#left handed pitcher

[mentalanguish]

Randy Johnson obliterates a dove with a 95 mph fastball (2001)

[rhodeislandbaseballexperience]

Baseball World Loses A Dodger Legend, RIP Fernando Valenzuela

Upon hearing of the passing of Los Angeles Dodgers great Fernando Valenzuela, I leafed through my collection of baseball cards to see if I had his card. I found a gem. A 1981 Topps Dodgers Future Stars Baseball card, and boy did they get it right. Listed on the card were future stars of the Los Angeles Dodgers including Jack Perconte, Mike Scioscia, and the late great Fernando Valenzuela. Topps…

[dinosaurwithablog]

In his 8th straight great performance, Carlos Rodon goes 7 shut out innings without a walk and with 10 strikeouts. 105 pitches with 69 strikes. He has a 2.60 ERA after today's game. He's number 4 on the list of best pitchers in the MLB, all of which are left handed pitchers. You never see that, but we're seeing it this season!! It's a very exciting baseball season, in my opinion!! LET'S GO, YANKEES!!!!!

[effemar]

It’s that time again… we’re rereading the trc baseball au 😤😤😤

[monstersholygrail]

Rushing Rapids

Merman x fem!reader— teasing, wild sex, creampie, aftercare, and a little teasing of cumplay

You could count on one hand the number of times your Merman Boss has let you see his Merman form. Far too busy running a highly successful company, the man doesn't often have time for a dip in the water to let his true self out to shine.

In fact, it was your job as his bodyguard to make sure he didn't come into contact with any source of water. Even the slightest drop ends up triggering his tail and he's left stuck like that for hours. And while your boss has gone through countless bodyguards to fulfill this task, you've been by far the best.

And you've lasted the longest too. You often hear his workers whispering to each other, secretly teasing him about how he must be in love with you to keep you around so long. While you didn't want to believe it, you couldn't ignore the way your heart flutters whenever it greets your ears.

But after today you're sure any feelings he has toward you are long gone. You half expect him to fire you on spot.

Today had been an important day for him as he had a lunch scheduled with an important client. All was going well until the waiter tripped, sending an entire pitcher of water to crash over him. You had been too slow, hadn't noticed the waiter fumbling nor the trajectory of the pitcher.

For a moment the world went still until your Merman Boss looked up at you with wide horrified eyes. While you were sure the horror was aimed at you, your boss was too busy wondering where he was possibly going to go. Luckily it just so happened that your place was nearby.

Now here you are, sitting on your toilet as your Boss' ginormous frame squishes into your tiny bathtub, his tail even falling off the edge and onto your floor. An adorable little pout marks his lips as he flicks at the water like he's this close to personally trying to fight it.

A part of you fears he's not only angry at the water but at you as well. Sure, you haven't been perfect at your job. You've made small mess ups here and there. But nothing like this.

"You seem upset."

Your Boss snaps his head over toward you, his pout growing impossibly bigger. If you didn't already know the question was ridiculous, his following scoff and the look on his face was plenty enough for you to get the message.

"Of course I'm upset. I just had a very important meeting fall through because a clumsy waiter forgot what even a merperson can do. Walk. And most don't even have legs."

His response stops you in your tracks, jaw dropping a little. He wasn't blaming you at all. The more you look at him the more you realize he isn't mad at you about it at all. Relief blooms in your chest, making you sit a little taller. You internally thank your boss, he should feel some of this relief too.

Without responding to his sarcastic reply you look around the bathroom in search of something that will help uplift the mood for him. As your eyes catch onto a bin in the corner your eyes light up.

Your boss is jolted from his thoughts as you suddenly dump a whole bin full of rubber duckies into the tub. All in attempts of making this feel more like a fun bath and less like a trap. But by the flat look on his face your boss is less than amused. Which you probably should've been expecting.

"Really? Rubber ducks?"

His voice shows his clear disdain for the toy but he hesitantly reaches out a hand and begins pushing it around. Almost... playing with it. Although he'd never admit that to you.

"Well, what else is there to do besides wait it out? There's not any other way to turn you back sooner?"

Your question settles between you two before something sparks in the depths of Merman Boss' eyes. His finger stills on the yellow duck toy but it drifts away in the water and it's impossible to know where it'll end up next. Something unsettling churns in your belly and you get the feeling you're not about to like this.

"Ok, so there may be something... But I can't say it out loud. Come in closer."

A lick of suspicion curls around you and your eyes narrow, appraising your boss. Though with one impatient look from him you know you won't be putting up an argument with him about it. He always ends up getting his way anyway so why not skip the foreplay?

"W-what is it? What can't you say out loud?"

The toilet rattles beneath you as you shift closer. It's the only real sound in the quiet bathroom aside from the swishing of water. Your breath hitches once you reach a certain closeness to your Merman Boss. This being officially the closest you've ever dared to be with him.

"Closer—“

"I'll do anything just tell me what you need," you interrupt, both not wanting to lose your job and giving any excuse you can to be near your boss.

Suddenly his hands are splashing out of the water and gripping onto your soft round hips. A shriek tears through you as one minute you're dry and the next you're soaking wet. And not in the good way either. You smack against a hard chest, your legs straddling the thick width of a tail, and it takes you a second to fully realize that your boss had just pulled you in.

Before you can lift your head to yell at him, his fingers pinch your chin and force you to meet his gaze. What you see in his eyes immediately silences you. The hunger burning in them leaves you gasping, sparking arousal deep in your core.

He leans in, stopping just short of your lips as they brush against each other. Your breath mingling and making you squirm on his slick tail. While you watch him stare down at your lips, waves of arousal continue to build within you.

"A human's kiss can turn me back much faster than simply waiting," he whispers softly like he doesn't want to break the tension between you.

Your body tingles with need as every fantasy you've ever dared to have about your boss dares to come to life. Every inch of you is overcome with impatience as you wriggle on his lap some more, gasping when something hard pops out from a slit on his tail.

"So why don't you kiss me?"

If possible, your Boss' eyes grow darker, the hunger inside them roaring to life as if trying to consume even him. His hold on your chin tightens like he's the one who needs to keep you still while he's shaking from his own restraint.

"Because once I start I won't be able to stop at just a kiss."

You go to ask what he means he bucks up his hips, intently brushing his rock hard cock along your clothed slit. And you immediately moan, totally unprofessional by the way, eyelashes fluttering briefly till you manage to look at your boss again.

You consider his words and what they could mean for you after this. But you want this, you've always wanted this since you first started working for the mysterious man. And it seems like he wants you just so much. So there's no need to fight it.

"Then don't stop," you reply.

Merman Boss surges forward before the words finish falling from your lips, his mouth clashing against yours. Mirroring moans vibrate between you like you're the sweetest damn thing he's ever tasted.

He presses into you as if trying to devour you, kissing you hard. Tongues fight for dominance and teeth knock together in your sheer desperation to make up for all the time you spent together not doing this.

His hand moves from your chin, caressing the skin of your cheek, and threading itself inside your hair. Ensuring you're real and that this is actually happening. Using his hold on you he molds your plump frame against his and starts rocking your core against his hard length.

"Get these off," he pants heavily, only breaking away from the kiss long enough to say that and then he's right back on you.

With a shocking amount of skill, the two of you manage to peel off your wet clothes in record time.

Both of you release strong powerful moans as your dripping cunt first makes contact with his thick girth. Every nerve in your body pulses as he takes hold of his cock and drags it through your folds, coating his length with your essence.

"You have no idea how long l've wanted this. Wanted you,” he breathes, his eyes shining with a longing that reflects your own.

"I have some idea."

Then you both moan as you sink down on his long pulsing cock, your hips buckling down on his length, taking him in hard and fast. Something ignites in your boss’ eyes and you shiver as his hands curl over your plush waist to help guide your movements.

But he has no idea how long you’ve been needing this, and it’s clear by the way his eyes widen as you start to ride him like your life depended on it. Your fingers dig into the scales on his shoulders to ground you and he hisses, his cock twitching and sliding against that special spot inside you.

With a fierce cry you start riding him even harder, every hard wet slap of your bodies meeting is aimed right for that spot, making you see stars. The water sloshes around in the tub like it’s in the midst of a raging storm when in reality it’s just you and your boss fucking each other’s brains out.

“Look at you, so perfect f’me. More than I ever realized,” your boss purrs, sounding as if he’s found the oceans most greatest treasure.

You moan loudly, your head rolling back as waves of pleasure rock through your body with every hard pump of his cock, his words only turning you on even more. Your body begins to buzz, on the precipice of something huge.

It only takes a few more pointed thrusts before you’re coming all over his cock with a ragged gasp, your body tensing before you sag against him, letting him take what he needs. And feeling your slick gummy walls clamping so deliciously on his length drives him nearly feral, his fangs flashing and his claws digging into your skin.

He moves your pussy up and down his cock, spurred on by every whine and whimper that falls from your mouth. Piercing growls slip from his own as your cunt drives him absolutely insane, he’s never felt anything better.

And he proves just that as he drives in as far as his cock can go and releases buckets of cum right into your depths, having never cum so hard in his life.

You both fall back to rest against the back of the tub, the only sound in the room being your harsh panting breaths. His hands smooth the tremors from your body, brushing up along your spine and holding you close. It’s nice and peaceful. Or is it the calm before the storm?

Because the longer he does it the action goes from soothing to arousing. And you know he can feel it too, just how much it’s affecting you. Your pulsing walls already trying to milk more from his spent shaft. And sea gods help him but it’s working.

“You know… it’ll still be some time before my tail fades. Why not make the most of it?” Your boss asks, hands sliding down to grab handfuls of your fat ass, and flexing his stomach as he rolls his hardening cock into your cum-filled cunt.

[beloveds-embrace]

(thinking of dragon john price wanting your chubby self as an addition to his hoard 😩)

The first time John Price walks into your café, it’s because he needs something strong to shake the weariness from his old bones. The bell above the door chimes, and the warmth of roasted beans and sugar wraps around him like a comfort he didn’t know he needed.

And then he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, moving with easy confidence, soft hands making quick work of a steaming pitcher of milk. There’s a warmth in your smile when you greet him, eyes bright, cheeks plush and inviting. Something in his chest tightens- something ancient, something hungry.

He doesn’t speak at first, just rumbles out his order in that low, gravelly timbre of his, but he watches you. The way your hands move, steady and capable. The way your curves shift as you reach for a cup, the fabric of your uniform stretching over the swell of your stomach, your hips. You’re soft. Lush. And suddenly, John forgets what it was he came in for beyond you.

The coffee you place in front of him is perfect. He barely tastes it.

After that, he starts coming in more often.

At first, it’s under the excuse of needing a pick-me-up before work, but then it becomes something else entirely. A routine. A habit. A hoarding. He brings trinkets sometimes- small things, barely noticeable at first. A shiny coin from some distant country, left on the counter as a tip. A sleek, carved wooden bracelet he insists on you wearing. A packet of specialty tea, even though this is a coffee shop, because he thought you might like it. And you do, the smile you give him always so pretty, so soft, like most humans are, except none of them is you.

It’s instinct, this need to gift, to gather, to keep.

And when other men linger too long at the counter, when they smile at you just a little too wide, John bristles. His shoulders square, big wings soreading ever so slightly, the scales along his tail sharpening. He makes himself big, more than he already is, and lets his presence fill the space until they think better of their flirting and take their coffee to go.

He doesn’t like them looking at what’s his.

Not yet, not officially- but he’s working on that.

Because you don’t know it yet, his sweet barista, but John has already made up his mind. You belong with him, with them. In his hoard, where he can keep you warm and safe, where he and his men can adore you properly.

You just haven’t figured it out yet.

(Reblogs for more)

[prokopetz]

I'm spinning this off of the main thread about tracing the origin of the term "d66" because it's not strictly germane to the topic – none of these examples actually use the term "d66" to describe their dice-rolling methods – but I'm going to post it anyway as a matter of general interest: following a conversation with Tumblr user @notclevr, it appears that before tabletop wargames (and, nearly concurrently, tabletop RPGs) got their hands on the mechanic, the principal (though by no means exclusive) users of the old "roll a six-sided die twice, reading one die as the 'tens' place and the other die as the 'ones' place" trick may have been tabletop American baseball simulators.

The most notable example of the type – and the only well-known example still in publication today – is J Richard Seitz' APBA Baseball, first published in either 1950 or 1951 (accounts vary). In this game, a d66 roll is cross-referenced with a card representing the active player and a "board" representing the current situation on the field:

For example, with Carlton Fisk at bat, a d66 roll of 31 would yield a result of "8". Assuming for the sake of argument that the situation on the field is a runner on first and a grade C pitcher, consulting the "Runner on First Base" board, this corresponds to an outcome of "SINGLE—line drive to left; runner to third".

(This example is, strictly speaking, incorrect, as Carlton Fisk didn't have his major league debut until 1969 and I'm using the wrong lookup tables for any year in which he played, but you get the idea!)

Interestingly, APBA Baseball is not the first game to use this setup. It's heavily derived from Clifford Van Beek's National Pastime, a game whose patent was registered in 1925, though it wasn't actually published until 1930. Even at a glance, the similarities are substantial:

Indeed, though National Pastime's lookup tables are much simpler than APBA Baseball's, where they overlap they're often word for word identical. It's generally accepted that Seitz plagiarised National Pastime without credit when creating APBA Baseball (ironically, given his own famously combative stance toward alleged imitators!), though he was within his rights to do so, as National Pastime had fallen into the public domain by the time APBA Baseball was published.

We can go back even further, though. As far as I've been able to determine, the earliest known tabletop baseball simulator to use d66 lookup tables for resolving plays is Edward K McGill's Our National Ball Game, first published in 1886:

A copy of the game's 1887 US patent application can be downloaded here. This one uses an unusual 21-entry variant of the standard d66 lookup table in which the order of the rolled digits is insignificant, with doubles being half as likely as non-doubles rolls; it's unclear whether McGill was aware of this when he laid out the table. Unlike later incarnations of the genre, there are no individual player statistics, with all at-bats being resolved via the same table.

[rafesangelita]

♡ cowboy!rafe surprises farmer’s!daughter!reader with a picnic date!

warnings: fluff, sneaking around, suggestive language

a/n: cowboy!rafe hasn’t made an appearance on here for a minute so this is long overdue. i’m actually planning something super exciting (a farmer’s!daughter!reader series) that i think all of you will love <3 as always, i now have a private community where we could discuss anything and everything, so just leave a comment, ask, or message me if you’d like an invite!

rafe has been acting strange all morning. from finishing up his work earlier than usual, disappearing into the field of trees for an extended period of time, to running back and forth out of the house with paper bags and a pitcher full of lemonade you made just yesterday, you couldn’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you. skipping down the old wooden stairs, you made your way out back where rafe was using his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

“what are you doing? i’ve been watching you from my window this whole time.” rafe turned, looking around to make sure no one could see you two. “hey.. do you know what time your old man is coming back home?” you shook your head, reaching up on your tippy toes to press a kiss to his lips. “no, but we should still have some time left..” you trailed off, feeling your cheeks heat once rafe gave you that smug grin of his.

“yeah? wanna give this cowboy a ride?” rafe leaned down, his nose running along the underside of your jaw, “i don’t know, you look a little tired..” you teased him, giving him a soft nudge as he lead you out of the back house. “i actually wanna show you something,” he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, leading you to where he spent the morning setting up a picnic date, your eyebrows knitting in confusion, “i know i’ve been working a lot but i wanted to do a little somethin’ special for you,” you two kept on walking until you stepped into a small clearing, the quilt lying on the ground catching your attention.

you gasped once you saw the homeade bouquet sitting in the center. “rafe cameron, you did not!” you emphasized his full name, throwing your arms around him. “this is just too cute!” you squealed, immediately taking a seat and taking the bouquet in your lap. in it was daisies, sunflowers, and baby’s-breath. it was absolutely perfect. “do you like it?” he watched you admire the flowers, the sunlight’s rays gently peeking through the trees and casting it’s glow onto your surroundings. “i love it, really,” you glanced at him, “this is so sweet, i don’t think my heart could take it.” rafe laughed, opening up one of the paperbags to show you the contents.

“so as you can see here; this is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but— this isn’t your ordinary jelly..” you scooted closer, peering down at the piece of bread. “remember when you were telling me that you missed your mom’s strawberry jam?” you gasped, your eyes instantly welling with tears. “well, it turns out that your dad had the recipe written down somewhere for safekeeping, so i made it for you.” he handed you the sandwich, the gooey sweetness dripping onto your finger.

popping a digit into your mouth, you were hit with a wave of nostalgia, the taste taking you back to when you were just four years old and eating lunch after coming back in from playing outside all afternoon. “this is perfect, rafe,” you pecked his cheek, “seriously, this is the most precious thing anyone has ever done for me..” rafe smiled, his eyes softening at your words. “i’m glad, sweetheart, i’ll keep this in mind for the next one.”

[ruesol]

“You have to let me go, Ken,” you groaned out from under your husband’s bulk.

Your husband, a grown man with bills and responsibilities, was clinging to you like a neglected wet puppy, body flat on top of yours as you laid on the bed with your backside up.

Nanami simply buried his nose deeper into your neck, tip of his nose stroking your skin as he deeply inhaled the lingering smell of your body wash from the bath you took the day before. “No,” he sulked as his lips brushed against your nape.

“Baby, I’m gonna be late for the airport!” you chided with a giggle as his fingers danced on your sides. He left small pecks around your shoulder blades as his nimble hands slid under your tank top and began to stroke your skin.

“And? What’s the worst that’ll happen? You’ll end up spending a few more hours with me and you’ll take a later flight,” he reasoned, pushing you back down with a single hand when you tried to get up. He placed his heavy hand at the base of your nape to prevent you from attempting to get up again.

“You also forgot to mention that I’ll probably be fired if I don’t show up for the meeting on time,” you retorted with a hand reaching behind to stroke his messy morning hair.

But your ever stubborn husband only grumbled his disproval. “I earn enough for the both of us,” he mumbled as he lifted the back of your tank top to lay down directly on your warm, naked skin.

Sleep clings to you like the nectar that still sticks to a drooping pitcher plant. Too tired to fight your husband’s hulking figure, you accept defeat. “Five minutes of cuddling, and then I’ll basically superglue myself to you once I’m back from my work trip. Deal?”

You hear silence, and then all the air is knocked out of your lungs when your husband flips you over. Nanami now rests his head on your chest and places your hand on his hair, signaling you to scratch his head. “Deal. I better get the most out of this cuddle session since I’m not gonna see you for a week.”

It kills you to leave him like this so you decide to get your fill too. You could only survive so long without kissing your husband’s lips.

“Oh, my clingy man.” You grab his face and pull him up to your lips so you can give him a sweet kiss. Nanami smiles against your lips, tongue teasingly brushing against your mouth as his hands situate themselves behind your neck.

He pulls you in closer before you can pull away and devours your mouth in yet another kiss, not letting you reprimand him for taking up your precious time.

“Ken…” you whined as his hands travelled south, squeezing your waist as he pushed his lips against yours again. “We can’t do this right now—I have to shower and finish packing my suitcase!”

You tried to push him off but your efforts were futile—he was simply too strong for you.

“You know we can always shower together to save time.”

You rolled your eyes at his suggestion and gathered his face in your hand, squeezing his cheeks to pull him away.

He noticed your glare and raised his brows. “What? It’s efficient,” he garbled out as you squeezed his face harder.

You pondered over his suggestion, weighing the pros and cons of showering with your clingy husband. Pros: he scrubs your back, and makes you come. Cons: you miss your flight in a post-sex haze, and then get fired.

“Don’t tempt me,” you sigh as you slap his shoulders and push him off to ruefully get ready for your business trip.

——

main masterlist

[the-shedevil-writes]

King of Possibilities (Tyler Owens x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Tyler Owens was your best friend once, until he left for college and broke the promise to keep in touch. By the time he tried, your world had already fallen apart, and you weren’t interested in picking up the pieces with him. Years later, fate strands him on your porch with a busted truck and nowhere else to go. WORD COUNT: 5.9k WARNINGS: Childhood friends. Enemies to lovers. Angst (but it gets happy I swear). Emotional hurt/comfort. Confessions. Arguments. Kissing. NOTES: You should give King of Possibilities by Goldie Boutilier a listen :3 MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Tyler Owens had his hands tied. He walked onto the all-too-familiar porch with his hands in his pockets and his tail between his legs. It looked exactly the same as it did all those years ago. The white wooden panels and the porch swing that creaked in the dry wind. The rickety door swung open, and there stood his old friend’s mother. Wrinkles and graying hair had appeared on the woman who treated him like a son growing up, and they suited her perfectly.

“Ms. Shirley, you’re glowing.” He said with that low country accent and charming smirk.

She laughed and slapped her hand against his shoulder. “Tyler. It’s been too long… My, you’ve gotten so big. Come on, now. It’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol out here.”

He chuckled and walked in. Thank god for Southern hospitality. His truck had broken down while passing through his old hometown, and he had nowhere to stay. With his parents having moved to Oklahoma City thanks to his streaming income, he forced himself to buck up and make the phone call. Money was running too tight to book a motel room like everybody else, but he’d never admit that. 

Stepping inside, he looked around. The decorations were slightly more modern than they used to be. There were fewer crosses and religious memorabilia than he remembered, and he was sure that the death of her father contributed to that. He had grown so much that the space now felt cramped. It used to look so big to him as a kid. 

“Does Y/n know I’m here?” He asked, looking down at the older woman.

She nodded her head, but didn’t say anything. Quickly busying herself with pouring him a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge, she let out a quick “Mmmhm.”

He let out a stressed chuckle and shook his head. “I take it she’s not too happy.”

Shirley looked at him with pursed lips and wide eyes. “Well…”

Y/n rode her grey Appaloosa mare, Checkers, down the fields. She told herself that she was making herself useful, making the rounds of the ranch. Scolding the chickens when they’d attempt to peck at the fence and counting cows, making sure none had somehow made it onto the main street. But deep down, she knew she was just distracting herself. All the main chores were already done by this point. There was something… someone who weighed heavily on her mind. She tried to keep her thoughts locked away. But they were like a box of bees, and her mom had just shaken the hell out of it.

When her mother told her that Tyler Owens was staying for a few days until his truck was fixed, she ran to her room and slammed the door like she was that heartbroken teenager again. 

She and Tyler were inseparable growing up, and only became closer in high school. She’d go to every one of his rodeos, and he’d stop by and help her out with the ranch. Though ‘help out’ was a strong presumption, they spent most of it running around and laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Every summer, they were glued at the hip. 

So when Tyler told her he was going to college, she didn’t worry. She figured they’d still remain close. Technology was getting better and better. They could text, call, and Skype. Though even then, she was a little teary-eyed, waving him goodbye from her truck as he stood on the steps of the university. It didn’t hit too harshly at first, because she was just so damn proud of him…

But then the texts and calls started getting fewer and fewer. He never had time to Skype. Yet she’d see what he’d post on Facebook and see all the photos of him partying. Riding mechanical bulls instead of real ones. Arms around girls who came and went. She stopped reaching out altogether.

After her father died, Tyler became scorched earth to her. She locked herself up and focused her efforts on the ranch and barrel racing at the rodeos when she could. And when Tyler made a name for himself as the famed ‘Tornado Wrangler, ’ whatever that meant, she blocked all his accounts. 

She spread out some feed for the chickens from horseback and steered herself back towards the stable. 

