. “The conquest should not take more than a day. Any longer and I would send Aegon in my stead - I would be loathe to leave you.” He jokes, pressing his nose against your neck. 

“Mm.” You hum, letting him stretch you further across the table and angle your hips to better receive his thrusts. Planting his hands on your hips, he pulls you back to meet each snap of his hips, the map forgotten as he pleasures himself with your body. There’s something intoxicating about his unwavering devotion, something rewarding. It feels like all the time you spent comforting him as a child is paying off; after all, he intends to put you on the throne. You wind a hand behind you to caress his cheek. 

He melts into the touch, extending his body over your back, pressing himself to you completely. It’s intoxicating, the power you have over him. The simplest of touches, the softest of words, and the most fearsome dragon rider in the world bends completely to your will. 

“You must tell Aegon of your plans.” You say, laying your head down on the table to peer at the man behind you. 

“He will no doubt find out on his own.” Aemond says. “Either way, they don’t involve him. Rook’s Rest is nothing Cole and I cannot take on our own.”

“And if someone were to show you the same insolence if you were the king?” You retort, biting back a gasp as his thrusts increase pace. 

“When.” He corrects, almost growling. “When I am the king. And I would exile them for such an insult.”

“Yet- mm, Aemond, ah - you do not fear such retribution from Aegon.” You say. You know he’s getting close, his soft pants turning into longer whines, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. You clench as tightly as you can, reveling in the breathy moan you pull from him as he stills, hips still pressed against yours, spent. 

You feel him make himself comfortable against your back, not bothering to pull away just yet. “Our brother is a fool, not fit for the duties of the crown. How can one be expected to respect such an undeserving monarch? No,” He says, pressing open-mouthed kisses onto any patch of your skin he can reach. “We will be much greater.”

It’s treason, even just entertaining thoughts of taking the throne from the rightful king, but the more Aemond speaks of it, the more you find yourself indulging in the fantasy. Never before did you truly consider what it would be to be queen, but after truly thinking about it, you find yourself enchanted with the idea. With anyone else, you have no doubt that you would have been subjected to the life your mother lived, but as Aemond’s queen, you would have more power than any woman before you. 

“You sound so sure already.” You tease, pushing yourself up on your elbows as he slips away, tucking himself back into his trousers and pulls your skirts back down over your legs. 

“That is because I am.”

Aegon presses his face into his hands, groaning. While he’s not looking, you slide the wine decanter away from him. Full when you sat down, it’s almost empty now, most of the contents having been poured down the kings throat. He’s been drinking more, in the aftermath of little Jaehaerys’ death. You can’t blame him, of course, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t concerning. 

“They plot behind my back.” He says, his face still hidden in his hands, his elbows resting on the table. “Aemond. My own hand - and our mother, she…” He trails off. “They mock me. Think me an idiot. I cannot…” He reaches for the decanter, only to find it missing, and lifts his head out of his hands. “My wine.”

“Perhaps you’ve had enough.” You say, doing your best to be firm. 

He looks at you blankly before gesturing for the decanter again. With a sigh, you fold, sliding the container across the table to him. Let him drink himself to death if he wishes - it would be a better end than whatever Aemond is planning. 

It’s hard to look at Aegon, knowing that your other brother is plotting his demise. He doesn’t deserve to die, not after all he’s been through. Sometimes, you think you know Aegon better than yourself. You’ve seen him at his drunkest, in the streets of Flea Bottom, at his most desperate before his coronation, at his lowest, after the death of his son. He never asked for any of this. He never asked to be king. He doesn’t deserve to die because of a crown he never desired. 

But one cannot simply resign from the throne. 

You watch as Aegon empties the rest of the decanter into his glass, and then misses the table as he sets the pitcher down, shards shattering across the tiled floor. He stares down at the floor, eyes blank. “Ah.”

“Aegon.” You groan. 

He flaps his hand. “Someone will clean it up. Someone always does.”

“Perhaps it is behavior such as this that deters Cole and Aemond from sharing their plans with you.” You say, utterly annoyed at your brother’s actions. 

Aegon scoffs. “As if you weren’t also kept in the dark.” His eyes lazily slide to yours, and you don’t look away quickly enough, it seems, because he catches it in your gaze. “They told you? And not me, their king?”

“I cannot help that our brother seeks my opinion on such matters.” You say. 

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Aegon demands, angrily rising from his seat to level an accusatory finger at you. “You are supposed to be my closest confidant, I expect you to be on my side-!” He cuts himself off. “But no. Of course not. As soon as Aemond gets his claws into you you’re just like the rest of them.”

“Aegon,” You try, placating. “I meant no offense. In fact, I urged Aemond to tell you himself-”

“No, no, you cannot fool me again! I am not as stupid as you think me to be, I am not.” He shouts, harshly backing away from the table as you rise from your seat. There’s an anger in his eyes that you’ve never seen directed at you before, and it gives you pause, guilt and shame sinking into the pit of your stomach. What were you thinking, going behind his back like this? He is your brother, one of your closest friends, your king. Curse Aemond and all his sickly sweet words. 

“Aegon-”

A loose hand thrown up in the air, he silences you with a harsh glance before stalking out of the room, leaving you alone with the shattered pieces of the decanter for company. 

Aegon returns to you on a litter, melted into his armor by dragonfire, barely conscious. The smell of charred flesh and dragon blood fills the hall as the kingsguard rush him to the maesters, and you press yourself as far into the wall as you can to let them pass. There is no rage in you, only shock and despair. You had not thought it would be so soon, that Aemond had his revenge. 

“Jaenara.”

You turn at the sound of his voice, and he stops in front of you, pulling off his riding gloves and tucking them into the pocket of his leathers. There’s an energy about him that you haven’t seen before. Leftover adrenaline crackles over his skin, the pupil of his good eye blown wide, almost lustful. 

“What have you done?” You demand, cringing at the frightened quality of your voice. 

“What I planned to do.” He says, taking you by the arm. “Are you not delighted? Aegon is indisposed, he will be crippled for the rest of his life - however many short years he has left, in this state. None will stand in our way.”

“I…” You aren’t sure how you feel. Aegon isn’t dead, but he will be in incredible pain for the rest of his life. Likely, he won’t be able to walk on his own, or ever ride his dragon again. It is an awful fate for someone you love. But you cannot pretend a part of you - the same part seduced by Aemond’s ambition - isn’t elated at the downfall of the king. 

“Come.” Aemond says, tugging you away from your palace pressed against the rough hewn stone of the Keep walls. You fall into pace beside him, stumbling over your own feet as you process how reality is shifting around you at this very moment. Aemond and the council will have to speak on Aegon’s behalf, puppeteering him even more so than before. You are one step closer to ascending the throne. Your brother is half-alive, melted into the armor of his namesake. 

You don’t realize where you are until Aemond is pushing you down onto his bed with one hand and rucking your skirts up around your waist with the other. He does not wait for you to react before he scoops your hips up to insert himself into you, groaning in relief as he slides home. “My queen.” He gasps throatily, pillowing his face in the crook of your neck. “Have I pleased you?”

“Mm.” You hum, unable to say the words ‘yes, of course’. It proves to be enough though, for Aemond sighs again, slowly beginning to grind his hips against yours. It’s more fervent than his usual fucking, spurred on by the bloody battle he’s just come from. You can smell the smoke in his hair from where it lays across your face. 

“It will not be long now,” He says, breathy and rough. “Soon, you and I will sit the throne. Have our own heirs - will you give me an heir?” He asks. “Will you give me more than one?”

“As many as you’d like.” You choke out. There isn’t another option for you now, not with Aemond so intent on having you by his side when he takes his place as king. As you’re sure he will. 

“We will put Jaehaerys and Alysanne to shame.” He declares, placing his hands under the small of your back, causing you to arch against him. Holding the tops of your hips, he fucks you against him feverishly. It does not take long for him to finish, already keyed up on the high of his plans coming to fruition. 

He collapses against your chest with a heavy sigh, and instinctually, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, carding your fingers through his hair. 

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin. 

It’s the first time he’s said the words aloud, though you’ve known it for a very long time. Of course Aemond loves you. 

“As I, you.” You return. 

