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damselneedssaving · 15 days ago

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BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.1

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

★ A/N: yes ik the pic is technically the mark variant who wears a shiesty but that's still mark and it's a hot pic so it's staying. anyway that poll on if y'all would read a mark grayson x reader fic alongside the batboys x reader was almost unanimously yes and i'm so happy because of it 🤭

★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOU ENDED UP HERE—

—trapped in the embrace of a stranger.

One moment, you're in your kitchen, preparing a nice, hot bowl of popcorn for both you and your house guests—the next?—you're at your door, stood rigid and tight and ever-so-still as your arms are pinned to your sides by another pair. A stronger pair.

A stranger's pair.

The embrace is warm, seeping with this longing you've only ever felt from Dick that one time he returned from a mission that lasted way longer than it should've; that one time he hugged you swearing he'd never let go.

But even then... Dick did eventually pull away.

Something about this stranger's tight grip tells you they won't.

Your name is whispered, breathed out on the tongue of whoever it is holding you as he squeezes just that tad bit more, just that tad bit tighter.

It's strange. You're sure you've never met this man in your life, yet something about his embrace feels familiar, intimate in a way no stranger could ever imitate.

No stranger but this one at least.

You can ponder on it for all but a few more seconds before a new warmth is on your shoulder—this time: a recognisably familiar one—and without being given a moment to even blink, you're yanked out of the embrace of the stranger, vision flooded with the broad back of your dear friend as a click bounces off the walls of your once quiet apartment.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't lodge this bullet between your eyes."

Jason stands before you, finger nestled snug against the trigger of his gun like it's just waiting for the opportunity to pull it, like he's just as eager to give it the command to do so.

The stranger puts his hands up, and it's just then that you realise he's clad in a skin-tight suit. Yellow and blue. With goggles over his eyes.

"I don't want any trouble."

"Yeah?" scoffs Jason, "Well you shoulda thought of that before pulling up at princess here's door."

"[Name], get behind me," Dick calls from further in your apartment, a hand quick to spread out over your clothed stomach and push you even further back than before.

You know by the way your light starts to flicker that Duke's also on guard, and you can't imagine that Tim or Damian are that far off either.

The tension in the room is thick—heavy in the air and just as swallowing—the boys' muscles all taut. It's as though they're ready to lunge the moment just a strand of hair moves out of place.

You try to swallow, but all that goes down your throat is sandpaper.

He catches it though.

The stranger's head tilts ever so slightly after your gulp, just enough so that you're fully in his field of view again.

From under those goggles, you can't really see his eyes, but the way his brows visibly pinch is enough for you to feel the desperation radiating off his form when he speaks your name again.

Dick moves to cover you further. "I don't think so, buddy."

"Look," the man states simply, head subtly moving back up, "I don't mean any harm, really. I just wanna see her."

"Tt." The slink of a sword slipping out its sheath sounds from behind you. "And what business is it that you have with her?"

The stranger tilts his head again, letting out a frustrated grunt when Dick only moves to counter once more. "[Name] please," he whispers, tone uneven, watery and wavering, "it's me: Mark—"

Then he does something unlike your boys, unlike any vigilante you've ever seen really, and he moves his hand up to his mask, slipping it off with the ease and trust of someone not currently at the door of a stranger's house.

"—Your boyfriend?"

You can't even fully observe his face before a bang bounces off the walls of your home.

Your eyes widen, pupils shaking and hand already pushing Dick to the side as you hiss out a severely pissed, "Jason!"

But before you can even think of screaming your heart out at him, of having a go at your friend for shooting an innocent person at your door, your mouth falls agape, muscles tensing just as much as the rest of the vigilantes you know as you catch sight of what you're sure should've been a dead man on the ground.

Except he isn't dead. And he's nowhere near the ground.

In fact, he's floating off of it, brows now furrowed and lips pulled tight into a snarl as he yells, "What the hell, man?! You just shot me!"

"And you aren't dead," Jason replies through gritted teeth. "Why the fuck aren't you dead?"

"Not to worry," Damian replies before the stranger—before Mark—can, "I'll fix that."

All it takes is the lights flickering once more and the sound of a staff whirling in the wind for you to snap out of your little stupor, for you to see and hear and feel everything around you once again.

And once you do, your voice rings clear and final.

"Enough."

The boys tense, forms faltering as their eyes finally leave the stranger to fall on you.

You take a step forward.

Duke blocks your way.

"Duke." Your arms fold over your chest, his name stern and heavy on your tongue.

"[Name]"—his brows furrow—"you can't be serious. This is a stranger. A meta too, no less."

"And you aren't?" You quirk a brow. His jaw ticks. "He hasn't done anything. All he did was hug me."

"That doesn't mean he won't do anything," he retorts stubbornly. "That doesn't mean he can't do anything." Then, his tone softens, brows scrunching a little as he regards you with a look all too warm and familiar. "I don't wanna lose you. Not you."

Your arms uncross, one hand gesturing out as you return his gentle look. "And you won't. I promise. Just let me talk to him."

You can tell he's reluctant, can see it in the way his jaw is still tense and his eyes suddenly can't meet your own. But you also know Duke, and you know that he's a hero—one that, if given the chance, will choose the option of peace over all else.

And so, his shoulders fall, and he steps to the side to allow you through, to which you flash him a grateful smile before taking a step forward...

...only to be blocked by yet another wall, one now back to facing the person floating at your door.

"Jason," you call, but he doesn't so much as spare you a glance. "Jason."

His jaw squares, the only sign you have that he's hearing you.

"Put the gun down."

But he doesn't listen. He hears you but he doesn't listen. Because of course he doesn't listen. You're speaking to Jason Peter Todd, when the fuck does he ever listen?

"Jason!"

"I'm not putting the gun down until he's bleeding on the fucking floor."

The meta snarls at Jason's words, and the latter is quick to return it with his own look of disdain, blood boiling enough for heat waves to be visible in the air around him, for even the hottest lava to envy what courses through his veins.

"Then get out of my way so that I can speak to him."

The man lets out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "And let him feed you another lie to bring down your guard some more? I don't think so."

"I'm not lying," Mark hisses, floating just a tad bit closer.

"Oh yeah?" Jason tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting in that familiar way it does when he mocks a crook. "Why don't you say that to your so-called girlfriend? Because to me, it doesn't look like she even knows who you are at all."

That seemed to have hit a nerve, because the next thing you know, Mark is lunging forward, and Jason is just narrowly dodging his shove, rolling to the side and letting out another bullet in his direction.

You're only able to blink once before your form is engulfed, covered by the oldest brother in the room as he regards you with soft, gentle eyes.

Yours only scrunch in return.

"Dick, let go of me."

He tosses a glance over his shoulder as another bang rings out. "Don't think that's the best idea right now, princess."

"Dick."

He meets your gaze again.

"It's either you let me go so that I can break up the fight, or you let me go so that you can break up the fight. Your pick."

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You can't be serious."

You don't say a word, and he blinks owlishly.

"You're serious."

"Deadly."

"Okay, fuck," he curses, head turning to the side as his eyes all but seem to run through a dozen different scenarios at once, acting more like a computer screen than sclera.

Then, after at least two more seconds pass, he turns back to you, shoulders falling in quiet resignation.

"Fine. Stay here. I'll break it up. You're not going anywhere near that fight on my watch."

You feel the way your shoulders fall at his words, a wave of relief crashing over you like a sudden change in tide as you flash Dick a smile much like the one you gave Duke earlier and he starts to slowly get up with a roll of his shoulders.

"Alright you two, break it up."

Mark pauses, and Jason takes the opportunity to lunge, but before his arms can even graze the meta human, Dick hooks them under his own, and you quickly take the opportunity to put yourself between the three men.

You then proceed to waste no time to deliver a mountain of fury to the man who started the fight.

"Really, Jason?"

He pauses his struggling against his brother.

"I mean, seriously"—you throw your arms out in front of you, scoffing the words on your tongue out in disbelief so heavy, it fogs your vision—"you're a grown ass man, starting fights like a child, over something as small as someone claiming to be my boyfriend?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but purses his lips once you send him a narrow look, opting instead to scoff and turn his head to the side.

"Oh, and don't think I didn't notice you two getting ready to join in, Tim, Damian." You turn your stern gaze to the other two currently armed individuals in the room, and they both mirror their brother's reaction to a tee.

It's funny, really, how they react like children being scolded for something like drawing on the walls rather than grown men who were planning on murdering someone in the comfort of your home.

Or at least, Jason was.

Geez, you really thought you had this talk with him already, that he'd changed his previous ways and swapped out his real bullets for rubber ones, that he'd sworn off killing for the rest of his life.

Guess not.

You pinch your nose, taking in a breath and counting up to ten just like your momma taught you when you were little, just like you always do when your veins get a little too heated for your own good.

Each second in your head is a second the heat flushes out your system—and your muscles unscrew themselves from the stiff boards this whole night reduced them to—until eventually, you can feel yourself finally calming down.

Then you open your eyes again and witness the mess that is your living room, and all that effort flushes down the drain.

"Look"—you find yourself sighing, turning to face the still-floating Mark as you address him with heavy eyes—"Mark, was it?"

In an instant, he lowers himself to your height, and now that there's no goggles in the way anymore, you witness the true extent of the way his eyes stare at you, wide, unwavering, like you're the only one they truly see.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow air. "...I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong girl. I've never seen or met you in my life. I don't even have a boyfriend."

At that, his shoulders fall, sagging in a way that has you biting your lip and half-contemplating taking it all back if it meant you'd get to see that look on his face again.

Wait... what?

"Right..." Mark starts, his solemn tone enough to pull you straight out of your thoughts. "Different dimension. My bad."

His words, though muttered, couldn't have been louder to your ears, and you raise your head in time with the rest of your friends, eyes wide and trained onto him.

"I'm sorry..."

He glances up at your voice.

"...Did you just say 'different dimension'?"

TAGLIST: @silas-222, @bloofairyfox, @wiseavenuelove, @inkycapps, @velovicy, @mmentallyelsewhere, @verysynical, @1abi, @bluepartywobblernickel

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niwaart · 1 month ago

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I know, I just know in my heart that in "Family Without Light" (from the newest chapter), batmom reader stares longingly when there's a baby, and when she gets to hold one, her eyes just light up and the scene just looks like it's meant to be. That she stares into the innocent eyes of a baby and she imagines of what could have been if she had her own blood child, if they had her laugh, if they would hate eating vegetables, if they called out to her or bruce in the middle of the night when they had a nightmare, if they would draw on the walls, if they would get along with their older siblings...but...then the ache in her heart pangs, reminding her that it could never be.

That her children, the ones she raised as her own did this to her, to be so cruel as to take the years away from her, to take her love, to take her affection, to take and take and take, until they took the one thing she wanted most, and gave her nothing, nothing but disdain, pain, heartache, rejection, and apathy.

Oh, so cruel is the world to the kindest beings, that when they disappear, you are reminded that they were a blessing upon our lives.

anyways if you could make a drabble, I want batmom reader to adopt a newborn who was abandoned because she feels like they are kindred souls who were treated unkindly and she swears that that child will only know love and affection their whole life, literally the embodiment of "you may not came from my belly, but you came from my heart" kinda situation 😭

anyways, thank you for listening to my TedTalk, great story, please keep tagging me for it 🫶🏻

Thank you so much🤍🤍🤍!! I loved it! And i almost crying... but your idea is great! I mean let's think about it

- After much thought, Y/N decided to adopt a child because Bruce was the one who brought the children, and she didn't have the opportunity to choose or adopt a young child of her own. She wanted a young child, to whom she could give lots of love, and she would choose to foster a young child, yes, a young child who was almost one year old.

- She will raise them with all love and devotion, she will spend all her time with them and will never leave them. There is nothing more beautiful than having a little child who depends on you and calls you “mama” with all love, and begins to take their first steps with you.

- Y/N's reaction when the baby was called "mama" was to cry, it was a word she always wanted to hear, she would hug her baby and cry and the baby would cry with her.

- With the baby's first step, Y/N will document the moment. She will prepare perhaps ten cameras to film all angles, place a pillow in every corner, and start cheering for the baby to reach her. She will hug them as soon as they are about to fall and laugh with them.

- When they grows up to be two years old, Y/N will throw the biggest party humanity has ever seen. Even Bruce didn't celebrate his sons like this. And guess who will be there? Her ex-husband Bruce and his kids. Why? Because she is proud of her grown child and she will show the world how proud she is to be a mother to the child.

- Of course her ex-husband's children will be in a miserable state. Bruce will act the playful, uninterested boy but will still stare, needless to say he wants to get close to her and the baby but can't. Dick will congratulate Y/N and the baby but he won't be able to take it so he will start crying as soon as he sees the cake, the baby's smile and Y/N's tight grip around the baby. He can't take it anymore, he will apologize and look for a secluded corner to cry. Tim will keep looking at the ground, unable to raise his eyes, unable to even look at the baby. He will walk over to her and the baby and keep his gaze down while congratulating the baby and wishing them a long and happy life, but suddenly he feels a small hand touch his cheek. He looks up to see the baby smiling at him and when he turns to Y/N, she is smiling back. Needless to say, he lowers his head again to hide his tears and disappears with Dick into the secluded corner. Damian would be angry, with a big frown, but he was forced to say happy birthday to the baby, so his steps would be slow and heavy as he walked to her and the baby. He would congratulate the baby in a low voice, just like he was trained at home. He would have left if Y/N hadn't patted him on the head. This was the last straw. He had been angry at the baby who stole his mother all day, and the pat was enough to make Damian crack inside and hug Y/N, crying with his face buried in her dress. Y/N would hug him and keep him by her side throughout the party, holding his hand while he hid behind her in embarrassment, but he wouldn't complain. Jason, who hadn't entered yet, would still stand in front of the house, wondering whether to put the gift with the message and leave, or would that be rude so he should go in and deliver it himself? He would keep thinking until suddenly he saw Y/N coming out of the house, which made him panic and look around to try to hide, but he froze in place when she called him, and discovered that Damian had told her about him. He'll try to start a conversation but Y/N hugs him and says "Thanks for coming" and the next thing that happens is Jason crying on Y/N's shoulder and muttering unintelligible apologies. He doesn't remember what happened next but he remembers her touch as she brings him inside with everyone else. He remembers the little baby and how Y/N made him carry the baby, and how he was so scared because of the baby's small size and how after Dick finished crying, he and Tim decided to play with the baby. And Damian whispering Arabic words to the baby like "Protect mother" and "You better make mother happy." And Bruce will just watch his sons' expressions one by one, and he will keep writing down his regrets every night so he doesn't forget the pain he caused his children and Y/N.

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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01 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : reposting this officially as a series now because im too lazy to edit the original and tumblr mobile is shit <3

series masterlist. | next.

you’ve killed men for less.

and yet, something about this one already irritates you before you've even scoped him out. the client was anonymous, the job listed in the familiar red-font message board you frequent, tucked beneath a refreshingly high bounty. no attached reasons, no requests for theatrics, just the face of a pretty man with white hair and an offer large enough to retire your gear for a year—maybe even two.

your first thought when you read the numbers is that this man is either an international war criminal, an ex-boyfriend who slept with someone’s sister, or a cheating piece of shit whose dick broke a heart so bad it now wants revenge and closure via sniper rifle. all fine reasons to die. you accept it out of habit, maybe greed.

you regret it by day three.

day one.

you stake out his apartment the way you always do. quiet, efficient, professional.

the blonde wig itches against your neck, but you’ve worn worse disguises. the oversized sunglasses and loose blouse make you blend in with the other young professionals in this upscale neighborhood. you look like any other woman waiting for a rideshare, scrolling mindlessly through your phone—except your phone is transmitting thermal readings from his apartment and the binoculars disguised as a compact mirror in your hand are military-grade.

and then he stumbles into frame through your binoculars in a stained hoodie and mismatched socks, trying to unlock his front door with a banana. not a burner phone, not even keys. a banana.

your lips part slightly in disbelief.

it takes him five minutes to realize it, and another two to drop his bag and just sit on the hallway floor, staring at the wall like it just told him bad news. his shoulders droop forward, his expression blank. he eventually eats the banana, chewing mechanically, gaze fixed on nothing.

you lower your binoculars and blink.