That’s when she saw him walking down the back porch and towards her.

Tyler Owens in a white shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat. She hated it. She hated how bulky he had gotten and the facial hair that was groomed on him. She hated how he strode over with a newfound confidence. She hated how he looked good.

“As I live and breathe, someone came crawling back,” Y/n said, looking down at him from her high horse. She did enjoy the fact that she was above him from Checkers’ back.

He didn’t say anything, just looked up at her and took off his hat in almost respect. In almost servitude. 

“The Tornado Wrangler finally made time in his packed schedule for little old me.” She said snarkily, “Oh, no. He just needed a favor.”

“You look good, Y/n.” 

Rolling her eyes and pretending that it didn’t affect her so much was difficult, but she managed. 

“Mama won’t let me make you sleep in the hen house, so you’re sleeping on the couch.” She simply said before turning her horse and riding her into the stable. If it were back then, they could’ve easily shared a bed. Now she’d rather sleep in the hen house herself than share a bed with Tyler Owens.

Once she got under the roof, she climbed down and held onto the lead to guide Checkers into the empty stall. She gently rubbed up and down her muzzle. Checkers was one of the few horses that wasn’t so sensitive to touch, and instead sought it out. It was therapeutic for her. That’s why she never competed with Checkers. She was too special.

Calming down, she didn’t notice Tyler walking in and looking around.

“You renovated the stables.” He exclaimed, startling her.

She turned around with a glare. “Well, without you here to distract me, I started barrel racing. Needed to upgrade.” She looked around at her own handiwork, “So I added the Dutch doors that lead to the pasture and installed the fans. Insulated the roof and walls. Added the ridge vents.”

His brows raised. “You did all this?” 

“Hard to believe?” She asked, not even looking at him. 

He tentatively followed her as she walked down the stable, checking on each horse. He shook his head. “You never… You never did that sorta thing in high school.”

“Well, that was before Daddy died and before you left.” She said bluntly. Her anger bit into every word. 

The silence that followed could kill. It could strangle Tyler Owens till he was nothing but a slab of stone in a graveyard.

“Well… Your mom wanted me to tell you that supper’s gonna be ready soon. And to shower before you sit down at the table.” 

Her brows were furrowed as she looked at the horse in front of her, avoiding eye contact with him. “Got it. You can go now.”

With a small defeated huff, he turned around and walked back toward the house. It was then that the heartbreak she had been walling up began to make itself known. She wiped her teary eyes and pretended it was just sweat, just in case Tyler looked back. 

After her long, cold shower, she walked out into the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt and gym shorts. The old shirt was a rusty orange with a margarita design and the lyrics to Jimmy Buffett’s ‘Margaritaville.’ On the back in big bold letters was ‘It’s 5’o o'clock somewhere’.  She didn’t even remember where she had gotten it. 

Yet for some reason, when Tyler saw her from the kitchen table, he smiled knowingly. “I remember that shirt.”

“What about it?” She asked, sitting down across from him, slumped. Why’d their dining table have to be so small? She looked over at her mom, who was putting on oven mitts to grab the slow cooker.

“Play nice, Y/n.” She warned.

Tyler smirked at the interaction. “Used to be mine. Remember?”

She shook her head stubbornly as her mom put the pot roast on a little rubber mat between her and Tyler. She immediately started fixing her plate. Again, not sparing him a passing glance.

“Nope.” 

He tilted his head with a look of disbelief and looked over at Shirley and back before going. “We got rained on. We were in town getting seed, and your shirt was white, so I gave you that one to cover yourself up. Walked back shirtless and with chicken feed dripping down my back.”

The memory unfolded before her, and she did remember it now. Freshman year of high school. They didn’t let Tyler into the gas station to grab smokes for his dad. No shirt. No shoes. No service. But he refused to take the shirt back.

She sat silent for a moment as her mom sat down next to her. All the food was placed before them, and even though she had worked up an appetite being outside all day, she suddenly didn’t feel hungry.

“I remember that now.” She admitted softly before grabbing a roll of corn. 

“Seems like you don’t wanna remember a lot.” He quirked back, scooping some mashed potatoes onto his plate. Her mom had cooked as if twenty people were coming instead of just Tyler. But between the two of them, they both could eat like dogs.

She squinted her eyes at him. “Only thing I remember is you promising we’ll keep in touch.”

Her mother sighed, “Ya’ll. Let’s keep this civil. Looking at you, Y/n.” 

She scoffed with wide eyes. “Mama, am I wrong?” She hated the way she sounded. Tyler being there had aged her back ten years. Even her voice raised in pitch like she was eighteen years old again. 

Shirley just shook her head, refusing to comment. After a few more shoveled bites, Y/n got up from the table and cleared her plate quickly. It wasn’t polite. She almost always asked to be excused, but her mother didn’t scold her for that tonight. She clattered the plate into the sink and stormed off. 

Tyler looked at Shirley with an ashamed look on his face. The fact that he had hurt her had lingered deep in him for years. He hadn’t meant to. He had been a stupid kid, and found himself swept up in the new adventure of college and making new friends who weren’t the same four people in town. By the time he had thought about reaching out, she had stopped all communication. 

“I’m sorry about her, but you gotta understand-” Shirley started.

He shook his head. “No, no… Frankly, I deserve it.” He looked back over at the hallway she stormed down to her bedroom. “She’s still the same spitfire she was back then. Even more so.”

Shirley sighed, “That’s why she’s gonna end up without a husband and forty horses.” 

Tyler laughed. “Don’t say that. She’s gonna be just fine. I don’t think there’s a man in town who wouldn’t fall head over heels for her.”

“Until she comes at them with her… fiery personality.” Shirley explained, “We all tried. Tried setting her up on dates and with the other boys in town. But after Ben died, she just chewed them all up and spit them out. Focused on those goddamn horses instead.” 

He sat soaking it in. The fact that he wasn’t there when her father passed haunted him. It was during his finals week, and they hadn’t been talking for a while by that point. Sure, he had sent a card, but he was also sure it ended up in the trash. 

Shirley saw the solemn look on his face. She reached out and put her hand over his. “Lemme show you something.”

Y/n rolled around in bed. Usually, she’d knock out as soon as she hit the pillow. But the muffled chatter and laughter from the living room got louder and louder. Tyler’s stupid, gruff laugh rang out with her mother's, and it was driving her up the wall. 

With a huff, she walked out with her arms crossed and slowly walked over to the living room. Even though she was pissed… she really couldn’t be angry. It was barely nine. So instead, she crept forward, letting curiosity get the better of her. 

On the couch sat Tyler and her mom, and a sense of confusion washed over her. She looked and saw a leather-bound album on her mom’s lap. She’d never seen that before. 

“Remember that rodeo? You were so upset, but Y/n insisted that ice cream would make you feel better, so she practically dragged the two of us to Sparky’s Parlor ten minutes before closing.” Her mom retold, and as she peered over the couch, she saw the lost picture of her and Tyler eating a banana split. She was mid-laughter as Tyler was mid-bite.

She had thrown that picture out long ago. Actually, as she looked at the album pages, she had thrown out all of those photographs so long ago. They used to hang up around her room, or were in a little folder under her desk. Back when she used to spend all her allowance on point-and-shoot cameras. Her mom had taken a few of them, but it didn’t matter. They were all supposed to be gone.

“Where’d you get those?” Her voice came out small.

Tyler and her mom looked back, surprised by her presence.

“I held onto them. You spent so much money on all those rolls of film, we couldn’t let it go to waste.” Her mom said a little nervous.

But she wasn’t angry. A surprising sense of gratitude fell over her. The memories she had tried so hard to forget were still preserved. 

She leaned over onto the couch and placed her head between the two of them. Looking down at the album, she pointed to one of herself wearing a birthday hat, standing awkwardly in front of a frosted cake. Tyler had a grin on his face as he yelled something at her- it was him very enthusiastically singing Happy Birthday. 

“Got some use out of all that yelling, huh?” She directed the comment at Tyler.

He chuckled and looked over at her. Their faces were close… But then again, so was her mom’s. “Turns out audiences outside of you like it.”

She shook her head before standing back up. “Put it away, Ma. I look awful in them.” She stated before walking away. 

And before she closed the door, she could hear Tyler say, “We’re getting somewhere.”

Seeing Tyler in her kitchen the next morning felt strange. For one, he was up at the crack of dawn, just like she always did. She didn’t let her mom touch an ounce of the farmwork, so that meant waking up early to do the hard jobs before the heat set in.

Secondly, it sent her flashes to her favorite summers, where he was over practically every day. A sense of déjà vu coursed through her.

“Mornin’” Tyler stated holding up a coffee mug as he leaned against the counter like he owned the damn place.

“Morning.” She reluctantly grumbled, opening the cabinet to grab a mug herself, but was interrupted by Tyler sliding over an already steaming cup towards her. She took it. “Thanks.”

The early morning silence was peaceful with the sound of the birds waking up outside. But now there was this tense awkwardness between them, and it was pissing her off.

“Need any help with the chores?” Tyler asked, crossing his arms.

“Been doing them on my own for the past seven years, so no.” She said.

He sighed and took a sip. “You know that the two of us can finish this ranch in half a day. Could do it back then, could probably do it faster now.” 

He was right, and she knew it. The day would be done in half the time with somebody else. And especially if that somebody was already well-versed, and probably (most definitely) stronger than her. 

She gave him a tense smile. “Well, if you’d like to shovel and scrape the shit out of all the pens-”

“Got it.” He interrupted, and when she was caught off guard, he let out a laugh. “You know that doesn’t bug me. You gotta try harder than that.”

“If you’d like to clean out all the troughs, go right ahead.” She said with a challenging brow. Cleaning out the troughs meant dealing with the great mystery slime of animal saliva and chewed-up food. Sometimes there’d be a dead bird or drowned rat in there on the bad days. 

“I’ll do it.” He said.

“Cleaning out all the fly and mouse traps.”

“Consider it done.”

For a moment, she had forgotten everything, and she was simply going back and forth with her best friend. But she didn’t let that nostalgia transfer into a smile on her face. She kept her face cold as stone.

She looked him up and down.

“Good. You’ve got your list for today, then.” She walked out the back porch door.

Tyler was in the middle of changing out a huge fly trap by the stable when he saw her. Y/n rode on an Appaloosa horse that he didn’t recognize. The job was Tyler’s least favorite. He’d rather shovel shit than deal with the heebie jeebies of taking out a wax card of dead flies and mosquito’s. That’s not even to mention the mouse traps. But he was also well aware that it was her least favorite, too. Or at least it had to be. She always squealed at the sight of any bug back then… But it seems she was forced to face it head-on after him.

Being able to watch her was a perk, at least. She looked downright gorgeous on that horse. Her hat shadowed her, and her hair blew back as she strided the horse down towards the chicken coop. She had changed a lot since he had last seen her. He’d see the photos on her mom’s social media, but nothing beat seeing her in real life. Her face calm as she wiped sweat off her brow and took off her flannel, tying it around her waist. This was when she was most beautiful, and he wished that she didn’t look so angry around him.

She threw some feed over the fence, and he could vaguely hear her talking to the chickens as if they were people. It had always made him laugh growing up, and as he let out a soft chuckle, he realized it still did today. 

After she finished feeding the chickens, she turned the horse to head in another direction, but saw Tyler. They both froze for a moment, just staring. There was this obvious feeling of missing each other between them, and he wanted to resolve it so badly. It felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A problem he knew that once it was resolved, would fix everything. 

He waved, and she took it as a sign to come over. As the horse trotted closer, he got a fluttering feeling in his chest. It was like he’d been noticed by a celebrity. Which was ironic considering that he was somewhat one himself.

Her horse skidded to a halt next to him.

“Having fun, Owens?” She asked with a tight fake smile.

He looked up at her for just a second before hanging his head with a laugh. “So much so, actually.”

She rolled her eyes. “When’s that truck gonna be fixed?”

“Two days from now, why?” 

An evil smirk lifted her face, and he groaned a little. He’d be doing this collection of the worst possible chores for the next few days, and he knew it. 

She shrugged and continued riding on. 

Y/n was having too much fun. She got to do all of her favorite parts of ranching while he did all the dirty work. Of course, a part of her felt guilty for making him do that. She wasn’t completely evil, and watching him shovel shit didn’t make her feel as satisfied as she’d hoped it would. But she did hope that it’d at the very least teach him a lesson. Give him a taste of what her life looked and felt like for so many years.

They’d completed everything by mid-afternoon, which was way earlier than she was used to. Usually, she’d walk in just in time to shower for supper at sunset. It was the perfect weather too, with grey skies and rolling clouds that blocked the sun. Tyler would always get so excited about ANY possibility of a storm growing up. So subconsciously, she enjoyed these days too.

She was walking down past the sheep pen and down towards the house when she saw Tyler doing the same thing.

“UH UH, Owens. You’re not walking in my mama’s house trailing in every disgusting substance known to man.” She called after him.

He slowly turned and put his hands on his hips. “Is that not what you do every day?”

A smirk lit up her face again. “I hose off.” And it was true. She’d hose off her hands and her boots before drying them off and walking back in. But she had a better idea for Tyler.

“Really? Show me.” He said, unconvinced. He clearly didn’t believe that she did, and was just using it to get the chance to blast him with water. Which… yes and no.

She gestured for him to come follow her to the side of the house. They walked up to a little tiled-off area with the hose. Towels were already set up on the stool for the following days. There were a few boots that sat left to dry.

Tyler gave a little groan mixed with a laugh. But he just watched as she got the hose and turned on the spout. A gentle stream of water poured through the nozzle. 

“It’s just a little water, Tyler.” She said, but a hint of trouble melted over her tone. 

He ran his hands down his face and then threw them up. “Okay. Okay.” He sauntered over and reached for the hose, but she pulled it just out of his reach. His brows raised. “Sweetheart, I can hose myself off like a big boy.”

She couldn’t help but widen her eyes in surprise. Jesus Christ. When did Tyler develop a habit of calling people sweetheart? Suddenly, she was wishing he called her that more. 

Pulling herself together, she scrunched her brows at him. “I don’t want you wasting water.” It was a flimsy excuse, but they both knew what she wanted to do. 

He sighed, knowing she was too stubborn to give it up, and walked towards the tile. His face automatically flinched as he put his hands behind his back.

“STOP ACTING LIKE I’M GONNA SHOOT YOU DOWN.” She couldn’t resist the pure laugh that came out of her. “You’re like a god damn baby.” 

“Just do it alread-”

She predictably changed the nozzle to a spray of pressure and shot the water all over him. Cackling as she ran the water up and down him. 

“Are you-”

She moved the hose back up to his face, shutting him up. By the time she was done, his flannel and tank top were sticking to his body like wax paper. And his medium wash jeans had become a dark navy blue. She turned the hose off, afraid she had gone a little too far, until he started laughing and running his hand down his face. 

He scooped water out from the bridge of his nose. And while he was momentarily blind, she took the second to watch how his shirt had become see-through. Her breath hitched at the sight of his muscles. They both had grown up, and he wasn’t the scrawny boy she used to know. Sure, back in the rodeo days, he had strong biceps and shoulders, but he was so lean. Now he was just… pure muscle. 

Tyler suddenly started walking towards her. “Get over here.” He said gruffly with a smile.

She squealed and tried to run away while using the hose to fend him off, but it weighed her down. “NO! NO! TYLER!”

He managed to wrap his arms around her waist and pick her up, grabbing the hose from her hands and dousing her. 

“There ya go. Now we’re both clean.” He said through their shared laughter. 

They didn’t even notice Shirley watching the commotion from the side window, shaking her head with a nostalgic smile on her face. She turned back in and returned to cook for supper. 

She looked up at him as he turned off the hose. They were both completely drenched, their clothes slightly see-through. And Tyler let his arms linger around her waist. Her breath audibly hitched as he looked down at her with those sea green eyes. But after a moment that felt too long, she got her bearings and escaped his grasp. She grabbed one of the towels off the stool and threw it at him. 

“I’m showering first.” She said firmly, but her attitude didn’t feel as strong as before. It was like her defenses were slowly being chipped away. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tyler said, using the towel to dry his hair. 

That night, Y/n found herself in her room, having snuck the album her mom had made. She went through the pages, and it felt like someone had broken through her chest and gripped her heart. It hurt. Even though he was in the next room over. It hurt like he was still gone. 

She flipped through way too many pictures of Tyler. Him on the walk to school with her. Him with one of her chickens on his shoulder. Him riding her old horse. He was so young in all of them, with a baby face, barely able to grow any facial hair. There wasn’t a single photo where he wasn’t grinning ear to ear. 

Those weren’t too bad. The ones that hurt were the ones her mom or somebody else had taken of her and Tyler. Proms and homecomings. They had their separate dates or went as friends, but still always needed a picture together. Birthdays. Trips to the lake. Graduation.

She looked at the last one in the album. It was a picture of her and Tyler on the steps of his University. The last time she had ever properly seen him before this whole incident. Their arms were wrapped around each other. Her eyes were teary, and for the first time, he wasn’t wearing a grin. He had a sad, no-teeth smile on his face as he had his arm around her shoulder.

A tear drop fell onto the plastic sheet of the photos. She didn’t even realize that she had been crying and sniffling like a baby. Stifling a sob, she got up and walked out of her bedroom. 

Knowing Tyler was asleep on the couch, she walked briskly past, trying not to wake him. Her hand covered her mouth as she stumbled through the dark to get out through the back porch.

By the time she had shut the sliding door and run towards the stable, she didn’t notice Tyler sitting up, having been awake the whole time.

It was just what she needed to ground herself. Sitting on the floor of the stable stall with Checkers, who lay half asleep, but eager for the random midnight pets. She scratched behind her ears and down her muzzle. Running her fingers through her mane, she was able to finally let out a shaky breath. 

The night was quiet and still. Nothing but the hum of the fans and the whirring of the cicadas in the distance. She gently let the back of her head hit the wall.

“Y/n?” A voice called. Shit.

Checkers got up, startled with a whinny. She quickly got up with her and gently put her hands on her muzzle, grounding her again. “Hey hey hey. Shhhhh. Shhhh.” She hushed, calming the horse down. 

She didn’t look over at Tyler, standing outside the stall in pajama pants and a grey T-shirt. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook her.” He said, coming closer and leaning on the stall door. He put his forearms on the top and rested his chin on them, watching her. “I don’t recognize this one.”

She swallowed and wiped her swollen eyes with her forearm. “Checkers.” Her voice came out weaker than she had hoped. She just wanted to pretend like everything was normal. “This is Checkers.”

Tyler reached out, and Checkers instantly came over and nodded her head towards his hand. “People lover. I see why you ride this one a lot.” He gently patted the horse's head.

She stayed silent and just watched as he gave the horse some love. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” He asked, not looking at her, like she was a scared animal that he needed to gain the trust of.

She coughed. “Nothing. There’s nothing.” She said as she walked out the stall door and down towards another one. The white horse in that one didn’t get up, and instead lay sleeping. It was a common misconception that horses always slept standing up. Only sometimes. And this horse wasn’t as loving as Checkers was.

“You’re in the stable in the middle of the night crying…” He pointed out, and she sniffled, just proving his point. 

He pried away from Checkers and meandered towards her at the next stall. Looking down at her, he went to reach out and brush some of her wild hair out of her face, but she turned the other way, dodging him. 

“Come on. Y/n, please.”

Her face crumpled up, and her eyes naturally watered to a point where they overflowed. “I hate you. I hate you so much.” Her voice cracked, “You left me. You-you promised we would stay in touch, and you couldn’t-you didn’t even do it when he died.” 

His face softened to another level she had never seen before. With big eyes and a soft frown on his face. “I know. I’m so sorry, Y/n. I’m so sorry, it’s not even funny.”

Everything was pouring out of her heart and reaching her face to spill out of her mouth. “I had no one! Dad’s dead, you’re AWOL, mom’s in a catatonic state, and I had a whole ranch to somehow take care of while grieving the one person that came before YOU.” She didn’t mean to yell, but it just naturally came out that way. “You threw me away like I was nothing.” 

She didn’t miss the tears in Tyler’s eyes now. He sniffed and pinched his nose to get rid of them. 

“You’re not nothing. If I could go back in time, I’d do anything to stop myself from doing that to you. It haunts me. Every day.”

“THEN WHY HAVEN’T YOU REACHED OUT?” She pushed his chest. “HUH? You’re too busy with your whole internet fame? And your groupies and buckle bunnies?” She hated that term. She’d always scold Tyler for using it growing up, yet here she was using it. 

Even though she was shoving him and yelling, Tyler didn’t move towards her. He didn’t raise his voice. “Because I knew it was too late. I knew that nothing I did would ever make up for leaving you on your own like that. And while I’m here, I sure am trying. But no matter how many troughs I clean or traps I change, I know it won’t make a dent towards the debt I owe you.”

She hiccuped and put her hand to her chest. Her inhales were sharp, and she looked up at the roof, as if the tears could just go back in her eyes. All the hurt that she had been suppressing had spilled out right in front of her. It was terrifying. There was a silence as she thought about what to say. So Tyler took the chance.

“I don’t want you to ever forgive me for that, okay?” Tyler said, stepping towards her now, and he sighed as she finally didn’t move away. 

In the smallest voice possible, like it was a secret she wasn’t supposed to say, she said, “I missed you so much.” 

He wrapped his arms around her, and she didn’t fight it. Though she didn’t move at first. After a minute, she brought her arms up and wrapped them around his trunk of a torso. 

Tyler sniffled, tearing up, “I missed you, too.” He murmured into her hair. 

Two days later, a rusty pick-up truck drove up and parked on the street beside the house. Tyler and Y/n walked out onto the front porch so slowly, like they were stalling for time. She took in the sight of the pick-up with all the weather gadgets and add-ons to it. 

“Wow… Looks like… a hot mess.” She said honestly, which made him laugh. 

The last two days were spent working on the farm, and it was like no time had passed. She was still trapping Tyler in milking stations, and he was still trying to sneak hay into her hair any chance he could. Doing the chores together instead of separately made the tasks go by even faster, so that they could spend the rest of the day eating her mom’s cooking and talking on the porch swing as the fireflies whizzed by. 

A tan man from the driver's seat of the pick-up truck rolled down the window, “LET’S GO, TYLER! COME ON! GOT SOME CELLS IN THE EAST AND NEW ROCKETS!” His shrill voice called out.

“One second, Boone,” Tyler yelled back with less intensity. He raised a finger to him and turned back to her.

“Sounds exciting.” She said, looking up at him.

He paused just to soak in her face for a moment.  “Yeah, well… we’re just going a town over.” There was silence, and he reached out to grab her hand. He squeezed it, and she took in a deep breath. “I’ll be back right after, okay?” 

A terrible feeling in her gut returned. The fear that he wouldn’t be back, and that she’d be left in the dust again. And he read her very obvious face with a small nervous smile. 

He took his alabaster cowboy hat off his head and placed it on hers. “Take care of this for me. I’ll be back for it.” 

It surprised her. She knew he wore that hat all the time. It was practically embedded in his branding for his channels. So the fact that it was now resting on her head gave her a sense of confidence again. 

He went to step off the porch, but she gripped his hand before he could take it away. Pulling him towards her, she stood on her toes to connect her mouth with his. Surprised, but very happy, Tyler immediately kissed her back and wrapped his arms around her waist. He brought one hand to tilt her hat up and make space for him before returning it to her waist. She hugged him tightly, and he pulled her into his chest, making her back arch into a backwards C. With a small chuckle, she pulled away. 