What you can’t decide, is if you feel the same.

[jillsandwhichs]

Mr. Trucker man

Chapter 12 to Joel Miller x Reader Smutshot Collection

Masterlist

Pairing: F!Reader x Joel Miller

Summary: You are a runaway young adult - you ran from your home a few months ago. Whilst on the run, you stopped by a truck stop in the "middle of no-where" Texas. While there, you meet a trucker, Joel and little do you know, the two of you will hookup

Status of your guy's relationship in this one shot: Strangers/Hookup

WC: 3.6k

Type: NSFW

Warnings: Age gap, Making out, Dirty talk, BJ, He finishes in your mouth, Unprotected P in V, Riding, Spanking, You both finish, He finishes inside of you & slight aftercare

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

It reeks of masculinity around you. Just reeks of grown old men. Well, that's on you though. You could've went anywhere but you decided to stop at a random truck stop and diner on the outside of the route you've been following for the past day or so. You were starving though, so it was conventional. Guess you can't complain too much.

You took another bite of the cheeseburger you ordered from the diner to the left of you. You didn't want to eat inside. They were playing tacky old music - it wasn't any Hank Williams or Aaron Lewis, that's for sure. Standing outside while eating was for the better anyways - watching the sun set and the moon rise was a beautiful sight to witness.

What's rare though is to find a diner open this late. The neon sign plasted on the window says "Open 24/7!" Which was a fine sight to see earlier when you had gotten here. You also ordered a bottle of coke. You half expected just to receive a fountain cup but no, this diner kept it real and gave you an actual bottle. Reminds you of childhood.

You have your back against a large brown pillar. It's connected to the office to the truck stop, you're sure a worker is inside, doing their job. It sucks but it's all you got and your body is killing you, so sitting down against it is all you got. You gaze up at the stars whilst you eat. The burger is actually good. Guess the cooks work best at night then, huh?

Ain't better than back home though. No. That's what you miss - the food. Being on the go at all times means you don't really get to enjoy good food. It's all convenience store snacks, random diners and their cheap menus and/or scraps you manage to scrounge up. You're grateful for this meal though. The Lord damn well knows you needed it.

While finishing up your sandwich, you watched as a fine looking older man exited the diner. He was tall, that was the first thing you noticed. He has to be 6'2-6'3 at best. You're pretty short, at least that's what you're told by your family. Hell, who cares what they think though. You're done with them.

The man was wearing a big brown jacket, it's clearly fabricated at the moonlight doesn't reflect off of it as a leather jacket would cause. His jeans are shitty looking, all stained and washed up. His boots have to be older than the jeans though, hell, they've been put through it. He's a trucker, no doubt. Probably got his belly full of greasy food and a good beer or two. He's living the life, eh?

Shit. You looked down. He had noticed you, and he most definitely realized you were gazing at him. You don't trust people, let alone men. The last thing you need is to be kidnapped or some shit in relation. You pretended like he didn't exist, picking up your coke bottle and drinking some of the cold soda, letting the carbonated drink seep down your throat.

However, you can't just ignore the presence of someone who is quite literally approaching you. Damnit. You looked up and right before you was the man. You hadn't gotten a good look at him before but wow, he's a hot guy. You had to hold back a smile. "Hello?" You murmured out, your voice quiet but friendly. You didn't want to come off as a bitch - despite wanting to possibly scare him off.

"Hey there." He had his arms crossed as he gazed down at you. "Can I help you with something?" You said to him. You felt obligated to help him now, if need be. He did catch you gawking at him after all. "There ain't nothin' I need help with, no." He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Guess I'm more curious as to what a young girl like you is doin' all alone in the middle of nowhere Texas."

Oh. Valid concern. You chuckled and shook your head. "Guess it's a good thing that's my business and not yours then, right?" You weren't meaning to come off as rude but a grown man has no need to know what you're up to, at all. The man snickered and shook his head again. "Yeah, you ain't wrong," he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds before looking back down at you.

"You...?" He mumbled, wondering if you smoke. You do, on occasion. You nodded and he held one out for you. You took it from him and placed it in between your lips. You reached into your jeans pocket to get your lighter, then realized it's in your bag over near the garbage can. You hide it in case of muggers. People are careless around here.

He smirked, his smoke between his lips. "Hmm." He lit his up first, inhaling quickly before exhaling even faster. Here," he grunted, bringing his hands down to your face and lighting up your cigarette, allowing you to get that sweet, sweet nicotine inhale. You breathed it in and sighed it out. Hmm. Different from the usual brand you go for. You're more of a camel's kinda girl.

Blowing out some smoke once again, the man talked. "What's your name darlin'?" Southern men and their talk. You decided to just tell him your name. No harm in that. "What's yours?" "Joel." Joel, huh? Quite the name. Definitely an older name. You nodded. You took another drag from the cigarette before letting out through your nose. Guess he knew you needed a smoke. It's definitely helping with your drearyness.

"You one of those damn kids whose on the run?" How did he know? You suppose you're rather young looking. You are nineteen. You're an adult though, not a kid. "I'm nineteen and I guess? I'm on the "run", sure, you could say that." "Nineteen?" He whistled after hearing you say that. You giggled. "Yeah?" "Just wasn't expectin' that. You seem a lot older just by your demeanor." By your demeanor? Hmm.

"That a compliment?" "It is. Being that young n' being able to seem a lot older is a goddamn weapon." "How?" "Yous oughta get your way a lot easier." Joel snickered out, hitting his smoke again. You nodded. "You aren't wrong." "I know." Maybe he has experience. You tittered and stood up. You leaned your back against the pillar.

Oh yeah, he's a lot fucking taller than you. Jesus Christ. You looked him up and down before glancing down at your feet. Your black doc martens are a lot smaller compared to his brown leather boots. "You from here? Texas, I mean." "Yeah." "What part then?" "Why?" "Can a man not be curious?" Hmm. "Ennis... A bit ways from Fort Worth." "Yeah, yeah, I know the town. I'm from Austin." "Austin? City boy then?"

Joel laughed at your words. His laugh is sexy, you can't lie to yourself. "Far from it. Just where I grew up though." "Yeah." You nodded, dropping the cigarette on the ground and putting it out with your boot. It was practically out anyways. Joel is still finishing up on his. "Are you a trucker or something." "Sure am. That's mine right over there." He pointed to one of the trucks, the front end being white.

"I figured. Where are you off to?" "Why? You tryna hitch a ride?" "No." Yes. You are. Why wouldn't you? He seems good enough and if he's headed north, you're desperate to get up further as quickly as you can. "That the truth?" He murmured, gazing into your eyes. Fuck. You looked down and cleared your throat. "If you need a ride, just say that. I'm headed up north."

Good fucking Lord, is God on your side as of today? You tilted your head back up and nodded. "Where to up north?" "Wherever the highways take me, I guess. I ain't got a job goin' right now, not until next week." "Right." Truckers have no schedule. Cool. "I just wanna get up to Amarillo." "What's in Amarillo?" "A friend and a whole lot of opportunities."

Seems Joel liked that answer because he nodded and looked down at his truck keys. "Wouldn't take us more than the night. I'd have you up there by mornin'." He stated, clearing his throat and tossing his cigarette on the ground, it was already out. "You really going to do this for me? Why?" You are confused. You are just some random girl. "Because its either I take you and you stay safe, or you end up gettin' kidnapped or somethin'."

Oh.

You snorted and rolled your eyes. "And how am I sure you aren't a kidnapper?" "You ain't. You'll have to find out, I guess." He teased you. You giggled. "Suppose so." You reached down and grabbed your coke bottle, beginning to walk over to the large garbage can. You threw it away and picked up your backpack, swinging it over your shoulders. "When can we go?" "Now." He motioned his head towards his truck.

Here goes nothing.

-

As you got settled into his truck, you tucked your backpack under the seat. It smells good. Like... Good... Wood & leather - nostalgic smells for you. He was settled in as well, turning up the radio to be just low enough to where you two could still talk and he took his hat off, hanging it on the side of his dashboard. To your surprise, his truck is rather taken care of.