“the fuck?” you whisper to yourself, the words escaping between barely parted lips.

day two.

you follow him to work. he’s a high school teacher, apparently.

your outfit today is casual—light summer dress, different wig (auburn this time), sensible shoes. you’ve prepared a story about being a substitute at the neighboring elementary school if anyone asks. no one does. you trail him discreetly, prepared for a twist—maybe a shady meeting, some dark past, some slip.

instead, he offers a student his umbrella when the sky cracks open unexpectedly, rain pouring down in sheets. you duck under a shop awning, watching him through the downpour.

“take it,” he says to the wide-eyed student, voice carrying just enough for you to hear. “i’m already soaked anyway.”

he walks in the rain with a box of graded papers under his arm, making a half-hearted attempt to shield them with his body. you note the detail, even as you wince watching him step into a deep puddle with sneakers and just sigh, like he expected it. water soaks his pants up to mid-calf. he doesn't even attempt to avoid the next puddle.

his students like him, and worse, he’s good at what he does. you observe his class from the courtyard, pretending to read. through the window, you watch him explain complex concepts with surprising clarity, his hands gesturing expressively, occasionally running through that shock of white hair when students ask good questions.

“he’s a teacher,” you mutter to yourself, perched on the rooftop across his school during lunch break, scanning through the lens. your fingers tap an agitated rhythm against the concrete ledge. “he’s a good teacher. the hell did you do, gojo satoru?”

day three.

you almost blow your cover today.

he’s at a convenience store, standing in front of the refrigerated section. you’re pretending to browse magazines, peeking over the top of some celebrity gossip rag. he stares at the drinks for seventeen minutes—you counted—before selecting what appears to be the most sugary, caffeinated option available.

then he walks to the counter, places his energy drink down, and adds three packages of aspirin.

your stomach drops.

the cashier doesn't even look up, just scans everything with bored efficiency.

you abandon your post, slipping out the door and around the corner, heart hammering uncomfortably against your ribs. you’ve seen enough suicides to recognize the signs. but when he emerges five minutes later, he's downing the energy drink and the aspirin is nowhere to be seen.

it’s only when you follow him to his next stop—a pharmacy—that you realize he's delivering medication to an elderly neighbor. she greets him with a trembling smile, patting his cheek with paper-thin hands. he stays for twenty minutes, fixing a loose cabinet door before leaving.

you lean against the building across the street, exhaling slowly through your nose, suddenly aware of how tightly you've been gripping your fake shopping bag.

“what the hell am i missing?” you whisper to yourself.

day four.

by day four, he has become your most infuriating subject to date.

he lives like a man who lost a bet with life and is now doing his best to make death easier.

your perch today is a cafe across from his apartment. you've rotated through three different outfits already, your current disguise featuring dark hair cropped short, glasses, and a conservative button-up. you look like an accountant on lunch break, nibbling at a sandwich that tastes like cardboard in your mouth as you watch his apartment through the window.

through your high-powered lens, you witness him eat an entire strawberry shortcake for dinner and wash it down with a can of expired soda—you can see the bloated sides of the can from here, for god's sake. your fork pauses halfway to your mouth, appetite suddenly gone.

“that can’t be your dinner,” you murmur, annoyed, brow furrowing. “where's the protein? vegetables? anything?”

later, you trail him to the grocery store, hoping—praying—he’ll buy something resembling actual nutrition. instead, he fills his basket with instant ramen, more energy drinks, and another cake. you find yourself in the produce section, hand tightening around an innocent apple as you watch him bypass every single vegetable without a glance.

on his walk home, he crosses the street disassociating, eyes unfocused, headphones in, not even looking both ways. your heart leaps into your throat as a car swerves toward him, horn blaring. he barely dodges, the vehicle missing him by inches.

you almost scream when the car swerves and he barely dodges. instead of panic, he just offers the driver a lazy two–fingered salute and keeps walking, shoulders relaxed as if he hadn't nearly become roadkill.

“what the fuck is wrong with you,” you hiss into your sleeve, nails digging half–moons into your palms. “do you have a death wish or are you just naturally stupid?”

your fingers are trembling slightly when you lower your hand. professionals don’t get emotional about targets. professionals don’t care if their target eats cake for dinner. professionals don’t feel this strange, twisting sensation in their gut when they watch someone court death so casually.

you are a professional. you remind yourself of this fact three times before continuing your surveillance.

day five.

by day five, you realize you are stalking a man trying to die before you can kill him.

he has no sense of self-preservation. none.

you’re positioned in the building opposite his apartment again, this time with a camera set up to look like you're a photographer working on a project. your hair is tucked under a cap, face partially obscured by the equipment.

through your lens, you watch him microwave aluminum foil and then eat the food anyway when it doesn't immediately burst into flames. sparks fly inside the microwave; he doesn't even flinch, just waits for it to finish with dead eyes.

“are you kidding me right now?” you whisper, fingers tightening on your camera. ��that could have electrocuted you or started a fire!”

he leaves his door unlocked when he goes for a run. he clicks on pop-up ads on his laptop without hesitation. he buys sushi from a gas station—the one with the flickering lights and questionable health rating that you'd never even walk into—and winces mid-bite but finishes it anyway.

you almost cry when you see him with it again the next day.

“that’s food poisoning waiting to happen,” you mutter with a grimace, stomach churning in sympathetic nausea as you watch him poke at the discolored fish. “please, please don't eat that.”

he eats it.

you’ve planned this assassination like a professional—timed his routes, noted his blind spots, patterned his movements—and he’s just... walking into open traffic without looking. staying up until 3 AM watching what appears to be Digimon marathon reruns, blue light washing over his exhausted face. drinking straight from a milk carton that expired last week.

you start tailing him less like a killer and more like a babysitter. every time he trips over nothing, you flinch, body instinctively moving forward before you catch yourself. every time he shrugs off something dangerous, you scribble angrily in your notes, pressing so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper.

“at this rate,” you mutter through gritted teeth, crouched behind a newspaper stand, watching him nearly walk into a construction pit while texting, “i won’t get paid because he’s going to accidentally electrocute himself trying to toast frozen pizza.”

your hand tightens around your pen until your knuckles turn white.

day six.

you break protocol on day six.

it’s raining again, a miserable drizzle that seeps into bones. you’re in a dark peacoat, hair hidden under a fashionable hat, makeup subtle but effective in changing the structure of your face. anyone looking would see just another commuter hurrying through the weather.

he’s at the park, sitting on a bench, getting soaked. just... sitting there. not reading, not on his phone. sitting and staring at nothing, letting the rain plaster his white hair to his forehead, droplets running down his face like tears—or hiding them.

thirty minutes pass. he doesn't move.

forty–five minutes.

an hour.

your fingers are numb around your umbrella handle. you shouldn’t care. you should be calculating the perfect moment to complete your job, not wondering if he’s going to catch pneumonia.

when his shoulders start to shake—from cold or something else, you can’t tell—something in you snaps. you approach from behind, making your footsteps deliberately loud on the wet pavement.

you hold your umbrella over his head, not saying a word.

he looks up at you, startled, blue eyes wide and rimmed with red. for a split second, his expression is so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

“you’re getting soaked,” you say, voice carefully neutral, face deliberately unremarkable. forgettable. “take it.”

you place the umbrella in his unresisting hand and walk away before he can respond, rain immediately soaking through your coat. you don't look back, even when you feel his eyes following you.

that night, in your temporary apartment, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, water dripping from your real hair after a hot shower that couldn't seem to warm you.

“what the hell are you doing?” you ask yourself angrily, voice echoing against the tile. “this isn’t the job. this isn’t who you are.”

but even as you say it, you’re already planning tomorrow's surveillance route, already wondering if he'll eat a proper breakfast.

day seven.

day seven is a monday. it starts, as many do, with him almost getting hit by a bus.

you’re across the street, dark sunglasses shielding your eyes despite the overcast sky, a fitted blazer and pencil skirt making you look like any other office worker heading to their cubicle. your hair is your natural color today, styled differently than you’d normally wear it—a calculated risk to blend in better with the morning crowd.

he doesn’t even flinch as the bus screeches to a halt inches from him. just raises a hand in apology, earbuds in, music blasting, hoodie hoodied. he smells like gas station teriyaki sticks and failure, you can tell from the crumpled wrapper sticking out of his pocket. your nose wrinkles involuntarily.

you’re watching from the shadows again, jaw clenched, heart tight for reasons you refuse to name. one hand grips the strap of your messenger bag so tightly the leather creaks. it’s the bento in your bag that does it. you made it without thinking last night, slapping it together like some fevered instinct. rice, miso, actual vegetables. protein. things humans need to survive.

he's digging into his hoodie pocket for change when you stomp across the street, dodging morning traffic with the precision you usually reserve for more lethal tasks.

“what the—�� he starts, blue eyes widening behind those ridiculous glasses he sometimes wears.

you shove the warm box into his chest, the heat of it burning through your gloves. your expression is murderous, brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line.

“eat it.” you snap, each syllable sharp and distinct.

he stares at you. your face is neutral except for the slight flush of exertion climbing your neck. he doesn’t recognize you. of course he doesn't. you’re a professional. the wind rustles his hair, the corner of his lips twitch like he’s about to laugh, revealing a dimple you hadn't noticed before.

you turn on your heel and storm away, shoulders stiff, steps measured despite the urge to run.

he watches you go. the box in his hands is still warm.

he blinks once. twice. looks down at it. looks back at your retreating form.

“huh,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, voice rough from too many sleepless nights. “figures. i fall in love at first sight with a pretty girl the same week i hire someone to kill me.”

he looks down at the warm bento like it personally insulted him.

“timing really is a bitch.”

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myrrune · 2 months ago

Text

STREAMER!JINX X READER | 18+, MDNI.

female!reader, Jinx uses a strap-on, sub!reader. this is my first time writing a strap-on, ever. I hope it’s alright. this was not proofread. Well, not properly, anyway.

Jinx had been playing for a few hours, shooting everyone in sight. She had always been great at gun games, it’s what she grew a fanbase from. The chat is going crazy, she’s about to win a Fortnite match, when you message her. She’s always tried to be attentive, respond fast. Well, that and her attention span isn’t too long. She either gets fixated for ages, or is easily distracted. In this case, she grabs the phone and starts playing the game one-handed. Her viewers seem confused: why did she start paying less attention?

Jinx is clearly distracted now, reading your messages. When she sees a specific, heated message from you, she sets the controller aside completely and rushes her response.

She’s a rather large streamer, which is why she’s always been secretive about her love life online. Anyone who dates her is in the public eye, so she’s always been careful to keep anything about you off her public socials. Though, as you send a picture of yourself in a matching black lace set of lingerie, she’s fully prepared to end stream early just for this. It’ll look suspicious, sure, but she needs you right now.

Trying to keep the fact she’s blushing a secret, she quickly makes an excuse to leave. "Guys, I have to go… Dad needs me." shit, that was a bad excuse, but all she can care about right now is getting to the bedroom. She reaches over to turn the stream off before rising from her desk chair.

As the room plunges into darkness, the red light signalling "recording" continues to flash, and her microphone is still plugged in.

Before you know it, Jinx is guiding your thighs apart, her tip pressing against your entrance. She buries her face in your neck, groaning as she begins to slide into you.

The walls are thin, and she failed to click the door shut. Her carelessness in that department really should be assessed, you’ve always told her she should double check things like that, but she never does. Her groans and your whimpers filter through the hallway, into Jinx’s office.

"WHATS THAT NOISE??

"I thought Jinx lived alone?"

"Well that’s SURELY not her dad.."

"Gf reveal when!?"

As her hips piston faster and faster, your moans grow louder. Her nails grip at your hips, gripping you as she tries to thrust deeper. She’s hitting all the right places, dragging the strap-on against your inner walls. It feels amazing. Your own hips move in sync, chasing her as she pulls back. She’s picking up the pace even more, and it’s like you can feel it in your stomach, like a coil tightening.

When it finally snaps, an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashes over you. It seems Jinx is experiencing the same thing, as her mouth is an 'o', and her grinding has grown more jerky. Though, it’s clear she’s trying her hardest to make your orgasm last.

Once your orgasm subsides, Jinx pulls out carefully, not wanting to hurt you. Her grip loosens, crescent shaped indents allover your hips and back, evidence of the passion that just took place. You drift off to sleep in eachother’s arms.

…in the morning, Jinx wakes up with messages from various people telling her to check her recent stream. Still drowsy, she fast forwards to where she ended stream. Or at least, where she thought she had. Her eyes widen almost instantly as the audio recording plays through her headphones. It’s muffled, but still clearly lovemaking. Her eyes dart to check the chat-replay, she doesn’t know what she was expecting, her audience isn’t that stupid. They all realise what it was. Oh, god. She’s so fucked.

At least it was worth it.

other notes: umm.. back with the streamer!jinx stuff!! I got an anon ask for this on my old blog, sorry nonnie, I can’t tag you in this. hope you like it if you see this, though. thanks!

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rain-water-flowers · 3 months ago

Text

After Hours

dom!minho x sub!reader

WC: 1384

Synopsis: After finally asking out the cute bartender at the coffee shop, y/n finally gets what she wants

Warnings: unprotected sex (idk why I keep doing this), breeding kink, I must be ovulating or smth..., begging, slight overstimulation, slight fluff if you squint at the end, slight name calling, the smut isn't super detailed soooo my bad?

A/N: Writing these are so much easier than finishing my series I'm ngl, so sorry. Thanks to my beta @midnighthazee . I wanna write for Jeongin next...let me know if I miss any tags :))

SKZ Masterlist

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅-`✮´-⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Y/n blushed as she walked into the cafe for the fourth time that week. She wasn’t even the biggest fan of coffee, but she was a fan of the cute barista behind the counter. She even woke up early to be able to sit in the shop and stare at him before she had to head into work.

Minho was everything she wanted in a man – muscular, charming, eyes that she could get lost in, a smile that made her want to tackle him across the counter, and a cat lover.

She showed up more frequently so that she could hopefully catch his attention, but it didn’t seem like she ever did. Y/n had never had the courage to actually walk up and talk to him, let alone get his number.

Little did she know, today was going to be the day she asked him out.

“Good morning,” Minho said warmly as y/n approached the counter, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine. “What can I get for you?”

Y/n fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, feeling suddenly shy. “Uhh, just a coffee please,” she mumbled. “Black.”

Minho raised an eyebrow but didn’t press her any, simply ringing up her order and handing her the steaming cup. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him and y/n felt a jolt of electricity at the contact.