“For good luck.” She shrugged. 

“Oh, I’ll be back for more of that, too.” He said, leaning in again. 

[vanilleandclove]

playoffs; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader

pittsburgh has a vibrant pub scene, being of true east coast fashion. when it’s playoff season for the steelers, that can only lead to bar brawls and broken tooths, most times. sometimes it’s bloody knuckles and misogynists. + as jack’s 49th birthday is around the corner, you book him a solo-vacation. 

warnings: violence, harassment towards women, misogyny, alcohol consumption, language, comments on body image/weight by others, talks of the menstrual cycle, trauma induced infertility, postpartum depression symptoms mentioned (non-reader), age gap: reader is 33, jack is 48. word count: 4.7k notes: these are based on two different anon requests! i merged the ideas :) — anon transcript at the end. cenote = natural watering/sinkhole, i’m from the bajío lands of mexico, michoacan to be exact- my family is purely purépecha, and have only been to a cenote twice once in michoacan & cancun. 

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Winter dawned onto Pittsburgh with an iron fist, near subzero temperatures, black ice, alcohol flowing into everyone to keep their blood warm, tree lighting ceremony, and most importantly, the Steelers made the playoffs. 

It became a tradition for the Pitt’s senior employees to pass the grunt work off to anyone R3 and under for the night shift and have the new attendings run the emergency room, all to gather around and watch the first game of playoff season. 

You and Heather stood at the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to serve the three pitchers of beer. She knew you both were regulars, you thank the entirety of 2015 and 2021 when you had Abbot troubles and she had Robby issues, all around, it made for good conversation and excessive gratuity. 

It was crowded, gross, and musty. You almost wanted to scream “Go Pac, go!” just for the shoulders of the blue collared men to stop piercing into your spine. 

“I’ll get you ladies next, as well as those fancy cherries you like hon” Sara pointed at you as she walked into the back to grab the pitchers. You loved maraschino cherries, mostly because you wanted to prove you could tie the stems with your tongue to Jack who doesn’t believe you. 

“I thought boarding was worse, Sara must be swamped” Heather spoke up, yelling a tad from the loud noise around you both that could drown out her words. 

“I know her paycheck is fat during this time of the year” you shouted back, resting your hands onto the bar, glancing down at your engagement ring. 

It's been a long year with Jack, you couldn’t wait for it to be over with just so you have the false sense of a new era starting with your lover; it made for good motivation. 10 years he’s been in your life, a decade, now that made your lower back feel as stiff as a board. 

“Care to explain why we were left out of this?” Dana scooted between both of you, Bridget already occupying the extra chair you brought out for the booth. Dana’s husband was bulky and tall, like a lumberjack- pure midwest, he beelined his way to the bathroom as Dana conversed with you and Heathers

“Since when did you let the girls out to play?” you commented, giving her a hug with your outside arm, it’s been awhile since you’ve had day shift so seeing Dana was sparse. 

“Honey it’s date night, my kids are fast asleep with my eldest babysitting, the girls get to come out” she responded, giving Heather a hug before making her way to the booth. 

You smiled as it filled you with hope. Despite all of the years, kids, stressful jobs Dana and her husband had, they still had time for themselves.

“Can I buy you ladies a drink?” a stranger's voice peeked through, you could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores, his T.J. Watt jersey stained.

“No we’re good, thank you” you responded faster than you could think. 

“Really not even one?” his voice was nasally, grosser than the fact that his hot breath was directly in your face, “Could make y’all have a good time” he got a little too close to your ear. 

Jack made you carry a Swiss Army Knife- specifically the Swiss Champ on you at all times, he even gave you a 30 minute lecture on how to use it, even though you were mainly concentrating on his biceps and triceps flexing at the movement. He clipped them to your car keys, when you wore your jeans he put them on a carabiner with your keys and clipped them onto the belt loop.

“What about you darling? Want a drink with me, I know the perfect way to do jell-o shots, start at the cli-“.

“Okay, I already told you no, just go dude” you cut him off, sensing Heather’s uncomfortably from behind you, “Seriously you reek” you didn’t care for the fact that he towered over you, if he was bulky and the fist he started to make could land you in a worst spot than Dana in August. 

“You have no say for your friend missy” he pressed, anchoring his next to be at eye level to you. In your peripheral, you saw Jack straighten his back, sticking one leg out of the booth, ready for anything if you needed him. “Who knows, maybe I could take both of you”.

You made sure Heather was behind you, beginning to shield her with your arm slightly just so he wouldn’t fully register. “I bet your pussy is tight, soaking from all the attention you’re getting”. 

Within seconds you clocked his jaw, the act leading him to push you by the chest into Heather hard, getting the wind knocked into. Jack and Robby immediately got up and made their way in between you, just before you pounced onto him to throw another punch directly to his nose, the punch only making him more angry to the point where the punch that was supposed to land on your abdomen missed as Robby shoved him and led the punch to land directly on Jack’s arm that shielded your chest. 

You felt the blow nonetheless, cushioned, you still heard a groan leave Jack’s mouth. Just as Jaime, the bouncer, put the man in a citizen's arrest and quickly threw him out, Sara didn’t charge you for the pitchers or cherries, even threw in espresso martinis for you and the girls.

You all sat around the booth, Bridget in the chair, watching the Steelers versus the Packers, it was barely the second quarter. “How’s your arm?” you nudged your elbow lightly into Jack’s waist as his arm draped over your shoulders, holding your free hand and playing with your engagement ring.

“It’s fine, nice punch” Jack complimented, gaining a peck from you in response, “What even happened?”.

“You don’t wanna know” you responded, his eyes not leaving yours. He took your word for it even if it did bother him of not knowing. 

“So Rambo, I guess we should add Rocky onto your list of nicknames” Robby joked, his arm draped around Heather’s shoulder. 

You chuckled, taking a sip of Jack’s beer that you swore always tasted better, “I ain’t from Philly Robby” you deadpanned sarcastically.

“What about Rocky Marciano? He's a pure Masshole” Dana’s husband budded in smoothly. 

You nodded, “Brockton ain’t Boston” you shrugged, refusing to have another nickname of a Sylvester Stallone character, “On the other hand, we could go has Rocky and Adrian for Halloween next year” you added looking at Jack.

“I’m not putting on a red beret”.

“You’re breaking my heart Adrian” you feigned a Stallone voice only for Jack to shut you up with a kiss. 

“Do you guys have a date set?” Bridget popped the question everyone was dying to ask for the past two months since he proposed in October- after three back to back surgeries and while you were eating pizza from the same place your old apartment was next to.

You half-loathed the memory as your hair was greasy and disheveled, the makeup you had on was haphazardly wiped off with the spare makeup wipes you left in your glove compartment, your reading glasses on, and you had just pounded down a Dr. Pepper and needed to burp. 

“Not yet, I’d get married to her in the damn courthouse tomorrow but this one’s insistent on a ‘longer engagement’” he mimicked you. 

You sighed, “I want to get married in Nantucket- or Rhode Island, heaven forbid I want both our families there except his brother” you breathed the last part.

“What’s wrong with Abbot’s brother?” Heather inquired, Dana nodding as she wanted to know as well.

“You wanna tell them about Thanksgiving or do I?” you pressed, looking back to Jack.

He exhaled, “My brother made a comment on her ass- told her she must be pregnant ‘cuz her hips were wider than normal”.

“Not just that!” you added on, “He told Jack’s mom only for her to touch my stomach and ask if it was a boy or girl, it was a complete hazing ritual!” you laughed as you recalled the memory.

You did take a pregnancy test that night, only for it to be negative. Jack did assure you it’s probably just your ovulation coming, he had a bad- well good habit of knowing your cycle just by your body. 

During follicular, your nipples would darken, skin become a bit firmer than usual and you felt at ease from the in between of your period to ovulation. Luteal, especially the few days leading up to your period, you craved salt, and sex- a mix of the two and you’d have him laying down as you sucked him dry, you were insatiable during the time, your breasts heavier. Your period came during the night most times, so you’d wear a pad just in case the day before, sometimes you’d beat the hormones and start first thing in the morning, he noticed your hair would dry faster after the shower and you’d sleep more peacefully with his hand right onto your bare lower stomach. Ovulation sent him on a frenzy, truth be told he didn’t care about where in your cycle you were, if you wanted him, you had him. Your breasts were fuller, you felt more energized and sure enough, your hips widened. 

“Yikes” Robby broke the silence as they all digested what was told, “So, Nantucket?”.

“He wants Martha’s Vineyard but even for both of our salaries and older families, all that accommodation may just send us straight to the gutter” you elaborated, “Should’ve gotten married when I was 30 and we weren’t on the verge of a recession” you joked. 

“Just for that, no wedding ‘til you’re forty”.

“Speaking of big birthdays, what y'all doing for your 50th?” Dana smiled and nodded towards Jack.

“Nasty sex and barbecue?” you joked, Jack pointed at you just as he was about to speak up.

“And that is why I’m marrying her” Jack laughed, “It’s in a year, we’ll figure it out”.

The Steelers ending up advancing in the playoffs, you did eventually prove to Jack the cherry tie, only under a different roof. The next day, you all were swamped during the night shift as it approached 10 pm. 

You couldn’t lie, the engagement led you to be far more touchy. At any given moment, you wanted your hands on Jack. 

“40 year old male, TMGSW, he was stable upon arrival but during transport he kept crashing, gave him 50 of fent” the EMT ran over, it was an odd night to be running the trauma rooms.

Jack loved seeing you work, technically, you were his boss after Greene handed over the trauma department to you. He got a kick out of it as he claimed it made him a trophy husband. 

As the EMTs left, you and Ellis took over as you did an exam, only to realize his blood wasn’t circulating to his legs. “Blood flows unstable, can you call and see if there’s an OR available?”.

“They’re all filled, three with general, four with peds, I think a couple are ortho” an intern responded, only gaining a ‘tsk from you. Gloria gave a briefing to the surgical department earlier this week on maintenance in the operating rooms, leading for several of them to be closed.

“Fuck it, gown me, authorized personnel only, Parker you with me on this?” you shook your head.

“Want me to get Abbot?” she clarified as the nurses gowned and gloved both of you. 

“No- I need all the interns and med students to go to Doctor Abbot or Bridget, they’ll place you on a different case” you announced, clearing the room. “Have you ever seen a thoracotomy?” you asked.

“You and Abbot did one together my intern year,” Parker responded. 

“Good, so you know I’m not bullshitting” you replied, “I need a surgical tray and rib spreader”.

It took 30 minutes for you and Parker to complete the patient’s thoracotomy, never before have you seen her that intrigued. She held a heart in her hands- a beating heart.

“Excellent work Doctor Ellis” you told her, removed your gown and gloves as you sent the man to the ICU for observation and comfortability, you forced them to give him a bed. 

“I don’t know who’s more badass, you or Abbot”.

“He’s got the combat medic thing to bring to the table, I have the magic hands” you joked, dismissing her to do her own work as you met up with Jack at the nurse’s station.

“Your future wife just did a thoracotomy successfully with Ellis” you lightly bragged, your hand finding its way to his bicep, giving it a squeeze. Jack smirked, removing his eyes from the charts. 

“You know our shift isn’t over until 7 right?” he teased.

“I’m on an adrenaline high, sorry for being so needy for my insanely sexy fiance” you breathed, only to hear the beloved voice of none other than Myrna.

“I hear congratulations are in order for the happy couple!” you both haven't seen Myrna since before the engagement, she usually spends her times with the day shift.

“Not married yet Myrna, he’s still all yours” you responded to her, your hand finding itself resting on his forearm as he continued to chart. 

“Honey, lock him down, there’s patients all over the place ready to take him” she smiled at you, “If you guys have a daughter what will her name be?”.

“Haven’t decided yet Myrna” Jack intervened, “Might just have to get those baby name books from the gift shop” he looked into your eyes as he said the last part. 

Myrna wheeled off, leaving you two to yourselves. Jack was still doing yours and his charts which he seldomly enjoyed, took the heat off him while it could. Your hand caressed up and down his forearm, a bruise was forming on where the punch landed.

“How’s the arm baby?” you whispered to him.

“Fine, a little sore, nothing I haven’t felt” he told you, “You know you’ve gotten exceptionally clingy” he added, only for you to remove your hand when you noticed, “It’s not a bad thing, the amount of years I resisted, I’m surprised I haven’t taken you in a spare room”.

“I don’t know… It just feels good” you confessed, “You’re all mine and I got something tangible to prove it”.

“Me being around all the time wasn’t tangible enough? Or the nurses gossiping about our dirty talk that’s enough for a HR complaint if this department was anyway normal?” he quirked a brow.

“Give me your children and we’ll have another tangible thing” you teased.

“Playing with fire Doctor L/n” he responded.

“Oh you love it Doctor Abbot”.

Since August you and Jack had some instances where you thought you were pregnant, ever since Heather told you about her miscarriage, you refused to see a fertility doctor until you’ve run out of every possible option. However, your gynecologist said you were in good shape fertility wise, she made the claim that the more you expect it, the less chance it’ll happen.

Nevertheless, Jack got his labs done, perfectly normal, if anything, his sperm count was high. His therapist was shocked when he brought it up last session, thinking the trauma of his job and past were enough to shock his nerves and stunt fertility. Maybe it was all just timing.

Until Jack got even more panels done, only to reveal that his therapist was correct, he was the problem. Not having the heart to tell you, he saved it for a better day to come, hoping it was all temporary. 

The shift continued on, bar brawls and black ice, in true Pittsburgh fashion during football season. He drove you both home, seeing you dozed off in the passenger seat, he loved the days he worked with you. 

Jack enjoyed carrying you, though his back would hate him for it later, came with the job description. Your bags on both sides of him and you asleep in his arms as he made his way to the bedroom.

You groaned upon him sitting you down on the living chair. Remembering the one nonnegotiable rule.

Never take work to bed- physically and metaphorically speaking. He took your scrubs off, almost ready to give you a sponge bath because you gained clarity and consciousness. You did the rest, after extensive nights, you both settled for showering together, he washed you, you washed him. He gripped onto the support bar and you, it was a routine. He loved it. Gave him a chance to feel you all alone, he loved sex with you, just as much as he loved being nonsexually intimate with you.

The man would cut your toenails if asked, when you get sick once a year he’d gladly discard the tissues filled with snot, and didn't mind a single thing about living life with you. 

As he brushed his teeth while sitting on the stool, you took it upon yourself to massage his shoulders. 

“You know when you get lab work done it gets sent to my work email?” you brought up, kneading the knots in his shoulders as your comment made him anxious. He chose to remain silent and you understood, “Baby” you honestly didn't know about the labwork until you had to contact a patient to see if she could come in for a follow up.

He spat out the toothpaste, feeling your sensitivity towards him, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath before finally choosing to speak. “It could be temporary, maybe I just need to lower my stress levels”.

You looked at him through the mirror before crouching down to be at eye level with him in your eyes, staring into his eyes. “You know I love you regardless of if we have kids or not” you told him, “Don’t beat up yourself over things that are minuscule”. 

“I want them just as much as you do” Jack sighed, resting his forehead on yours, gripping the nape of your neck, “I have an appointment on Monday, gonna see what’s going on with me”. 

You sighed, “Maybe it’s a sign for an extended vacation” you hinted, “Get away for a few weeks, come back home to me…”.

“Like I’d go anywhere without you” he scoffed, only to realize the look on your face was sure “You’re not serious are you?”.

“Babe, we're together 24/7, it’s good to have your own time. Away from sperm tests, OB-GYNEs all up in there, fuck and work, Jack Abbot you’re not a soldier anymore sir” you told him, lightly joking, “For the past month you’ve been working on adrenaline-infused autopilot. I love you, but you can rest sometimes you know?”.

When you were met with silence you decided to speak up again, handing him an envelope with a plane ticket to Tulum that you hid in your gym bag. “Take a break, relax. At least sometime in the near future, I’m not going anywhere- hell I might just have Heather fill in for you so I don’t sleep alone” 

“Baby..” he opened the envelope, “Weren’t we saving this trip for Fourth of July?”.

“Already cleared it all with Bridget and Dana, I’m taking your caseload” you shrugged, you had the idea of him going on a vacation alone since last year, knowing he needed it. “You leave in a week from today” you smiled at him as relief washed over him, “It’s only for a week but when you get back maybe you and Robby can have something together, regain your groove”.

“Honey, I have my groove” he nodded, “I can’t go to Tulum without you”.

“Eh, we’ll do Cancun during the summer, a couple weeks, go exploring” you shrugged, “Have poolside sex in the private pool, fuck me proper” you whispered in his ear. “Oh! And the food”.

“You have quite the dirty mouth”.

“I wonder who influenced me”.

Truth of the matter was, you wanted to surprise him for his birthday. Wanted to throw a bigger get together than what you both originally planned and the only way Jack wouldn’t be at home or in Pittsburgh is if you were both on vacation or his brother convinced him to spend more than 2 hours with him.

“That 400k a year really does work wonders” he commented, “You can’t just go with me?”.

“Then it wouldn’t be alone time would it?” you told him, helping him get up from the stool holding him secured by the elbow. “Let me do this for you”.

He nodded, “You sure you can handle both our caseloads though?” letting you lead the way to the bed. “It’s just a huge ask hon”.

“Nothing I haven’t had before” you shrugged, letting him sit on the edge of the bed, “Don’t worry about baby” you noticed his sense of worry, “Plus when you get back, birthday sex”

“Oh god” he groaned, smiled from the thought but also realized he will be 66 at the kid’s graduation if you guys have a kid now after doing the math.

But that would certainly be a miracle. 

“49 isn’t that big of a deal” he spoke up, placing you between his leg and stump, planting kisses on your lotioned stomach.

“It is with the year we had” you ran your fingers through his grey curls. Hands never leaving him. You weren't wrong, with Pitfest and your near breakup, this past Halloween when you got alcohol poisoning after a stressful week, the week after Thanksgiving when Jack had inconsoble back pain from stress and work. Everything positive was a big deal.

The rest of the week passed, you had dropped Jack off at the airport Tuesday night, telling him to text you when he made it to Denver for his layover. He didn’t wanna leave you, but you knew it would be best for his own sanity. 

It was an interesting week without Jack. He got hooked on facetiming you every single night, sometimes twice a day, before and after he showered. Most of the time you were swamped at work, trying to not show your stress visibly. He knew it beyond the screen, could see the stress lines form between your brows, the lack of sleep prevalent under your eyes.

“Baby just go home” he sighed, he knew Gloria was on your ass the entire week and since you were already working overtime- 2 hours to be exact, the surgical department had separate scheduling most days. The logical decision would be to book it. Jack was awake bright and early for a tour in the cenotes of Tulum, it was 7:30 for you and 6:30 for him. 

You nodded, holding your phone towards the ceiling as you talked to your patient Sadie, she came in with a kitchen knife lodged in her wrist. She was a new mom and the sleep deprivation and postpartum only led to her lack of concentration while cooking. 

“Babe, I’ll call you back when I get home, gotta check up on my new mom” you told him, he looked calm and tanned through the phone. Couldn’t deny your mind, your future husband looked perfect. He understood you better than anyone, understood your job and life. 

“Okay, stay safe, I love you” he told you over the phone, he knew you were tired to the point where it didn’t register and you just hung up, your brain on autopilot.

“Hey hon, everything okay? Want me to get you anything? Any questions?” You asked lightly, checking her I.V. and antibiotics. 

“Do you know when I’m getting discharged? My sister’s at home but she’s leaving at 6:50 before my husband gets off work” she muttered, her throat dry from the intubation tube during surgery. 

“The knife was poking near your ulnar artery, a centimeter closer, you’d be in grave danger in a matter of minutes. Your body took a considerable amount of an adrenaline boost that led your blood pressure to skyrocket and your heart to go into what we call a silent heart attack” you told her, “Thankfully we caught it as it occurred and were able to reverse any damage but two operations in less than 24 hours- especially a strenuous one in the heart, I morally and medically can’t discharge you for at least two days” you looked at her in the eye, “I’m going to ask Bridget, my charge nurse, to transfer you to the post-op wing, it’s a bigger room and more comfortable- if not, I’ll go there myself to get you a bed”. 

“You’re a godsend” she sighed, her eyes swelling up with tears, “Do you have one?”.

“Hm?”.

“A baby” she clarified. 

“Oh no- not yet” you smiled at her, standing at the edge of her bed.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother” she complimented. 

“Thank you” you breathed, “Day shift staff will be coming in a few minutes. I’ll ask my resident Doctor Mohan to check up on you, she’s a really smart and kind person, very easy to talk to” you smiled back at her. You needed a coffee, swearing you would pass out behind the wheel.

It took a few minutes while you were back at the computer ready to clock out to realize you hung up on Jack without saying “I love you”. That was enough for you to start crying at the computer, tired and overwhelmed, and just in time for Gloria and Robby to walk up to you, greeting you with a good morning.

“You okay Rocky?” Robby quirked a brow, placing a coffee cup right next to you.

“Doctor L/n, go home, you’re almost 3 hours overtime” Gloria spoke up, earning a concerned look from Dana, Heather, Robby, and Samira.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Whitaker blurted, the poor kid, heart in the right place except his shift was going to start in 5 minutes.

“Nah it’s okay kid, I’m fine” you wiped your tears, they couldn’t tell if your eyes were bloodshot from the tears or lack of sleep.

“I’m going to ask if Emery can fill in for your surgical cases, Jamie can take Jack’s workload” Dana told you, “Now get the hell out of here before we call your union rep”.

You chuckled, getting your bag from the corner of the desk, letting your hair down for the first time in hours. “Doctor Mohan, I have a new mom, accidentally stabbed herself with a kitchen knife- the adrenaline triggered her BP to boost and she had an MI while on the table. She’s in South 3, I told her you’d be the perfect doctor to talk to when I clock out. Please check up on her?” you spoke to her as you walked off.

“No problem!”.

You made your way to Jack’s truck in the parking lot, choosing his truck over your car because it smelt like him all over. 

He'll be back soon; you mumble to yourself. Made all the exhaustion and stress feel a little bit tolerable. 

dividers by @cafekitsune

anon #1: Jack Abbot x fem reader. Everyone at the Pitt is having drinks at some bar after the shift. Until some assholes got touchy and angry when one of the girls and she just defended them despite having the boys over too. Jack only observe since he knows his gf can handle it. He would interfere when things got out of hand. Badass gf, asshole, violence. Do however you want to. Thanks!!! :)))

anon #2: Hey!! Love all your fic for Jack Abbot❤️❤️ Can I request Jack Abbot x fem reader? Whoever loves language is touched and Jack just accepts the fact that she is. Especially when she visits the Pitt, she would be close to him, hold his hand/arm/back/every where she could touch and Jack just let her despite everyone who knew him, that he's never letting anyone touch him like that. Just something cute, soft, kisses, suggestive. Thanks!!! :)))

[red-garden]

Ficlet from this AU (Southeast US SY):

Having the OOC restrictions lifted was a blessing obviously. Well. Probably.

All the formal xianxia shit was a mouthful and a half, and Shen Yuan knew the sect leader was far too soft on him to scold him for indulging in a more casual tongue. Being a Georgia gentleman born and raised, Shen Yuan felt a certain degree of familiarity was owed his students, Binghe most especially.

“Oh come here sweetheart, don’t cry. Oh baby I know.”

His tearful little lamb looked up at him like a deer in headlights. “Shizun?”