"Your truck is nice." "Thank you darlin', she's my baby." He spoke in a deep voice. "I don't know how I can ever thank you for doing this for me. I thought my ass was gonna have to walk all the way there. That'd take me days." You chuckled and ran your fingers through your hair. "Just doin' a good deed."

You can tell he's a good man with a dark side to him. He just has that look to him. Like, he does good things to make up for the other shit he does. To your guess, he's probably committed some sort of deep rooted crime. You can't say for sure though. You know nothing about him. You breathed in deeply before sighing.

Looking back at him, you bit your lower lip. He's sexy. A grown man whose a trucker? That's hot. He just has a vibe to him. "You're handsome." You said with confidence. You have spunk to you, you aren't afraid to say what is on your mind. If anything, you're sure he'll appreciate it. "Handsome? Well then, thanks." "You're very welcome." You smiled at him before watching as his stuck the keys in the ignition.

"For the record, I think you're a beautiful young girl." He stated, glancing over at you. "You do?" You tilted your head. He breathed in deeply, thinking back to how he mentioned you're a weapon. "Mhm." He grunted out. "That's sweet." You chortled faintly, glancing down at your hands. "You hardly told that or somethin'?" "No. I'm told often." "Course you are." He wasn't surprised.

"However," you reached your hand over, sliding it on the inner side of his thigh, near his covered crotch - which you could see was hard the moment you called him handsome. "It just has a different ring to it when you say it." You looked into his brown eyes, encapturing his darkness that is clearly so deeply rooted into them. Fuck, was all Joel could think to himself.

He pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the cup holder between the lower side of the seats. That action made you happy. It's been awhile since you've... Gotten any action. You're sure it's been the same for him. A random trucker? Not your worst. Not your best. But it'll surely be the most fun and the most spontaneous.

Joel leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The taste of faint alcohol and fresh nicotine slipped off of his tongue and onto yours as you opened your mouth, allowing him to slide it into your mouth. God. It feels good to have a connection like this with someone after so very long. "Mmm." You moaned out as he cupped your cheeks, caressing them as the two of you kissed.

Your arms went around his neck and you pulled away for a moment. "Here," you looked down and began to undo his leather belt. "You gonna suck me off?" "Yeah? Can I?" You looked at him, right into his eyes. Your irises twinkled and you saw the devil within his eyes shine brighter than ever, than it has at all. "You can." He lifted his ass up, dropping his jeans down, then his briefs, revealing his dick.

He's big. Real big. Girthy too. You're sure this is the biggest you've ever dealt with, but you don't mind. You're always up for a challenge. You did quite literally run away from home when you were only eighteen - there's nothing you can't do at this point. You kissed him once more, your cherry chapstick leaving a yearning taste on his lips.

You began to pump him in your hand, keeping him hard. "Hold my hair back for me, will you?" "Yes ma'am." He nodded, though you couldn't see considering your head was aligned with his cock. You wrapped your small, pink lips around him, immediately tasting his pre-cum. Sweet. Tasty. You licked around his tan tip for a little bit before fully taking him in.

The sexy groan Joel let out made you wet. You literally felt your pussy gush between your legs as you sucked him off. You bopped your head up and down, keeping one hand on the lower base of his cock, and the other on his thigh for some support. He kept your hair out of the way though, running his fingers through it and keeping it against him.

His tip hit the back of your throat repeatedly, it felt good. You didn't gag, you could handle it - at least for the time being. "Fuck, you take it well. That'a girl." His praising was... Well, it was something you needed to hear. You swear you've lacked in the sex & social department as of late. You swirled your tongue around his base, making sure to not leave a single spot unsucked.

"Goodness doll, I'm already close." Already? Guess you're doing something good. You dug your nails into his thighs whilst sucking him off. You couldn't help yourself. You get rough. His hand tangled into your hair, his other hand sticking on the steering wheel. He held onto your brushed out hair tightly, gripping it as he now moved your head up and down the way he wanted.

"Good fuckin' Lord, just like that baby." He huffed out. With a few more bobs of your head, he came and it all went into your mouth. Of course, you swallowed it all. You moved your head a few more times before finally lifting your head up and giggling, looking directly into his eyes as you licked your lips and tilted your head to the side, just as you did earlier.

That was something else. You're glad you did that. It felt good for the both of you and clearly, more-so him. There was obvious tension built up within him, and a clear sexual tension between you two, since the moment you began speaking to each other. "So? How was that?" You laughed and caressed his scruff. He shook his head and looked down. "Needed that." Was all he said. "I can tell."

Drawing yourself in, you kissed his ear lobe, then along his jawline before reaching his lips again. You kissed him passionately and as you did, Joel's hands went to your sides as he pulled you onto his lap, keeping you close and pressed against him. You encased your arms around his neck and moaned when out of no where, he gripped your ass through your jeans, grinding you against his lap.

"Gonna get you out of these," he popped the button open and pulled your fly down, "and I'm gonna fuck you real good, hmm?" He murmured, kissing your cheek gently. You bit back a shy laugh, instead kissing him with haste. "I don't mind at all." You whispered. He knows you don't. Joel opened the glove box to his right and cursed to himself.

Glancing back, you realized what he was in search for. A condom. He's out. You sighed. "You don't have any STD's, do you?" You laughed. He shook his head, "You?" "No." You kissed the top of his head. "I'm still taking the pill." "You are?" "Mhm, don't worry." "Fuck yeah." He slammed the box shut and then helped you get your jeans off, which happened quickly. Almost as if it was with the snap of a damn finger.

You adjusted your position on him and let out a soft exhale. "Here," you pulled your panties to the side and jerked him for a little bit, helping him get fully hard again. He smirked. "You're good with them hands." "I know." You glanced up and kissed him passionately, breathing in deeply as you did. He rubbed your hips as you two made out, your guy's tongues massaging one another's.

Slowly but surely, you sat down on him. Every single inch entered you, and it felt amazing. You moaned softly and smiled at the feeling. Its like you could literally feel him in your belly. "How's that feel?" "So good." You pressed your forehead against his before you began to move gently, going up and down & back and fourth on his dick.

"Oh, yes, yes, fuck." You panted out, holding onto him tightly as you rode him. You wasted no time. You like it this way - fast and rough. "Oh, you like that? Huh?" He said slyly into your ear as he held your waist, helping you move on him. "Uh-huh!" You nodded before tucking your head into the crease of his neck, pecking it lightly.

This feels so good. You needed this. You haven't had sex in such a long fucking time. You think Joel rather enjoys it too. He's grunting & making noise just as much as you are. Not going to lie to yourself, it's a turn on. Suddenly, you felt a smack to your ass, which made your back arch. "Oh." You moaned, grasping his shoulders as you pulled away from his neck and instead, stared into his devilish eyes.

Joel was biting his lower lip as he looked back at you. His hands were gripping your ass, spanking you every so often. You liked it, you've never had it done to you before during sex but it feels nice; It is a turn on, admittedly. You began to roughly bounce on him now, wasting literally no time. The sound of your skin smacking against his was loud and lowkey sexy, truthfully.

You've never hooked up with someone this old, but you swear this may have to be the best sex you've ever had.

"I'm so close." You whimpered out, cupping his face and setting your forehead against his. "Yeah? You gonna cum for me?" Oh fuck. The way he talks to you. Yeah, you're gonna finish for him & on him. You nodded and he was quick to begin thrusting upwards into you, increasing the speed & hardness. "Oh shit." Were your last words before you came.

And oh came you did. You could feel your wetness and how much there was between your legs and on his lap, even on his cock. He didn't seem to mind though. Your body quite literally recoiled from orgasming but Joel held you close, caressing your back as you did. Your mind literally left reality momentarily as you came. It was too good.

He was still fucking upwards into you, but he was also close so it didn't last long. He came deep inside of you. You could literally feel it. You didn't care, you're infertile as it is and you're on the pill - plus you aren't even ovulating. You'll be fine, you're sure of it.

"Holy shit." You laughed before moving your hair out of your face and climbed off of his lap. The sound of him popping out of you was heard right before you sat down on the seat, pulling your panties up and your jeans, fixing your clothes quickly. Joel snickered and reached over, patting your thigh. "Damn that was good." Joel licked his lips before putting his pants back on too.