“Here you go,” Minho said with an amused smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Y/n nodded, retreating to a corner table with her coffee. From here she had the perfect view to watch him work, admiring the way his muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he prepared drinks and chatted with customers. She lost herself in fantasy, imagining him pinning her against the wall, ripping her clothes off, taking her right there in front of everyone��

Lost in her thoughts, y/n didn’t realize Minho was approaching her table until he cleared his throat. She jumped and looked up at him, cheeks flushing.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said apologetically. “But you’ve been here for a while and I noticed you haven’t touched your coffee. Is everything alright?”

Y/n swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Y-yeah, it’s fine. I was just…admiring the decor.”

Minho looked around at the rustic wooden tables and shelves lined with mismatched mugs. “It’s nothing fancy, but I like to think it has a certain charm,” he said with a smug smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were enjoying your coffee. Let me know if you want a refill or to order something else.”

His eyes lingered on her for a few seconds, a look in his eyes she couldn’t distinguish. He turned to leave and y/n blurted out, “Wait!”

Minho paused and looked back at her curiously, one eyebrow raised and a slight smirk on his face. Y/n took a deep breath, gathering her courage.

“Actually, I was wondering…” She hesitated, then waited a few seconds to build her confidence more. “Would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? With, uh, with me?”

Minho’s eyes crinkled as he let out a smile so bright, y/n thought she’d be blinded. He took a few steps closer to her, smile persisting. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to be brave about it. I’d love to have dinner with you.”

Y/n beamed, feeling giddy with excitement. They exchanged numbers and planned to meet up later that week. As Minho walked away, y/n couldn’t stop smiling. She’d done it – she had actually asked him out.

— — — — —

Their first date was magical. Minho took y/n to a charming little Italian restaurant where they laughed and talked for hours over delicious food and wine. By the end of the night, y/n was head over heels for him. When they said goodnight outside her apartment, Minho pulled her in for a deep, passionate kiss that left her knees weak, and her panties wet.

From that moment on, they were inseparable. They saw each other every day, going on cute dates and falling more in love with each passing moment. But beneath the sweet exterior, y/n sensed a darker, more dominant side to Minho. And she couldn't wait to uncover it.

— — — — — —

“Beg me to fuck you.” Minho growled, tone demanding and leaving no room for disobeying.

Y/n remembers when their relationship moved from sweet kisses and cuddles to hot, steamy sex. Minho was an incredible lover, aggressive and demanding but also unbelievably tender and caring. He would pin y/n down and ravage her with his mouth, hands, and cock until she was sobbing with pleasure, then cradle her in his arms afterwards and whisper how much he loved her.

Tonight, Minho had buried his face between y/n’s thighs and brought her to a screaming orgasm, yanking her legs over his shoulders and plunging his tongue deep inside her spasming pussy. Y/n wailed and clutched his hair as he fucked her with his mouth, driving her wild.

When she finally came down from her high, Minho was kneeling between her legs, looking strong and commanding – his cock rock hard and leaking.

Which led her to this current moment.

Y/n was snapped out of her memories upon feeling a light smack to her face. “I said beg me to fuck you, baby. Don’t make me ask you again.” He said, tone stern and eyes piercing through her.

"Please!" y/n cried, tears streaming down her face from the intensity of her orgasm, not ready for another one so soon. "Please fuck me..breed me, fill me up, please. I need your cum-"

Minho groaned and pushed into her, stretching her slick walls around his thick cock. He pumped into her hard and fast, slamming against her cervix with every thrust.

"You're mine," he snarled, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "My perfect good girl, baby. I'm going to fill this tight cunt with my cum and watch you grow round with my babies."

Y/n cried out and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Yes! Yours! Fuck me harder, please give me your baby!"

Minho pistoned into her ruthlessly, his heavy balls slapping against her ass. "Take it," he grunted. "Fucking take it all like a good little slut."

"Cum for me," Minho ordered, adding his thumb to rub tight circles on her clit. "Show me how much you love being used."

With a wail, y/n obeyed, spasming around his cock as her climax crashed over her. Minho continued to fuck her through it, drawing out every last second of bliss.

But before she could come down, he began slamming into her oversensitive pussy with multiple hard thrusts.

"Ah-ahh! Too much-" y/n shrieked, trying to squirm away from the intense stimulation. But Minho grabbed her hips, pinning her in place as he began to pound into her.

"You'll take it," he growled, hips snapping brutally. "You'll take every inch until I've fucked another load into this greedy cunt."

Y/n could only sob brokenly as Minho used her ruthlessly, his heavy balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. She felt like she was being split open, her pussy stretched around his enormous cock.

"Scream for me," Minho demanded, reaching down to circle her clit. "Let everyone know who this cunt belongs to."

Y/n wailed his name loudly as her orgasm hit her again, vision whiting out from the sheer force of it. She felt Minho swell inside her and with a loud groan, he came, pumping what felt like too much of his cum deep into her womb.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together in sweat-soaked sheets, hearts pounding and bodies trembling with aftershocks. Minho stroked y/n’s hair and pressed soft kisses to her face.

"I love you," he murmured tenderly. "I want to marry you and have lots of babies with you."

Y/n giggled breathlessly and cuddled into his chest. "I love you too. I want that too."

They fell asleep in each other's arms, planning to go get tea in the morning at a new coffee shop that opened around the corner.

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berrryparfait · 2 months ago

Note

hello~ can I request sumth about dom succubus/ vampire mc with sylus or zayne (or both)

give in to me... . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: sylus, zayne x succubus! dom! fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] smut, reader hypnotizes and restrains him with her evol but fails to k*ll him in the end, reader crashes zayne's clinic, piv, creampie, intense orgasms, multiple positions, overstimulation, non/dubcon, catching feelings(?)

— ༉‧₊ᐟ word count: sylus – 1.7k | zayne – 1.2k

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: southbound – artemas

✧ a/n: thank you sm for the req! this idea was too sexy to resist lol i was SWEATING while typing it all out...

The blood moon is out, and your insides are growling… You know very well that not a soul in Linkon can resist your…unique charms. Who will your lucky victim be this time?

Just how long will he last?

A mansion? Haven’t seen one of these out here in ages… Your heart lurches at the sight (not that you have one, of course—it’s all purely figurative), and you can almost taste the blood of luxury on your tongue.

You understand the person who owns this mammoth of a building won’t be easy. He might even desire to overpower you. But you won’t let him. You want to feel the life slipping out of him while you drink up his sex, watch as he begs for mercy and finally realizes that, no, you’re in control.

Your pussy throbs at the thought, and you have to remind yourself not to get too carried away. Getting lost in these fantasies will do nothing for you right now. Your first plan of action is to find a way in.

He’s left a window open. How careless. You crawl in with ease (thanks to your natural agility) and slide in and out of hallways, keeping a lookout for people or traps or security cameras or weapons. Not that you’ll be needing a defence against weapons, anyway. You don’t need a gun when you have supernatural sexual allure.

The house is strangely quiet, and you start to wonder if it’s even occupied at all. There’s an air of modernity to the place, so you doubt it’s been abandoned. On vacation, perhaps? No, you can sense the recent presence of a human being here. It’s past midnight, so whoever owns this house has to be in it. You just need to find them… A light flicks on somewhere on the ground floor. There you are, kitty cat. You hurry past the elaborately decorated walls and paintings, and find yourself hiding right behind a doorway to what seems to be a large, grand kitchen.

And in it stands a man so gorgeous that you think you may have finally met your match (in the looks department, of course). He’s tall, imposing, handsome, and looks like he bleeds money. His dark red eyes captivate you. You can’t wait to rob them of their pretty color.

Taming the excitement in your veins, you slowly step out from beneath the shadows, the red silk dress you have on revealing the curve of your bare breasts and emphasizing the pinch of your waist. Your walk is measured, calculatedly seductive.

He’s mid-drink when he spots you, the glass of dark wine tilted halfway to his mouth. His startling eyes lock on yours as he pauses, prolonging his sip.

“Why hello there. I didn’t mean to startle you,” you begin, voice dripping with innocence and honey. “It’s late, and I couldn’t find my way around…”

You take a few tentative steps closer to him as you speak, fully prepared for any sudden movements. Sure, there’s always the Evol option. But where would the fun be in that? You’re like a spider in this little game, waiting for the prey to fall right in your trap, of its own volition.

He puts the glass down on the counter, his movements as calculated as your own. His bathrobe hangs snugly over his delicious frame. “And…you happened to waltz right into my home.” His voice is as velvety as his robe, each syllabus sending tingles straight down to your core. This is going to be good…

Your face remains impassive. Slightly scared, even. “I apologise for the intrusion. I’m just so confused—and anxious—and—I don’t have anywhere to go…” Your expression is downcast as you go on about how sorry and pathetic you are, and when he drags his crimson eyes down the length of your body you think you’ve finally got him—

“I know what you are.” There’s an edge to his tone, one of warning. “You’re a succubus. Blood moon come early this year?” He says it with disgust, as if even the mere mention of the word spills toxins on his tongue.

Clever. Guess my suspicions were right, as usual. You don’t mind the challenge. After all, labor bears fruits. You maintain your ignorant disposition. “I-I’m just a girl. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the act, demon.” His gravelly voice really turns you on. He’s probably big as hell, too. “I don’t have time for your theatrics. I would’ve killed you myself if you’d visited last week, but fortunately for you my assistants are on vacation, and I really don’t want to clean up a mess right now. Get out of my house.”

Damn it, he’s good. I want to taste his cum before he dies. “Oh, there’ll be a mess, alright… Just not the kind you’re hoping for… Not yet.” You inch closer and closer to him until his chest is at eye level. He’s glaring down at you like you’re a pile of shit. “So hostile… So…difficult…” You run a delicate finger down the valley between his abs, and you feel his breath hitch ever so slightly at your touch.

“Get. Out,” he grits out, the hard, defiant edges of his jaw sharp enough to slice through skin.

You tiptoe and whisper into his ear, “Surrender to me, sweetheart. Just give in…” He exhales a little, and your arousal heightens. You roll your hips against his groin and his muscles grow taut. Someone’s getting hard. You can feel it through the fabric of your thin, skintight dress: the outline of a beast between his legs.

You get on your knees then, looking up at him with pure and unassuming doe eyes. You can smell his arousal. Can he smell yours? You reach between the plush material of his robe and pull it apart, his erect cock springing out to kiss your face. Furious, he backs away, but you activate your Evol then, restraining his hands to his back.

“You’re making this really hard for me, you know.” You use your powers to shove him down to his knees, and before he knows it, he’s leaning back against the oven with his hands bound behind him and his knees bent on the marble floor, with nothing to conceal his glaring erection.

He struggles beneath your supernatural hold, hissing in rage as he realizes his strength is no match for yours. “You’re a heinous witch—” he spits, though he’s cut off by the Evol you tape to his mouth.

There we go. Time for this fairy to work her magic. You get down on all fours and lean towards his cock, your mouth hovering inches from him. He squirms, clearly unused to being the one following orders for once. “You’re going to want me, kitty cat…”

Your lips wrap around his engorged head, and his eyes squeeze shut. The taste of his dick is instantly addictive, and you find yourself wanting to choke on it. Slick coats your pussy, which aches for its turn. You move your mouth along his length, going up and down as slowly and languidly as possible. A muffled moan escapes his throat, and his thighs clench. “Good boy…”

You begin to suck him off faster, pumping the base of his shaft with your right hand and fondling his balls with your left. Low growls sound from deep within him, and his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. “Mmmh… Mmh—” With a crude “pop”, you release his cockhead from your mouth.

I need him in me. Now. In one swift movement, you pull your black lace panties down and they fall to the floor, forgotten. You hastily pull the skirt of your dress over your head and toss it to the side, now fully naked and ready to take him.

Still panting, his eyes travel the length of your perfect body, lingering at your perky breasts and sopping cunt. You grab onto his shoulders for balance and angle your pussy directly above his leaking cock, positioning your tits right in front of his face. Lowering yourself onto him, you moan as his girth slides against your walls. The pleasure is blinding, and you feel as if life itself is returning to your body.

He groans pathetically as he enters your wet pussy, your tits brushing against his nose. He looks disgusted. Angry. Incredibly and unabashedly desperate. You begin to bounce on his lap, both hands braced on his shoulders as his dick plunges into your cunt and wet squelches fill the room.

You remove the Evol tape on his mouth, and he’s no longer mouthing off. His dirty, needy moans mingle with yours as he begins to thrust upwards, no longer fighting the carnal desire within him. “Ugh… Fuck— Fuck—!” he laments, his expression pained.

You release him from the restraints. Of course it would be easier for you to drain him while he’s bound. But you preferred to let them take control towards the end. To let them fuck themselves to death.

He up in an instant, twisting you around and pounding into you from behind. Like a puppet on a string, he fucks himself senseless as he grabs your hips and utterly destroys your pussy, balls slapping against your clit. “Fuck, I can’t— I shouldn’t be doing this—” he swears, revelling in the feeling of his cock gliding against your folds.

You scream out in ecstasy, the feeling of his tip rubbing against your cervix sending you into a mindless haze. He isn’t getting any weaker. In fact, he’s getting stronger, his thrusts more and more powerful. Why is this happening? This shouldn’t be happening—

He slams into you so strongly your vision blurs. His cock twitches so violently you know what’s coming, yet it still surprises you when he cums; thick, hot liquid filling you up as you orgasm so viciously your entire body shakes. Your pussy spasms in tandem with his release as he continues to pump spurts of cum into you, his cries echoing yours as you hear your mixed juices fall to the floor in puddles.

He slides out of you with another “pop” and you fall to the floor, still vibrating with desire. It takes you a while to realize he isn’t dead. How…?

“It should’ve killed you…” You watch in bewilderment as he pants on the ground, cum staining his discarded robe. Very much alive.

“It’s going to take more than that, Kitten.” His eyes gaze into yours, and for a shocking moment, you think he really sees you. It’s sickening.

Something flutters to life and begins to pound in your chest.

Hunting isn’t something to be taken lightly. You only get to do it once a year, after all—if you’re going to drink someone up tonight, it has to be someone positively delicious.

You roam the streets at midnight, keeping a lookout for your little snack. No, not him… Hmm, not her either…

There. He catches your eye immediately, a handsome doctor with light green eyes entering the clinic. Working the night shift, perhaps? Something about him intrigues you, though you can’t quite identify what it is… Maybe it’s the way he commands attention—not in an overtly loud or obnoxious way, no, but in a quiet, reserved fashion that makes you want to take your panties off.

Are you hiding anything, Doctor? Are you as quiet as you seem? You imagine proving that theory false, and your pussy slickens at the thought.

You enter the clinic in your black cocktail dress, a good amount of cleavage on display for the masked patients to gawk at. Ignoring them, you use your Evol to manipulate the queue system such that you’re up next.

The number on the screen changes, and you knock twice before waltzing into the doctor’s office, your shiny stilettos clacking on the polished floor. “H-Hello, Doctor…” you stammer, appearing as shy and docile as possible. It mildly grosses you out that this has been your most successful baiting tactic so far.

Your right hand instinctively grabs onto your left elbow, emphasizing the squeeze of your breasts and making you seem smaller.

The doctor, Zayne, takes off his reading glasses and assesses you—not sexually, but analytically. Damn it, he’s not a creep. This will be harder than I thought. “Hello. Take a seat,” he replies, gesturing to the chair across from him. His words are curt and direct, though not impolite or unfriendly. A no-nonsense, to-the-point kind of guy. Interesting.