“Come on baby, let’s get you something to drink. You like sweet tea?”

Anachronistic he knew, but he needed a taste of home. Not as good as his mama’s, but he never was much of a cook.

There had been a greater number of accidents on the peaks lately. Shen Yuan didn’t know if there was something in the water but every time he tried to be neighborly people started dropping like flies. His martial siblings came to visit more often but left even quicker.

“Xiao Jiu!”

The sect leader always looked like the cat that got the cream when he was let in. He brought a basket of peaches- not the Suwanee from back home, but it was sweet nonetheless.

Shen Yuan gave him a smile as he took the basket to the kitchen. “Ah, thank ya kindly sugar!”

The sect leader went abruptly still. Shen Yuan turned about in concern. “Everything alright?”

The sect leader nodded stiffly, eyes anywhere else but Shen Yuan.

“You got some business needs getting back to? Don’t put it off on my account.”

“Ah, no, Xiao Jiu need not concern himself.”

“Then sit with me for a bit! I made a fresh pitcher of tea and we can have those peaches you brought me.”

“What would Xiao Jiu wish to hear?”

“Anything you please to tell me sugar.”

The sect leader stiffens again. “Ah, I just remembered some work I really must get back to. Please excuse this Shixiong.”

Liu Qingge was hardly better. He came for the meridian clearings on time of course, but he wouldn’t suffer Shen Yuan’s company a moment longer. Frequently he even stumbled on his sword to get away.

“Honey, are you sure you wanna keep clearin my meridians? Seems like it takes a lot out of you, stumblin as you do to get away. I’m sure Mu-shidi would be amenable to trade.”

“S’fine.” He grits out.

Shen Yuan sighs, leaning back into his touch. He huffs a laugh. “Hands like that, I should ask you to be chair all the time! Support soothin my aching back.”

Liu Qingge flinches away, letting Shen Yuan fall backwards. His voice is strained, his face red as a tomato. “I have to go. Bye.”

He falls flat on his face scrambling to the door and darts out like a chicken with its head cut off. Shen Yuan tsks. “If my company is really that intolerable he could just say so.”

Binghe, coming out of the kitchen with a fresh pitcher and a tray of lemon cakes (he knew the protagonist could do it) shakes his head. “Shizun shouldn’t have to put up with him.”

Shen Yuan can resist pinching his little cheek. “Don’t go being so rude to your Shibo now baby, he’s still a grown up…. Even if he acts like a cat in a rocking chair factory.”

[nebulaafterdark]

The Rats (Pt. 3)

Aegon ii x Velaryon(Strong)! Reader

Summary: Aegon attempts to make peace with Rhaenyra after being forced to usurp her throne. Lucerys’ death complicates things.

18+ ONLY, MDNI. Targcest, smut, angst, violence. S2 SPOILERS

Part 1 | Part 2

“With free reign of King’s Landing, Aemond will focus his attention on the occupation of bast-” Aegon’s face flushes bright red. “Harrenhal.” He corrects himself, “and the extermination of house Strong.”

“What did you call it?” Daemon arches a brow.

“Harrenhal,” Aegon repeats.

“Before that,” Daemon prods.

Aegon sighs, looking to his wife.

“Bastardhal.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“My brother’s term of endearment.” He explains, “a slip of the tongue.”

“Mmm,” Daemon hums. “Perhaps allegiance to your brother runs deeper than you let on.”

“I have left my siblings and abandoned my post to be here. I remain loyal to Rhaenyra’s claim and her line of succession. What else would you have me do?” Aegon scoffs.

“There are a number of things.”

“If you refuse to believe that Aegon is loyal to our queen, believe that he is loyal to me and I am loyal to my mother.” Y/N takes a protective step in front of her husband.

Daemon’s jaw ticks, frustrated and teetering near sanity’s edge. “You then, are responsible for his indiscretions.”

“I take full responsibility.” Y/N agrees, “he is here for me.”

“Perhaps he might further demonstrate his loyalty.”

“And how, do you suggest, I do that?” Aegon wonders.

“Deliver us your brother’s head on a platter.” Daemon sneers.

“Mother!”

“Am I wrong, Rhaenyra?” Daemon scoffs.

“That is enough!” The Queen slams her fist against the table. “Thank you, Aegon for the information you provided. We will coordinate with our army and send reinforcements to Harrenhal. We will send word to Cregan Stark-”

“By raven?”

“However I see fit, Daemon. Stay your hand.” Rhaenyra snaps. “You are all excused.”

Aegon is out the door just as swiftly.

Y/N flinches as it slams behind him.

Jacaerys remains stoic in the corner, saying nothing for a long while as his mother and step father begin bickering. “Sister,” he nods toward the hallway.

Y/N returns the gesture, following him out past the royal guards. “The nerve of him.” She is fuming as they begin strolling the grounds.

“That is Daemon.” Jacaerys breathes. “Pay him no mind.”

“It’s not as if I don’t want Aemond’s head. Luce is our brother, for the gods’ sake.”

Jace swallows, mouth set in a firm line. “He was our brother.”

Was…is he not anymore?

“In these dealings with Aemond, you must remember that killing him will not bring Luce back.”

“It would be even.”

“A son for a son was also even.” Her brother reminds her. “Your grievance with it hath brought you here.”

“I should have allowed the murder of a child?”

“I did not say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“What is even is not always right, I expect you know that by now.”

“Indeed.”

“Ravens will take too long.” Jacaerys laments, “but mother will not let us deliver messages anymore. It is a shame that our safety comes at the expense of other’s.”

Y/N draws in a steadying breath. “Pity.” She turns away, in the direction of her chambers. Aegon is waiting for her there, sipping from a pitcher of wine. “Did they not give you a cup, my darling?”

“Hmm,” Aegon hums into the container, “of course.” He lowers the pitcher from his mouth, “but this is faster.”

The princess puts a hand to her head.

“I am not a dog that’s been kicked, do not look at me that way. As if I am weak.”

“I love you and you are hurting.” Y/N sighs, “I do not know how else to look at you.”

Aegon mulls this over for a moment. “I did not mean to call it bastardhal.”

“I know that.”

“You are not a bastard.” He presses on, “I am sorry for ever calling you one.”

“You are forgiven.” It is nothing more than a word. It cannot harm her anymore.

“If no house would claim you, then I would.”

Y/N gives him a sad smile, “thank you, Aegon.”

“You think I jest? Or does it simply mean nothing coming from me?”

“It means everything coming from you,” Y/N takes a step toward him. “Forgive me if I have made it seem-”

“No,” Aegon shakes his head, “forgive me. I am lost in this. I mustn’t take my frustration out on you.”

Y/N cups his face in her hands. “If you are loved by no one, know you are loved by me.“

“Without you I have nothing.” He reaches a shaky hand out, stroking her hair, reverently. “I am nothing.”

She draws back, searching his eyes. “That is not true.”

“If you ask me to slay my brother, I will do it.” Aegon breathes.

Y/N presses her lips together. She had not asked, Daemon did. But Aegon does not bend to Daemon’s will, only hers.

“Please do not ask.” He murmurs with wide, sad eyes.

Y/N cannot stand to see him cry. It tears at the depths of her soul. She wraps her arms around him, “I will not ask.”

Aegon clings to her. “I would do it.”

“I know, my love.” Y/N presses kisses to the side of his face. She knows his sadness, the burden of being least loved by everyone else. Some part of him will always seek to win her approval, her affection… her love.

He is pawing at her then, at the laces of her dress. He does not know how to comfort her, nor himself. He knows how to bring pleasure so blinding it nearly drowns out the pain.

Y/N helps him remove his clothes, wrapping him up in her arms. “I love you.”

“As I love you.” He’s stumbling backwards then, hovering over her on the bed. Easing his cock into her.

She sighs, losing herself in the gentle rocking of his hips. There is no haste to reach their peak, taking what little comfort they can from each other.

It is not until his thumbs skate over her cheeks that Y/N realizes she is crying. Even here, on their marriage bed, there is no end to suffering. Only an end to loneliness.

————————————————————————

Y/N waits until Aegon is sleeping soundly to clamber from the warmth of his arms and dawn her riding gear. Dragonstone is quiet as she makes her way down to the dragon pit. Stormborn is nestled in beside Sunfyre, her light blue scales complement the golden hue of her companion.

“Where are you off to at this hour, your grace?” One of the keepers asks.

“I’m going to take Stormborn out for a bit of fresh air. The moon is beautiful this evening, don’t you agree?” Y/N smiles, tucking a bit of loose hair behind her ear.

“Indeed, Princess.” He eyes the sword, sheathed at her back.

“This is only a precaution,” Y/N lies, “we can never be too careful in these times.”

He nods, “I will saddle her.”

“Thank you, Marcelo.” Y/N nods, tugging on her riding gloves as she waits. Tapping at her wedding band, beneath the cool fabric.

“She is ready, your grace.”

“Thank you, again.” She says, climbing up onto Stormborn’s saddle.

“It is my great honor.” The man smiles, watching in wonder as the princess sets off across the sea.

Only a few torches are lit at the entrance of Harrenhal.

Y/N lands near the stone walkway, striding up to the tall hooded figure and ripping back his cloak.

Aemond turns to his assailant. “Y/N?”

“Take out your sword.” She demands.

“Lucerys death was a tragic mistake, a lapse in judgment I do not care to repeat.”

“I will not kill you with your back to me, I am no coward. You will face me, take out your sword.”

“For the sake of the gods, Y/N,” Aemond growls. “Do you aim so desperately to break my brother’s heart?”

“I will not allow the slaughter of innocent people. This ends here.”

“A brother for a brother it will be then, not a son for a son.” Aemond reluctantly withdraws his weapon.

Y/N charges him, in a blind rage, their blades meet, clanking together.

“You make a better sparring partner than most.” He draws his sword away, narrowly dodging her next attack.

“This is not a children’s game, I want your head!”

Aemond purrs, “you must earn it then.”

She sees red, swinging at him again, until his blade slices across her side and she has cut deep into the flesh of his leg. Bringing the Prince to his knees, with her sword at his neck.

“Do it,” Aemond insists, “you will not get another chance.” He stares up at her blade, dripping with his blood. The fear etched into her eyes, tresses of dark hair clinging to her sweat damp skin.

In this light, each of them resemble their brother.

The end Y/N desires is so near she can taste it, rising like bile in her throat. She chokes on it. “No.” She drops her blade from his neck, covering her aching side instead. “No.”

Aemond hangs his head. “I am sorry for that business with Luce. I lost my temper that day.”

“And I lost my…” No, she cannot say it, the pain is too great.

“Let me see your wound.” Aemond insists.

In her shock, Y/N obeys.

He tears across the bottom of his cloak, knotting the material firmly around her torso. Unbothered by her hissing protest. “This will hold until you reach Dragonstone. Go to Aegon, he will tend you.”

“You must leave this place.”

“You have my word.”

“And you must leave King’s Landing.”

Aemond smirks, “where would I go?”

“Anywhere.” Y/N suggests, “take Helaena and your children. We both know, she is too kind to bear the weight of the crown and our blood. Take her away so she might be happy…and free.”

“Do you not wish to be free from the weight of the crown?”

Y/N hesitates for a long moment. “I am the crown. I am my mother’s heir, her only daughter. I cannot abandon her, she has lost too much.”

Aemond swallows, “very well. Helaena will write you. You and my brother might visit, once we’re settled.”

“Perhaps we will.” She will never forgive him for Lucerys. They will never be as they were before Storm’s End. “You are my husband’s brother and husband of my dearest friend.”

“I am also your brother’s murderer. A title that trumps all, despite your best intentions. You are good, and kind, but human all the same.”

————————————————————————

“Aegon.”

“Hmm?” He reaches for his wife, blindly, stroking a hand over her dark waves. “What have you done to your hair, darling girl?” He grumbles, “it is awfully coarse.”

Jace bats Aegon’s hands away. “My sister is gone, you buffoon. Get your clothes on.”

“Jacaerys?” Aegon springs up, covering himself with the top sheet. “What are you doing?”

“Y/N is missing. The dragon handlers informed me that she left on Stormborn nearly two hours ago. Sunfyre has been yowling ever since.”

“Alert your mother,” Aegon demands, “raise the guard. Who on earth let the heir to the throne take a dragon from the pit in the middle of the night?”

“She is a princess, not a prisoner.” Jace reminds him, “I have a hunch as to where she went.”

“Harrenhal.” Aegon begins tugging on his clothes. The little brat bedded him and snuck off; again. “She will be a prisoner upon her return. I tire of these games.”

“You mustn’t be so harsh, my sister would go to the ends of the earth for you.”

“Yet she will not stay with me.” Aegon steps into his boots. “Surely she loves me so dearly that she flees at every opportunity.”

“Do not see it that way.” Jace sighs.

“I have no other way to see it.” Their chamber door swings open, revealing the woman in question.

“Aegon,” Y/N chokes. The blinding rush of battle is gone, leaving only her pain.

“Leave us,” Aegon waves a dismissive hand at his nephew.

“Y/N,” Jacaerys looks to his sister instead.

“I am well, brother.”

“You are bleeding.”

Y/N glances down at her wound, “perhaps you might go quietly to the maester and request milk of the poppy?”

“The maester should tend you,” he argues.

“Aegon will tend me, tis but a scrape.” Y/N insists.

Her brother squares his shoulders. “Very well, I will be back.”

“Thank you, brother.” Y/N forces a smile as Jace exits the door.

“What happened?” Aegon demands, squinting into the dim light as his wife stands before him, in her riding gear.

“I could not do it.” Y/N curses her own weakness. “I went to Aemond, I stopped him from taking Harrenhal and I let him go.”

Aegon shifts her garments aside to reveal the damage. A long bleeding gash, beneath her ribs. “Aemond did this to you?” He sits her down on the foot stool, pacing in the small space before it.

“We dueled,” Y/N admits. “I made my mark on him as well.”

“Gods be good.” Aegon breathes.

“If Daemon catches word of this-”

“You are injured. That is where my interests lie, not in the folly of men.” Aegon seethes.

“He has already condoned the murder of children. Helaena’s children, of all people. What will he do if he hears of this?”

Aegon passes a hand over his face. “Surely we cannot leave the wound open like that, it will fester.”

“I know,” Y/N nods. “We must seal it up, with a heated blade. We can do it here, no one need know.” She reaches for his cup on the dresser, chugging the foul liquid down for some relief.

“You’re asking me to…” his eyes dart to his dagger, abandoned near his boots. “No.”

“Aegon.”

“I can’t.”

“It will be quick,” she reasons. “It will scar, but it is on my side, you will not look upon it often.”

“That is what you’re concerned with,” Aegon snaps, “of all things, you think I care about the scar it will leave? That I might frown upon an imperfection?”

“I-”

“You are maddening.”

“I am sorry. I do not wish to fight.”

“It is unavoidable from what I’ve heard. Marriage causes strife and disagreements.”

“Not ours,” Y/N insists, “you are the only person who understands me.”

“I do not understand why you would put yourself in danger.”

“For you.” Y/N tells him. “So you would not have to choose between your wife and your brother.”

“I would choose you, imbecile.”

Y/N bares her teeth. “I couldn’t let you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are mine, Aegon! I protect what is mine.”

In the way of the dragon. And that, Aegon understands very well.

“Here it is,” Jace returns with milk of the poppy.

“Thank you,” Aegon takes the gauntlet, bringing it to his wife’s lips. “Drink all of it.” He demands.

“Is there anything more I can do?” The other man asks.

“Rest the blade of my dagger over the fire until it glows red, then bring it to me.”

Jace nods.

“First, might you find something for her to bite down on. Leather works best.” Aegon purses his lips, “bring me my belt.” One of them is still etched with her teeth markings from Laenor’s birth. He’s delivered two of their children, surely he can do this.

Jacaerys rushes to the armchair beside the bed, tugging Aegon’s belt free and placing it on the foot stool beside his sister.

Y/N curls her fingers around the harsh material. Her vision has doubled, swaying from side to side.

“Are you going to faint?” Aegon catches her face between his hands.

“I feel fine,” Y/N slurs.

Aegon taps her chin. “That is good, my dearest love. I am going to remove your shirt.” He eases the material over her head, leaving only the bindings to cover her breasts.

“The blade is ready,” Jacaerys calls, from the fire place.

“Open.” Aegon tugs at her bottom lip with his thumb until her jaw goes slack, taking the leather belt from her clenched fist and placing the strap between her teeth. “Bite.”

Y/N clamps her teeth around it.

“Good girl.”

Jacaerys approaches, handling the instrument with care.

“You will hold me around the waist, you are not to let go until I say.” Aegon instructs, waiting until she is wrapped around him in an awkward sort of hug. “There you go.” He pats her head before taking the dagger from her brother. He offers no additional warning before lying the blade flat across the expanse of her wound. The cut is a clean one, without jagged edges.

Y/N lets out a muffled cry.

“Shh,” he hushes her, holding the heat to her skin for just a moment more before tossing the dagger away. Gingerly withdrawing the belt from her teeth. Resting his forehead against hers as whimpers settle to deep breathing. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nods.

“If you dare leave me again, Gods help me, I will shackle you to my side.”

Y/N strokes a hand over the side of his face. “Yes, Aegon.”

“I do not jest.”

Part 4

Taglist: @minttea07 @callsignwidow @fallout-girl219 @syraxnyra @vickynephilim @jeondeluxe111 @geeksareunique @arya-brooke @7minutes-tomidnight @ninastyless @aleemendoza2425-blog @livingdead-reilly @whenmypartysover @darlingisntit @nayaniasworld @uniquecroissant @spacexdrago

[ilovemarvel97]

Jogging Shorts

Elizabeth Olsen x G!P Reader

Summary: Lizzie comes back home to find her wife in a jogging shorts that shows too much. 

Word Count: 6,570

Warnings: (18+), smut, reader has a penis, blowjob, fluff

Note: Minors do not interact!

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

The front door clicked open as Lizzie stepped inside, sunglasses still perched on her nose and the faint smell of lavender clinging to her from the boutique brunch spot she’d just left. Her heels clicked softly against the hardwood as she kicked them off near the entry, humming to herself while undoing the buttons of her light jacket.

It had been a nice brunch—catching up with Aubrey over omelets and too many mimosas—but even as Lizzie laughed at her friend’s stories, her mind had slowly drifted home.

To her.

“Babe?” she called out, dropping her keys into the bowl on the hallway table.

She rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks.

There stood Y/N—her wife, her muse, her personal brand of temptation—wearing nothing but a clingy athletic tank and a pair of gray men’s jogging shorts that rode low on her hips. Her skin glistened with sweat, still flushed from her run, and her damp hair was pulled back in that messy ponytail Lizzie always found distractingly sexy.

Y/N didn’t notice her at first. She was too focused on downing a glass of cold water. The fabric of her shorts clung in just the right way—showcasing the shape of her thick thighs, the slight bounce of her body from exertion, and the very obvious outline pressing against the front of her shorts.

Lizzie’s throat went dry.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Y/N finally noticed her, lowering the glass and turning to face her with that boyish, slightly smug grin. “Hey, baby.”

Lizzie blinked. “You—you went running?”

Y/N gave a casual shrug, walking over to the fridge to grab the pitcher. “Just around the block a few times. Thought I’d get some cardio in before you got back.”

As she bent slightly to place the pitcher back in the fridge, Lizzie got another full view of that ridiculously perfect form—taut, sweaty, relaxed in all the best ways. Her gaze flicked to the waistband of the shorts again, and she felt a warmth start to bloom in her chest. And lower.

“You’re staring,” Y/N said, grinning as she shut the fridge.

Lizzie crossed her arms, but her cheeks were already flushed. “You can’t just… be walking around looking like that and expect me not to.”

“Like what?” Y/N asked innocently, walking closer.

“Those shorts” Lizzie points.

“What about them?” Y/N shrugs.

Lizzie scoffed, eyes trailing down. “You wear them like they’re painted on.”

Y/N chuckled and closed the distance between them until Lizzie had to tilt her head slightly to maintain eye contact. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe because I walked into my kitchen and found my hot, sweaty, half-naked wife standing there like an ad for bad decisions.”

Y/N’s grin softened into something more tender, though her eyes still sparkled. “Good ones, actually. You married me.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes playfully, but her hands had already found their way to Y/N’s damp waist, fingers curling into the waistband of those teasing shorts. “Mm, I did. And I regret nothing.”

Y/N leaned in, nose brushing hers. “So what’re you gonna do about it?”

Lizzie hummed, fingers sliding just a little deeper beneath the waistband of Y/N’s shorts, her touch featherlight but enough to make her wife’s breath hitch. “I don’t know,” she murmured, voice thick with suggestion. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson for walking around like this… tempting me.”

Y/N’s smile widened, lips parting slightly as her gaze dropped to Lizzie’s mouth. “What kind of lesson are we talking about, Mrs. Y/F/N?”

Lizzie smirked at the title, loving how it still gave her a flutter even after all this time. “Something slow,” she said, inching closer so their bodies brushed. “Something very… drawn out. You know, to really make my point.”

Y/N chuckled, her hands finding Lizzie’s hips. “You really think you can handle taking your time when you’re this flustered?”

“I’m not flustered,” Lizzie said quickly, but the way her hands gripped Y/N’s sides betrayed her. “I’m just… motivated.”

Y/N tilted her head, eyes glinting with challenge. “Motivated, huh? That why your hands are shaking just a little?”

Lizzie scoffed and pulled away slightly, walking toward the counter as if to put some space between them—but the swing of her hips was anything but innocent. “Maybe I was going to go shower,” she said over her shoulder, her voice lilting and light. “But now? I might just sit on the couch and enjoy the view.”

She turned just in time to catch Y/N’s gaze drop—unapologetically—to the curve of her backside, still hugged tightly by the pale sundress she wore. Lizzie leaned against the kitchen island, her arms crossed, biting her lip to suppress a smile.

Y/N followed her without hesitation, hands casually holding her waist. “You wanna look?” she asked, stepping between Lizzie’s legs. “You can look, baby. But you’re not the only one who’s got views.”

“Oh, I’m very aware,” Lizzie said, her voice a whisper now as she traced a lazy circle along Y/N’s abs with a single finger. “That’s why I married you, rockstar.”

Y/N smirked. “Not for the voice? Or the charm?”

“Those helped,” Lizzie teased, sliding her hand down the front of Y/N’s tank slowly, until it rested just above the waistband again. “But mostly it was this… stupidly perfect body.”

Y/N leaned in, her nose brushing the side of Lizzie’s jaw, lips ghosting over her ear. “And now it’s all yours.”

Lizzie exhaled shakily, heat pooling low in her stomach. She wrapped her arms around Y/N’s neck, pulling her in just enough so that their lips nearly touched. “Say that again.”

Y/N kissed the corner of her mouth, slowly. “I’m all yours.”

Lizzie gave in, letting their lips finally connect in a heated, slow kiss that deepened with every second—lazy and lingering, the kind that made you forget anything else existed. Y/N’s hands roamed lower, gripping the backs of Lizzie’s thighs and lifting her just enough to sit her up on the kitchen island. 

Their kiss broke only for a breath, foreheads pressed together.

“You still sweaty,” Lizzie whispered with a grin, fingers tugging at Y/N’s tank playfully.

“Guess we’ll have to get more sweaty,” Y/N murmured, lips ghosting over hers again.

Lizzie laughed softly. “God, I love you.”

Y/N smiled, kissing her again. “I love you too.”