Now you wonder, is he still gonna take you to Amarillo? You hope so. You hope you two fucking didn't just ruin that for you, like, make it too awkward. "Are you still gonna take me to Amarillo?" You questioned him. "If not, I understand." Joel picked up his keys and glanced at you, "Course I am, why wouldn't I?" He asked you. Oh. A wave of relief coursed through you. "I dunno." You sighed.

"Just get buckled in and situated, I'll have you up there in no time." Joel then started up his truck. His hand then reached over to rub your shoulders. "I'll get you there safely n' soundly." "Thank you." You smiled at him.

Lots of thanks to Mr. Trucker man.

[wileys-russo]

are requests open? if so could you do a comfort blurb the prompt “i could really use a hug right now” with alessia? thanks!

need a hug II a.russo

"oh for fuck sakes!" you swore as you knocked over a pot plant, dirt and rocks spilling out everywhere, groaning as you flicked off the vacuum.

the house falling you silent you gingerly moved the vacuum out of the way, sighing as you hunted around in the cupboard beneath the sink to try and find the dustpan and broom.

"where has she put it?" you huffed, your girlfriend having an infuriating habit of using something and never placing it back where she found it, eventually fishing it out from the bottom of the pantry.

squatting down you began to sweep up the mess, only you'd barely begun before the brush promply snapped in half. "are you joking?" you had to laugh in disbelief, now only holding the handle.

"how does that even happen?" you grunted, grabbing the jagged brush and trying to sweep up as best you could, dropping it into the garbage and vacuuming up the rest before trying to repot the poor plant as best you could and setting it aside.

you were interrupted by a few short sharp knocks at the door, grateful you hadn't started the vacuum yet and hurrying over, well aware you currently looked an absolute state.

thankfully it was only the post man and with a smile you collected the few packages addressed to your girlfriend, closing the front door and leaving them on the corner of the bed for her to deal with once she got home.

you knew alessia had been stressed lately, she was so close to finally finishing her studies but juggling that, the podcast, brand deals, appearances and football, she did well to hide it but you knew her well enough to see how thin she was wearing.

the blonde was already gone before you'd woke up, having a photo shoot and interview before training and you knew she had a rather large assignment looming over her which she'd spend hours doing once she got home.

so you'd elected to work from home today which consisted of two meetings you'd moved to the morning and an hour of admin, and freed up your entire afternoon to try and make the house as lovely and tidy as possible.

your girlfriend proudly half italian had taught you how to make pasta many times only you'd never attempted it by yourself, but you'd ducked out to the grocery store to make some for the pair of you for dinner, determined for her not to lift a single finger tonight.

only your grand plan of this large self care evening in which you'd oh so keenly do whatever your girlfriend needed to unwind was being apprehended by one thing, the fact that someone, somewhere, with some unknown grudge against you seemed to have cursed you the most rotten luck in which nothing was going to plan at all.

the tipped over plant wasn't even the start of it, accidentally near blinding yourself with a bottle of toilet bleach as you'd wrestled to get the cap off and slipped on your freshly mopped floor, almost tipping it all over your face as you'd just capped it.

then there was your coffee, a slight lapse in your concentration meaning you'd burnt your milk and then had no more left to remake it, struggling through a very unwelcome long black instead.

thankfully the next hour passed incident free, a satsified click of your tongue as you arranged the lilies you'd gotten for your favourite blonde in the crystal vase which was a present from her mum on your first christmas with the russo's.

but now perhaps the biggest mission of all, dinner.

a brief glance at your phone and you smiled seeing a few messages from your girlfriend, fingers flying as you shot back a reply and tucked your phone into your pocket.

for some extra support you'd found a video online to run you through making the dough, which you knew would be the hardest part of it all as you'd watched even your semi pro pasta making girlfriend mess it up before.

your first attempt, was an absolute dud and the only thing it would be feeding was the garbage bin.

you were beginning to get the hang of kneading while also being acutely aware that any minute now alessia would be home, and you wanted as much of this done as possible because you knew your girlfriend well enough that her first instinct would be to takeover.

sure enough not even a moment later you heard the keys in the door, almost done with putting the dough through the pasta roller and withholding a laugh as you heard a thump and a curse ring out.

"welcome home clumsy!" you called out, the blonde appearing with a playful glare and blowing you a kiss, holding up her gym bag which you knew no doubt was full of dirty laundry she'd want to put on soon as possible.

it all seemed to be going well, dough rolled and ready to be shaped, but alas, your rotten luck struck again.

you rounded the counter to grab something, but having just washed your hands and not drying them they'd clearly dripped onto the floor and before you could even blink you'd slipped and your back hit the floor.

but no, of course that wasn't it, your hand collecting the half full bag of flour and sending it toppling down on top of you, a squeal leaving your lips and footsteps thundering toward you as your girlfriend skidded into the kitchen, concern clearly plastered all over her face.

"what happened?" alessia breathed out, eyes wide at the sight before her and you buried beneath a small mountain of flour, hand smacking over her mouth as you exhaled sending a puff of white up into the air.

"i could really use a hug right now." you mumbled, grateful somewhat for the flour smeared across your cheeks covering how red they'd flushed with embarassment.

"oh baby." alessia bit her lip clearly trying to conceal a grin, gingerly treading her way across the kitchen toward you. "c'mere." the striker stood over you and offered her hands, taking yours within them and very carefully pulling you up to your feet.

you exhaled tiredly into her chest as without a second thought the taller girl wrapped you in a hug, holding tightly as her hand rubbed up and down your back soothingly.

"i was just about to say everything is so clean." the blondes body vibrated with laughter against yours as you let out a pitiful whine. "i was trying to give you a lovely clean home and hot dinner to come home to." you sighed, words a little muffled against her jumper which was now covered in flour. "hey." you looked up as hands cupped your cheeks.

"i'm coming home to you, and that's always more than enough." your girlfriend spoke firmly, bright blue eyes locked with your own as you could only nod. "i love you." you leaned up to kiss her, frowning when the blonde craned her chin away.

"hey! kiss me." you scowled, a grin curling into her lips which again dodged yours. "you are covered in flour." alessia laughed as you rolled your eyes. "so you don't love me, noted." you sighed dramatically, pulling away from her.

"oh no no no, don't you be like that." your girlfriend was quick to capture you back in her arms, spinning you around so your back was pressed against the counter.

"kiss me then." you challenged with a sly smile, the footballer sighing dramatically as if you'd just asked her to build you a house, a scoff leaving your lips before they were promptly pressed against her own.

"i love you too pretty girl."

[halfpsychic]

After Hours (John Carter x gn!reader)

Summary: After a rough shift, Carter takes you out for something to eat. Thank you to anon for requesting :) Set in the same universe as Saint John.

Warnings: mentions of child death, coping with losing patients, mutual pining, some emotional comfort.

WC: 2.3k

Carter, exhausted from working a double shift, still waits by your locker while you finish paperwork for your last patient of the night. He bites back a yawn, glancing down at his watch. It’s late. He thinks about grabbing you by your shoulders and dragging you away from the admit desk so you’ll finally go home. All afternoon he watched how your shoulders drooped and your smiles faded too quick for his liking. You had lost a patient this morning– a family destroyed by a car accident that was no one’s fault. That was always the worst; trying to understand how something so awful can happen with no one to blame. 

The car behind had mechanical issues with their brakes and rammed the family’s van into a busy intersection. A mother with her child in the back seat. Mom was upstairs in a coma and the kid died on the trauma table thirty minutes after being brought in. It’s unclear if mom will wake up and you almost don’t want her to. She shouldn’t have to suffer through the loss of her child. There was no comfort to be found in the sunshine yellow walls of the room. 

You had brushed off all of Carter’s attempts to cheer you up. Talking about his own patients didn’t distract you, it only made things worse, wondering why a convenience store robber with a knife could survive being shot in the chest but that poor child had her life cut short before she could experience living. You didn’t eat anything for lunch in the cafeteria even though Carter offered to pay for it. You couldn’t stomach anything yet. 