You sit down, pretending to fumble a little as you lower yourself onto the chair. Your tits bounce. He doesn’t seem to notice. Taking out a plastic clipboard, he swivels to face you and asks, “Well, what seems to be the problem?”

You blush and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You see, I-I’ve had these…urges…” Your eyes evade his, darting around the room in mock nervousness.

He tilts his head slightly, pensive and observant. “What kind of urges?”

You bite your lower lip. “It’s like a funny feeling…in my…” you wave at the spot between your legs, and he squints at the movement.

The faintest hint of a blush appears on his cheeks. “Ah. And…you have these urges frequently?”

You nod. “I have them all the time. In fact, I’m feeling it right now.” He frowns at you, seemingly at a loss. “It only goes away after I touch myself, like this.” You reach under your skirt, and he rushes to stop you.

“Ma’am, please refrain from masturbating in the clinic. This is a sterilised environment that needs to remain free of bacteria—”

“Please, Doctor… I just need to…do it…” A wicked grin twists your lips as you use your Evol to tie him to the chair, sealing his mouth with invisible tape. You lift the skirt of your dress up and pull your lace panties to the side, your cunt already dripping wet.

His eyes avoid your fingers as they begin to stroke your folds, the instant wave of pleasure eliciting a small moan from your lips. His muffled protests are barely audible (though you did lock the door with your powers beforehand), ensuring zero interruptions.

You whine as the pads of your fingers circle your engorged clit, and use your Evol to force his chin down so he has a clear view of your movements. The redness on his face intensifies, and you see the vague outline of his cock hardening beneath his pants. There we go…

Your fingers jerk faster, and your back arches involuntarily as he watches you abuse your sopping pussy. The chair beneath you is drenched by now, your arousal leaking out in waves as you begin to finger yourself brainless.

All the while, he’s being forced to watch your every thrust, every spasm. He’s fully erect now, and you both know it. You remove the silencer and make your way towards him. “Please— Don’t do this…”

His pants unzip themselves and his boxers are yanked down. “Be a good boy for me and be quiet, okay?” You lower your leaking pussy down onto his dick, and the tip pops in between your folds almost effortlessly. You both groan at the sensation, the feeling of raw, primal sex too good to resist.

“Fuck— Stop—” he whimpers as you begin to bounce on his lap, your ass slapping against his thighs and tits bouncing in his face. You force your swollen tit into his mouth and use your Evol to latch his lips around it, but you don’t have to use it for long. He’s sucking on your boob with so much force that you cry out loud.

He writhes underneath your weight, still trying to set himself free. Adorable little thing… So weak. You grind against him faster, each roll of your hips in such quick succession that his eyes squeeze shut and fly to the back of his head. “Ugh— Ugh— Ugh—” he grunts between each upwards thrust. Bounce. Ugh— Jerk. Ugh— Squeeze. Ughhhhh…

Someone knocks on the door. “Is everything okay in there?” You lose focus for just a second, and your powers slip free. He’s no longer restrained to the chair.

Strong hands lift you up and plop you onto the desk, your ass landing on a stack of papers and a few paperclips. What—? There’s no time to think before he’s slamming into you, each thick vein of his cock rubbing against your inner walls and driving you insane. Your elbows are propped up against the table, which shakes so loudly with every jerk of his lean hips. “What are you doing to me—? Fuck…” The table has grown slick with your mixed juices, along with everything on it.

The knocking continues. “Hello?! Is everything alright?!”

He slams into you so hard the table nearly falls over. White ropes of cum burst into you as you tighten around his girth, shaking so hard you see stars. Your cries mirror his as he cums all over your thighs, your stomach, the papers on his desk.

Most notably, he isn’t dead. What the hell..?

He’s breathing hard as he composes himself, sinking back down onto the chair in exhaustion. “I…apologise for that… I lost control of myself… You came in here looking for medical help, and I abused that…”

“Y-You don’t feel faint? Or ill?”

He shakes his head regretfully. “It’s my job to be asking you that.”

“You’re not surprised by my powers?” You’re at a loss for words.

“You’re not the only Evolver around here. Now if you’ll let me, I’d like to do my job as your doctor and help you with your sexual urges. Medically, of course.”

A faint pounding seizes your ribcage.

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

#would yall like a non-smutty sequel where they fall in love hehe #‧˚˖✩ bp works #‧˚˖✩ bp reqs #love and deepspace #sylus #zayne #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #lads #lnds #sylus smut #zayne smut #lads sylus #lads zayne #lnds sylus #lnds zayne

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keithyp00 · 2 months ago

Text

Don't Slow Down

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, romantic tension, kissing, mentions/implications of sex (but nothing explicit)

Inspired by Into You by Ariana Grande

Word Count: 805

Author Note: Thank you so much on the support on my last story When The Quiet Comes. It means so much more than most you realize and I'll continue posting more Bucky stories on here (cuz I have a lot so be prepared). Anyway hope you enjoy this one! (And I promise longer ones are coming soon!)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

It started with a look.

Not just any look. Not the kind you toss across a room without meaning to. This one carried weight.

It was at one of Tony's rooftop parties. Music pulsed through the glass walls, and laughter spilled over the edge like champagne. You weren't trying to flirt- not really. You were just... watching.

And Bucky Barnes was standing across the rooftop like he didn't belong. Hair tied back, whiskey in hand, his metal fingers clinking softly against the glass. He looked half-bored, half-haunted. But his eyes- god, his eyes- flicked to yours and stayed.

You looked away first. But you felt it the rest of the night.

______________________________________________________________

There were missions. Briefings. Training sessions. Shared cups of coffee in the early mornings when everyone else was still asleep.

You weren't sure when it started. When the touches began lasting longer than necessary. When his hand brushed yours and didn't move. When your legs touched under the table and neither of you shifted away.

You caught him looking at you once- really looking- like he was memorizing the curve of your easy-going smile that always adorned your features.

"You good?" You asked, barely hiding the shake in your voice.

He simply nodded once. "Yeah." But his eyes dropped to your lips before the word could even finish leaving his own.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't innocent anymore.

Not when he stood behind you in the gym, hands both cool and warm on your waist, breath hot on your neck as he guided you through hand-to-hand drills.

"Loosen your grip," he murmured, voice low and gravelly. "Let them come to you."

You nodded, but your mind was a blur- all heat and static and the smell of him clouding your thoughts. When you finally pinned him to the mat, straddling his waist, his hands gripped your thighs- tight, grounding- and neither of you moved.

Time paused.

You felt it- the shift.

The point of no return.

______________________________________________________________

He started knocking on your door late at night.

Not for sex. At least not yet.

Just to sit on your bed and talk about anything but what you were both aching for.

One night, he sat too close. His thigh brushed yours, and your heart stuttered.

"Do you ever wish it was simpler?" He asked.

"Yeah," you whispered.

You didn't have to say what it was that was on your mind. He leaned in then- just a breath away- eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

"I don't want to mess this up," he mumbled.

"Then don't," you replied, barely more than a breath, and barely audible to anyone but him.

But he didn't kiss you. Not yet.

______________________________________________________________

The kiss happened in the dark. One of those hot summer nights where the air felt like velvet and the city buzzed below. Music floated up from someone's balcony. Slow. Sultry.

You and Bucky stood on the balcony of the compound, wrapped in the darkness of the night.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said, voice ragged.

"Then don't stop," you breathed.

He kissed you like he was starving. Hands on your hips, your back arching into him, his mouth claiming yours like it had always belonged there. You pressed closer, drunk off the feeling, your fingers tangling in his hair as his metal arm gripped the railing behind you- holding on like you were the only real thing left in the world.

It wasn't just lust.

It was the way he held your face after. It was the way he touched your cheek like you might disappear if he let go.

"We shouldn't..." he started, forehead pressed to yours.

"I know."

But neither of you moved. Because you were already in too deep.

______________________________________________________________

Now, it's a rhythm. A dance. A push and pull you both pretend not to notice during the day.

But at night- in hallways, in quiet corners, in the stolen minutes between battle and breath- you crashed together like waved.

You shouldn't. You know that.

But you're into him. So into him. And when he touches you like that- like he's drowning in it- it's impossible to care about anything else.

You think he's in love with you. He doesn't say it. But you feel it in the way his hands shake when you kiss him. In the way he lingers after, lips pressed to your shoulder, like he's memorizing your skin.

You don't need words yet. Because when he looks at you like that- when he kisses you like that- you already know.

______________________________________________________________

It's not simple.

It's messy and quiet and hidden in the shadows.

But when you wake up next to him, chest to chest, his hand on your waist, your fingers brushing over the metal seam of his arm, it feels like everything makes sense.

You're his.

And he's absolutely, completely, breathtakingly into you.

358 notes · View notes

rootedinrevisions · 4 months ago

Text

Yours, Finally

Summary: Bradley and you were never just friends, but you were never more than that either. Caught somewhere between nights together and unspoken feelings, you both built something complicated that neither of you were ready to define. You and Bradley are both left shattered after you breakup, if that’s what you can even call it. When given one last chance by you, Bradley is determined to show you that he can be the man you want him to be.

Warnings: Some Alcohol Use. Other than that this is just a lot of angst sandwiched between some fluff.

Word Count: 10,259

Tags: I don't have a ton of writing for Bradley, but I tagged the people I have listed on the Bradley Tag List. If you'd like to be added in future Bradley stuff just let me know!

A/N: Thank you to those of you that sent in requests for this. This ended up being three or four requests all combined into one. I really hope you guys like this. This one has been a work in progress for over a month, but I really like how it came out and hope you guys do too!

The first thing you register is warmth. Bradley is wrapped around you, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his chest a solid wall of heat against your back. His breath tickles the nape of your neck, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was still asleep. But you know better. You know he’s laying there, enjoying the last few minutes before he has to get up.

Your fingers toy with the hem of the old Navy tee you’re wearing. His old Navy tee, soft and worn from years of wash and wear. It smells like him. Like sea salt, faded cologne, and something that’s just Bradley.

You shift just enough to roll onto your side and face him. His arm over you tightens instinctively, pulling you closer. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t know what to do with.

Bradley Bradshaw is unfairly beautiful like this. Barely awake, and still the most breathtaking thing you’ve ever seen. His hair is a tousled mess of curls crushed against the pillow, sun kissed skin warm under the morning light spilling in through the half open blinds.

For a moment you just look at him. Commit this moment to memory. Because this…waking up in his arms, in his bed, wearing his clothes…it feels like something more than it is.

His eyes blink open slowly, soft with sleep as they land on you. A lazy smile tugs at his lips, and then, with a quiet, gravelly voice, he mumbles, “Mornin’, sweetheart.”

God, he makes this so easy. Makes you want to fall. Makes you want to believe this is more than what it is.

He tugs you closer, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You sigh as his arm flexes around you, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

Now’s your chance. Just say it. What are we Bradley? Four little words. But the words stay trapped in your throat.

Instead you just bury your fingers in his curls, and let your nails lightly scratch his scalp the way you know he loves. His body relaxes even more against yours, a soft hum vibrating against your skin.

You don’t ask about what you guys are. Not right now anyway.

Instead you close your eyes, and let yourself sink into the moment a little longer pretending this is something it isn’t.

You start to shift, muscles stretching as you prepare to slip out of bed, but before you can even lift the sheets, a strong arm tightens around your waist pulling you back in.

“Mm-mm,” Bradley mumbles, voice thick with sleep as he buries his face against your shoulder. “Five more minutes.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Bradley—”

“Five minutes,” he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. His grip is loose but stubborn, like he’s holding onto the last bit of sleep and you at the same time.

And honestly? You can’t tell him no.

So you sigh, sinking back into the warmth of the bed, letting him pull you closer. His body is solid and warm behind you, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you right back into a hazy state of comfort.

For a few minutes, you just lay there, letting yourself exist in this moment and be wrapped up in him. But it doesn’t last.

Eventually, Bradley’s breaths even out, turning deeper and slower. Then soft snores start falling from his lips. You shake your head with a quiet smile. Of course he’s already asleep again.

Carefully, you ease out of his hold, slipping from the bed without waking him this time. You know it’s been a long week of training for him. Long days, late nights, constant exhaustion. He needs the rest.

So you let him have it. And as you pull on a pair of his sweatpants and pad toward the kitchen, you decide you’ll let him wake up to coffee and breakfast in a little bit.

You pad down the hallway to the kitchen, not bothering to flip on the light. The early morning sunlight filtering through the blinds is enough light for you to work, casting everything in soft hues.

You know exactly where everything is. The coffee grinds are where he keeps them on the counter right by the sink. The mugs are in the cabinet above the dishwasher. As you reach up for one you realize your fingers don’t have to stretch quite as far as usual. The mugs have been moved down a shelf. Bradley must have moved them lower recently. You pause, glancing at the shelf that's just a little higher than your reach where he used to keep them. He knew you’d want them closer. You grin to yourself, quietly shaking your head as you pull one down.

With easy familiarity you fill the coffee pot and get it started, then crack the eggs for breakfast, turning the stove on without a second thought. You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your lips as you work, feeling more at home here than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

“Didn’t even wake me up,” Bradley’s voice is thick with sleep as he comes up behind you, pressing his warm palm to the small of your back.

You glance at him over your shoulder, amusement tugging at the corners of your lips. “Thought I’d let you sleep.”

He hums, stepping past you toward the coffee maker. “Could’ve at least kissed me awake.”

Your stomach flips at the ease of his words, but you push past it, rolling your eyes as you turn back to the stove. “I’ll make it up to you,” you tease.

Bradley chuckles, low and warm, as he starts to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Damn right, you will.”

A comfortable silence settles between you as you both fall into a familiar rhythm. He pours some coffee into your mug and then gets his daily protein shake going while you handle breakfast, moving around each other like you’ve done this a hundred times before…because you have.

The smell of fresh coffee fills the air, mingling with the scent of butter and eggs. Sunlight spills through the window, casting a golden glow over the small kitchen. It’s quiet, peaceful.

You grab your phone, flicking through playlists before landing on something easy and old school. Music filters through the speakers, something slow with a good rhythm, something that makes you sway your hips slightly as you focus on the eggs.

Bradley notices immediately. Before you can react his arms slip around your waist, his broad chest pressing up against your back as he pulls you into him. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder, his body fitting seamlessly against yours.

You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head back against him. “I take it you approve of the song choice?”

“I approve of you dancin’ in my kitchen,” he says, voice warm, laced with amusement.

He sways you slightly, moving with the rhythm, a slow, lazy kind of dance that isn’t really a dance at all. It's just him holding you, and moving with you like it’s second nature.

You close your eyes for a second, soaking it in. It’s moments like this that make you want to believe. That make you want to ask him when you guys will be official.

But you don’t. Instead, you let him hold you and enjoy the moment.

For now, you let yourself pretend. And for now, that’s enough.

Once the eggs are finished you step out of Bradley’s hold and perch yourself on one of the stools at the island, stirring your coffee as Bradley stands on the opposite side, casually picking at his breakfast with a fork. There’s an easy quiet between you both, comfortable in its silence. There's no real need for conversation.

But then he hesitates, the fork hovering between his plate and his mouth. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You watch as he scratches the back of his head. It’s a nervous habit of his when he’s about to ask something, but doesn’t quite know how to say it.

“So…” he begins, voice low and thoughtful, his gaze flicking between you and the counter, like he’s trying to weigh whether or not he should say the words. “You doing anything later tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back against the stool. “Not sure. Why?”

He shrugs, his usual nonchalant mask falling back into place, even though his words don’t quite match the ease of the motion. “We’re hitting up The Hard Deck. Some of the squad’s gonna be there. You wanna come?”