Lizzie gasped softly as Y/N's hands slipped beneath the hem of her sundress, fingers trailing up her inner thighs. She shivered at the touch, her skin tingling with anticipation. 

Y/N leaned in, her voice low and seductive. "You're not the only one who's eager to get started, huh?"

Lizzie's eyes fluttered shut as Y/N's lips found her neck, planting a trail of soft kisses along her collarbone. "I missed you," she whispered.

“You saw me this morning when you left” Y/N continue to kiss her skin. 

"I know," Lizzie said, her fingers tangling in Y/N's damp hair. "But it feels like it's been forever since I've had you like this."

Y/N hummed in agreement, her lips moving lower, finding the spot on Lizzie's neck that always made her shiver. "even though you had me last night?"

"Yes," Lizzie replied, her voice a faint whisper as Y/N's hands glided under her sundress. "I can't get enough. Ever."

Y/N chuckled, the sound rumbling against Lizzie's skin. "And you think it's any different for me, baby?"

"I know it's not," Lizzie said, her breathing growing more labored as Y/N's fingers lightly grazed the edge of her underwear. "But you're the one teasing me right now."

“You started” Y/N whisper in Lizzie’s ear. 

Lizzie tilted her head back, a moan slipping from her lips at the feel of Y/N's breath against her ear. "I didn't expect you to look so... good in those shorts," she admitted, her fingers trailing down Y/N's sides.

Y/N chuckled, nipping at Lizzie's earlobe. "Oh, you're one to talk. Wearing this little dress that barely covers a thing..."

"Hey, this is comfortable," Lizzie protested weakly, her body already arching into Y/N's touch.

Y/N hummed, her lips finding a sensitive spot just below Lizzie's jawline. "I'm not complaining. But you have to admit, you knew it would drive me wild."

Lizzie didn't bother denying it. "Maybe," she conceded, her fingers gripping Y/N's shoulders as her back arched off the counter. "But I didn't expect you to run around the neighborhood looking like sin incarnate."

"I was jogging," Y/N corrected, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of Lizzie's dress. "You're the one making it sound dirty."

Lizzie opened her mouth to retort, but all that came out was a soft gasp as Y/N's hand slid up her thigh, her touch warm and electrifying.

"You were showing off," Lizzie managed to say, her body trembling.

Y/N laughed, her hand moving higher, her thumb tracing the edge of Lizzie's underwear. "And you were looking, weren't you?"

“No…when I said you were showering off” Lizzie cups Y/N cock over her shorts “you were jogging and showing off what’s mine” Lizzie says. 

Y/N's breath caught in her throat, her hand stilling on Lizzie's thigh. "And you're possessive today," she said, her voice low and strained.

Lizzie smirked, her fingers applying more pressure. "You love it," she said, leaning in to ghost her lips over Y/N's pulse point.

Y/N shivered, her eyes fluttering shut. "God, baby..." she murmured, her hand grasping Lizzie's waist.

"You like it when I claim what's mine, don't you?" Lizzie teased, her fingers teasing the strings of Y/N's shorts.

Y/N's breath hitched, her hands going down and gripping the edge of the counter. "You know I do," she replied, her voice rough. She tilted her head, capturing Lizzie's mouth in a heated, claiming kiss.

Lizzie melted into the kiss, her hands roaming freely over Y/N's body, tracing the dip of her lower back, the curve of her hip. She deepened the kiss, her tongue brushing against Y/N's, drawing a soft moan from her wife.

Y/N's hands found the hem of Lizzie's sundress, her fingers skimming along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "You know," she murmured, biting back a gasp as Lizzie's teeth grazed her jawline, "the bed is just a few steps away."

Lizzie hummed, her lips nipping at Y/N's pulse point. "We could get there," she murmured, her hands sliding up Y/N's chest, "or you could just take me here." Lizzie start to stroke Y/N cock

Y/N's head fell back, a moan slipping from her lips. "Here, huh?" she managed to say, her voice thick with desire. "On the kitchen counter?"

Lizzie nodded, her lips brushing along Y/N's collarbone. "Right here," she said, her hand gripping Y/N's hip, pulling her even closer. "I want you now."

Y/N shivered, her body already burning with need. "You're gonna be the death of me, you know that?" she said, her hands trailing up Lizzie's arms, sliding under the straps of her sundress.

Lizzie's hands joined hers, helping Y/N push the sundress off her shoulders. "Only in the best way possible," she said, her voice a whisper as the dress pooled at her feet.

Y/N took a moment to appreciate the sight before her, her eyes roaming over Lizzie's body, clad only in matching lace underwear. "You're so beautiful," she said, her hands tracing the curve of Lizzie's waist, up to her ribs, before stopping just below her chest.

"You're not so bad yourself," Lizzie teased, her own gaze roaming over Y/N's body. "Especially in those shorts." She leaned in, her lips tracing the curve of Y/N's neck as her hands slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of the shorts.

Y/N is already hard for her. Lizzie could feel it against her hand, the evidence of Y/N's arousal stirring her own desire. She pressed closer, her body flush against Y/N's, and nuzzled her face into Y/N's neck, her lips trailing up to her ear. "I can feel how much you want me," she murmured, her tongue darting out to tease Y/N's earlobe.

Y/N groaned, her hands gripping Lizzie's hips, pulling her even closer, until there was no space left between them. "You have no idea," she said, her voice rough with desire. "I've been wanting you since the moment you left this morning in that tiny dress.”

"That's a long time to wait for me," Lizzie said, her lips finding the underside of Y/N's jaw. She bit down lightly, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "But, then again, the longer you wait, the better the reward, right?"

Lizzie hops off the counter and kneel in front of Y/N tagging her shorts. 

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she watched Lizzie sink to her knees in front of her. She couldn't speak, the sight of her wife knelt before her sending a jolt of arousal straight to her cock. Her hands gripped the edge of the countertop, her knuckles turning white.

Lizzie smirked up at her, her eyes dark with desire. "You like that, huh?" she said, her hands slipping up Y/N's thighs, her fingers hooking into the waistband of her shorts. "When I'm on my knees for you?"

Y/N nodded, unable to form words, her body trembling under Lizzie's touch. "Yes," she managed to get out, her voice ragged. "God, yes."

"Good." Lizzie's voice was low and smooth, her gaze never leaving Y/N's as she started to tug at the shorts. "Because I love being down here for you."

Lizzie pull down Y/N shorts making her member spring out almost bumping her face.

Y/N's cock was hard, already leaking pre-cum from the tip. Lizzie's eyes widened at the sight, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She looked up at Y/N, her gaze dark and hungry. "Oh, someone's eager," she said, her voice a teasing whisper.

"Eager's an understatement," Y/N managed to say, her fingers clenching tighter on the counter. "Especially when you look like that."

Lizzie chuckled, her hands gliding up Y/N’s thighs, stopping just short of touching her cock. "And how do I look, exactly?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, feigning innocence.

Y/N groaned, her cock twitching at the lack of touch. "You know how you look," she said, her voice strained. "You look like sin incarnate. Like you're trying to drive me insane right now."

Lizzie smirked. "Just trying to match your energy, love," she said, her breath ghosting over the head of Y/N's cock. "You were wearing that short showing off this, and expect me not do anything about it."

"You could have joined me on my run," Y/N pointed out, her words coming out in a strangled gasp as Lizzie's tongue darted out, lightly swiping over the tip of her cock.

“Fuck” Y/N groan. 

Lizzie hummed, her lips curving up in a smirk. "You like it when I talk dirty to you, don't you?" she said, her hands still lightly stroking Y/N's thighs. "Or, I guess, it's more the actions, isn't it? Words are nice and all, but the real magic happens in the deed."

Y/N nodded, her eyes closing, her body tense as she waited for whatever Lizzie was going to do next. She was at her mercy, and she loved every second of it. "You can say that again," she said, her words more of a ragged gasp than actual speech.

"Hmm, looks like someone's getting impatient." Lizzie's teasing tone was enough to make Y/N's knees weak, and it took everything she had to stay standing. "You want me to keep going, don't you?"

"Please," Y/N begged, her body trembling with need. "I need you, baby. Please."

Lizzie relished the sound of the word 'please' slipping from Y/N's lips. She loved it when her wife admitted that she needed her. With a wicked gleam in her eye, she leaned in, her breath hot against Y/N's skin. "Beg me," she whispered, her lips just barely brushing against Y/N's hip.

"Please," Y/N repeated, her words shaky but earnest. "Please, touch me. I need you so badly, Lizzie. I need to feel your hands on me."

Lizzie smirked, satisfied with the desperation in Y/N's voice. "I like it when you beg," she murmured, her hands moving up, finally wrapping around Y/N's throbbing cock. "God, you're so hard for me. So ready."

“It’s your fault” Y/N thrust into Lizzie’s hand. 

Lizzie laughed, her grip on Y/N's cock tightening. "Of course it is. My fault, my problem, and I take responsibility for it." Her hand began to move, stroking Y/N softly.

"You know I can't resist you," Y/N gasped. "Not when you look like that, not when you talk like that." Her hands clenched at her sides, resisting the urge to touch Lizzie's hair, her shoulders, the delicate arch of her back.

"And I can't resist you, either," Lizzie said, her gaze roaming over Y/N's face, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the way her eyes darkened with desire. "When you're all sweaty and needy and begging for me, how could I say no?"

Y/N goes to protest she’s not needy, but when she open her mouth Lizzie runs her tongue over her shaft. 

The words died in Y/N's throat as Lizzie's tongue flicked over the tip of her cock, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. She had no room to protest, no power to argue, not with the overwhelming need and desire coursing through her body. "You're going to make me lose it," she managed to choke out, her words breaking off as another moan escaped her lips. 

Lizzie chuckled, her breath hot against Y/N's sensitive flesh. "That's the point, baby. I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to drag out every single one of those beautiful noises I can make you make."

Y/N could just take her way, but she was enjoying this Lizzie. 

Lizzie was in control, and Y/N was all too happy to submit. She loved seeing this side of her wife, the side that was confident and commanding, driving her wild with desire. Each touch, each movement, was calculated and deliberate, designed to draw out just the right response. 

"You're so beautiful, you know that?" Lizzie said, her lips brushing against the underside of Y/N's cock. "You're so perfect like this, all needy and eager, begging for me to touch you, to make you mine."

“I love when you take my cock like that” Y/N whisper. 

Lizzie smiled up at Y/N, her eyes flickering with a mix of lust and playfulness. "I know you do," she said, her voice a low, seductive purr. "I know you love it when I take control and show you just how badly I want you."

And with that, Lizzie wrapped her lips around Y/N's cock, taking her deep into her mouth. She was hot and wet and eager, swirling her tongue around the sensitive flesh. It was as if she was made for this, made to bring Y/N to the very edge of pleasure and then hold her there

"Fuck," Y/N moaned, her hands finding their way into Lizzie's hair, "You feel so good, baby. So god damn good.”

Lizzie hummed in response, her eyes never leaving Y/N's face. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she loved every second of it. She knew the power she held over Y/N, and she relished in it. It was a beautiful dance they'd perfected over the years, each touch and kiss fueled by a depth of passion and love that only comes from true intimacy.

Y/N's body trembled, her back arching, her fingers clutching at Lizzie's hair. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop," she gasped, her words a ragged mix of pleading and command.

Lizzie had no intention of stopping. She loved seeing Y/N like this, undone and desperate for more. She teased and taunted her, her mouth and hands moving in perfect tandem, bringing Y/N closer and closer to the edge. Each touch was calculated, a symphony of pleasure that threatened to send her over the brink.

"I'm close," Y/N gasped, her body taut, coiled like a spring ready to snap. "Baby, I'm so close."

With that lizzie starts to bob her head. 

Lizzie smiled around Y/N's cock, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She knew Y/N was close, and she was determined to take her there. She increased the suction, her lips and tongue milking Y/N's cock with an expert touch. She could feel her own arousal growing, the taste and feel of Y/N's flesh in her mouth driving her wild. She could sense the tension in Y/N's body, the way she was trembling under her touch. She knew she had her right where she wanted her, and she was ready to take her over the edge.

Lizzie take almost all Y/N length into her mouth. Tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she looks up at her wife. And that was the last straw for Y/N.

In a guttural moan. Her body convulsed, her hips bucking a little as she came, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her like a tsunami. Her fingers found Lizzie's head, holding her in place a little. But when it was over, she pulls her hips back, pulling her length out of Lizzie’s mouth. 

Lizzie's lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed. She had a satisfied smirk on her face, as she looked up at Y/N. 

"That was... intense," Y/N gasped, her limbs feeling like jelly.

Y/N see Lizzie swallowing her load. It was an incredibly erotic sight, and Y/N felt her arousal building once more. Lizzie could see the look in Y/N's eyes, and she knew exactly what it meant.

"Already getting worked up again, darling?" she teased, pushing herself up to her feet.

Y/N pulls her by the hips and crashed their lips. Their bodies pressed against each other, mouths locked in a frantic, desperate kiss. It was pure heat and hunger, fueled by a desperate need to be closer, to feel more, to take all they could from each other.

Y/N lift her up by her thighs and place her back on the counter kissing her desperately. 

Lizzie clung to Y/N, her arms wrapping around her neck, her legs wrapping around Y/N. She kissed back with equal fervor, her lips moving urgently against Y/N's, their lips slick and hot. She could feel the heat radiating from Y/N, the need and desire rolling off her in waves.

Lizzie only notice her bra was gone when she feels Y/N’s hand on her breasts. 

The realization hit her, she gasped, her body arching into Y/N's touch. She had been so consumed by the kiss, so focused on the feeling of Y/N's lips against her own, that she hadn't even noticed the moment her bra had been removed. She broke the kiss, looking up at Y/N with a mix of surprise and arousal.

“When did you do that?” she asked, her words coming out in a ragged gasp. Her fingers reached for the hem of Y/N's shirt, tugging at it impatiently. 

"I have my ways," Y/N murmured, her eyes dark with desire. She helped Lizzie pull the shirt over her head, revealing her bra. "I'm full of surprises, aren't I?"

Lizzie's gaze wandered over Y/N's bare chest, taking in every inch of exposed skin. Her fingers traced the edge of Y/N's bra, her touch almost reverent. "You always find a way to leave me wanting more," she said, her words soft and tinged with need.

Lizzie tilted her head back, giving Y/N better access to her neck. Her fingers combed through Y/N's hair, her touch both possessive and gentle. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?" she murmured, her words breathy with desire.

"We're a match made in heaven," Y/N agreed, her lips trailing down Lizzie's neck, nipping and kissing her sensitive skin. Her hands roamed over Lizzie's body, exploring every curve and contour, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Y/N lips went down Lizzie’s body, kissing and nipping her breasts. 

Lizzie gasped, her body arching into Y/N's touch. Her fingers tightened in Y/N's hair, holding her close, not wanting her to pull away. "Please, don't stop," she murmured, her voice tinged with desperation.

Y/N had no intention of stopping. She continued her journey down, her lips and tongue tasting every inch of Lizzie's skin, worshipping her body with every touch. She could feel the heat radiating from Lizzie, the way she trembled under her hands, and it only fueled her desire.

Lizzie's gasped, her body quivering with each touch. "I need you," she whimpered, her fingers digging into Y/N's shoulders. "Please, don't tease me."

“Tell me what you need” Y/N whisper in her ear. 

Lizzie's body shivered as Y/N's words washed over her, her voice a hot, ragged whisper in her ear. She could feel the heat pooling low in her belly, the ache between her legs growing stronger with every moment. "I need you," she whispered back, her words a breathy, desperate plea. "I need you inside me. Now."

“Good girl” Y/N whisper in her ear before she push down her own shorts and boxers to the middle of her thighs and push Lizzie’s underwear to the side. 

Lizzie groaned, her mind going blank as she felt Y/N's fingers finding her. The sensations were overwhelming, the heat and wetness and the need to be filled. She reached for Y/N, her hands grabbing at her shoulders, pulling her close. "Please, baby. I need you. I need you now."

“So wet” Y/N whisper as she scoop Lizzie’s juice to spread over her cock. 

Lizzie gasped at the touch, her body shaking with need. "God, yes," she whispered, her hands clutching at Y/N's back. "I want you so bad."

“Shhhh I’ve got you baby. I’ve got you” Y/N says as she rub her tip against Lizzie’s core. 

Lizzie's breath hitches at the contact, her body arching slightly, trying to press harder against Y/N. "Please. Don't tease me like that," she pleaded, her voice a ragged whisper. "I need you inside me."

“I know baby. I know” Y/N push in slowly. 

Lizzie gasped, her body arching upward as she felt Y/N slowly pushing into her. The sensation was overwhelming, the pleasure left her mind reeling. "Yes," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. "Just like that."

Y/N began to move, slow at first, relishing in the feeling of being inside Lizzie. It was like coming home, a sense of completion that went beyond physical pleasure. Lizzie's legs wrapped around her waist, holding her tight, and she buried her face in the crook of Lizzie's neck, peppering kisses on her skin.

“You feel so good my love” Y/N murmur against her neck. 

Lizzie nodded, her words lost in a sea of sensations. She held onto Y/N tightly, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, her legs around her waist, her fingers tracing patterns on the skin of her back. "So do you," she murmured against Y/N's ear, her voice ragged with pleasure. "You always do."

Y/N start to speed up. Her arms were wrapped around Lizzie’s waist, holding her against herself. 

Lizzie's breath came in short, ragged gasps as Y/N picked up the pace. She could feel herself getting close, her body taut and trembling beneath Y/N's touch. Her fingers gripped Y/N's shoulders, her nails digging into the skin, her chest heaving with every breath. "Don't stop," she pleaded, her words a ragged whisper. "Please, don't stop."

“Is your butt ok?” Y/N ask since Lizzie’s on the counter. 

Lizzie's response was more of a gasp than a word. "Yes," she managed to say, her voice breathless. "I'm fine." Except she was more than fine, she was on the edge of pure ecstasy, every nerve in her body alive with pleasure.

Y/N could tell from the way Lizzie's body reacted that she was close, her body trembling beneath her touch. She shifted slightly, adjusting her angle to hit that sweet spot that made Lizzie gasp.

"Ah!" Lizzie gasped, her body arching, her fingers clawing at Y/N's back. "Just like that. Don't stop. Please." Her words were a desperate plea, her voice ragged with pleasure.

"Never," Y/N murmured against her neck, her lips brushing over her skin. "I'll never stop." She moved faster, harder, losing herself in the moment, driven by the sounds of Lizzie's pleasure and the feel of her body responding to her touch. She could feel the tension building in Lizzie, the way her body coiled tighter and tighter.

Lizzie's grip on Y/N's shoulders was like a vice, her nails digging into the skin. Her body was taut, on the edge of release. She was close, so close, but Y/N knew how to keep her just on the edge, driving her slowly insane with desire. "Please," Lizzie pleaded, her voice ragged. "Please, let me come."

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll let you come” Y/S kissed her cheek. 

Lizzie's body shuddered at the words, her head falling back, exposing her neck to Y/N's lips. She was teetering on the edge, so close that it almost hurt. But she waited, her body tense, her breath hitching in anticipation, waiting for the final push.

Y/N kiss her deeply as she speed up more, hitting deep inside Lizzie. 

The kiss was a clash of teeth and tongues, a desperate need to be even closer, to feel every inch of each other. Lizzie gasped into Y/N's mouth, her body trembling with pleasure. She was so close, so close. "Please," she pleaded, her voice ragged. "I need to come. I need to come so bad."

“You can come baby.” 

"Oh god," Lizzie gasped, her body arching, every muscle coiled tight with pleasure. "Please, please, please." She was so close, so incredibly close to the edge. She held onto Y/N tightly, her fingers digging into her skin, trying to anchor herself to something, anything, to keep herself from flying apart.

"Let go, baby," Y/N murmured against her ear, her words like a spell, casting a net of pleasure over her, pulling her closer to the brink. "Come for me. Let me see you come undone."

That was all she needed. Lizzie's body shook, her legs wrapping tightly around Y/N, her body trembling as she finally let go. Her orgasm washed over her like a wave, drowning out everything but the sensations coursing through her body. She held onto Y/N tightly, riding out the waves of pleasure, her whole world narrowing down to the feel of Y/N in her arms.

Y/N slow down for her to ride out her high.

Lizzie's body quivered, her whole being thrumming with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She held onto Y/N, her fingers digging into her skin as she rode it out. Y/N held her through it, slowing down just enough to keep her pleasure going, her hands roaming over Lizzie's skin, mapping out every inch of her with feather-light touches.

Lizzie was boneless, her body limp, her mind utterly blissed out. She could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. But the warmth and safety of Y/N's arms kept her grounded, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat anchoring her to the present moment.

“Hold tight baby” Y/N whisper in her ear. 

Lizzie nodded, her body still humming with the afterglow. She wrapped her arms around Y/N's neck, burrowing her face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin. She didn't want to move, didn't want to disrupt the moment. She just wanted to stay there, held tightly in Y/N's arms, feeling loved and safe.

Without pulling out Y/N lift Lizzie from the kitchen counter and start to walk up to their bedroom. 

Lizzie clung to Y/N, her body still boneless and sated. She buried her face in Y/N's shoulder, sighing contentedly as Y/N carried her up the stairs. She could feel Y/N's steady heartbeat, the strength in her arms, and the sense of safety and comfort that always came with being held by her.

As Y/N walk, her cock moves slightly inside Lizzie. 

Each step was a gentle, sensual brush of movement, and Lizzie's body responded, a gasp slipping from her lips. Every touch sent a jolt of pleasure through her, the sensation just enough to keep her on the edge of arousal. She could feel Y/N's body shifting with each step, the movement subtle and intimate, adding to the building desire.

Y/N enter their bedroom and place Lizzie down on their bed.

Lizzie's body sunk into the mattress, her limbs splayed out. She looked up at Y/N, her eyes dark with desire. Her gaze traced over Y/N's form, taking in every inch of her. She reached up, her hands grasping at Y/N's arms. "Come here," she murmured, her voice low and breathy.

Y/N moved onto the bed, crawling over Lizzie, her body hovering above her. She braced herself on her arms, her gaze roaming over Lizzie's face, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the way her eyes were dark and blown with desire. She leaned down, her lips brushing over Lizzie's jaw, planting kisses along her skin, down her neck, to the hollow of her throat.

“Can you do one more for me my love? I didn’t come yet” Y/N ask as she rubs her cock against Lizzie’s core. 

Lizzie's breath hitched, her body arching into Y/N's touch. "Yes," she gasped, her words barely more than a murmur. "Yes, please." She was already on edge again, her body thrumming with need. She reached up, her hands grasping at Y/N's shoulders, pulling her closer. "I need you," she whispered, her voice ragged with desire.

Y/N spread her legs more and slide inside her. 

Lizzie's body trembled in response, her hips rising to meet Y/N's motion. She let out a soft moan, her head falling back onto the pillow. "Oh god," she gasped, her voice ragged. "You feel so good." She wrapped her legs around Y/N's waist, her fingers digging into her back, pulling her closer, wanting to feel every inch of her. 

Y/N moved slowly, her movements deep and deliberate. She pressed her face into Lizzie's neck, her breath hot against her skin. Her hands roamed over Lizzie's body, touching her everywhere. Lizzie's hands were everywhere, touching and scratching and grasping at Y/N's skin as if she couldn't get enough of her. The need was there, the desperation that only comes of knowing someone inside and out. Every touch was a claim, a silent reminder that they were each other's.