For the rest of the evening, you were uncharacteristically quiet. Carter can’t stand to see you like that. You don’t deserve it, not in the slightest. It’s not your fault you feel things too deeply some days. Today just happened to be one of those days, and paired with senseless loss, Carter wanted to shoulder some of that sadness for you. With you, if you’d let him.

His head snaps up when the door swings open and thankfully you walk through. A half an hour after your shift originally ended and you’re finally ready to go home. Carter’s presence by your locker is a surprise. You thought he already left. 

“Carter,” you address his presence. “You’re not at home yet?”

“No, I was waiting for you,” he answers, moving out of the way so you can open your locker. No matter how many times he sees it, his heart always skips a beat when he sees the polaroid of you together taped to the inside of your locker door. 

“You should’ve gone home,” you say quietly. Always putting his comfort before your own.

“But then I couldn’t take you for something to eat.”

Your head tilts up to look at Carter and you sigh. “Carter… I just want to go home.”

“You didn’t eat lunch,” he shakes his head. “We don’t have to stay long. I- I don’t think you should just go home alone right now.”

Deep down, you know he’s right. It wouldn’t do you any good to go home to an empty apartment, left alone with your spiralling thoughts.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” You mumble, but there’s no malice in your voice. It's as soft as ever. You pull your jacket on and grab your bag. Carter smiles and nudges your shoulder with his own, following you out the door.

It’s warm outside for spring. You crack the passenger seat window of Carter’s Jeep open, letting in the sweet evening air. It’s hard not to let your mind wander back to this morning in the shared silence. Watching the buildings pass you by, you get lost in thought. The job, the patients you lose, the opportunities you miss because of how demanding work is, you wonder if this is where you’re supposed to be. Too many doctors fall victim to apathy the longer they stick with the job. You’ve had people tell you that it’s easier to be detached, otherwise it will consume you. But what’s the point, then? How can you vow to heal people while not caring about what happens to them? Even Carter has gotten better at ignoring the reality of the job. It’s why his presence by your locker after his double shift was startling. Why would he want to stick around with you while you mope?

Carter had found this diner a few months ago when he walked from his apartment to yours. His Jeep was in the shop and the train only took him so far. There it was, a neon sign cutting through the fog. He paused for a moment to look at the menu taped to the front window and he made a mental note to check it out sometime. Now, he pulls up next to the sidewalk and puts his Jeep into park.

Inside, the diner is empty. It’s a relief to you, to be able to enjoy Carter’s presence without the extra noise of other patrons. Carter picks a booth by the window. 

“You on tomorrow?” He asks, shrugging off his coat. 

“Yeah,” you answer. You dread it already. Dead on your feet at the end of this shift and you have to be back in the morning. “You?”

Carter shakes his head. “No, I’m off. Was hoping you’d be, too, after today.”

“Not everyone’s so lucky,” you flash a weak smile.

A waitress stops by the table to take your order. Carter orders coffee while you order something small, your appetite not fully returning yet. 

Carter studies you under the dim lights. He watches your eyes trail to the window, the way they’re glazed over from being deep in thought. He knows what you’re thinking about. That mom who will never see her kid again, even if she does wake up. How fast families can be torn apart and lives can be thrown upside down. How fast it could happen to either one of you.

“Remember that time a patient came back to give you a cake?” Carter’s voice snaps you out of your somber daze. He’s always been good at that, pulling you out from your catastrophic thinking. “She wouldn’t leave until I dragged you out from the trauma room. Y’know, I’ve never gotten a cake as a ‘thank you’ gift.”

The memory brings a smile to your lips for a moment. It was early in your time at County General, barely a month into working at a hospital, and you were blessed with something rare. Gratitude. Most doctors are lucky to get a ‘thank you for saving my life’ from a patient, resulting in apathy among countless experienced doctors, who find it increasingly difficult to treat patients as if they’re living, breathing people instead of a chunk of flesh with symptoms to heal. It’s easy to forget why you’re still waking up before the sun and enduring long hours with few breaks, if you get any. Today was no different. Tragedy strikes and you wonder why you’re still going to come back the next day instead of quitting for a job that doesn’t have death as a daily occurance. 

“You ate half of that cake,” you tease, the tragedy-stained thoughts slipping from your mind.

“Hey, we both saved that woman,” Carter smiles.

“You barely helped,” you roll your eyes at him. “If we were eating cake based on how much work we did, you’d be stuck with just one slice.”

The waitress comes back and drops off your plates. 

“Do you ever think about quitting?” You ask Carter. The question takes him by surprise, his head tilting up with furrowed eyebrows.

“Sometimes,” he answers truthfully. His voice is quiet, cautious of the subject. “Do you?”

“Today I am.”

“It’s not an easy job.”

“I don’t know if I was meant for it. All this death.”

Carter sighs. “We’re in it together, right?”

You nod. Carter’s constant presence in your life has saved you every time a shift turns sour. He grounds you in a way no one else can. “Most days, you’re the only thing that makes coming into work bearable.”

Carter smiles and lowers his head for a second. He’s always caught off guard when you say something so kind and raw. “If you quit, you’d barely see me.” After a beat, he adds quietly, “And I’d really miss you.”

You pick at the food on your plate. His words do little to change your opinion about the job but they remind you that you’re not alone. It’s easy to let work take over your life. There’s no separation from the stress once you walk out of the hospital doors after a shift, and it’s rare that you can manage to think about anything else. Carter, still here after all these years, is the lighthouse in your storms. A promise of safety after sailing through rough waters. He’d never let you drown. 

“I’d really miss you, too,” you respond quietly, your eyes flickering up to meet his. You don’t often let the conversation turn so sentimental with Carter. There’s reminiscing on the days of college together, but expressing true feelings about the other isn’t a common topic of conversation. So much is danced around in fear of coming off too strong. You’ve spent years glued to Carter’s side and you still can’t shake the embarrassment of sincerity.

“Not every day is like this,” Carter reminds you. You know he’s right. Yesterday wasn’t like this, and tomorrow won’t be, either, even if you still have to carry the weight of it.

Your chest heaves with a tired sigh. “Yeah. I think I just need to go to sleep.”

He nods, understanding how you feel. A good night's sleep always helps.

Carter takes the bill when the waitress comes back and opens his wallet to leave cash on the table. You open your mouth to protest, hand reaching for your own wallet in your pocket, but Carter shakes his head. “No, don’t even try,” he smiles at you. 

Outside, wind tunnels through the buildings and cuts through your jacket. A shiver runs up your spine, body trembling in the unexpected (it’s Chicago, you should’ve expected it) cold. “I can walk, it’s not too far from here,” you suggest, trying to still your shaking body.

“Not a chance,” Carter tells you. “Get in.”

He holds open the passenger door for you and you sink into the seat, the Jeep’s stale air no warmer than outside. Carter starts the vehicle and your eyes flutter closed when the warm air blows out from the vents.

“Thank you,” you murmur, “for everything. You really didn’t have to.”

He pulls away from the sidewalk. “You don’t have to thank me for being your friend.”

His sentiment is bittersweet. If the roles were reversed, you taking Carter out after a rough shift in an attempt to cheer him up, you wouldn’t accept his thanks, either. It goes without saying that you take care of each other. A habit forged in promises during college. But even on nights where it was just the two of you, it hurts to know it won’t go any further than friends. He won’t kiss you goodbye or say I love you before he hangs up the phone like you’ve dreamt of for so long. Tonight, he won’t walk you up to your door and lean in for a kiss because he can’t leave you without a reminder of how you taste. 

“I still think you should hear it anyway.”

You can’t quite make it out under the passing street lamps but Carter’s cheeks turn pink. The rest of the short drive to your apartment is quiet. Carter’s gesture worked. Instead of ruminating on patients, your mind focuses on Carter. On moments that almost were and moments that will never be. It’s just as heartbreaking but it’s better to imagine what might be than focus on tragedy that did happen. There’s still hope, even if just a sliver. 

Carter parks outside of your building. It’s late and your body is heavy with exhaustion but you don’t want to leave him just yet. There’s comfort in silence with someone who understands. He knows what it’s like to lose yourself in a patient. 

“Promise you’ll try to sleep?” Carter asks, turning his head to look at you. He’s serious. 

“Promise,” you answer, and you mean it. It’s not a lie to appease his worries.