There’s a long pause as you process it, and then a realization settles over you. He didn’t say anything about it being a date. But the way he said it, like you’re already expected to come along with him, and the slight tension in his voice make it feel like something more than just friends getting drinks.

You glance over at him, but his eyes are focused on his plate now, his expression cool again. Your heart does a little flip.

He looks up, catching your gaze. That signature smirk of his pulls at the corner of his mouth. "You really gonna turn down free drinks?"

You roll your eyes and sigh, knowing exactly what that means. He’s been picking up your tab for the last few weeks. And while it’s generous, it also comes with a slightly awkward weight that makes you question what it means

“Fine,” you say, shaking your head and trying to keep it light, even though something in the back of your mind tugs at you. “I’ll go. But I’m holding you to buying my drinks tonight if you’re going to make me put up with Hangman all night.”

He just smirks wider, though you try not to read into the way he smiles just a little too softly when you agree.

Later that evening the familiar thrum of music and chatter greets you as you step into The Hard Deck. You scan the room, eyes landing on the back corner, the usual gathering place for Bradley and the rest of the squad. You spot them right away. Bob, Hangman, Coyote, Payback, and Fanboy, all of them leaning casually around the pool tables. The laughter and clinking glasses fill the air, creating a vibe that’s both laid back and familiar.

And then you find him. Bradley. He’s standing by the bar with Phoenix. His back is to you. His broad shoulders are relaxed as he talks, laughing at something she’s saying. For a moment, it feels like everything slows down around you. You’re standing there, trying to act casual, but inside there’s a weird twist in your stomach.

Bradley’s gaze flicks toward you. His eyes find yours instantly, and there’s a moment of recognition like he’s been waiting for you to arrive all night. His lips curl up in that easy smile of his, the one that always makes your heart do a little somersault.

He nods toward you in a silent greeting. Without missing a beat, he sets his beer down on the bar top, pushes past the others, and strides toward you.

Before you can even fully react, he’s there. His arms wrapping around you in a bear hug, lifting you off the ground slightly as he pulls you in tight. The familiar scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body are like a magnet, drawing you closer despite your efforts to keep things casual.

“Hey, you made it,” he says, his voice low and warm with a hint of something more.

When he sets you down, his hands linger on your shoulders, the brief touch sending a small jolt through you.

Phoenix and the others are watching, some with smirks playing on their faces, but Bradley doesn’t seem to care. He’s got you in his orbit now, and nothing else matters.

You try to shrug it off, offering a smile that’s more confident than you feel. “You think I was gonna turn down a free drink?”

Bradley laughs, that full, throaty sound that always makes your pulse pick up. “You never turn down free drinks when I’m paying for them.” His voice drops a little lower, and for a split second,you almost think he’s not talking about just the drinks anymore.

The awkwardness of the moment is briefly swept away as he leads you over to the group. Phoenix elbows Hangman who’s snickering at the way Bradley’s being a little too touchy with you already.

Bradley pulls out a chair for you to sit next to him, and he casually rests his hand on the back of your chair, still close enough to feel the heat of his touch.

The group is in the middle of a heated pool game when the door swings open. A tall woman with dark hair and an unmistakable confidence strides in, her eyes scanning the room as if she already owns it.

She’s young, attractive, and radiates the kind of self-assurance that makes even Hangman do a double take. Her uniform is impeccably tailored, and there’s something almost cocky in the way she holds herself.

As she walks toward the bar, her gaze lands on Bradley. She struts over to him with a smile that’s too confident, a laugh that’s a little too loud. You watch as she slips right into the conversation Bradley and Bob are having, leaning in just a bit too close to him, her hand brushing against his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Bradley appears caught off guard. His usual ease with everyone faltering slightly under her persistent energy. She touches his arm again as she laughs a little too hard at something he said. The joke wasn’t even that funny. You know this because you’ve heard him tell that same joke a dozen times. But somehow, she finds it hilarious.

Her name’s Blaze, you hear someone mention. Apparently it wasn’t just your attention she had captured. She’s a new pilot at Top Gun. She’s already drawing attention from the ones in charge of the training, and she knows it.

You can see the way her eyes flicker over Bradley, the way she holds his gaze longer than necessary. Then her gaze meets yours and you feel the shift immediately. It’s as if she’s realized your place in the group and is ready to take it from you. She’s speaking to him like she’s the center of his universe, and you’re left standing on the edge of it, a quiet observer in the background.

Bradley’s laughing now, a little too much, almost like he’s enjoying the attention, though it’s hard to tell if it’s because of her or the fact that she’s making an effort to stay glued to his side.

Your stomach tightens as a knot forms in your gut. It feels like you’re not even there anymore. Blaze’s eyes are on Bradley in a way that makes it feel like you’ve already lost your spot beside him, like you’re some afterthought.

You remind yourself that you’re leaving with him tonight. This girl is nothing. She’s just a new face in the crowd, a momentary distraction. You're the one that will be wrapped in his arms as he falls asleep tonight.

You sip your drink, trying to keep your cool. Don’t let her get to you, you tell yourself. You’ve been doing this long enough with Bradley to know how to keep your composure. She’s not the first girl that’s flirted with him since you two started hooking up. You also remind yourself that the whole point of this thing with Bradley was to keep things casual. You can't be the jealous girlfriend when you aren't even the girlfriend.

You glance at Bradley. He catches your eye for a split second, and the moment passes quickly. But something’s different. He’s caught up in this new energy, and it stings more than you want to admit.

Blaze is relentless. It’s like she has a radar for Bradley’s every move, every word. She doesn’t just laugh at his jokes. Now she leans in, her eyes locked on his.

“I have to say, Bradley,” she purrs, her voice just a little too smooth, “I’ve seen some impressive moves in the air, but yours? Seriously, you’re on another level.”

Bradley chuckles, shifting slightly under her gaze, but the words don’t seem to make him uncomfortable. If anything, they make him look... pleased.

“Thanks, Blaze,” he responds with that easy smile of his. It’s the kind of smile you’ve seen him give a thousand times, but tonight, for some reason, it feels different. Warmer?

She smirks, her eyes glinting with that cocky confidence. “Maybe one day I could be your wingman. Bet we’d tear it up together.”

Bradley laughs again, his shoulders relaxing as he leans back into the conversation. The sound is so light, so easy, that it hits you in a way that makes your chest tighten. It stings, like something cold sinking deep into your stomach.

This isn't what you were expecting when Bradley invited you out tonight. You weren’t expecting to feel... left out.

You don’t want to make a scene. You don’t want to be the jealous girl at the bar. But damn it, it’s hard not to notice that Bradley isn’t pulling away from her. He isn’t shutting her down.

You swallow thickly and grab your drink, nearly draining a quarter of it in one go. The burn of the alcohol isn’t enough to ease the sudden tightness in your chest. You close your eyes for a second, trying to push down the discomfort, to steady yourself.

Don’t overthink it. Don’t read into this. It’s just a girl, just some random girl, right? You’re fine. You’re fine.

But then your eyes meet Phoenix’s from across the table, and for a second you wonder if maybe she can feel it too. The way Blaze is practically clinging to Bradley, the way he doesn’t seem to mind it. Phoenix gives you a small, knowing look. She doesn’t have to say anything. Her eyes say it all. She sees it too.

Your stomach drops, the weight of her silent confirmation crashing over you. It’s not just you. Which means you aren't being irrational.

Bradley’s laugh rings out again, louder this time. And for the first time, you realize tht this thing between you and him? Maybe it’s not as solid as you thought. Maybe he doesn’t see you the way you’ve been pretending to see him.

"Another round?" Penny asks, noticing your empty glass. You quickly nod.

Her eyes flicker between you and Bradley, and you know damn well she’s seen the dynamic. She’s seen how Bradley’s been picking up your tab all month. She’s also seen how he’s been so damn chill with Blaze tonight.

You don’t know if it’s her knowing look or the way Bradley is standing just a little too close, but something feels off.

“Put it on mine, Penny.” Bradley says as he steps beside you.

"No, I got it," you say, brushing him off more sharply than you mean to.

You hand Penny your card, trying to act like you’re fine. She takes it from you without a word, but there’s a shift in the air now.

You hear him sigh under his breath, but you don’t let it get to you. You’re already thinking about leaving. No need to cause a scene with him.

He turns to Phoenix, his back to you. You don’t mean to overhear, but the bar isn’t that loud, and he’s standing just behind you.

"Why’s she acting so pissy tonight?" Bradley asks, his voice casual, like it’s just a passing thought.

You feel the words sink into you like a stone. It’s like a punch to the gut. You know he’s talking about you, but hearing him say it like that...so unbothered, so detached...it makes everything feel so much worse.

Phoenix rolls her eyes. "Seriously, Bradshaw? Blaze has been all over you. She’s been flirting with you all night."

Bradley’s frown is immediate, but it’s confused. “So? What’s that got to do with anything?” He sounds genuinely puzzled, like he doesn’t understand.

Phoenix scoffs, and you feel the heat in her words hit you like a slap. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What do you mean? Why would she care if Blaze flirts with me? We are just friends.”

Just friends. That’s it. Just friends.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, but you can’t. You can’t let this go on any longer. You’ve been pretending you’re fine, pretending you’re okay with this casual thing, this “no strings” arrangement. But hearing Bradley’s words, so damn casual, like nothing about the two of you matters to him…like you’ve been nothing but a friend all along.

You’re done.

“Penny can you just close out my tab instead,” you say, your voice tight, barely holding it together.

She gives you a confused look, but she doesn’t question it. She pulls your receipt from the register and slides it across the bar to you.

You don’t even glance at it as you add a tip and then scribble your signature at the bottom.

You grab your purse in a hurry, trying to ignore the sting in your chest. Bob looks up as you move past the pool table, his brows furrowed in concern.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, but you can’t handle it. Not now. Not after hearing Bradley’s words.

“Can you tell Bradley I went home?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, but you know he hears it.

You know he sees the pain flickering behind your eyes. Bob hesitates, but he nods slowly, unsure of what to do with the situation.

You don’t wait for him to reply. You head for the exit, your heart heavy with each step, the door of The Hard Deck swinging closed behind you.

You can feel the cool night air against your skin, the weight of everything that’s just happened crushing down on you with every step toward your car. Your mind is a blur of frustration, confusion, and hurt—hurt that Bradley still doesn’t get it. Doesn’t see you. Not the way you see him.

And then you hear his voice, the sound of his footsteps following close behind you.

“Why did you leave like that back there?” Bradley calls out, his tone a mixture of confusion and perhaps concern?

You don’t stop walking. You can’t. You don’t trust yourself to speak without breaking.

“Because,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, hoping he’ll take the hint.

But of course, he doesn’t.

“Because why?” Bradley asks again, his frustration growing.

But you feel the tightness in your chest pulling you back, the anger building with every step he takes. And then it bursts out of you, everything you've been holding back, all the hurt you've been swallowing for so long. You spin on your heel, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. Your heart pounds in your ears. You’ve had enough. You can't hold back anymore.

“Because your dumbass can’t figure out how much it hurts me when you say we’re just friends!” The words are sharp like glass shattering, and you feel the floodgates open as everything you’ve been feeling pours out.

Bradley stares at you, the confusion in his eyes clear, but you can’t hold it in. Not now.

“Friends don’t fall asleep wrapped around each other, Bradley. Friends don’t wake up tangled in bed, making coffee and pretending it doesn’t mean anything. Friends don’t—”

You cut yourself off, your voice breaking in a way you can’t stop. You swallow hard, feeling like you’re drowning in the weight of the truth. You’ve been holding onto these moments, these tiny, intimate things you’ve shared, and it’s killing you to realize he doesn’t see it the way you do.

Bradley’s eyes flicker, and you can see the gears turning in his head, but it’s like he still doesn’t get it. Not fully.

“Why are you so mad about Blaze?” he asks, that typical confusion marking his features again.

You feel the switch flip inside you, like a damn finally breaking. His words are the last straw, and you snap.

“She was flirting with you, and you didn’t do anything! That’s why I’m mad!” Your chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, your words coming out faster now.

You turn to leave, your fists clenched at your sides, but then you feel his hand on your wrist. It’s gentle, but firm. Just enough to stop you from walking away.

“Wait—” His voice cracks, but you’re already too far gone.

You whip around to face him, the sting of unshed tears still burning in your eyes, your heart thundering in your chest.

“No. I’m done.”

His breath catches in his throat, and you can see the realization hitting him, but it’s too late.

“What do you mean, done?” His voice drops, the panic in his tone rising.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the words spill out before you can stop them. “I’m done, Bradley. I can’t keep doing this...whatever this is between us...Not when it’s so clear that I don’t mean anything to you.” The lump in your throat grows heavier with each word, but you push through.

Bradley’s expression falters, his eyes widening in disbelief, and he takes a step toward you, his hand reaching out like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping away. “Wait, just—”

You shake your head, the finality of your words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Let me go, Bradley.”

But he doesn’t let you go. His grip is firm now, desperate, almost like he’s trying to hold you in place, as though if he just holds on tight enough, he can undo all the damage.

“Do you understand how much it would hurt me?” His voice cracks, raw with emotion. “How much it would kill me to see you go?”

You laugh, but it’s bitter, cutting through the space between you. “I’m sure your little friend in there will give you a shoulder to cry on tonight if you need one.”

The words hang in the air between you like a knife. It stings. The thought of anyone comforting Bradley eats at you. It stings more than you care to admit, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much. You pull away, yanking your wrist from his grasp, the movement sharp and deliberate.

You turn and continue walking to your car, your legs feeling heavier with each step. The sound of his breath catches behind you, but you don’t turn back. You can’t. The hurt is too much, the ache in your chest is too sharp.

You get into the car, slamming the door behind you, and the engine roars to life. As you pull away from the parking lot, you glance in the rearview mirror, just for a second.

There he stands, hands on his hips, looking absolutely wrecked. His shoulders slump as he watches you drive away, the night swallowing you both whole.

And as you drive off, the tears finally break free.

BRADLEY’S P.O.V.

Bradley stands there, rooted to the spot, his mind replaying your words over and over. "When it's so clear I don't mean anything to you."

The weight of it hits him like a punch to the gut. Is that really how he’s made you feel? His stomach twists with a sickening realization. He’s been too afraid to put a label on what you two had, too afraid to risk anything. And now? Now he’s lost you.

He doesn’t even think about it. He walks toward the Bronco, barely even aware of what he’s doing. He’ll settle his tab with Penny later. He has to fix this.

As he pulls up to your place, his hands grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. His heart pounds in his chest. He parks, throws the door open, and hurries toward your front door. He knocks once, twice, three times hoping you’ll answer. He silently prays that you’ll open that door, that maybe this is all just a bad dream he can wake up from.

When you open the door the sight of your red face, your puffy eyes, makes something inside him crack. The guilt rushes over him like a flood. He never meant to make you cry. Never meant to hurt you.

“I—” He takes a shaky breath, stepping forward, but you don’t move. You stand there, silent, eyes wary.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to make you feel like...like you didn’t mean anything to me. I was just scared. I didn’t know how to...how to make sense of what we were. I didn’t want to screw it up.”

He pauses, searching your face for something anything that might show you still care, that maybe he isn’t too late.

“I like you. A lot. And I don’t want to lose you.”