Lizzie's body was taut, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She clung to Y/N, her fingers digging into her back. "Please," she gasped, her voice ragged. "I need more, baby. I need you." She could feel Y/N's body moving against hers, the rhythm slow and deliberate, driving her insane with need. She wanted more, needed more, needed to be as close to Y/N as possible, to feel their bodies intertwined, to lose herself in the sensations that only Y/N could bring.

Y/N speeds up, starting a rough pace as she seeks her release. She kiss Lizzie’s neck up to her ear. 

Each kiss, each bite, each word whispered against her skin, it all left Lizzie unraveling, completely at Y/N's mercy. Her hands gripped Y/N's shoulders, holding on for dear life, as her body trembled. "Yes, yes," she whispered, her body arching into Y/N's touch, her own need growing with every moment that passed.

Y/N keep the pace and she hiss when Lizzie start to scratch her back but she doesn’t mind. 

Lizzie's nails dug into Y/N's skin, leaving marks that would be there for days, a reminder of this moment. But Y/N didn't mind. In fact, she loved it, loved the way Lizzie's body responded to her touch, the way she writhed beneath her, completely undone. It was a beautiful sight, one that she would never tire of.

She could feel Lizzie's body shaking beneath her, the sounds that fell from her mouth growing more and more desperate. Y/N knew she was close, could feel the tension in her body coiled tight like a spring. She nipped and kissed at Lizzie's neck, her teeth grazing her skin, leaving marks that would purple by morning.

“I’m gonna come my love” Y/N whisper in her ear. 

The words sent a shiver down Lizzie's spine, her body arching off the bed as the tension in her coiled tighter, closer to the edge. "Yes, yes, please," she gasped, her voice ragged and raw. "Don’t stop."

Y/N didn’t have any plans to stop, not when she had Lizzie like this. She kept her pace up, driving her higher and higher, until Lizzie was teetering on the very edge, hanging by a thread.

Y/N keep the fast pace as she moans holding her release so Lizzie can reach hers. 

Lizzie's body was a trembling mess beneath Y/N. Every muscle was taut, every nerve ending on fire. She could feel the tension building, coiling itself tight. Each moment was agony, sweet and sharp all at once. She was so close, so incredibly close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.

“Cum love. Cum with me” Y/N groan. 

Lizzie's body was taut, the words sending her spiraling over the edge. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a burst of pleasure that washed over her in waves. All she could do was hold on, clinging to Y/N like a lifeline as her body trembled, as the sounds that left her mouth turned incoherent. And then, as suddenly as it had come, the orgasm receded, leaving her boneless and satisfied, panting against Y/N's shoulder. 

Y/N release inside her with a moan agains her ear. 

Lizzie could feel Y/N's release, her body shuddering with the aftermath of her own orgasm. She held onto her tightly, her hands roaming over her back, her touch gentle and soft. She could feel the heat radiating off their bodies, the sweat on their skin, the way they were both shaking with the exertion and the aftermath. "God, I love you," she whispered, her voice ragged and hoarse.

“Fuck…I love you more” Y/N says breathless. 

Lizzie smiled, her gaze locking with Y/N's. "Impossible," she whispered, her fingers tracing a path down Y/N's back. "I love you more."

Y/N smiles sweetly before kissing her softly.

Y/N melted into the kiss, her lips moving slowly, reverently against Lizzie's—no longer driven by lust, but by the kind of love that softened the world around them. She pulled back just enough to press her forehead to Lizzie’s, their breaths still mingling, both of them trying to calm the rapid thud of their hearts.

“I guess I’m not allowed to wear this shorts outside anymore?” Y/N smirk. 

Lizzie grinned, still breathless, her fingers lazily tracing patterns along Y/N’s spine. “Allowed? Oh, no. You can wear them.”

Y/N quirked a brow. “Yeah?”

Lizzie leaned in, lips brushing against her jaw. “Just know that if you do… I’m following you. And anyone who looks for too long is getting hexed.”

Y/N laughed, low and husky. “Hexed? We’re bringing out the Scarlet Witch now?”

“I’m married,” Lizzie said with mock-seriousness, eyes glittering with mischief. “Which means I’m legally obligated to defend what’s mine. Even if that means mild public violence.”

Y/N hummed, nuzzling into her neck. “Kinky.”

Lizzie swatted her lightly, giggling. “Don’t tempt me. You’re already pushing your luck in those damn shorts.”

Y/N grinned, letting her hands settle on Lizzie’s waist as she pressed one last kiss to her lips—slow and sweet. “Fine. No more wearing them outside.”

Lizzie smirked. “Only for me.”

Y/N brushed their noses together. “Always, baby.”

---

Let me know what you guys think about this!

[bbybhr]

♡°•|Gears and grace|•°♡

Mechanic!sevika x pastor's daughter! reader

The arrival of the new neighbor wasn't subtle to say the least. The rumble of a heavy moving truck disturbed the usual quiet of the street, followed by the sharp clang of metal ramps hitting asphalt and the gruff shouts of movers. You were standing on the porch, two houses down, watching with quiet curiosity. Your mother, watering the flowers, tutted softly. "Bit of a commotion, wouldn't you say?" You hummed.

Then she emerged from the cab of the truck. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back severely. Even from this distance, the glint of metal replacing her left arm was unmistakable, catching the morning sun. A thick cigarillo was clamped between her lips, smoke curling lazily upwards as she gestured emphatically at the movers, her voice a low, authoritative rumble that carried easily down the street. Dark ink snaked visibly up her exposed right arm, disappearing under the sleeve of her tank top. She hefted a heavy box herself, biceps straining, moving with a brusque efficiency.

Your mother clicked her tongue again. "Well, everyone needs a place to live, I suppose. Bless her." There was a tightness in her voice, a familiar blend of piety and judgment that made you frown a little.

Later that afternoon, after the worst of the noise had subsided, your mother placed a foil-covered dish on the kitchen table. Perfectly baked blueberry muffins, still warm. "dear, be a good neighbor and take these over to... to the new arrival. A welcome gesture." Her eyes held a warning. Be polite. Be proper. Don't stare.

Clutching the warm dish, you walked the short distance, quietly. The house looked much the same, but the open garage was a stark contrast to the manicured lawns surrounding it. Tools lay scattered across a workbench, engine parts were piled in organized chaos,some boxes were still sealed on the ground and the air smelled faintly of oil and metal.

And there she was, wiping grease from her mechanical hand with a rag. Up close, she was even more imposing. The tattoos were intricate, dark patterns against her tanned skin. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, flickered over you as you approached the edge of the driveway. You felt suddenly very small, very... plain.

"Um, hello," you managed, holding out the dish as if shielding yourself infront of her gaze that seemed to capture everything. "My mother... we live down the street. She baked these. As a welcome." Your voice sounded breathy, unsure. You never had problem talking with strangers, you loved it in fact!but somehow your new neighbors had an...effect!

She paused, her gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary, taking in your attire. It wasn't unkind, exactly, but it was intense, appraising. She took the dish, her organic fingers brushing yours briefly. A strange jolt went through you at the contact that she didn't miss...she was seasoned woman she knew she had this kind of...effect, but you didn't seem to be one of those girls who would get effected, Not by her,not with the modesty that clinged to your style and every move even in your nervous state! well, don't judge a book by it's cover.

"Right. Thanks," she muttered, her voice rough, smoke-tinged. She didn't smile, didn't offer small talk. She just nodded curtly, turning back to the boxes, the muffins seemingly forgotten on the workbench.

You retreated, feeling oddly breathless, your cheeks warm which made your brows frown in confusion. She was unlike anyone you'd ever met. Rough, intimidating, undeniably powerful in a way that was both frightening and utterly captivating. Maybe that was the subject of your...nervousness.

That first encounter set a pattern. Drawn by an invisible pull you didn't understand, you found your way to her garage at least once a day. A pitcher of lemonade on a sweltering afternoon ("Mom made too much"). A plate of cookies ("Church bake sale leftovers"). the chain on your old bicycle conveniently slipped just as you were riding past her house. (You certainly didn't have a part in it). Soon enough because of your bike brave sacrifices you learned way more than just her name...

Your bike was a good excuse everytime that you didn't brought something over. Sevika would look up from welding something, visor flipped up, eyes narrowed behind protective goggles. You would explain the problem, feeling foolish but determined. Without much comment, she'd gestur for the bike, fixing it in minutes with deft, efficient movements of both her hands. You’d thank her profusely. She’d just grunt.

Through all these visits, You sat quietly on an overturned crate just inside the garage beside the work bench, observing her work. The focused intensity, the sure way she handled tools, the mesmerizing blend of human flesh and complex machinery in her arm. You noticed the details ... the way her muscles flexed, the calluses on her human hand, the occasional frustrated sigh when a part wouldn't cooperate. You learned to read the subtle shifts in her expression, even though she rarely spoke directly to you.

Sevika, for her part, noticed you too.picking up a fact or two about your family, your demeanor, and your preferences whenever your quiet voice filled the garage. She registered your quiet presence, the way you never seemed to fidget, your hands always neatly folded in your lap, a calmness that was unlikely in her world. She noted the modest, proper clothes,your shiny Mary Jane that never seemed to get dirty, your way of doing your hair that looked effortlessly neat, again, so different from anything in her own world. And beside this things she absolutely noticed the unwavering admiration in your eyes. It was plain, undisguised, and it stroked a part of her pride she hadn't realized was listening. The pastor's daughter, all innocence and propriety, looking at her like that.

When she found herself thinking about that quiet admiration that seemed to drop from your eyes whenever they layed on her,thinking about what might be in your mind, she wanted to laugh.It was absurd. Hilarious, even. Her and the preacher's kid? Two worlds separated by an unbridgeable chasm. Oil and holy water. Grit and grace. Impossible. Impossible?

And perhaps that was the crux of it. Sevika didn't do impossible. The very notion grated against her core. If something, or someone, seemed unattainable, it wasn’t a barrier! Oh no! it was a challenge. A puzzle to be solved, a situation to be controlled, dominated. The quiet admiration was flattering, yes, but the impossibility… that was intriguing. That sparked something deliberate within her. She would prove herself wrong. Or rather, prove the situation wrong.

One Saturday afternoon, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and summer heat, you were watching her wrestle with the stubborn engine of an old sedan. You sat in your usual spot, lost in the rhythm of her work.

Suddenly, her voice cut through the clatter of tools. Calling you.

You blinked, startled. She rarely addressed you so directly. She’d slid out from under the car, wiping grease on her jeans. Her mechanical hand rested on her hip.

"Yeah?" you squeaked.

"You just gonna sit there gawking all day?" Her tone was gruff, but lacked its usual edge. "Might as well learn something useful. Hand me that 10-mil wrench. No, the socket wrench."

Hesitantly, you stood up, your legs feeling stiff. As you stand up turning towards the workbench, she described the tool. You found the it on the cluttered workbench and walked cautiously towards her. Both of your figure now hidden behind the car from the street. The space felt charged, smaller than usual.

"Here," you offered it.

Instead of just taking it, Sevika reached out, her human hand closing over yours as you held the tool. Her skin was rough, calloused, grease ingrained in the lines, yet surprisingly warm. her thumb brushing against your knuckles as she talked. "Now, look here."

She guided your hand towards the engine block, pointing out a specific bolt. You were acutely aware of her closeness, the scent of metal and something uniquely her... smoke, maybe leather? Your breath hitched. Your mind, usually so ordered, felt scattered, unable to reconcile the strict teachings of your upbringing with the thrilling, terrifying proximity of this woman. Guilt pricked at you for reading too much into it, a familiar sting, but it was drowned out by a confusing wave of… excitement? Fascination?

Sevika demonstrated how to fit the wrench, her instructions low and steady, but her eyes weren't entirely on the engine. They flickered to your face, noting the flush on your cheeks, the slight tremble in your hand beneath hers, the wide, confused gaze you directed at her. The control she felt in that moment was intoxicating.

"You gotta... apply steady pressure," she murmured, her mechanical fingers brushing against your arm as she adjusted your stance slightly. The contact, metal against the soft fabric of your sleeve, sent a shiver down your spine. Time seemed to slow. The sounds of the neighborhood faded, replaced by the hammering of your own heart.

You looked up, needing to understand the shift, the sudden intensity crackling in the air. Your eyes met hers. Sevika's gaze was dark, unreadable, yet held a spark of something possessive, challenging. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken tension. Confusion warred with a strange, burgeoning awareness within you.

In that stretched moment, with your hand still held loosely in hers over the cold metal of the wrench, Sevika leaned down. There was no hesitation, no warning. Just a deliberate, decisive movement. Her lips met yours.

It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was firm, demanding, tasting faintly of smoke and something else entirely foreign that made your knees weak and your grip loose over the tool. The kiss was a claim, a spark igniting in the forbidden space between your two worlds, and your mind went utterly blank, consumed by the shocking, impossible reality of Sevika kissing you. Her lips moved ever the slightest on yours, it wasn't like her to kiss like that! But she knew it wasn't like you to have any experience in that filled...she was taking it slow, for your sake.

The kiss broke as deliberately as it had begun. Sevika pulled back, not far, just enough to observe you. For you, the world felt tilted off its axis. Your lips tingled, hypersensitive, the taste of her cigarillo that she smoked hour ago now was on your lips. Your lungs burned from lack of air you hadn't realized you weren't taking, and heat bloomed across your face, a tell-tale blush you desperately wished you could control. It had been… overwhelming. A clumsy, shocking collision on your part, met with a practiced, undeniable expertise on hers. You hadn't known how to respond, simply frozen under the sudden, firm pressure of her mouth.

Sevika, in stark contrast, looked entirely steady. Her breathing was even, her stance relaxed, mechanical hand leaving your arm and now resting once more on her hip. One dark eyebrow arched slightly, and a ghost of amusement flickered in her assessing eyes as she took in your disheveled state looking down on you face with the wide, stunned eyes, the slightly parted lips, the ragged catch in your breath. She saw the shock of a first kiss etched plainly across your features. Hooked, a low, satisfied voice murmured in the back of her mind.

"Well, " she murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through the charged air between you. "Someone looks like they just got kissed for the very first time." She said feigning shocked.

Her words were a teasing prod, hitting the nail squarely on the head. Heat flared brighter on your cheeks. It was your first kiss, a monumental, terrifying, exhilarating first. But admitting that? Showing her just how profoundly she'd rocked your carefully ordered world? No. Some instinct, buried deep beneath the panic and the strange, fluttering excitement, urged you to mirror her coolness, to pretend this wasn't the earth-shattering event it felt like. You swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure, acutely aware that only the bulk of the sedan shielded this moment from any curious neighborhood eyes. If she wasn't standing right there, pinning you with that knowing gaze, you might have actually screamed, or maybe jumped up and down from the sheer, terrifying novelty of it all.

"Don't know what you're talking about," you managed, the words sounding thin even to your own ears. You avoided her gaze, focusing instead on a grease stain on the concrete floor.

Sevika merely smirked, a slow, confident expression that said she knew exactly what she was talking about, and knew that you knew it too. She didn't push it further then, just turned back to the engine with a grunt, leaving you reeling in the sudden silence, the ghost of her kiss burning on your lips.

Days bled into weeks. The garage, once just a place of curious observation, became a space charged with a different kind of tension. The dynamic shifted, subtly but irrevocably. Sevika began to punctuate the greasy silence not just with the clang of tools, but with kisses. They were unpredictable, never announced. Sometimes, while you were handing her a wrench, her hand would linger on yours, fingers brushing deliberately against your skin before she leaned in for a brief, firm press of lips. Other times, she might corner you against the workbench, the kiss deeper, more demanding, leaving you breathless and shaken.

She was terrifyingly good at reading you. Sevika seemed to possess an innate understanding of just how far she could push before genuine panic set in, before the ingrained guilt and fear instilled by your upbringing threatened to overwhelm the burgeoning, addictive thrill of her attention. She learned the subtle tells ...the hitch in your breath that signaled anticipation, the slight widening of your eyes when she crossed a boundary, the way you’d unconsciously lean into her touch despite your obvious nervousness. She played this knowledge expertly, doling out affection and intimacy with calculated precision, always keeping you slightly off-balance, always wanting more.

She knew exactly what she was doing, the practiced ease of her touches, the confidence in her kisses, designed to unravel you. A part of her, the arrogant, prideful part, relished the idea of someone seeing the pastor's pious daughter, willingly entangled with someone like her. It would be a delicious scandal, a testament to her power of influence. But she also recognized the brittle fear beneath your fascination. Pushing you into the public eye too soon would likely shatter the delicate connection she was forging, send you scurrying back to the safety of your prescribed world. So, for now, she granted you the privacy of the garage, the shared secret intensifying the illicit thrill for both of you.

Today felt different. An edgy anticipation hummed beneath your skin. You hadn't seen Sevika yesterday, a planned church event keeping you occupied, and the day before that, she'd been engrossed in a complex wiring job, offering no more than curt instructions and ignoring your hopeful glances. The absence of contact, after the growing pattern of unpredictable intimacy, left an annoying ache, a restlessness you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You were leaning against the workbench, watching her meticulously clean a carburetor part. She moved with that same focused intensity, her mechanical fingers surprisingly dexterous with the small components. The late afternoon sun slanted through the open garage door, casting long shadows. You traced a pattern on the dusty bench with your finger, trying to appear nonchalant.

Sevika straightened up, wiping her hands on a rag. She needed something from the higher shelves behind you. She moved towards you, her proximity instantly setting your nerves on high alert. Your breath caught. Is she…? She leaned in close, the familiar scent of oil, metal, and smoke filling your senses. Her face was inches from yours; you could see the faint lines around her eyes, the dark intensity of her gaze as she reached past you for a can of cleaner on the shelf.

Your heart, which had leaped into your throat, plummeted with disappointment. She pulled back, turning away without a word, without even a glance.

An involuntary sound, a small huff of frustration, escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Sevika paused, halfway back to her task. She turned slowly, that knowing, slightly cruel smirk playing on her lips again. "Something bothering you, Pastor's kid?"

You flushed, caught out. "No. Nothing."

"Really?" She took a step closer, invading your space again, her presence magnetic and intimidating. "Sounded like you were expecting something." Her eyes glittered with challenge. "If you want something," she said, her voice dropping lower, rougher, "you need to learn to ask for it."

The implication hung heavy in the air. Ask for it? Ask her? For a kiss? The very idea sent a wave of heat crawling up your neck. Your strict upbringing, the ingrained modesty, the sheer audacity of voicing such a desire warred with the memory of her touch, the addictive thrill of her attention, the frustrating ache of wanting it now. Embarrassment tightened your throat, but her challenging stare, the sheer force of her personality, pushed you.

"I... I just..." The words tangled on your tongue, thick with mortification. You couldn't look at her. "Maybe... could you...?"

Before the full, humiliating request could stumble past your lips, Sevika moved. Her human hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up forcefully. Her mouth crashed down onto yours, harder than before, a kiss that wasn't teasing but staking a claim, punishing your hesitation and rewarding your tentative compliance all at once. It stole the air from your lungs, demanding a response you were barely capable of giving, lost in the sudden onslaught. You would plead more often if this is the reward you'll be getting.

But then, just as you felt yourself start to sway, the kiss shifted. Her lips left yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, down the sensitive column of your throat. You gasped, your head instinctively tilting back, granting her access. It was uncharted territory, a shocking escalation that sent shivers racing across your skin. She paused there, her breath warm against your pulse point, her eyes, dark and intense, searching yours. It wasn't a question asked in words, but the query was unmistakable: May I?

Every warning bell from your past screamed 'no,' screamed 'danger,' screamed 'sin.' But the feeling of her lips against your skin, the possessive grip on your jaw, the raw, predatory focus in her eyes… it silenced everything else. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only feel the frantic beat of your heart against her proximity. You didn't pull away. Your eyes fluttered shut.

That was answer enough.

Sevika smirked against your skin before her mouth closed firmly over the juncture where your neck met your shoulder. You jolted at the sharp, sucking pressure, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper escaping you. It didn't exactly hurt, but it was intense, startling, possessive. She lingered for a moment before pulling back slightly, her thumb brushing over the spot.

She surveyed her handiwork, a dark, blooming mark against your skin, a visible sign of her claim. A low sound of satisfaction rumbled in her chest. She leaned close to your ear, her voice a rough whisper that sent another wave of shivers through you.

"That's right," she murmured, the words a praise for you bravery of coming out of your comfort zone. "Good girl. Now you will know who you belong to everytime you look into the mirror."

Weeks passed, sevika ever the presistor never let the mark leave your neck, you had to constantly choose clothing with high collar but the smile on your lips screamed "worth it". Dinners at your parents’ house was usually a quiet affair, governed by polite conversation and the rhythmic clinking of silverware. Tonight, though quiet, felt different inside you. A secret warmth curled in your stomach, a buoyancy that made it hard to keep the corners of your lips from twitching upwards. You kept your eyes mostly on your plate, the high, stiff collar of your blouse feeling both protective and suffocating against the sensitive skin of your neck. The dark marks hidden beneath were a constant, thrilling reminder of Sevika, a secret language only the two of you shared.

"Mrs. Gable mentioned seeing you chatting with our new neighbor quite often, " your mother commented casually, placing a serving spoon back in the mashed potatoes "Sevika, wasn’t it?"

The sudden mention of her name made you inhale sharply, a piece of roast potato lodging itself in your throat. You coughed, eyes watering, as a strangled gasp escaped you. Your father immediately passed you the water glass, patting your back gently.

"Goodness, dear, careful," your mother fussed, though her expression held only mild concern, misinterpreting your reaction as simple surprise. "I was just saying, it’s nice you’re being so welcoming. Perhaps," she continued, turning a thoughtful look on you, "you could invite her to service this Sunday? It would be a kind gesture. Show her some community spirit."

Your father nodded approvingly. "That’s a fine idea," he said to your mother than after a pause he turned back to you "I’m really proud of you, dear, for looking past appearances and extending friendship. That’s true Christian spirit."

Guilt twisted sharply in your gut, mingling uncomfortably with the secret thrill. Spirit? Friendship? If they only knew. The image of Sevika’s lips against your neck, the possessive heat in her eyes, flashed in your mind. "Oh. Um, yes. Maybe I could," you mumbled, agreeing weakly. The thought of Sevika, Sevika with her utter lack of reverence for anything, stepping foot inside your father’s church was terrifying.

The next afternoon, back in the familiar territory of the garage, the anxiety from last night returned tenfold. You perched on your usual crate, watching Sevika work, but your usual quiet observation was replaced by a nervous fidgeting you couldn’t control something so out of ordinary for you. Your mind was occupied, What if she laughed in your face? What if she said no and thought you were trying to force your beliefs on her? Worse, what if she said no, and your parents took it as a sign she wasn’t receptive to ‘friendship’ and curtailed your visits?

Sevika, predictably, noticed immediately. She put down the wrench she was cleaning, her sharp eyes narrowing on your tense posture. She wiped her hands on a rag and walked over, stopping far too close, that familiar invasion of your personal space that still made your heart hammer. Her human hand came up, calloused thumb brushing softly against your cheekbone, a gesture that had become unnervingly familiar, a prelude to intimacy.

"Alright, Pastor’s kid," she said, her voice low. "Spit it out. You’ve been wound tighter than a spring nut since you got here.”"

Her closeness, the casual intimacy of her touch, momentarily scattered your thoughts. You took a shaky breath. "My parents… they, uh… they want me to invite you to church. On Sunday." The words tumbled out in a rush, braced for refusal or mockery.