Before you can reach for the door handle, Carter speaks again. “You can call me if you can’t. If you want.”

That offer has always been there between you. Most nights it goes unsaid. He’ll always answer the phone if you call, it doesn’t matter how late it is or if he has work in the morning, and you’d do the same for him. It’s one of those nights where you can already tell your hand will hover over your phone in a few hours, never daring to dial his number. Sometimes, talking to Carter in the middle of the night is a worse thought than whatever was plaguing you in the first place. Sometimes, it’s easier to just deal with it instead of hanging up the phone and wishing he was next to you in bed instead of across the city. 

All you can manage is a quaint smile, but it conveys what you feel. Gratitude. For always offering a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, for being a light at the end of every dark tunnel, for cheering you on and cheering you up, for never leaving. 

Carter waits until you disappear into your building to drive away. On the drive back to his apartment, he wonders if tonight will be the night you pick up the phone to call him.

masterlist ko-fi

A/N: i’m a sucker for friends to lovers slow burn so my apologies for how many pining carter x reader fics i will probably write. i swear they will get together one day. just not in the next one.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Forbidden - Part 4

In which your heart shatters into a million pieces.

Warnings: swearing, descriptions of a panic attack, charles being a dick.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader word count: 2.3k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Master List

Summer break. Four blissful weeks of no racing talk, no work for Max, and nothing to do but spend the day in bed. Of course, you had work to do but considering half of Europe was also on summer holiday at the moment, your inbox was fairly empty and you didn’t have much going on. The first week of the summer vacation passed with you spending nearly all your time with Max, holed up in either your new apartment that you finally found and rented four weeks ago or in his apartment across town. The uninterrupted time you had spent with him so far had been one of the best weeks of your entire life. 

And Max felt the same way. It was so nice being out of the spotlight for a while, able to hide away and focus solely on you. Things between the two of you were becoming…serious, he supposed. It was still a secret from everyone and Max was beginning to chafe under that shroud of secrecy. You were still insistent on keeping it private, still confident that Charles would have an absolute fit if he found out. 

But you also were wary of what the media and fans would do if they found out. Just a few weeks ago, there had been a rumor about Oscar’s girlfriend Lily being pregnant and Oscar had been accused of hiding her pregnancy to save his career. It was all false, of course. You had seen Lily with your own eyes the other night when you ran into her and Oscar while you were at dinner with your mother and Charlie and she was very not pregnant. But you could see the toll it had taken on the both of them. The way Lily looked a little more on edge than normal, and Oscar a little more distant than usual had you nervous of what would happen if Max and you ever decided to go public. 

For now though, you were content setting up house and pretending the outside world didn’t exist. In another week, you would go on a trip with your family to Croatia for a week, spending time on a yacht Charlie had rented to island hop. While you didn’t want to leave Max, who would be leaving to spend some time with his family first in Belgium, where his mother was from and then in Italy. You hated how much your heart hurt when you thought about how much you’d miss him while he was gone for the two weeks, but the first race back would be Max’s home race in the Netherlands which would be such a good weekend. 

You were in the shower that morning when everything crashed and burned. Your phone had been set to Do Not Disturb for various reasons, so you missed the warning signs. Max was in your kitchen, the picture of domestic bliss, as he flipped pancake after pancake, wanting to surprise you with breakfast after you had finished getting cleaned up from this mornings romp in the sheets with him. His shirt was off as he stood barefoot in only a pair of running shorts in front of the stove, whistling along to the upbeat jazz that floated out from the speakers connected to the bluetooth on his phone. 

The smell of the freshly made pancakes, sticky with syrup, wafted through the small apartment, drawing you out of your bathroom in only one of Max’s shirts. “Something smells good.” You crooned, padding into the kitchen in bare feet, hair still damp from your shower. 

Max hums in response, pointing to the pile of pancakes waiting for you on the counter. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you rest your head on his shoulder, pressing your lips to the bare skin there. He always tasted so good, you could never resist the chance to taste him. 

“There’s fruit on the table, juice in the fridge. You really need to go to the grocery store, liefje.” 

Your heart fluttered at the new pet name he’d begun to call you in the last few weeks. You hadn’t known what it meant and when you asked Max, he shyly told you it was Dutch for ‘baby’ or ‘love’. You had always been a sucker for pet names but pet names in a different language than your native French and English? That did something extra to your heart. 

“I know, I know. I can’t help it if there’s a hot Formula 1 driver that refuses to let me out of bed for longer than a few moments though, can I?” 

Max raps you on the ass with the spatula as you scamper away, giggling at the grin he tosses over his shoulder at you. 

“What the actual FUCK am I looking at right now?” 

You spin around, the bowl of fruit in your hands clattering to the ground at the sound of your brother’s voice. 

Oh fuck. 

Your eyes bounce from your brother’s face, a mask of rage to Max’s horrified expression. 

“And here we thought you were hurt or something, but no!” Charles stalks towards you, the key to your apartment dangling from his fingertip. “No, you’re just playing house with my biggest fucking rival! Of all the people you could choose to fuck, it had to be HIM?” 

“Charlie.” You whisper, tears burning the back of your eyes at the look of pure anger and more horrifying, sadness, etched on your brother’s face. “It’s not what you think. This isn’t…”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear you justify whoring yourself out to fucking Max Verstappen.” 

“Do not speak to my girlfriend like that, Charles.” Max grits out, the muscles in his jaw twitching from how tightly he’s grinding his molars together.

You turn slowly, along with Charles, at his words and blink at him. Girlfriend? 

Max ignores the look of panic on your face and continues, voice measured and deathly calm. “I know this might be,” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Upsetting and a surprise but this is not a fling, I swear.” 

If it had been any other time, you would have melted at his words. And you were still reeling from Max calling you his girlfriend. But you had bigger things to focus on. Charles practically shook with anger as he tore his gaze away from Max, fury fully settling on you now. “How long? How long have you been lying to me? To everyone? You’ve been traveling with us under the guise of spending more time with me, living in Monaco to be closer to the family but all this time, you’ve been with him?” 

The disgust in your brother’s voice turns your stomach, acid creeping it’s way up your throat. “Since Austria.” You whisper, wincing when Charles throws your key across the room in a fit of rage. 

“I fucking knew it. I knew something was up when you suddenly had that migraine in Belgium but didn’t answer your door when I came to check on you after dinner. You lied to me! You never lie to me. We never keep secrets and this is the first one you choose to keep from me? My sister fucking the man that has taken everything from me my entire career? What kind of fucking joke it this?” 

“It’s not a joke, Charles.” Max murmurs from where he now stands beside you, fingers laced tightly with yours. Maybe if he showed your brother that this wasn’t some random fling, he’s calm down. 

“Shut your fucking mouth Verstappen.” He growls, furious gaze swinging back to you. “This obviously can’t continue.” 

“Wh-what?” You stutter, absolutely floored that your bother would think that he could make you choose. 

“You left the family for six god damned years because you couldn’t handle being the sister of someone famous! What do you think it’s going to be like as Max Verstappen’s fucking girlfriend! You’re not strong enough.” 

Pain lances through your entire body at the venom in your brother’s voice. “Charlie.” You choke, unable to believe that your best friend, your twin, just said something that awful to you.

“Enough.” Max shouts, stepping in between the pair of you, shielding you from Charles’ view. “You need to leave, right fucking now.”

Charles scoffs, still completely floored by what he walked in on. “You know what, you two deserve each other. Both fucking liars. Don’t bother worrying about coming to Croatia with us, you’re not wanted there anymore. I’m sure you’d have more fun with your new boy toy anyway.” 

Charles turns on his heel and stalks out of your apartment, slamming the door shut behind him so hard you flinch. A haunted silence falls over you and Max, panic and anguish flooding your body as you begin to tremble from the scene that just unfolded before you. 

“Fuck.” Max breaths, turning to you. “I’m so sorry liefje.” He reaches out to take you into his arms but to his surprise, you step out of his reach. Panic shoots through him, you’ve never turned down affection from him, especially when you’re upset. He’s been the one you go to for comfort for months now and not being able to do anything about how distraught you are sets his teeth on edge. “Liefje?” 