The words tumble out of him before he can stop them, raw and unfiltered. He watches your expression, trying to read you, but you don’t say anything. You just stare at him, exhausted. He hates the way you look, so defeated. He wishes he could erase all of it—the confusion, the hesitation, the fear that kept him from being honest with you sooner.

You break the silence, your voice quiet, almost hollow. “I need space, Rooster.”

The words land like a slap, and his breath hitches. The use of his callsign stabs at him harder than anything else could. You’ve never called him that—never. It’s always been Bradley or Roo, something personal, something that felt like it was just for the two of you. And now, hearing you say “Rooster,” it feels like a barrier between you, like he’s just another guy on the base to you.

He flinches, the sting of it cutting deep.

Then there’s that word. Space. That’s the last thing he wants. Space. Distance. He doesn’t want that.

He wants to fix this, to make everything right. But as he looks at you, he sees the exhaustion in your eyes. The weight of everything that’s happened tonight is all over your face, and it stops him in his tracks.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix it. Everything inside him tells him to argue, to fight for you, to make you see that he’s not going anywhere, but he knows the exhaustion in your eyes. The last thing he wants to do is push you further away.

“If space is what you need, I’ll give it to you,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

The words hang between you, and for a long moment, neither of you move. He doesn’t want to leave you like this, but he knows he has to give you time.

And so, he does what he has to do. He turns and walks away, his heart still heavy in his chest, but he holds onto that last promise: I’m not going anywhere.

The Next Few Weeks

The silence between you and Bradley stretches out like an endless aching void. Every day that passes without you feels like a weight he can’t shake off. He tries to keep himself busy. Whether it’s work, training, the endless stream of flights and meetings. But every day, every hour, he catches himself reaching for his phone, hovering over your name, his thumb just a fraction away from pressing send. But he never does. He can’t. He promised you space.

Still, the urge gnaws at him. There’s so much he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to start. He doesn’t know how to fix this. So he keeps his phone locked, not allowing himself to type out the words that he knows will just make everything worse.

At the Hard Deck it’s the same routine he’s always had, but everything feels different. He still walks in, his eyes automatically searching for you, expecting you to be there, sitting at the bar or talking to Phoenix. But every time the disappointment hits him like a physical blow when he doesn’t see you.

Phoenix notices. Of course she does. She’s always been able to read him like an open book. She leans over to him one night, a smirk on her lips, but her eyes softening when she sees how bad he really looks.

“You look like hell,” she observes, her voice low, a little concerned beneath the teasing.

Bradley just shrugs, not willing to admit anything. Not willing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much this is killing him.

“Haven’t been sleeping,” he mutters, his gaze drifting to the door again, just in case you might show up. But you don’t.

Phoenix doesn’t need to ask why he hasn’t been sleeping. She knows. She just lets it go, her gaze following his for a moment before she focuses back on her drink, but the unspoken understanding hangs between them. Bradley’s heart aches with the weight of it. Every time she says something like that, it’s a reminder of how different everything feels now, how much quieter the Hard Deck is without you.

The silence is suffocating. It creeps into his thoughts, his every moment. There’s a constant hum in the back of his mind, a reminder of the space you needed, the space he had no choice but to give you. But he hates it. Every second of it. He wants to fix it. He wants to call you, show up at your door, beg you to talk to him, but he knows he can’t. Not when you asked for this. Not when you told him to leave you alone.

The silence eats at him more than anything. The quiet where there used to be laughter, light-hearted teasing, late-night talks. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to change, but there’s no sign of it.

Every time he sees someone in the bar whispering or laughing, he wonders if they’re talking about him. The idiot who messed up the best thing he ever had.

Days pass. Weeks. The longing to reach out only grows, but Bradley keeps pushing it down. The empty space between you two is consuming, and while he respects your wishes, he doesn’t know how much longer he can live with not seeing or talking to you.

A Month Later

It’s been a month since the last time Bradley heard from you. A month of sleepless nights, restless days, and a gnawing feeling in his gut that refuses to go away. He’s tried to keep his focus, really he has. But every time he thinks he’s putting it all behind him, something pulls him back—his phone, the Hard Deck, the air hanging heavy with unsaid words. The silence suffocates him.

Today was no different. A grueling day of training with Simpson riding him hard. His head’s been everywhere but in the cockpit, and Simpson’s sharp eyes saw it. The admiral had no patience for distractions today, and it showed. Bradley’s body is exhausted, drained from the tension in his chest and the weight of everything unresolved. He’s spent the entire day pretending to have it together, but the truth is, his head hasn’t had it together since the night he let you walk away.

Now, in the locker room, the sound of water running off his body is almost soothing as he scrubs at his skin, trying to wash away the weight of the past month. But he’s still carrying it. Always carrying it.

Bradley’s just stepping out of the shower, toweling off his hair when another pilot, a guy from another squadron, walks up to him. He doesn’t seem to notice Bradley’s mood. It's different from the casual way in the way pilots usually are with each other. But what he says next hits Bradley like a gut punch.

“So, I asked her out,” the guy says, clearly not aware of the storm he’s about to cause. “Wasn’t sure if you two had a thing or not, but she said you weren’t anything.”

Bradley freezes. His hand tightens around the towel, his heart skipping a beat. "She said that?" His voice comes out tight, controlled, but inside, a thousand thoughts are already spiraling.

The pilot nods, completely oblivious to the fury building inside Bradley. “Yeah. She said you guys were just friends, no big deal. So, it’s cool if I take her out, right?”

Bradley doesn’t even answer. The words are stuck in his throat, his mind spinning with disbelief. She said that? The way she’d made him feel, how much he’d tried to give her space, and now this? Now some other guy thinks he can just walk in and pick up where Bradley left off?

He doesn’t even think about it. Without saying another word, he quickly pulls on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder. He walks out of the locker room, leaving the pilot still talking, unaware of what he’s just set into motion.

Bradley’s entire body is tense as he heads straight for the Bronco. He can feel the anger bubbling up, but beneath it, there’s fear. Fear that it’s too late, fear that you’ve moved on, fear that he’s lost you forever.

But he’s done waiting. He can’t keep pretending like this, not when he knows what he wants. Not when he knows how much he needs you.

He speeds through traffic, his hands gripping the wheel as he tries to steady himself, but nothing helps. His mind is already picturing you with that guy—seeing him take you out, laughing with you, getting close to you in ways he used to. And the thought rips him apart.

Bradley doesn’t know if he’ll have time to make it to you, but he’s sure as hell going to try. Because if it’s not already too late, he’s not going to let you slip through his fingers without fighting for you.

Your POV

The knock at the door startles you. You weren't expecting anyone. But when you open the door, there he stands. Bradley. The last person you thought you'd see.

He looks like hell. His jaw is tight, his eyes wild with something you've seen before. Desperation. Before you can say anything, he speaks.

"Are you really going out with him?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the edge of pain in it, like he's trying to hold it all together.

You cross your arms, trying to shield yourself from whatever he's about to throw at you. "I don’t see why it matters to you, Rooster. You said we were just friends."

A sharp breath escapes his lungs, and then he steps closer, closing the distance between you two in an instant. His eyes never leave yours, burning with something deep. "I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong."

You take a step back, but he follows you. "Why are you here, Rooster?" you ask, your voice low, unsure if you're ready to hear whatever he’s about to say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His voice cracks slightly as he pours his heart out. The words coming out fast, like he’s been holding them back for too long. "No label could ever define what you mean to me. I love you. I need you. Losing you made me realize I don’t want to live in a world where I’m just your friend. I want to be your everything."

Your chest tightens, and a bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. "You broke my heart, Bradley," you say quietly, your voice cracking.

He nods, his eyes full of remorse. "And if it takes me the rest of my life to earn you back, then that’s exactly what I’ll do."

You search his face. His expression is raw, desperate. He’s not just saying these things; you can feel that he means them in his every word, his every movement. But can you trust it? Can you trust him?

"Bradley..." You sigh, rubbing your temples, the weight of everything you’ve been through crashing down on you. You hate that you still love him. That no matter how much he’s hurt you, he can still get to you like this. You look at him, heart torn between wanting to protect yourself and wanting to give in to the love you still feel. "I don’t know if I can just forget everything, but…if you really mean this, if you’re really all in….then you’re going to have to show me."

His entire face softens at your words. The tension in his shoulders eases, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see the man who used to make you feel like the most important person in the world.

"I swear, sweetheart," he says, voice low and steady, full of conviction. "I’ll spend every damn day proving to you that you’re the only one I want."

You’re still hesitant, your mind racing. But there’s something in his eyes, something that tells you this isn’t just another empty promise. This is real. He’s all in.

Then, without thinking, you pull him in. The kiss is desperate, hungry, a release of everything you’ve both been holding back for so long. His arms wrap around you, lifting you slightly off the ground, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid to ever let go again. His lips are frantic, needy, and it’s everything you’ve missed. Every inch of him, the warmth of his touch, the weight of his love, the way he makes you feel like you’re home.

For a moment, everything else disappears. It’s just the two of you, and everything you’ve been fighting for, everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been afraid to admit. It’s all in this kiss. And you know, deep down, that maybe you’re both ready to start over.

Bradley pulls away first, his breath heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks at you, eyes filled with determination and something softer now like he’s finally letting himself believe that he might get another chance with you.

"Tomorrow night," he says, voice firm but gentle. "Let me take you out. A real date. No bullshit, no hesitation. Just you and me."

You hesitate, your heart still torn between wanting to trust him and not wanting to be hurt again. But there’s something in the way he’s looking at you now. There’s no games, no empty promises. Just Bradley, stripped down to his most honest self.

Finally, you nod. "One date, Bradley. Don’t mess it up."

His grin spreads, wide and genuine, and relief floods his face. It’s like the weight of the world lifts off his shoulders.

"Sweetheart," he says, his voice low and warm with affection, "you have no idea how much I’ve been waiting to do this right."

You almost laugh at the way he says it, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. But there’s a spark of hope in you now too. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something real.

"Just one," you remind him, though a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, betraying the mix of wariness and excitement you feel.

Bradley steps back, taking a deep breath as if he’s grounding himself, but there’s still that spark of joy in his eyes.

"One date," he agrees, nodding firmly. "You and me. Let’s do this the right way."

You watch him for a moment, your heart pounding. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this uncertain but hopeful. And for the first time in a while, you're not afraid to take that chance with him.

He hesitates for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, but then turns toward the door. "I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven," he says, his voice softer now. "Wear something nice. I’m making this one count."

You watch him leave, standing there for a moment longer than necessary, before finally letting out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Tomorrow. A real date.

The Next Day

The clock on your wall reads 6:58 when there’s a soft knock at the door. Your heart skips a beat, nerves and excitement mixing together as you walk over and open it.

And there he is. Bradley. Looking way too handsome in a cream colored linen button down shirt, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the forearms you’ve memorized. His dark hair is perfectly messy, the way you like it. And for all the bravado and cocky confidence you’re used to seeing, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes now, nerves, even.

In his hand is a single yellow rose. You glance at it and raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Yellow?" you tease, though the soft gesture makes your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.

Bradley’s gaze flicks down to the rose, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "I remember you said you hated red ones," he says, his voice quieter now, a little unsure, but still so sincere.

You don’t say anything right away. Instead, you take the flower from his hand and bring it to your nose, inhaling its sweet fragrance.

"It’s beautiful," you say, looking up at him, and for a moment, you both just stand there.

His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s about to do something, but he stops himself. "Are you ready to go?" he asks softly, offering his hand to you.

You look at his hand, the way he’s holding it out to you is gentle, asking for trust. It takes a moment for your heart to catch up, but then, almost instinctively, you take his hand.

"I guess so," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bradley’s face softens in relief, and without another word, he leads you out the door, that same sweet smile lingering on his lips, his grip warm around your hand.

For the first time in a long time, everything feels just right.

The soft jingle of the café door opens, and you walk inside with Bradley. It’s the same quaint little café he frequented with Hangman and Coyote whenever they were in town. There’s a cozy feel to it,plenty of wood and mismatched tables, with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee in the air.

Bradley stops in his tracks for a moment, and you look at him, curious.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He hesitates for just a second, then gestures toward the booth in the back. "I want to sit there," he says quietly.

You follow his gaze, and immediately something clicks. That booth…it’s the one you were sitting in the day you and Bradley met. Your heart skips a beat.

Bradley steps toward the booth, but as you settle in, he lingers, his hand resting lightly on the back of the seat, a little lost in the memory.

“Do you ever think about that day?” he asks, looking out the window as if trying to capture the moment again. “I do. I was hungover as hell. Hangman and Coyote dragged me out for breakfast. I didn’t want to be there. But then I heard your laugh.”

You smile at the memory. You remember that Sunday. You were with a couple of friends, laughing, enjoying a lazy weekend morning.

But when Bradley looks at you now, you see something else in his eyes. A depth, a sincerity you hadn’t fully noticed before.

His voice drops, softer now. “I knew I had to come say something. But I was nervous. You...you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I didn’t know what to do.”

You study him for a moment, realizing how much that memory must’ve meant to him. He’s always seemed confident, but in this moment, you see the vulnerability in him, the way that day affected him.

“I kept staring at you,” he admits, shaking his head, almost laughing at himself. “And I was trying to come up with some kind of excuse to talk to you. But you were with your friends, and I didn’t want to be that guy.”

You chuckle softly, remembering how he seemed so out of place with the guys in that moment.

“I remember looking at you and thinking, ‘I should just go over there.’ But I didn’t. Instead, I sat there like a damn idiot, trying to figure out if I could somehow get you to notice me without seeming like an idiot.” He pauses, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It didn’t work.”

You laugh, enjoying this glimpse into the past, into the Bradley that wasn’t quite as sure of himself back then.

“So,” you tease, leaning back against the booth, “what stopped you from saying hi?”

Bradley shrugs, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. I guess I was hoping you’d somehow come over to us. You know, like some kind of miracle.”

“Lucky for you,” you reply, smirking, “it was only the beginning of the miracles you’d get from me.”

Bradley meets your eyes, the smile on his face softening as he reaches for your hand across the table. “You don’t know how much that moment meant to me.”

You both sit there for a few moments, taking in the memory of that first time you saw each other, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It's just easy. The waitress comes by to take your order, and Bradley’s already got a half smile on his face.

“I’ll have the classic cheeseburger, fries on the side,” he says, looking over at you.

You grin. “I’ll have the same, but make it a double cheeseburger. And don’t forget the milkshake.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Milkshake, huh? What flavor?”

“Vanilla,” you reply with a shrug.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Vanilla. I swear, you’re the most basic person I’ve ever met. But fine, vanilla it is.”

The waitress gives a nod and walks off to put in your order. You look back at Bradley, catching the playful twinkle in his eyes.

“You know, I’m not surprised you went for vanilla,” he teases. “It’s a safe choice.”

“Hey,” you protest, raising an eyebrow, “it’s not safe. It's a classic. I’m just not into all those crazy flavors.”

“I don’t know,” he grins, “I think you could be into some wild flavors if you wanted.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress the smile that creeps up. Bradley, the ever charming confident guy that always knows how to make you laugh.

The waitress returns with your orders, setting down the burgers in front of both of you. You each dive in, enjoying the food in that comfortable silence that’s becoming so familiar between you two. After a few bites, Bradley sets down his burger, his hand stretching over to the milkshake in the middle of the table.

“You ready for this?” he asks with a grin, already pulling one of the straws out and offering it to you.

You smirk, playing along. “It’s so cliche, Bradley. We’re not in a black and white movie.”