Sevika’s expression didn’t change much, perhaps a flicker of surprise deep in her eyes, quickly masked. Church? Her? The idea was ludicrous. She hadn’t stepped inside one since… well, she couldn’t even remember. Honestly, she couldn’t care less about stained glass and sermons. But then she looked at you, properly looked. Saw the genuine anxiety knotting your brow, the way you chewed on your lower lip, the plea in your wide eyes. Seeing you this worked up, this vulnerable… fuck it. How bad could one boring hour be? Besides, the image of walking into his domain, the pastor’s holy ground, with his daughter marked and claimed by her… the sheer audacity appealed to her confrontational nature. But it wouldn’t be Sevika if she didn’t make you work for it, just a little.

She pulled her hand back, folding her arms, leaning against the workbench with feigned contemplation. “Hmmm, church,” she drawled, tapping her mechanical finger against her bicep. "Don’t know. Not really my kind of place, you know? Lotta judgment, usually."

"No, it’s not like that!" you rushed to assure her, desperation making your voice high-pitched. "Everyone’s really nice, and Dad’s sermons are… well, they’re good! Please, Sevika? It would make my parents happy..." and I don't know what will happen if you decide not to you though to yourself.

Sevika watched your earnest pleading, a slow smirk building. She already knew she was going, but the game was too enjoyable you were too adorable to resist like this. She pushed off the workbench, to lean in close again. Her eyes dropped pointedly to the high collar of your shirt. Before you could react, her fingers deftly hooked under the fabric, pulling it aside just enough to reveal the fading, but still visible, mark she’d left days before. Her head dipped, and her lips attached themselves firmly to the spot, a deliberate, possessive reclaiming. You gasped, hands automatically coming up to grip her forearms, clinging as the familiar heat and pressure sent tremors through you. She lingered, tasting her claim, reinforcing her ownership right there in the greasy light of the garage.

She lifted her head, eyes dark and intense. The smirk was gone, replaced by smoldering satisfaction. "Okay," she said, her voice rough. "I’ll go." She released your collar, letting it snap back into place, hiding the freshly renewed evidence. Her gaze held yours. "But you owe me one, Pastor’s kid. Big time. One day, I’m gonna ask you to do something for me, and you’re gonna do it. No questions asked. Got it?"

Staring into those commanding eyes, feeling the phantom heat of her mouth on your skin, you didn’t really know what else you could possibly give her, what favor she could possibly want that she hadn’t already begun to take. But trapped in the force of her will, you could only nod dumbly. "Got it."

Sunday morning arrived with a nervous flutter in your stomach. You stood near the entrance of the church with your parents, greeting familiar faces, your eyes constantly darting towards the heavy wooden doors. And then, she arrived.

Sevika stood framed in the doorway, a stark contrast to the pastel dresses and neat suits surrounding her. She wore dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a plain, dark button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal both her mechanical arm and the intricate tattoos snaking up her human one. She looked… out of place, yes, but also undeniably powerful, her usual intimidating aura somehow amplified in this setting of quiet reverence.

Your father, ever the gracious host, stepped forward immediately, hand outstretched. "Sevika! Welcome, welcome! We’re so pleased you could join us."

Sevika took his hand, her grip firm. "Pastor," she acknowledged, her voice neutral. Her eyes, however, immediately found yours across the small space. And they widened, just slightly.

You wore a simple white dress, knee-length, with short sleeves and a modest neckline it was your typical Sunday attire but sevika had never seen it. seeing you like this, bathed in the soft light filtering through the stained-glass windows, your hair neatly done, a gentle, almost shy smile gracing your lips as you met her gaze… Sevika felt an unexpected jolt. You always looked neat, proper. But today, surrounded by the trappings of your faith, you looked… breathtaking. Ethereal. An innocence so potent it was almost provocative. That kind smile, directed at her… damn it all, she wanted to drag you out of here right now, push you against the ancient stone walls and kiss you senseless, wipe that serene look right off your face and replace it with the dazed flush she was becoming addicted to.

The service began, and you found yourselves sitting side-by-side in a wooden pew. You felt Sevika’s restlessness beside you, the slight shifting, the way her mechanical fingers tapped silently on her knee. You assumed it was discomfort the unfamiliar hymns, the prayers, the sheer foreignness of the environment for someone like her. You risked a small glance; she wasn’t looking at the altar or your father in the pulpit. She was looking at you. Specifically, at the way your hands were clasped loosely in your lap as you bowed your head in prayer, your expression earnest and focused. Adorable. Utterly, maddeningly adorable.

Leaning closer during a moment swallowed by the organ’s swell, Sevika’s lips brushed your ear. Her warm breath sent shivers down your spine despite the sacred surroundings. "Where's the Restroom?" she whispered, her voice a low, rough command against the delicate shell of your ear. "End of the hall." You whispered back gesturing with a tilt of your head to the direction. "Great, yo have five minutes to come after I go" she voiced in a stern tune that didn't allow any argument.

You jolted, turning wide eyes to her. Now? Here?

Sevika merely raised a knowing eyebrow, a silent reminder of the debt you owed. Pride flared in her chest ... cashing in the favor so soon, so brazenly, right under the nose of the Pastor himself. She gave your knee a quick, firm squeeze under the cover of the pew, then stood smoothly and slipped out into the side aisle, heading towards the back.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was insane. Sacrilegious. But the memory of her kiss, the weight of her promise, and the undeniable pull she exerted overrode everything else. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only two agonizing minutes, you mumbled an excuse about needing water to your mother and slid out of the pew, legs trembling as you followed Sevika’s path.

The restroom was small, utilitarian, smelling faintly of bleach and old plumbing. Empty. The lock clicked shut behind you, loud in the sudden silence. Before you could even take a breath, Sevika had you backed against the cool tile wall, her mouth descending on yours in a hungry, almost frantic kiss. It was all pent-up frustration from the service, the forced restraint, the maddening sight of you looking so pure and untouchable.

Her hands were immediately busy, fingers fumbling with the small pearl buttons at the neck of your white dress. One, two, three gave way, exposing the smooth skin of your collarbone and the tops of the marks she’d already left. Her lips abandoned yours, attaching themselves to your neck with bruising intensity, licking, sucking, biting lightly, drawing a choked gasp from you.

"So damn beautiful," she muttered against your skin, praising the way you trembled under her assault. Her hands roamed, sliding over the fabric of your dress, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, then drifting higher to cup your breast through the material. She was trying to maintain some semblance of control, trying to just "put out the fire," as she’d thought of it, but touching you, marking you here, in this forbidden place, was intoxicating.

Her mouth moved lower, leaving a trail of fire across your collarbone, then lower still, finding the delicate skin just above the swell of your breast, hidden by the loosened dress. She nipped gently, then soothed the spot with her tongue, leaving another dark bloom against your skin.

She pulled back abruptly, breathing hard, her eyes blazing with a barely contained inferno. Her mechanical hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to hers. You looked dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide and dark, the picture of illicit surrender.

"You’re making me crazy, Pastor’s kid," she growled, her voice thick with desire. "Making me want things I shouldn’t, especially not here." She leaned her forehead against yours for a second, trying to regain control. "God help you when I finally stop holding back."

And with that lingering threat, that promise of future intensity hanging heavy in the small, sterile room, she released you, leaving you trembling against the wall, marked and claimed within the very heart of your father’s church.

An: do we want pt2? (•-•)

[humanpurposes]

Nightblooms

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely? // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death

Words: 9.7k (she's a bit of a monster)

A/n: my humble offering of another Aemond brothel fic. I hope you like :) You can also read this on AO3 if you feel so inclined.

He remembers the bed, the thin curtain draped around it, the slight breeze that drifted in on the night air and made it flutter. The throw was richly decorated, red, black and brown, and he picked at the thin threads of embroidery with his fingertips until his skin was red and white. 

The heat in the room was unbearable, the stench of wine, incense, his own sweat clinging to his bare skin. He was weary to breathe the air in, to tarnish himself any further than had already been done. 

He flinched as the door opened. The madam was back, now wearing a gown and all her gold jewellery. A silhouette stood behind her, he couldn’t see them properly, concealed in shadows. 

“You are shivering, my Prince,” she said. 

He could feel it, his knees brought up to his chest and his arms clinging around his legs. His clothes were neatly folded in a corner, his eyepatch atop the pile, he just hadn’t managed to reach for them yet.

“Have some wine if you like,” the madam said. 

The silhouette stepped into the flickering candlelight. In years to come her face would fade from his memory, but she was young, perhaps as young as him. She was dressed like the other whores, in a loose gown of blue silk that exposed glimpses of her skin, her shoulder, her thigh through a slit in the skirt. She held a pitcher of wine and a cup in her hands.

“She is undertaking her own education,” the madam said, noting how long Aemond’s eye had lingered on the girl. “She’ll help you bathe and dress.”

He made no sound of protest. The madam took the pitcher. He could smell the sour scent of the wine as she poured it. Already a few cups deep, the numbness of alcohol was starting to wear off and a pulsing pain was blooming in the back of his head. The madam placed the cup on a table and then she left.

The girl took a single step towards the bed. She lifted her arm, holding out her hand to him, as if he were some street dog to be tamed.

He scowled. His left eyelids were sewn shut back then, his wound mostly healed after three years, but still hideous enough that people would stare in shock at the sight of him, the ailing King’s maimed son. The Lords and Ladies of the Red Keep averted their eyes when they saw him. His mother looked at him with tears in her eyes. His father… the last time his father must have looked him in the eye was on Driftmark.

But this girl looked at him unabashedly.

If he had his wits about him he might have scorned her. Smallfolk like her should know their place, they should revere their Princes. He shouldn’t inspire pity, he should inspire fear and awe.

His stomach was turning. Anger coursed through his blood. His eyes were hot and stinging but he would not allow any tears to fall. And he was restless. It was all familiar to him, the frustration, the humiliation. He couldn’t bear to sit on the bed anymore, cowering like a child.

“I have a bath drawn,” the girl said. 

He had heard her, but he could not find the will to move, not for a few moments at least, moments which felt like hours.

“I have some cake as well. I find it helps me regain my strength… afterwards.”

He felt his head nod.

“It’s lemon, do you like lemon cake?”

“Yes,” he muttered into his knees.

He watched her fetch a robe from the back of a settee by the fireplace, draping it over her arm. “We only have to go to the next room, not far at all.”

He blinked as he looked at her. He felt the dampness on his cheeks, the stinging cold left in the trail of his tears as another breeze swept into the room. 

All the faces around him this night were unnerving. Aegon had been far too delighted with his so-called “gift”. He’d entered Aemond’s chambers with a snarling smile before he’d gripped him by his shoulders and dragged him through the stairways used by servants to stay out of sight. “You are a man now, Aemond. Time to get it wet.”

The madam had a calm gaze, soft lips and small eyes which considered him intently once she had taken the purse of coins from Aegon. The scent of her perfume was sharp and he could still smell it in his nostrils. His stomach lurched again. 

“Come,” the girl said.

Hers was the only face he found any ease in, and he could not explain why that was.

She held out the robe for him and asked before she secured the tie at his waist. She went to a small door in the corner of the room which he had not even noticed until then. It led into another chamber where the air was hot and humid but not as suffocating.

A basin stood in the middle of the room. She took out two small brown bottles and let a few drops of oil fall into the water, filling the room with a gentle, fresh scent. “Lavender,” she explained, “and rosemary. They are meant to be calming.”

He stepped into the water, glad to find it just below scolding. 

The girl kneeled by the basin, gently pouring cups of water over his hair, running it through with a sweeter smelling oil. She took his hand and allowed him to settle, scrubbing his skin with sugar, cleansing it with an amber soap.

When it was done she rested her chin in her hands at the edge. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

He’d stopped crying now, his limbs felt steadier, more his own. He nodded.

“I don’t feel myself until I’ve washed it all off. It makes me feel as though my skin is truly mine again,” she said.

He felt his hands over his arms, the sweat and the fluids rinsed away, the dead skin scrubbed smooth.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was thick, unnatural in his own throat.

“Do not thank me yet,” she said with a small smile, and suddenly jumped up to her feet. She walked out of his sight, past his blind spot, but she soon returned with a small wooden box. She kneeled beside the basin and opened the lid to reveal three small cakes, dusted with sugar and topped with thin slices of candied lemons. “Take one then,” she said.

He bit down on the inside of his lip to hide his amusement at her impertinence. He did as she told him and ate half of one cake in a single bite. A pleasant sourness burst on his tongue, not like the wine, sweeter, zestier. She was right, his mind was starting to feel a little less numb, the life flooding back into him with every breath he took, lavender, rosemary and lemon.

“You have one too,” he said.

“I’m not meant to,” she said, “they’re for the patrons.”

Aemond lowered his chin to look at her. “Take one.” Now it was his turn to deliver the orders.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting between him and the cakes.

“If anyone reprimands you I’ll feed them to my dragon.”

Her expression ignited. “Alright,” she said with a sly smile.

They devoured the rest of their cakes and shared the remaining one. She insisted that he should have the other candied lemon.

“Do you really feed people to your dragon?” she asked, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.

Aemond licked the sugar from his fingers. “I’ve not done it yet.”

She seemed stunned at his answer, then she giggled. “Yours is the big one, isn’t it?”

“Vhagar. She was Queen Visenya’s mount during the Conquest.”

“I see her sometimes, flying over the city.”

“She is too large for the Dragon Pit,” Aemond explained, “she nests along the shore of the bay.”

“And roams where she pleases?”

“Never too far from me.”

“No,” she said, her voice wilting, “of course.”

He suddenly wondered what this sad, sweet girl kneeling beside him would do if she had a dragon. He could picture her on Dreamfyre, the mount of his sister. Helaena adored flying and would often guide her dragon to glide above the waters of Blackwater Bay and the hills surrounding King’s Landing. This girl would take her dragon further, he thought, she would soar up above the clouds. Perhaps she would take her dragon over the seas, to Essos, to the Summer Isles, to the far corners of the world.

He did not flinch from her when she offered him a towel and patted his skin dry. She fetched his clothes from the other room, the awful room where he could not breathe, buttoning his shirt with swift fingers, doing up the buckles on his jerkin.

She was not much shorter than he was. She stood close enough that he could smell the lemon cake on her fingers, and there was something sweeter and richer underneath. It made him think of fresh fruit and vanilla, rose petals and nightblooms.

Her eyes drew slowly up from his collar to his face, to the wound slicing through the space where his eye once was.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

He was no stranger to pain. It had persisted since the incident itself, stinging and shooting through his skull. It once made him cower like a child, but of late it had lulled into more of a passing irritation. Had the extent of the pain subsided, or was he simply used to it now? “Sometimes,” he said. 

“How did it happen?”

The years had passed quickly since then. He remembered the joy he felt flying before the moon and the stars over Driftmark on Vhagar, the faces of his nephews and cousins in the dark. He spat cruelties at them. They shoved him, punched him, kicked him. He remembers the taste of his own blood, the crack of Lucerys’ nose under his knuckles, the dust in his eye and then a pain like fire piercing through to his brain.

Three years and he still felt clumsy in his movements. He would often lose his balance or misjudge his steps. He would miss objects as he went to reach for them, and he was still not quite used to turning his head so that he could see past his blind side.

He’d never had to say it out loud before, not all of it. It had been enough for Lord Commander Westerling to find his face covered in blood and the remains of his eye. He had told his father he had been attacked, but it went unheard to the pleas of innocence by the bastards and their mother. The maesters studied his wound. Cole told him he could regain his strength if he worked for it. Everyone else tended to avert their eyes altogether.

She was looking at it, trailing her fingertips over the edges of his scar and the twisted flesh of his eyelids. 

“It was the night I claimed Vhagar. I was returning to Hightide and they came at me, Jace, Luke, Laena’s daughters–” he suddenly realised these names meant nothing to her, but she did not seem discouraged.

“Go on,”

“Rhaena, well, Vhagar was her mother’s dragon. She wanted her, but I claimed her first. I was not afraid of them. Baela struck me first. Then Jace and Luke came at me, and Jace had a knife.”

She breathed a small gasp.

“Luke took up the knife. It all happened very quickly.”

“They did that to you, over a dragon?” She said, trailing her touch lower, over his cheek. 

He remembered the cool surface of the rock in his hand, hovered over Jace’s head. One of the girls shook her head, begging him to stop. And he did—  or he was going to stop…

That’s when Luke had slashed the blade at him.

“I was weak,” he said, brushing her hand away from his face. “It’ll never happen again.”

She tilted her head at him. Her eyes were glassy, like she might cry. Guilt tugged in his chest. He had not wished to upset her.

Then she took a quick breath and went to take up his cloak and his eyepatch. He placed them both on, covering his silver hair with his hood.

She beckoned him to follow with her fingers. They weaved through the close corridors and the few women and men they passed, some fully dressed, some wearing nothing at all. It felt ridiculous and somewhat unbelievable to see how unashamed they all were, women with their breasts out, men with their cocks hanging between their legs. 

His stomach turned again.

He reached for the girl’s hand. Her head whipped around and she held onto him, firmly. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in this place.

Neither of them let go when they reached the doors. People were passing though so they kept close to the wall, face-to-face. 

“Can you find your way back to the Keep from here?” she said, only having to whisper.

Aegon had long since disappeared. Aemond had rarely been out into the city, save to accompany his mother to the Sept, or his siblings to the Dragon Pit. He was alone now, no guards, no wheelhouse, but the Red Keep with its turrets, battlements and flickering lights in the windows would not be difficult to locate. He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What for?” 

“For what happened to you.”

His stomach turned again, less nauseating, more unsettling, uncertain. He supposed this would be the last time he saw her.

“Will you be alright, here?” he said.

She took in a sharp breath and she frowned as though she were in pain. “Yes. The madam is good to me. She keeps me fed and clean.”

But the things they must make her do…

“Go, return to your royal castle and your servants,” she said with a grin. “Far better that I am here and not starving in some gutter.”

So he did. He slipped through the door, his last memory of her being obscured by shadows, perhaps that’s why he could not recall the details of her face. 

Walking through the streets of King’s Landing, he had never felt so aware of his body, his skin under his clothes, shifting over his bones. His limbs felt slightly numb, his feet moving of their own will while his mind… was clouded. His head felt heavy and the noises around him were distant. No one paid any mind to the boy trudging over the dirt and cobbles, but he felt the eyes of the gods on him and it made him shiver. They had seen his sins. What if his mother knew where he had been, the things he had done? He imagined her brown eyes, filled with disgust rather than grief.

He could not look at Aegon for weeks afterwards. He shied away from his mother’s touch, especially on his legs, his knees. In the Sept he begged the gods to forgive him. He begged to forget it.

Years went by. Some nights when he felt a certain tension in his stomach and a stirring in his breeches, he’d think of it, the heat and sweat and incense. And after there was no relief, just an emptiness in his chest.

He could wash it all away, with drops of lavender and rosemary oil in his bath, with sugar scrubbed into his skin.

If there was one thing he wished to remember of that night, it was her. He still thought of that girl, a face obscured in shadow, when the servants brought out lemon cakes after supper, when Helaena insisted on walking through the gardens at sunset and the air was sweet with nightblooms. She pointed them out to him, the silvery white flowers growing in the leafy green bushes lining the path, their petals like little moons in the foliage. 

“How curious are these,” Helaena had said one evening, “they retract in sunlight, but in darkness they flourish.”

Daylight dies with a golden sunset and night blooms with a sky of red and indigo clouds. 

The King’s body is now ash. Sunfyre had the honour of being the dragon to do it. It was a hasty affair, in the hours after Aegon’s coronation, when the chaos at the Dragon Pit still had their family and the Small Council stunned to silence. Aegon wore the steel crown as they stood on a cliff over the bay, waiting for him to give the order. The heads of his mother and his sister hung heavy, but Aemond did not avert his gaze from the flames. He felt the heat on his face, seeping through his skin. 

At long last, his father is gone. Aemond has not wept for him, nor does he feel a desire to. His father was once a young man, well loved, so he is told, but to Aemond he was always a frail old man. Save for the few times he ever proved his strength, and even then his strength was only ever resolved for his dearest child. 

Rhaenys will have made it to Dragonstone within a matter of hours, and Aegon’s ascension will not come without consequence. 

On the morrow he will fly for Storm’s End and secure the allegiance of Lord Borros Baratheon. His mother has assured him this will be a simple enough feat, swords for a marriage pact with one of the Baratheon girls, but a crucial one. His brother will not hold the throne long without Lords to uphold his claim and men to fight for it. 

He wonders if the Stormlands will live up to their name; how dull the entire affair will be if it only amounts to flying Vhagar through a downpour of rain. This is the war his mother and grandsire wish to fight, with letters and diplomacy. He is sure the dragons will become restless soon enough. Rhaenyra has been steadfastly sure of her own importance her entire life, and with Daemon at her side, she will not bend the knee without a challenge.

And what of Aegon, is he ready to fight for his crown?

When Viserys breathed his last and the pieces were all finally in play, Aegon had not been where he needed to be. Not in his rooms, not within the walls of the castle. He was squandering his duties, evading the position he was born to, as he always has done. Aemond himself was the one to drag him from the streets of King’s Landing to the Red Keep. Cole had spent hours with him, convincing him to take up the crown rather than fleeing on a ship across the Narrow Sea, to Pentos, to Yi Ti, some far corner of the world where the burden of being their father’s son would not weigh so heavily on his shoulders. 

The first place Aemond had thought to look for his brother proved to be a fruitless endeavour. The establishment was a familiar one, and with every step he took along the Street of Silk his memories phased into reality. The knocker on the door was the same. The madam was the same, the same long, auburn hair, the same gold jewellery, the same knowing smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes. 

“The Prince is not here,” she had said. “His tastes are known to be less discriminating.” Of course. Aegon could pay for the most expensive, sweetly perfumed whores in all of King’s Landing, but instead he sullies himself with the scum of Fleabottom, rolling around in the dirt like a pig.

The madam’s gaze then turned to Aemond. She remarked how he had grown. It felt an obvious thing to say. He was no longer the child he was when Aegon first brought him there.

While he and Cole wandered the city in search of his wastrel of a brother, a thought passed through his mind. He thought of a face in the shadows of the brothel, steam rising, gentle hands, the scent of lavender, rosemary, rose, nightblooms…

She could have been there, on the other side of the door, within the walls of the establishment. She would be a woman just as he was now a man. Or she might have left years ago, to a better life, or perhaps a worser fate. Are the lives of the smallfolk not meant to be brutish and short? 

A hollowness settles in his chest, restless and hungry, like it’s writhing under his skin. He paces his chambers, reads until the hearth has died and the sky beyond the windows is black, but sleep will not come to him.

In the hour of the wolf, he dons a cloak and retraces his steps.

Men are all the same. They strut into the establishment like peacocks, with an ego that outweighs their purse. They flash a few coins and ask for wine rather than ale, a symptom of refined taste. They run their hands over her body, her waist, her hips and her rear as though she should be grateful for their attention. They tell her uninteresting stories while they drink themselves into a stupor. They convince themselves that it is their charm and decent looks that have her leading them to a bed in a quiet corner of the pleasure house, or falling to her knees and undoing the laces on their breeches. The truth is that she will do what is asked of her, so long as they have gold. It is only motions of the body, and afterwards she can wash it all away. 