“He’s right, you know.” You whisper, not sure if you’re talking to yourself of Max. 

“What?” All Max wants to do is hold you, to get his arms wrapped around you and stop your shaking. 

Tears stream down your face as your brother’s words echo in your head. How you weren’t strong enough. You were whoring yourself out. The vile words repeated over and over until the buzz of his venom was all you could hear. Your breath comes quicker, panic squeezing itself around your heart as you fight for a breath that just won’t come. You know what’s coming and are helpless to fend it off. Having Max see you so weak sends you even further down the road towards the panic attack you can’t keep at bay. 

“You need to leave.” You choke out, desperately needing to be alone to work this out by yourself. It’s how you’ve always done it, gathered yourself together on your own without anyone else seeing you so weak. You couldn’t let Max see you like this. How could you when the only other person you’ve ever allowed in just threw everything in your face. No, you couldn’t stand if Max turned on you too. 

Max comes to stand beside you, concern etched on his handsome face. “What? No, schatje absolutely not. I can’t. Leave you right now, you need me. You can’t be alone now.” 

“That’s exactly what I need. Charles was right, I’m not strong enough to be your girlfriend.” You choke on the word, having wanted to be claimed by him for months now and when you finally get what you want, it hurts too much to even enjoy it. 

His arms reach out to circle your waist, pulling you to him. Strength completely depleted, you allow him to crush you to his chest, the heat of his skin like a warm blanket settling over you. “Baby, I can’t do that. I just can’t.” 

“You have to. Charlie was right.” You repeat again, still listening to his words on a loop in your head. “I need some time to process what just happened and I need to do it alone. Please, Max.” He winces, you never call him just ‘Max’.

His arms drop away from you then and despite your begging him to leave, you instantly miss his warmth. “Is this the end?” Emotion claws at his throat, unable to process what is happening. You’re simply the best thing that’s ever happened to him and now? Now you’re pushing him away. 

“I don’t know.” You choke out on a sob. 

“Fine. I’ll go but I don’t want to. You call me the moment you change your mind, okay? And this isn’t over, not for me. It won’t ever be over for me, liefje.” 

Max retreats to the bedroom for a moment, leaving you standing cold and alone in the kitchen. When he returns, he’s got a shirt on. He doesn’t have his bag that he brought with him though, he refuses to bring it with him. It’s too final, taking that bag out of the house. He wants, no needs, an excuse to come back and he wants you to know that he’s not leaving without a fight. He’ll respect your wishes for now because he knows you think you need the space but if he knows you, and he’s betting everything that he does, you won’t run away from what the two of you have. 

You’re balled up on the couch, faraway gaze staring at nothing when he comes to stand in front of you. “I’m going now but if you need me, you can call me. Any time of day, no matter what.” He crouches down in front of you, fingers snagging your chin so you’re forced to look at him instead of at some unknown point over his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you, liefje. So fucking much.” 

The sob that escapes your throat shatters his heart in a million pieces. He doesn’t know if that was the right thing to do, to tell you what’s bene on his mind for weeks now. It was the truth though. He’d been fighting it for what felt like forever now, terrified to scare you off with those words that felt like they were coming too early but now? Now it was different. He needed you to know that he wasn’t going to give up this easily. He needed you to know that he had fallen head over heels for you and that he’d never leave, no matter how hard you pushed him away. 

Your silence ripped him even further in two but he accepted it, knowing that there was too much emotion swirling around in that head of yours to properly respond. Maybe that made him selfish, taking this time to tell you how he felt but he needed you to know. 

Dropping a kiss on your head, Max stands and does the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. He walks out of your apartment not knowing when he’ll see you again. 

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @formulaal, @martygraciesversion381, @longhairkoo

[rafeandonlyrafe]

fixation

words: 2.8k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, male receiving oral, reader has an oral fixation

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @thelomlisrafecameron @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @drewsbabygirll @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @dream-pink

“baby i’m running out to the store real quick, do you want anything?” rafe asks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he walks through the living room where you’ve been for the past hour, book splayed open in your lap.

“a sucker please? cherry or strawberry preferably.” you answer, only half paying attention to your boyfriend as your eyes continue to skim over the text.

“sure thing baby.” rafe says, tucking his wallet into his back pocket before heading out.

time flies as you get engrossed in your book, barely feeling like you’re reading and more that you’re inside of the book, part of the story.

“i didn’t know which kind, so i kinda got a bunch.” rafes voice makes you jump, not even realizing that he had returned from the store as he dumps a bag of suckers on the couch cushion next to you. your eyes widen at the 10 different kinds he brought back for you. you eye the group and then pick out your favorite, but really you didn’t dislike any of them.

“thank you rafey.” you hum, accepting his kiss when he leans down and presses one to your lips.

“i’m gonna head to the gym out back, since you’re still reading. you need anything else?” rafe asks, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek. you’re so unlike any other girl he has gone for in the past, but it’s why he loves you so much. you are smart, but so innocent when it comes to certain things and he loves to teach you and bring out your wilder side.

“i’m good, thank you.” you say again, pressing another kiss to his lips before rafe is out the back door. you’re surprised how quiet tanneyhill is today, but you’ve learned for the most part that all the members of the cameron family spend their days elsewhere, with eloise and sarah still in school, and ward and rose working most of the day away.

you unwrap your sucker before returning your attention to the book, feeling so much calmer now that you have something in your mouth. you reach the climax of the book, fingers rapidly turning the page until you get to the resolution, and then ultimately the end of the book.

you take a deep breath, letting in all that air you were holding from when the dramatic scenes were unfolding before setting the book onto the coffee table. you turn to pick up another sucker before realizing that you had subconsciously kept getting more, and you now only had one left, the rest reduced to white sticks.

you feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment even though no one is around, cleaning up your mess quickly but still unwrapping the sucker and sticking it in your mouth. you are just about to head out the gym, converted with weight machines and mirrors from a shed in the backyard, when rafe reenters.

“finished your book?” rafe asks, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat, hair sticking to his forehead.

“mhm.” you nod. “it was really good, i’m gonna rate it 4 stars on storygraph later.” 

“glad you liked it baby.” rafe comes up and kisses your cheek, considering your mouth is still occupied by the cherry sucker. “if you want to put the rest of the suckers in the candy cabinet, you can.” rafe says, referring to the one cabinet in the cameron home stocked full with junk food, from chocolate to greasy chips.

“i- um…” you trail off before pressing your lips together.

“what?” rafe asks, a slight smile on his lips, loving when you get flustered like this.

“i kinda ate them all. i didn’t even realize i just kept sucking.” you shrug, averting your gaze from rafe, so you miss the smirk that comes to his face.

--

“does anyone want any gum?” kelce asks, opening up the package and taking a piece for himself.

“oh my god, me!” you say, reaching out when kelce offers one to you, a slight look of confusion on the desperation in your voice as you stick the minty gum into your mouth and begin to chew. 

“i’ve been going crazy not having something in my mouth.” you say, turning your attention to rafe as kelce refocuses on the game. you’re not the biggest basketball fan, you find it entertaining enough to always agree when rafes asks you if you want to come with him and the boys, but you don’t understand most of the calls the refs make and the loud screaming from the crowd hurts your ears.

“you’re so precious, baby.” rafe says, pressing a few kisses to your cheek, leaving you to scrunch your eyebrows together, not sure what you did to gain that reaction but certainly not complaining.

you crunch the gum between your teeth, much happier now that you can focus on that and drown out some of the noise as you lean into rafe, his arm moving to be placed securely around your shoulders, up until the game comes down to a final shot, whipped from halfcourt towards the basket as the timer counts down, the ball ultimately swishing through the rim, making the entire crowd jump to their feet as the team gets the buzzer beater.

“that was exciting!” you tell rafe as you head out of the building, your hand encapsulated in his. “thanks for letting me along on boys night.” you call to topper and kelce.

“happy to have you.” topper says with a friendly smile, making rafe tighten his grip on your hand slightly.

--

“do we have any popsicles?” you ask, fanning your face with your hand, the bright sun beating down on the boat.

“yeah, should be in the cooler in back.” rafe says, gesturing towards the back of the yacht as he continues to steer the boat to the place he wants to anchor for the day to fish.