But as you take the straw and sip, you both know exactly how much you secretly love it. The milkshake is sweet, cold, and the intimacy of sharing it in such a simple, silly way feels easy.

“I don’t care if it’s cliche,” Bradley says, his voice a little quieter now as he leans in, sipping from his own straw. “Sometimes the cliches are the best part.”

You glance at him over the rim of your straw.

This feels more right than anything you’ve had in a while. For all the teasing and sarcasm, there’s no denying the connection between you two. No pretenses. Just you, him, a shared milkshake, and the feeling that something deeper is starting to grow again.

You sigh dramatically, leaning back in the booth. “I hate that you’re right.”

Bradley chuckles, tapping his straw against the glass. “I think I could start getting used to that,” he says with a teasing glint in his eyes. “You admitting I’m right about things?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get cocky, Bradley. I’m just saying I don’t mind the occasional cliché. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to start watching rom-coms with you anytime soon.”

His grin widens. “Baby steps,” he replies, sipping the milkshake again.

As you both continue to share the milkshake, you find yourself enjoying it more than you expected. It’s like all those walls you had built up are slowly falling, brick by brick.

“I’ve always thought you’d be the type of person to watch rom-coms,” Bradley adds, leaning back in his seat, a little smug. “You definitely give off that vibe.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “I do not,” you insist, but you can’t help but laugh a little. “And I hate that you’re still so good at reading me.”

Bradley’s eyes soften as he watches you, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his glass. “I don’t know about that,” he says quietly, “but I do know this feels like the easiest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

You freeze for a moment, not expecting the sudden sincerity in his words. Your gaze meets his, and for a second, it feels like time slows down.

“I don’t want to mess this up again,” he adds softly, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

You swallow, your heart tightening in your chest.

“Well lucky for you I’m not planning on going anywhere,” you reply quietly, taking a sip of the milkshake again.

Bradley nods, his smile returning, but this time, there’s a depth to it. One that you haven’t seen before.

After leaving the diner you and Bradley get back into the Bronco. Fifteen minutes later Bradley pulls up to a quiet little arcade tucked just off base, nestled between a couple of shops. It’s the kind of place you might walk by and never think twice about, but there’s something cozy about it, like a hidden gem that only locals know. The neon lights flicker warmly as you step inside, and the sounds of video games and the hum of the air conditioner greet you.

You pause at the door, glancing around in confusion. “Uh, Bradley? What are we doing here?”

He grins, stepping in and looking around with a nostalgic smile. “I thought you might like a little trip down memory lane.”

Your eyes narrow slightly as it clicks. “Wait…is this the arcade from my birthday?”

Bradley nods, glancing over at you with a knowing look. “Yep. The very one. Thought we could have a rematch.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a playful edge to your voice. “You really think you’re going to win? Didn’t I win the first four games last time?”

He laughs, a little sheepish. “Well, I was going to let you win a couple more times tonight..."

You cross your arms, pretending to be offended. “Let me win? Excuse me, but I don’t remember you being such a pushover last time.”

Bradley smirks and steps closer, dropping his voice into that teasing, low register you know so well. “I mean, I was just being a gentleman. But hey, if you want me to take you down this time, I’m game.”

You raise an eyebrow, your competitive side kicking in. “Oh, trust me, Bradley. I’m going to destroy you.”

He laughs again, shaking his head as he leads you further into the arcade. The lights blink and flash as you walk past the old school machines, and the whole place has a vibe of comfort and fun. It’s not flashy or high-tech, but it’s real. It feels authentic.

Bradley stops in front of a classic Pac Man machine, looking at you with a grin. “Let’s start here. Think you can handle a game of Pac Man with me?”

You smirk and grab the joystick. “I’ll make you regret that, Bradley.”

As you both start playing, the sounds of the arcade fade into the background, and for a few moments, it’s just the two of you, and the buzz of the machines. The game starts off lighthearted, but as the score climbs, it gets more intense. Bradley’s eyes flick to you every so often, watching your focus, and you catch him smirking when you miss a turn.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I was better at this game when we were here before,” you say, your voice playful but with just a hint of challenge.

Bradley raises an eyebrow, leaning in. “Oh, really? I must’ve been too distracted last time by, I don’t know…your adorable victory dance when you won. You going to show me that move again?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That was a one time thing, Bradley. You’d know that if you weren’t so busy letting me win.”

He grins and shakes his head. “Maybe…But alright, no more Mr. Nice Guy.” He hits the joystick harder, making his character zoom around the maze. “You’re going down now this round.”

The playful competitiveness builds between you two, and with every little win or near loss, there’s an energy between you that feels effortless. It’s not just about the game, it’s about how the two of you just fit together in these moments. The way you make each other laugh, the gentle teasing, and the way you both push each other, even in something as silly as an arcade game.

As you finish the round, you glance over at him, a mischievous smile creeping up on your lips. “Rematch?”

Bradley tilts his head and shoots you a look that says he’s definitely up for the challenge, but there’s a softness behind it too…like he’s loving every minute of it. “You’re on, sweetheart.”

After leaving the arcade, Bradley leads you down the winding path of the pier, the soft sound of the water lapping against the posts below. The sun is beginning to dip beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. It’s quiet here. Peaceful. The hustle and bustle of the shops nearby, the noise of the city, fades into the background. It’s just you and him now, walking side by side, hand in hand, a comfortable silence between you as you take in the view.

He guides you to the edge of the pier, where the view of the water stretches out before you. The faint light from the setting sun glimmers on the surface, making it look almost like the world is glowing.

You lean against the railing, letting the cool evening air brush past you. Bradley stands behind you for a moment, as if taking in the same scene, before his arms find their way around you, pulling you closer. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against you, grounding you in this moment.

There’s a shift in the air, a quiet tension. His voice, low and serious, breaks the silence. “I don’t want to mess this up again,” he says, his words almost lost in the wind. “I don’t want any gray areas. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.”

You smile softly but tease, not ready to let go of the playful energy you’ve shared all night. “You asking me to be your girlfriend, Roo?”

His lips twitch into a smile, and you can hear the hesitation in his voice, but also the sincerity. “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

You pause for a moment, letting the weight of the words sit between you. The air seems thicker now, heavier with unspoken promises and the vulnerability in his confession. He’s not running away anymore, not backing down. He’s all in.

Finally, you nod, your gaze softening as you turn to look up at him. “Okay. But if you pull any of that ‘just friends’ crap again, I swear to God—”

Before you can finish your threat, he cuts you off with a kiss. It’s slow, sweet, and full of all the things you’ve both held back. It’s everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve been too afraid to admit, and in this moment, it feels like everything is falling into place.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and he smiles, eyes glinting in the soft light. “I promise, sweetheart. I’ll never mess this up again.”

You take a breath, letting the calm settle over you, the warmth of his embrace wrapping around you like a blanket. The night stretches out before you, full of possibilities, and you can feel your heart beating just a little faster now, knowing that this is only the beginning.

And as the two of you stand there, watching the sunset fade into twilight, the quiet understanding between you both speaks volumes. And you are his and he is yours, finally.

#Top Gun Rooster #Top Gun Rooster Fanfiction #Top Gun Rooster Fanfic #Top Gun Rooster Fic #Bradley Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw Fanfiction #Bradley Bradshaw Fanfic #Bradley Bradshaw Fic #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #Top Gun Rooster x reader #Bradley Bradshaw x You #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x You

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lizzyiii · 9 months ago

Note

hi!! i have a request! what about a one shot for aemond x reader who is betrothed to him. she’s a baratheon girl or something but she gifts him the sapphire for his eye as a wedding gift or something along the lines of that?

ask and you shall receive...

The Sapphire Gift

pairing | aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

word count | 5.1k words

summary | Of all his five daughters, Borros Baratheon has chosen you to be betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, much to your dismay. Seeking to forge a deeper connection with your betrothed, you decide to create the perfect wedding gift for him.

tags | fluff, fluff, toothrotting fluff, friends to lovers, aemond literally does not know how to communicate or court a lady, sarcastic!reader, awkward!reader, simp!Aemond, reader is just a typical seventeen-year-old girl, lowkey got second hand embarrassment writing this.

a/n | ooooh, this was so cutesy to write, I love writing awkward/sassy reader and simp/awkward aemond. Finished this in a solid 2 days💪. ALSOO I need moots, so anyway wanna volunteer as tribute????

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Why must it be me?”

Your voice echoed through the grand hall of Storm’s End, the walls adorned with the sigil of the mighty Baratheons. You stood before your father, Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, arms crossed defiantly, your brows knit in frustration.

“Because I have chosen you,” he replied, a casual shrug dismissing your protests, as he lounged upon the imposing ironwood throne that commanded the room. The flickering torches cast shadows across his weathered face, but his resolve remained steadfast.

Your heart sank further as you protested, “You have four other daughters to choose from!”

Borros began to tally your sisters on his fingers, his expression serious yet unconcerned. “Cassandra is already pledged to House Brownhill, Maris is too old to be of interest, and Floris is still but a child. Ellyn might have been a contender, but she reminded me that you are more closely aligned in age to the prince, which I daresay makes you more appealing to his eye.”

You bit back a curse aimed at Ellyn, whose selfishness felt like a betrayal in this moment, and muttered, “Emphasis on the word ‘eye’.”

“Fawn!” your father snapped, the nickname a remnant of your childhood, now wielded like a blade.

With a huff, you cast your gaze towards your mother, Lady Elenda, seated on a modestly adorned stool that contrasted starkly with your father’s opulence. Her fingers deftly worked at her embroidery, her belly round and pregnant with another child. “Mother, do you have naught to say about this?”

Elenda blinked slowly, her expression momentarily vacant before she smiled dreamily, “I have heard the prince is kind and benevolent,” she replied, her tone light and airy as your father nodded approvingly at her words.

You gasped, a hand flying to your chest in disbelief. “That is a complete and utter falsehood! Tales of his cruelty and wickedness abound, even in these halls. How could you deceive me so?”

Borros waved a dismissive hand, the irritation brewing like a storm within him. “So what if he has but one eye? He commands Vhagar, the largest dragon in the realm, and wields a sword as if it were an extension of his very arm. You shall ascend to the rank of princess, lacking for nothing.”

“But Father—”

“Enough!” His voice boomed, reverberating off the stone walls and silencing the murmurs of guards and servants alike. You could feel the weight of his anger pressing down upon you. Sighing heavily, you rolled your eyes, the gesture laden with pettiness. “This matter is settled. Prepare yourself; tonight we shall feast in honor of your betrothal. Do not sulk—it is unbecoming of a future princess.”

With a final glare that could wither a flower, you turned on your heel, storming away from the throne room, your heart heavy with the weight of your new fate.

King’s Landing was an entirely different realm compared to the windswept fortress of Storm’s End. Here, the sun cast a golden glow over the Red Keep, its warmth caressing the bustling streets of Flea Bottom, while in your home, rain seemed a constant companion, drenching the rugged cliffs and soaking through the halls of your ancestral seat.

The city thrummed with life—vibrant and teeming—overwhelming in its sheer size and noise. In contrast, Storm’s End felt desolate, where the only sounds were the howling gales and crashing waves that eternally assaulted its walls.

Settling into the royal court at the Red Keep was no easy feat, for you were keenly aware of the eyes that followed your every move. You quickly learned that here, every smile concealed secrets, and every word was a weapon to be wielded.

Queen Alicent Hightower, the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, carried herself with grace befitting her station. Her demeanor was gentle, yet there was a steeliness in her eyes that hinted at the strength behind her polished exterior. On your very first day in court, she welcomed you with a kind smile, her piety clear as she extended an invitation to join her at the Great Sept for prayer.

Her tone was soft, but her words carried the weight of duty. You accepted her offer, though the idea of spending time in such hallowed halls made you uneasy. Alicent's warmth masked the political currents swirling beneath the surface, and you were acutely aware that every gesture here had meaning beyond what was said.

Then there was her eldest son, Prince Aegon. The first time you laid eyes on him, he reeked of wine, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Despite his title, he carried none of the nobility one would expect from a dragon’s heir. His indulgences were well-known, and his lack of decorum often left the court murmuring in hushed tones.

Aegon's gaze lingered on you far too long for comfort, the weight of it unsettling, as if he sought something that wasn’t his to take. His lecherous nature made you feel for his sister-wife, Princess Helaena, who appeared as trapped by her marriage as she was by the walls of the Red Keep. It was said that Aegon had grown old before his time, his twenty-one years bearing the burden of his vices.

Princess Helaena was a stark contrast to her husband. There was an otherworldly grace to her, a softness that seemed untouched by the cruelties of life. She spoke in riddles, her voice often drifting into ethereal musings that left you both puzzled and intrigued. Her words, though strange, reminded you of the whispers of the gods in dreams, distant yet profound.

Her presence was soothing, and you found solace in her company, even if her mind wandered to places you could not follow. Her children, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, were a light amidst the shadows of the court, their laughter pure and untainted by the scheming that surrounded them. It was hard to reconcile that they were the offspring of Aegon.

But your thoughts always returned to one person—your betrothed, Prince Aemond Targaryen. From the moment you arrived in King’s Landing, you had been told stories of his fearsome prowess in battle, his unmatched skill with the sword, and the fearsome dragon, Vhagar, that answered his call.

Yet when your eyes met his for the first time, what struck you most was not his strength but the scar that marred his face—a reminder of the price he had paid for his ambition. It only added to his allure, a mark of his relentless determination. When he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it, a slow heat rose in your cheeks. His grip was firm but not unkind, and in that moment, you felt yourself swoon. After all, you were just a girl.

However, Aemond was not a man easily won. A moon had passed since your arrival, and with your wedding fast approaching, you had hoped to spend time in his company, to know the man behind the dragonprince’s mask. Yet, he seemed to slip away from you at every opportunity, his presence a fleeting shadow that vanished the moment you tried to reach for him. His evasions frustrated you, each refusal to join you in the gardens or to share a quiet moment only deepened the chasm between you.

It was said that dragons could not be tamed, only respected. But you longed for more than respect from your future husband. How could you hope to win Aemond's heart if he remained as distant as the stars that twinkled in the night sky?

Determined to change your fate, you devised a plan—a gift to offer Aemond before the wedding, something personal and meaningful that might draw him closer to you. From your balcony, you had often watched him train, his sword catching the sunlight as he moved with lethal grace. You had also stalked observed him in quieter moments, lost in the pages of ancient tomes in the Red Keep’s vast library. But no matter the scene, your gaze always drifted to the black leather patch over his left eye, a constant reminder of his loss.

Through whispered conversations among the ladies of the court, you had pieced together the story of that eye, taken from him when he was but twelve, during a violent skirmish with his own nephew. The knife had found its mark, leaving him disfigured and scarred in more ways than one. You could hardly imagine the pain he endured, the maester's delicate, grim task of removing what remained. The very thought sent a chill through you—what it must have felt like to be forever changed, to carry such a wound into manhood.

Jewelry had always enchanted you, especially the way it could transform even the simplest of gowns into something regal. And it was through that love of adornment that inspiration struck. Aemond needed something beautiful, something that would not only adorn him but perhaps bring a glimmer of warmth to that hardened exterior.

After much thought, you settled on a sapphire, deep and blue like the narrow seas, cut and shaped like an eye—a symbol of his lost strength and newfound resilience. It was a bold choice, one that you hoped would capture his attention, something that might resonate with the prince who had suffered so much.

With the sapphire crafted into an exquisite piece of jewelry, you wrapped it carefully, your heart filled with anticipation. The wedding drew closer with each passing day, and the idea of giving Aemond this token before the vows were exchanged consumed your thoughts. Would such a gift be enough to draw him out of the shadows, to make him see you as more than just his betrothed but as someone who truly wished to know him?

Desperation fueled your resolve. You decided to visit his chambers, scandalous though it might be, under the cover of night. It was unheard of for a lady to seek out a man in such a manner, but propriety seemed insignificant in the face of your growing desire to understand him.

Wrapped in a dark cloak to hide your identity from prying eyes, the gift cradled carefully in your hand, you navigated the winding, dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. The moon hung high above the castle, casting eerie shadows along the stone walls as you walked with purpose toward his door.

Apprehension seized you as you approached, a wave of doubt crashing over you. What if he rejected your offering? What if he saw it as nothing more than a futile attempt to win his affection, which it kind of was. Yet before those thoughts could take root, you steeled yourself and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door, your heart pounding in your chest.

Moments passed in silence, each one stretching endlessly until, at last, you heard the soft thud of boots approaching from within. The door creaked open, and there he stood—Prince Aemond Targaryen. His long, silver hair cascaded freely over his shoulders, almost camouflaged against the loose white shirt he wore, which clung to the contours of his lean, muscular frame.

His single violet eye regarded you with a mixture of surprise and caution, the flickering light of the torches casting shadows across his sharp features. You found yourself momentarily breathless, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of his presence.

His gaze flicked to the dark cloak you wore, then back to your face, a question lingering unspoken between you. “My lady,” he began, his voice slow and deliberate, “it is late.”

You nodded quickly, casting a nervous glance down the dimly lit corridor. “Yes, I realize. May I come in?”

His lips tightened as though he was about to refuse, but before the words could escape him, you slipped past the threshold into the warmth of his chambers, your heart racing with a mix of adrenaline and nervous energy.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your gaze darting around the room, absorbing the details: the few books strewn across the table, the rich, intricate tapestries that adorned the stone walls, and the soft glow of firelight dancing in the hearth.

Aemond's voice was closer than expected when he spoke again. “My lady,” he repeated, causing you to jump slightly at his nearness.

You turned abruptly, releasing a nervous laugh. In the next moment, you remembered the purpose of your visit and hastily thrust the small, wrapped parcel into his hands. “I—I’ve brought you a gift.”

His brow furrowed in surprise as he looked down at the object now resting in his palm. “A gift?”

You offered a tight, awkward smile, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. “A wedding gift, of sorts.”

You watched intently as he carefully opened the small package, revealing the deep blue sapphire you had commissioned. His expression remained guarded, though curiosity danced in his gaze. “What is this for?” he asked, his voice even.

Swallowing hard, you wrung your hands together and took a deep breath. “I thought… perhaps you might wear it in place of your eye patch.”

Aemond's eyebrow arched, his lone eye narrowing in sharp scrutiny. “A decoration for my injury?” There was no malice in his tone, but the words still cut deep.

Your heart sank, panic rising in your chest as you hurried to explain. “No, no! Not like that. I only thought…” Your voice faltered as the words tumbled out, your face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought the eye patch might be… suffocating at times. The sapphire—it’s strong and regal, like you. I thought it might be more—well, appealing. Not that your injury is unappealing, of course!”

You cringed inwardly, realizing how foolish you must sound. Eyes cast downward, you continued, “Sapphires are a symbol of wisdom, strength, and royalty. It felt fitting for you. But if I’ve overstepped, I’ll take it back.” You bit your lip, the weight of your own awkwardness pressing down on you. “Truly, it’s alright.”

Reaching out to reclaim the stone, you found your hand halted by his. His touch was firm, yet not unkind. “No,” Aemond said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “I accept your gift, my lady.”

Relief flooded through you, though you could hardly bear to meet his gaze under the weight of your own mortification. Without thinking, you blurted out the first excuse that came to mind. “Oh! I just remembered—I’m to have tea with your mother.”

Aemond's gaze drifted to the window where the full moon hung high in the night sky. He raised an eyebrow, a subtle amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “At this hour?”

You nodded hastily, your laugh high-pitched with nerves. “Yes, well, a late tea, you see.”

Before he could respond further, you turned toward the door, only to misjudge the frame and bump into it with an audible thud. The embarrassment was almost too much to bear. “I wish you a good night, my prince,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper as you hurried out.

As you fled down the darkened corridor, you missed the rare sight behind you—the amused smirk that tugged at Aemond's lips and the way his expression softened as he gazed down at the sapphire, the light of the fire casting its blue hue across his hand. Intrigue flickered in his eye, a hint of something deeper, as he tucked the gem into his palm, the gift having made a more lasting impression than you could ever have imagined.

And now it was you doing everything in your power to avoid your betrothed. After that utterly humiliating encounter, where you had gifted Prince Aemond the sapphire for his eye, you had nearly thrown yourself from the balcony in shame. Every misstep, every nervous word, echoed relentlessly in your mind. The way he had looked at you, as though you were nothing more than a foolish girl… you could hardly bear it.

That night, you had made peace with a simple truth: it was perfectly acceptable if Aemond did not like you. You would fulfill your duty as his wife, give him heirs, and that would be the extent of your relationship. Yet, even as you tried to harden your heart, you couldn’t deny the yearning deep within you for something more—a connection, affection, or at the very least, understanding. But you’d sooner face a dragon than approach him again after such mortification.

Now, you found refuge in the company of Princess Helaena, sharing tea in her sunlit solar, where tapestries of butterflies and flowers adorned the walls. Helaena sat in her usual reverie, speaking in disjointed whispers about dreams and prophecies. You had grown fond of her strange, otherworldly nature, even if much of what she said left you puzzled.

Today, however, your tea was constantly interrupted by the young Princess Jaehaera, who was determined to climb into your lap as you attempted to drink. “You have such pretty hair,” she said, her small hands reaching to touch the loose strands that framed your face, her voice filled with innocent awe.

You smiled warmly, gently lifting a strand of her silver-gold hair to place beside your own. “Not as pretty as yours, my sweet princess,” you said softly. The Targaryen blood ran strong in the little girl, her pale locks shimmering like spun moonlight under the midday sun.

As Jaehaera continued to braid a piece of your hair, her twin brother, Prince Jaehaerys, was nestled in your lap, completely absorbed in a heavy tome recounting Aegon the Conqueror’s rise to power. You marveled at the child’s focus, noting how his somber demeanor contrasted starkly with his sister’s. It was strange, you thought, for a boy of only five summers to be so intent on reading a history so grim. His brow furrowed in concentration, a seriousness far beyond his years.

"You’ll grow to be as wise as your grandsire with all this reading, my prince," you commented with a chuckle, though you could not help but feel a touch of unease at how much the young boy seemed to carry the weight of his family’s legacy on his small shoulders.

Jaehaera giggled, abandoning your hair to cling to your arm. “I want to ride a dragon, like Vhagar!”

The mention of Vhagar brought an involuntary shiver down your spine, the thought of that ancient, fearsome beast ever-present in your mind. The mighty she-dragon’s rider, your betrothed, had taken to avoiding you as much as you had him, and though part of you was relieved, another part, buried deeper, ached at the distance.

As you entertained the children, Princess Helaena’s lilting voice broke the calm. "He dreams of fire and blood, my son," she said, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the window, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup. "As do we all."

You offered a polite smile, uncertain whether to respond or remain silent..

Your gaze shifted, drawn by the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps echoing through the confines of Helaena's solar. As you looked up, you immediately lowered your eyes, your heart racing, warmth flooding your cheeks as fluttering butterflies stirred restlessly in your stomach. Aemond strode through the door, his very presence commanding the room without a single word.

You felt his gaze upon you, sharp and intense. Jaehaera squealed with delight beside you, calling out, “Kepūs!” Her excitement was palpable as she clambered off your lap, rushing to his side. Even Jaehaerys, who had been so engrossed in his book, set it aside to greet his uncle.

You dared a glance up to find something unexpected—a soft, almost tender smile tugging at Aemond’s lips as he looked down at the children. The rare sight caught you off guard, but before you could process it, his expression shifted, and he cleared his throat, turning his attention to Helaena.

“Sister,” he began, his voice steady, respectful yet commanding. “Might I steal a moment of Lady Baratheon’s time?”

Helaena, oblivious to the way your pulse quickened, nodded lightly, her gentle smile untouched by the tension you now felt. “Of course, brother,” she replied, her tone light and dreamlike, as though she sensed nothing of the undercurrent between you and Aemond.

You felt the weight of their eyes upon you—Helaena’s distant curiosity, Jaehaera’s wide-eyed innocence, and Aemond’s watchful, unreadable gaze. You rose slowly from your seat, smoothing the folds of your gown as you murmured a soft farewell to the princess and her children, acutely aware of how unsteady your voice sounded.

Aemond stood patiently, waiting as you gathered yourself. His tall figure loomed over you, but there was no sense of impatience in his posture. When you stepped out of the solar, he turned and led the way into the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls in perfect rhythm with yours.

The silence between you grew heavier with each step, and the farther you ventured down the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the more you became aware of where he was leading you—back toward his chambers.

Your palms began to sweat, and your heart pounded with a growing unease. Why had he sought you out? Why now, after so many days of avoidance?

The corridor felt impossibly long, each step building the tension. Aemond’s back remained straight, his silver hair brushing the fabric of his black tunic, his long strides forcing you to quicken your own pace just to keep up.

When you finally reached the familiar door to his chambers, he paused, turning to face you, his one violet eye locking onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless. The silence stretched, thick and charged, as though the air between you crackled with words unspoken.

"You’ve been avoiding me, my lady," Aemond murmured, his piercing gaze sweeping over you as you walked into his chambers.

Your eyes widened just a fraction, masking your surprise with a nervous laugh. “Why on earth would you insinuate something like that?”

His voice, soft but steady, echoed from behind you as you stepped further into the dim warmth of his room. "Perhaps because every time I enter a room, you are always the first to leave."

Fidgeting with your fingers, you murmured, "I suspect you are just seeing things, my prince."

A slight smirk tugged at his lips as he replied, “Mayhaps it’s just my one eye.”

Your head snapped up in shock at his words, but before you could respond, you noticed the faint curve of amusement in his lips. For the first time since your engagement, you let out a genuine laugh, tilting your head. “Oh, so you can jest,” you teased, though you couldn’t help but wrinkle your nose in playful disapproval. “Though your delivery needs some work.”

Aemond’s smirk deepened, a flicker of something warmer in his gaze. “I shall endeavor to improve,” he replied with dry humor, his voice low.

For a moment, your eyes locked, the silence between you charged with a tension that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. But then he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I called you here for a reason,” he said, his tone shifting as he turned away, walking toward his desk.

Your curiosity piqued as you watched him retrieve something—a finely crafted box, larger than you expected. He carried it with the same ease as he handled his sword, and yet there was a certain weight to his movements. He approached you, his expression unreadable, and extended the box in an indifferent manner. "A wedding gift," he said simply.

Your heart fluttered as you took the box, your fingers trembling slightly. As you lifted the lid, your breath caught in your throat. Inside lay a necklace—silver, adorned with diamonds that glimmered like starlight, white pearls cascading from its base, and at the center, a magnificent sapphire, almost mirroring the sapphire you had gifted him. It was stunning, more than anything you had ever imagined.

“Wow,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if the beauty of the necklace had stolen the air from your lungs.

Aemond’s voice softened, a note of vulnerability threading through his usual composure. “Do you like it?”

You met his gaze, your eyes bright with genuine surprise and gratitude. “Yes, yes, of course,” you breathed, a shy smile tugging at your lips as your heart raced with something more than just relief.

You looked at him, pure joy lighting up your face, entirely unaware of the soft, almost tender look in Aemond's eye as he observed you. Nodding eagerly, you gestured to the necklace. "Will you put it on me?"

Aemond inclined his head in silence, taking the necklace from its box as he motioned for you to turn around. You did so, gathering your hair and lifting it to reveal your neck. The warmth of his presence grew closer, and when his fingers brushed against your skin to secure the clasp, you couldn’t help but wonder if the caress was deliberate or merely your imagination.

When his hands finally withdrew, you released the breath you had been holding. Turning to face him, you tilted your chin up slightly. "How does it look?"

For a moment, Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, his eye fixed on your face with an unreadable intensity before it drifted down to your neck. "Your neck looks... long."

Your brow furrowed, confusion knitting your features. "My neck looks long?"

Aemond coughed, a rare sign of discomfort, and you could swear you caught the faintest hint of pink on his pale cheeks. He quickly amended his words, mumbling, "I mean, it looks nice. The necklace brings out your eyes."

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Thank you, my prince."

For a brief moment, your eyes flickered to the eye patch that hid his injury, wondering if the sapphire you had gifted him lay beneath. The thought of it being there, close to him, filled you with an unspoken sense of connection. You felt content to simply stand there, the moment shared between you without the need for words. But Aemond, shifting slightly under your gaze, seemed less at ease.

“I am late for training,” he said, his tone distant as though eager to escape.

You narrowed your eyes playfully, tilting your head in mock suspicion. “I thought you only trained in the mornings?”

His posture straightened, fists clenching at his sides as he looked away, clearly caught in his lie. The silence that followed made him glance toward the window. “It’s... a beautiful day.”

You hummed softly in agreement, not pressing him any further. “Yes, it is.”

Aemond hesitated for a moment before his eye met yours again, the faintest trace of vulnerability in his voice. “Mayhaps you would be interested in a walk in the castle gardens?”

Your heart skipped, and it took everything within you to suppress the wide grin threatening to break free. You feigned contemplation for a moment before nodding with as much grace as you could muster. “I would love to, my prince.”

And though Aemond kept his face composed, you couldn’t help but notice the slight softening of his expression at your acceptance.

In Aemond's eyes, despite your apparent obliviousness to his growing feelings, it was not hard to fall in love with you. There was a quiet strength in the way you carried yourself, a delicate blend of grace and fire that intrigued him.

He had always been reserved, more comfortable in the company of books and the sound of steel clashing in the training yard than in the presence of others. But with you, there was something different, something that drew him in against his better judgment.

Your laugh, though soft, echoed in his mind long after you left the room. The way your eyes sparkled with genuine warmth when you spoke to him—even when you were nervous—was a stark contrast to the calculated interactions he was used to at court.

You were not scheming, not vying for his favor or power. You were simply... you. And perhaps that was what made it so easy for his walls to crumble, little by little, without even realizing it.

When you smiled up at him, asking him to place the necklace around your neck, his heart had skipped a beat. It was such a simple request, yet the intimacy of it made him feel more vulnerable than any duel or battle could. In those moments, he found himself wondering what it would be like to let his guard down, to let you see the man behind the stoic façade.

Even now, as he led you through the corridors of the Red Keep, heading toward the gardens, Aemond couldn’t help but steal glances at you. Your presence beside him felt... right. The idea of loving you was no longer something he fought against; instead, it was a slow, inevitable truth that settled in his chest.

In time, he hoped you would see it too.

Headcannon: reader only sees the sapphire in his eye on their wedding night

Headcannon: this is before the dance of dragons and viserys is still alive

Headcannon: aemond is 18 and reader is 17

Ages of the Baratheon daughters:

Cassandra - 25

Maris - 22

Ellyn - 19

Reader (fawn) - 17

Floris - 13

ALSO you cannot change my mind - after having four daughters (canon) Borros Baratheon is def a girl dad!

Hope you enjoyed 💜

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader

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