“mmkay thanks.” you say, getting up off the captains bench, where you always sat with rafe so he could keep a close eye on you while he also paid attention to the water in front of him. “you want one?” “nah, thanks though baby.” rafe glances away for a moment to look at you, his eyes soft. “hurry back though.” you smile, knowing he’s only being so strict with you because he loves you. you rush to the back of the boat, digging into the cooler for a red popsicle before returning to take your place next to rafe.

“are you too hot? you should drink water too.” rafe says, placing one hand on your thigh while he steers the boat with the other.

“nah, just wanted something cool in my mouth.” you say, too focused on the sun glimmering off the water in front of you to notice that rafe has to readjust himself in his shorts.

“gonna try this spot first.” rafe says, slowing the boat to a stop. you get up and move to where you know he’s going to fish from. you used to offer to help anchor, but you know rafe would never let you get your hands dirty.

“are you good princess?” rafe asks once everything is done, fishing pole and tackle box in hand.

“all good.” you nod, already having gotten a second popsicle from the cooler.

--

“what is it?” rafe asks.

“huh?” you question, taking your thumb out of your mouth that you didn’t even realize you were sucking on until rafe spoke up.

“you keep sucking on your fingers and you’ve got that look in your eyes. are you nervous for something, doll?” rafe asks, his voice soft and genuine.

“midsummers.” you pout, making rafe tilt his head to the side. he’s such a confident man, especially in social situations. he’s charming and outgoing, meanwhile you prefer to keep to yourself and watch things from afar, but it’s impossible with rafe, he’s always the center of attention in any room, like all the lights shine on him.

“i’m gonna be with you the whole time.” rafe says, not even having to ask why you’d be nervous for the big party.

“i know, i still hate the idea of all those eyes on me.” you shudder, sticking your thumb back into your mouth to provide some comfort.

“if you need to leave, we can leave after making an appearance.” rafe says, knowing he’d get shit for not sticking around longer, but he doesn’t care, you come first, always.

“thanks rafey.” you say, slightly muffled by your thumb in your mouth.

“i love you, baby.” rafe leans in, pressing a kiss to your jaw before pulling you onto his lap, letting you relax against him, eyes fluttering close as the sucking on your thumb eventually slows as you fall to sleep curled up in his arms.

--

“can we stop and get some gum? or a sucker?” you ask rafe, hands nervously twitching in your lap.

“baby, we are on a tight schedule we can’t be making stops for candy.” rafe says with a sigh, wishing he could accommodate you, but he knew he’d be in a rush ever since he stayed in bed this morning for an extra fifteen minutes to cuddle and kiss you.

“barry is late all the time, i don’t even know why you have to be on time to meet him.” you complain.

“don’t be a brat.” rafe says, already stressed out. sure, barry is often late, but rafe has different expectations of himself, and if he says he’s going to meet barry at a certain time, you can be damn sure that he will be there on time, if not five minutes early.

you cross your arms over your chest, not bothering to hide your annoyance from your boyfriend.

“here, you just wanna suck on something, go ahead and suck on my finger.” rafe says, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while he shoves his finger towards your mouth.

you would say no, but that really is all you want, so you pull your knees up to your chest and rest rafes wrist against your knees, sticking his finger into your mouth, moaning slightly around it at the pure relief of having something to focus on while rafe speeds down the backroads.

you suck on his finger, swirl your tongue around it, even gently press your teeth down on it, all while rafe sits there, cock swelling in his jeans while he wishes it to stay down, not needing to greet barry with a hard on, especially when you’re so blissfully unaware of the effect your mouth is having on him.

“alright we are almost there.” rafe says, making you whine when he takes his hand away, again reaching down to adjust his crotch, not sure how much longer he can put up with this.

--

“can we go to the store and buy a sucker? or maybe get some ice cream?” you ask, hands pawing at rafes chest as you lay in bed.

“come on, i just wanna stay here all day.” rafe says with a yawn. you were both up late partying, but you were getting bored of just sitting in bed all day, even if you do like being pressed up against your boyfriend.

“give me your fingers again then.” you reach out for his hand, but rafe snatches it away.

“i have something else you can suck on.” rafe says, making your head quirk to the side, inquisitive.

“you trust me, right?” rafe says, which you of course eagerly nod to. you trust rafe more than anyone else, so when he raises his hips and lowers his sweatpants down his legs before kicking them off to the floor, you don’t feel the same nervousness that you usually do.

“you want me to… give you head?” you swallow thickly. “i told you i’ve never done it before.” you’ve had sex with rafe before, but the focus was always on you, how he could bring your body to pleasure, how he fit inside of you.

“i know, but you’re always wanting to suck on something.” rafe shrugs. “might as well suck on my dick. besides, i’ll teach you.”

“o-okay.” you nod, eyes flicking between meeting rafes gaze and his length, clearly obvious and straining against the fabric of his underwear.

“now, i’m already hard just because i always am being around you, but why don’t you explore a bit with your mouth over my underwear, hm?” rafe says. you nod, figuring the best thing to do if you felt nervous was following his directions, afterall, he hasn’t led you astray in the past.

you slide down the bed until you’re laid on your stomach between his legs. you start with kisses around his underwear, before planting one on his length, kissing down the shaft until you reach where you presume his head is. you flick your tongue out, giving an experimental lick that makes rafe moan, so you double down on your effort, pushing your tongue against the fabric, creating a wet spot.

“that-that feels really good.” rafe says, his voice so breathless, causing you to look up at him, his eyes glazed over with lust.

you take matters into your own hand upon seeing how turned on you’re making him. you always let him finger you, or eat you out, or fuck you to orgasm, but you’ve never done the same to him in return, mostly because you are inexperienced. so, you pull his underwear down suddenly, allowing his cock to spring up.

you don’t give yourself any time to feel insecure as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, making rafe curse and bring a hand down to grip your hair, but he doesn’t shove you down, knowing you’re not ready for that and will move at your own pace.

you rub your tongue against him, surprised by how much you like the taste as you try to move your mouth down some, to take more of him. you succeed for the most part until you have to pull off to take a breath.

“baby, when i cum you can pull off that way it doesn’t go all in your mouth.” rafe says, wanting to warn you now before he gets too wrapped up in the feeling of your warm tongue to forget his words.

“and what if i want you all in my mouth?” you question, sinking your lips around him again, trying to go deeper again before you start to suck, having had lots of practice with your suckers and popsicles. you may have never given head before, but you know to keep your teeth away from his sensitive skin, so you hope that means you’re doing a good job.

“breathe thr-fuck. breathe through your nose, baby, it’ll help.” rafe says, reminding you. you give a hum around his length in acknowledgement, making rafe let out another curse.

you try it again, sucking and then humming, sucking and then humming, and clearly from the look on rafes face, he likes the vibrations on his cock. 

you pull off after a minutes, licking around the base of his cock and slowly moving up, wanting to taste every inch of him. you get back to the head and notice he’s leaking slightly out of his tip, which you quickly dart up with your tongue, making rafes hips raise up, pushing his cock against your tongue.

“you’re so fucking good at this.” rafe moans, one hand still gripping your hair while the other is fisted in the bedsheets, trying his best to hold back from shoving your head down onto his cock and fucking your mouth.

“i’ve got lots of practice with sucking things.” you giggle before taking him into your mouth again, bobbing your head as you suck, flicking your tongue over his head every time you pull back.

you decide again to try to take more of him into his mouth now that you’ve gotten more comfortable, but you swear rafe has swelled as you can’t take nearly as much as before.

“baby-i-close-i-” rafe stutters out, pushing your lips further, causing his cock to push into your throat as he releases to your tongue softly licking his length even you gag.

you feel rafe release, thick ropes of cum lining your insides as you swallow down repeatedly until he’s dry, completely milked free of cum. you pull off with a cough, rafes hands dropping limply to his sides.

“god, your mouth is amazing.” rafe moans.

you smile at the praise, glowing under his words. you look to the cock in front of you, now softening against his thigh.

“can we do that again?” you ask, quirking your head to the side.

“absolutely.” rafe nods. “once i recover. why don’t we get you a sucker until i can get hard again?”