Until the next night… and then the next… and then the next…

Madam Sylvi has promised her to a Lannister tonight, a man of Lord Tyland’s household, no doubt paid well by the family he serves. He is supposed to be waiting for her but first she must pretty herself for him. She wears a gown of blood red that bares her back and her arms, that will easily fall away with the undoing of a clasp at her neck. She lets her hair fall freely and tints her lips and cheeks with rosewater. Finally she dabs her perfume into her wrists, her neck, on the insides of her ankles, a scent she has worn for years, sweet, rich and floral.

She descends the stairs by the door. At the darkest time of night the pleasure house is alive. Music hums over the laughter, the moans, the cries. The air is thick with the sourness of alcohol and the smell of sweat and sex.

A man with silver hair stands in the entrance hall, Sylvi beside him. They speak with their heads close together, as familiars? As lovers? Sylvi strokes his arm affectionately, with a look glinting in her eye that means she intends to bleed this Targaryen of all the gold he has.

It does not sink in until he looks up, his single eye meetings hers. He wears an eyepatch over his left eye, dark leather obstructing his hair and pale skin.

The eyepatch… it cannot be…

Sylvi had always said men come here to take their pleasure on their own terms. This had not seemed to be the case when last she laid eyes upon Prince Aemond. She had seen them enter, the young Princes, one taller, merrier, with purple wine stains in the corners of his mouth. The other was solemn faced and unsure, ushered into the arms of the madam before she led him upstairs. Sylvi had other patrons to attend to once the deed was done, leaving the burden of caring for the young Prince on her equally young shoulders.

She still remembers him hunched over himself and shivering, the distant look in his eye, frozen in a single moment of time. The most she had been offered after her first time was a cup of moon tea and an order to change the sheets for the next patron.

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely?

“Her,” the Prince says, “I will have her.”

Her heart drops. She has reached the end of the steps and freezes, looking to Sylvi for instruction. Anticipation stirs in her gut, somewhere between terror and curiosity.

“I’m afraid she has been spoken for tonight, but I would be glad to–”

“I will pay double what any other man has promised,” Aemond says with an air of finality. This is an offer that cannot be refused. Perhaps the minor Lord will be disgruntled, but he will be compensated generously. Defying a Prince is treason. 

While Sylvi has gone to deal with the outbidded Lord, her legs carry her down the last few steps until she is face to face with Prince Aemond.

He is taller for a start, at least a head above her. His hair is longer, his face is slimmer and sharper, his lips are settled into a slight pout. He carries himself differently, proudly. Her eyes move over his leathers under his cloak. She is not meant to admire the men who seek her services. She is meant to take their coin and fulfil their desires.

“Some wine, my Prince?” she asks, nodding towards the inner chamber, the heart of the pleasure house where the musicians play and bodies mingle out in the open or behind drawn curtains. 

He offers her a cryptic “hmm,” and follows her inside.

One of the other girls stands in a corner, carrying a tray of full cups. She passes one to Aemond, his fingertips brushing over her skin as he takes it. 

The Prince studies his surroundings like a hunter looking for quarry, lips quirked, jaw tight, somewhat amused but silent. Something tells her he has not returned to the pleasure house in the years since his first visit. This is all unfamiliar to him. He sips his wine and takes a slow breath. No doubt he will prefer somewhere a little more secluded.

She takes his hand and weaves through the room, to one of the adjacent chambers lit by candlelight, large enough to fit a bed and little else.

With the curtains drawn the other sounds fade into nothing. She takes Aemond’s wine and sets it aside, coming to stand before him.

She keeps waiting for him to lean into her, to grab greedily at some part of her flesh, to claim her lips with his. Instead he stands stoically, his chest rising and falling from underneath the thick leather of his tunic.

“Are you not awfully warm, my Prince?” she says in a honeyed voice, one she has practised for years that usually feeds the lie she actually wants what’s about to happen. She trails her fingertips over the shiny silver buckles that conceal him from her, his body stiffening under her touch.

She takes a breath to steady the erratic beat of her heart and the wanting stirring in her belly. It is not often that her own forwardness seems out of place. 

She remembers the boy with silver hair. She remembers the scowl on his face, how it melted into confusion and fear. He had needed patience then and she was happy to give it. Because she was ordered to. Because she pitied him. Perhaps because she recognised something in his expression and the way he seemed unsure in his own skin.

She places a hand on his shoulder, testing the waters of how close she can get to him. He does not protest. His nose twitches as he inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “Perhaps we should make ourselves more comfortable?” she says.

He places his hand over hers, guiding it to the top buckle at his collar. His expression is stern, his face bathed in golden candlelight and the shadows caught in the angles of his face. His eye is somehow soft but intent.

Undressing him is not to be rushed. She takes her time with every buckle on his jerkin and pushes it slowly from his shoulders. She untucks his undershirt from his breeches and he pulls it over his head. His skin is smooth, mostly unmarred, save for a small scar in the crook of his elbow that had not been there the last time they met. He is all muscle, lean and lithe. She places her palms at his chest and lets them drag down his abdomen, to the waist of his breeches.

He holds her wrists to stop her.

She looks to his eye, terrified that she might have overstepped.

Instead he kisses her. It’s gentle and chaste, his hand against the bare skin of her back, pulling her against his body. When she teases his tongue with hers he chases it, only for the kiss to become messy and clumsy. She cannot bring herself to dislike his inexperience.

“Wait,” she says, pulling away, putting her hands on either side of his jaw. “Follow my lead,” she whispers, leaning in to capture his lower lip between hers. They find a rhythm then. She shows him to move slowly, to be firmer. As their kiss deepens she allows herself to melt into his arms. Her hips are rocking against his, his hand trailing over her skin until he finds the clasp of her dress. The material falls away as simply as it should, leaving her bare before him.

He studies her the same way he studied the room. How many men have laid eyes on her since she came to this place? Too many to count, insignificant men, who have no names or faces in her memory. She has no shame in her nakedness, but there has never been any doubt in her mind that those men found her desirable. Being under Aemond’s scrutiny makes her tremble. She wonders if the sight of her pleases him. He has enough gold and enough pride to be selective. 

He had asked for her though. Why?

He’s staring at her. “They crowned my brother today,” he says.

It is not what she was expecting to hear. “I saw.”

“You were there?”

“No.” The gold cloaks did not empty the whorehouses when they were ordered to fill the Dragonpit with witnesses for the King’s coronation.

Aemond’s attention is on her body now. He reaches for her arm, tracing circles over her skin with his thumb.

She had not seen the King himself but she had seen the crowds flocking. She had heard the tremendous noise of crumbling stone, people screaming, a dragon’s screech. “I saw the dragon. People say it is an omen.”

Aemond’s face darkens but his attention is still on his own hand, now at her waist. With the other he pulls the eyepatch from his head and tosses it towards his discarded shirt. She does not get much of a chance to refresh her memory of his maimed eye before he leans into her again. His lips are at her shoulder, then her neck and it leaves her utterly weightless. 

“Your perfume is the same,” he mutters into her skin.

He remembers.

Aemond seems content enough following her lead. He lets her slip his breeches past his hips and take him into her mouth. He lets her sit atop him and grind her core against his hardened cock until her peak washes over her, blissful and warm.

When he starts to buck his hips and dig his fingertips into her hips she decides to give him respite. She sinks herself onto him with a soft sigh. It is a rare opportunity to chase a feeling rather than letting herself go through a rehearsed set of motions. 

His eye moves between her face and the space where their bodies meet, as if he cannot decide which is more fascinating. She is pleasantly surprised when he places his thumb at her pearl and circles over her sensitive flesh.

She loses herself in it, how deep he reaches, pleasure rising and tightening until it releases suddenly, violently. She falls forwards on her hands to steady herself. 

Before long Aemond lifts her off his cock, finishing himself with a stuttering groan and his seed dripping through the folds of her cunt.

He holds her close, caging her in his arms and bringing her into his chest. There’s a numbness that follows pleasure and she cannot bring herself to care that he is crushing her ribs. It doesn’t matter. She basks in the heat of his skin and the smell of him. 

He makes good on his promise of payment. The purse of coins he leaves on the bed before he leaves is worth ten nights with any other patron. 

There is less pretence the next time he visits her.

It is only a day later. He comes in the middle of the night, his hair, coat and leather gloves soaked, but there is no rain in King’s Landing. They tear at each other’s clothes and kiss like starved dogs devouring scraps. Aemond holds her by her jaw and her neck. When she draws his teeth over his lip he grins.

Once he is bare she realises his skin is cold and he is shivering.

“You should sit before a fire and warm up properly–”

“No,” he insists, “I just want you.”

She chases her pleasure once more, Aemond’s hands bruising into her hips as he thrusts up to meet her, the coldness of his palms seeping through her skin. This newfound urgency is thrilling and she finds herself curling over her body as her peaks tears through her.

Aemond is not finished with her yet. He positions her beneath him, spreading her legs apart with two wide palms before fucks her with a brutal precision, and he does not stop until he has reached his own end, painting her belly and the tops of her thighs.

After, he takes her into his arms, positioning them both so that he lies under her arm with his head nestled on her chest, between her breasts. She strokes her fingertips through his damp hair, over his skin, all the places where lovers touch each other, his cheek, his neck, underneath his ear, his shoulder. With his arm draped over her stomach he clings to her like he may never know such intimacy again. His skin is still cold and yet she holds him close, determined that she will draw some warmth from him.

Hours pass. Days could pass and she’d be content to lie with him.

“The dragon was an omen, you said,” he mutters.

It takes her a moment to rouse herself. Her eyes had closed, her mind half asleep. “That’s what people are saying. A coronation marred by death must surely only lead to more death.”

She feels his arm tighten over her stomach.

“You’re cold,” she says.

“I was instructed to fly to the Stormlands.”

“Why?”

“To secure the support of Lord Baratheon. He has pledged his banners to my brother’s cause and in return I am to wed his daughter.”

His state suggests to her that he has not yet returned to the Red Keep.

“Is there to be a war?” she says. 

He remains frozen for a few moments.

“I believe war may now be inevitable,” he says. She feels his lips brushing over her skin.

“How so?” she says on a quiet breath.

“A boy is dead because of me.”

The coldness of Aemond’s body has decidedly taken root within her, like a fist closing over her heart and throat.

“Lucerys was there, at Storm’s End. Lord Borros shunned him from the hall but I… it wasn’t enough. I pursued him on Vhagar. His dragon is nothing to her, they didn’t stand a chance.”

She is not sure she wishes to hear of this, but a new kind of stillness has settled over her. She is too afraid to move, to disturb him. 

“He is the one who took your eye,” she says.

Aemond hums. “He never paid for what he did to me. My father was more concerned with the slanders against my sister than he was with me, with my blood spilled by my own kin.”

She closes her eyes, imagining the little boy from all those years ago is curled up in her arms. She runs her fingers through his hair, undoing the knots and tangles. She cradles his head in her arms so he knows he is not alone.

“His debt is paid now, I suppose,” Aemond says.

It is in the early hours of the morning when he finally leaves, the first glimpses of sunrise chasing night from the sky. She helps him dress and fastens his eyepatch over his head. He leaves another purse in her palm, a more than generous amount. 

He comes to her nightly. He is an unhurried lover and fucks her slowly, hovering his lips above hers so that they share the same air, keeping their bodies pressed tightly together as if he wishes to smother her, or else crawl under her skin. She’d let him do it.

It is not simply her body he wants. When they are done he wants to be held, and then his thoughts slip from between his lips. 

He had not expected to return to the Red Keep a hero for slaying his nephew, but now he says his mother can hardly look at him. His grandsire, the Hand of the King scorns him for his recklessness, for his impulse for violence that now means the false Queen may strike at any moment. Vhagar circles the city during the day, she sees the dragon when she goes to the market. Aemond insists that his dragon could make short work of destroying any other who would seek to oppose her, but Rhaenyra has dragons to spare. He sits in meetings of the Small Council and watches in despair as the Hand and the Dowager Queen advocate for patience and diplomacy. 

“We should be marching,” he says one night, tracing his fingertips over her stomach. “We should secure the support of the Crownlands, adding their numbers to our host. Rhaenyra is isolated enough on Dragonstone, but we could cut her off from her allies completely.”

“And none would stand against you and Vhagar,” she says. Assuring him has become a learned skill these last few weeks.

“Alicent wishes for me to remain here, to deter an attack on the city.”

“That is sound logic,” she says. “The people of King’s Landing will be grateful for your protection.”

Aemond hums irritatedly.

“I for one would despair at the loss of our Prince,” she adds, ghosting her lips over his cheek, where his scar cuts through his skin.

For a little while he entertains her, turning his head to kiss her properly. She slips her hand between their bodies, taking hold of his hardening cock. He melts into her, chasing his pleasure as she strokes him.

“I am ready for more,” he says breathlessly. “I’m ready to fight.”

“As you have proved,” she says, coming to kiss his throat. 

In a single breath he is above her, pinning her hands by her head. He positions himself against her, rocking his hips so his leaking tip pushes against her pearl. He knows this about her now, how to draw her pleasure from her body. “Storm’s End was no battle,” he hisses into her ear. “Luke was a child. I want fire and blood.”

“Your time will come,” she says, her voice catching in her throat as he quickens his pace.

“The war must be inevitable,” he pants, “the realm will realise it soon enough. Aegon is the King and yet he is hostage to those with weaker wills.”

“You are his brother,” she sighs as Aemond slips lower to her entrance. “You can convince him to act–”

“Not now,” Aemond says, pushing into her with one sudden thrust. “Just take it, that’s it…”

He fucks her slowly, deeply, with his face buried into her neck. His desperation fuels her own desire, his hot breath against her ear, his pants and his groans. When he is finished he does not leave her wanting, trailing his lips and tongue down her body, her chest, her stomach, driving her towards her own peak with his lips and tongue.

“My grandfather takes my aspirations as insolence,” Aemond mutters to himself as he dresses. “He thinks me weak. He thinks I am still a child.”

“Then he is a fool,” she says, still buried beneath the throw on the bed.

“My mother and grandfather seized the throne, now they will not do what needs to be done to hold it.”

“Perhaps they fear what a war might bring.”

Aemond tuts. “The first blood has been drawn.”

“Do you not…” she pauses when he looks at her, his eye wide, anticipating something he will not wish to hear. “What if Rhaenyra comes for you? What if she seeks vengeance for her son?”

Aemond smiles like he has a secret and stalks slowly towards the bed, her stomach tightening in anticipation. 

In some ways, Aemond terrifies her. He has a presence of danger and bloodlust which fades away when she peels away the layers of his leathers. Without his eyepatch, in the warmth of the candlelight, he is the picture of Valyrian beauty, a man who belongs in histories and legends, not the living, breathing realm she exists in. 

He leans into her, taking her chin between his fingers to kiss her. She relishes it for as long as she can, knowing it won’t be enough to charm him back into the bed.

He pulls away, reaching into his pocket for a purse of coins. “Let her try,” he says as he places it beside her, “but I will not be easily ended.”

The girls all share chambers, bedrooms and a washroom with basins and baths. She rises early in the morning to bathe, to drop her lavender and rosemary oils into the tub and scrub away the remnants of last night. Before, she would not allow herself to fall asleep until she was clean. Lately she finds an odd sense of comfort in the reminders of her royal patron. Her skin is littered with love bites and bruises, her neck, her collar, her breasts. It shouldn’t be like this. Usually she does what she can to forget the men she has been with.

They share their duties. This morning she is to help wash the bed linens, and find cheap grain and cuts of meat from the markets.   

The clothes she wears are modest, covering her arms and her neck, unflattering to her figure. Some people still eye her with disgust, with hatred. You can always spot a whore. What can strangers know of her? Can they see through her skin and see her sins as the gods judge them all from the seven heavens? It was not as if she had chosen this path for herself out of an endless number of possibilities. 

Sometimes she remembers the life she had before, a woman’s laugh, a particular taste on her tongue, a tune humming in the back of her mind she can’t quite piece together. She used to think the gods had forsaken her, but now she thinks they do not concern themselves with the lives of people like her. So she finds little point in looking to the past, of imagining a future for herself. She survives and that is enough.

Summer is nearing its end. There is no warmth to be found in sunlight obscured by clouds. People walk quickly, keeping their belongings in deathly grips. A woman with a babe in her arms begs the baker to accept one copper instead of five for a loaf of bread. A man despairs that the apothecaries cannot offer him a medicinal herb from Lys for his sickly daughter. The shipping lanes are blocked by the Velaryon Fleet holding the Gullet, and no ship can get in or out of King’s Landing. A woman cries for her son, a rat catcher, his body hanging from the walls of the Red Keep. 

She gets what she needs to, grain she will bring back to the kitchens for the cook to turn into plain tasting flatbread. A butcher sells her tough cuts of beef for a reasonable price to go into a stew. He worries that there have been no imports of salt or sugar. How is the city meant to preserve food for the fast approaching winter? 

“It’s the fucking war,” he grumbles, “why can’t the King just burn the ships so the rest of us can eat?”

In the distance she hears drums, the clatter of horse hooves against the cobbles. She keeps her basket tightly on her arm, not stopping to make eye contact with the people she passes, past the stalls, mules, the buckets of sewage and dirty water falling from windows above her head.

As she emerges from one of the side streets her way is suddenly blocked by masses of people. She had guessed some sort of procession was afoot. This is no celebration, it is lamentation. People weep and wail around her, a mass mourning that she does not understand, and yet she feels it in her chest and behind her eyes, an urge to cry.

Over the sea of bodies before her she sees two women in an open carriage, richly dressed with black veils over their faces. Petals fall from windows and footbridges. People cry the name of Queen Helaena and Dowager Queen Alicent. 

She finds a small ledge to lift herself onto at the base of a statue. What she sees could stop her heart. This is a funeral procession. Queen Helaena’s carriage follows the body of her son, wrapped in a green and gold shroud, with flowers woven into his white hair. For a moment she tells herself the boy is an effigy, that he could be made from wax or porcelain. 

“Behold the work of Rhaenyra Targaryen!”

The whispers follow her as she scurries back to the pleasure house. The Prince was slain in his sleep. Two assassins cut his head from his body. They made his mother and twin sister watch. 

Bile rises in her throat as she hands cook the cuts of meat, blood seeping through the wrappings. She swallows it down.

When Aemond comes to her that night he is more subdued than usual. He pulls her into his arms and she strokes her hand over his hair.

“My nephew is dead,” he utters. He sheds no tears, he seems confused more than anything.

Rhaenyra’s retribution had come then, swift and brutal, a son for a son. 

She undresses him but he leans away when she tries to kiss him. They lie back on the bed and Aemond settles his head on her shoulder.

“My brother is in a rage and wants Rhaenyra dead. My sister has not left her rooms; I tried to go to her but she would not speak to me,” he says.

“How did it happen?”

“There were two. One was a gold cloak. They found him at the gate of the gods with Jaehaerys’ head in a sack. He confessed the other was a rat catcher.” 

Now the bodies of a hundred men hang by their necks, though only one of them is guilty.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond says, “but I was out.”

She rests her fingers at the pulsepoint on his wrist to remind herself his heart is still beating. “You were with me,” she says. She feels the guilt weighing in her chest. While she and Aemond had kissed and fucked and held each other, a boy had a lost his life, the very body she had seen paraded through the streets.

“In truth I am proud that he considers me such a foe, that he would seek to murder me in my bed.”

She cannot tell if she admires him for it or not, to gamble with life as though it means nothing.

Aemond is watching her, his hair loose and framing his face. “Do you think he fears me?”

She has never seen Aemond wield a blade. She’s never seen him ride his dragon, not up close. She’s never seen him fight with his fists. She’s never seen him slur his words and throw away threats in a drunken argument. He is always composed. He is always softly spoken, and in a way that terrifies her more than it should. They say the blood of the dragon runs hot. Aemond’s blood does not seem to burn, rather it simmers under the surface of his skin. 

“Perhaps he fears what else you might be capable of.”

Aemond is the closest she has ever seen him to tears. His eyelashes are damp and heavy, his seeing eye vibrantly blue and glassy. “You think me a monster,” he utters.

She could never say it, could she? But this is a man who took the life of his own kin as a reparation for his eye. Violence is carved into his face, beautiful, set with a gemstone, but it is there nonetheless. 

She brushes her fingertips over his cheek and plants a delicate kiss to his lips. After only a few moments he shrugs her off and repositions himself, curling into her lap like a child, clinging to her limbs and the fabric of her gown. 

“I lost my temper that day,” he says. “I should have known Vhagar would not relent. I am sorry for it.”

Her blood runs cold. Should she be glad to hear he is remorseful? He may not be a cold hearted killer, but destruction lives at his fingertips. 

She reaches for his hand and he takes it. His touch is gentle and hesitant. “There was no justice in what happened to you,” she says, “blood has paid for blood…” but where does it end? With Lucerys? With Jaehaerys? With the next?

Aemond says nothing. She feels his tears slip onto her legs, his fingernails forming crescents in her skin.

Remorse will not return Rhaenyra’s son to her, it will not bring back the little Prince paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

She clings to him, hoping she can ease whatever torment plagues him, and banish what darkness consumes him.

She never tires of the sight of him. His body bare, his hair tied away from his face, the uneven edges of his sapphire glinting in the lowlight, laid out beneath her. She runs her hands over his chest, tracing the lines that are familiar to her now. “I want to taste you,” she says sweetly, knowing he’ll already be desperate for her. 

He hums quietly to himself. By the slight smile threatening to break in the corners of his mouth, she knows he is content.

“On your knees then,” he says, and positions himself to sit at the end of the bed.

She runs her tongue over his length first, finishing with a teasing lick at the tip where he’s already weeping. She takes him into her mouth gradually, pushing a little deeper with every bob of her head. He is her Prince, he takes his pleasure from her and holds her hair from her face but it is she who sets the pace, who revels in his moans as his mind lulls. 

But he pulls her head away by her hair before he finishes. Suddenly she’s on her back and he’s kneeling over her with his fist moving furiously over his cock. He reaches for her breast and squeezes. In the morning when she bathes, she’ll look at the bruises and remember how he touches her. Her own had slips between her legs, tracing circles over her pearl at the thought.

This pleases Aemond. His brow hardens and his jaw falls. “Fuck, are you going to finish with me?” he whispers.

She nods in reply, her breath catching as a whimper in her throat. 

His grip on her breast tightens. She winces at the pain and it only fuels her own pleasure. She succumbs to her senses, chasing the feeling in her gut that only wants for release. Her fingers work frantically over her wet and wanting cunt.

“Make yourself come for me, that’s it,”

She obeys him with a cry, her body reduced to a shaking, dazed mess as Aemond reaches his own end. She watches his seed spurt from his cock, warm as it paints her skin.

He has habits, she’s noticed. He does not spill inside her. Of course, with the nature of the establishment there is no shortage of moontea, but she never questions him when he removes himself. He prefers to see it on her skin. 

Targaryen bastards are not uncommon in King’s Landing, commoners with silver hair. It is said Prince Aegon himself has sired many on the women of Fleabottom. Perhaps the idea is distasteful to Prince Aemond. He is discreet. He does not bring drinking companions with him to the pleasure house and he keeps his hood up as he enters and exits. 

He takes a cloth and wipes his seed from her skin. She bites back another jolt of anticipation in her spine. She would take more from him, but instead he lies beside her, curling into her embrace, tucking his head into her chest. 

He could fuck her quickly and be done with it, it would be more efficient. He could take a different girl each time. He could have one brought up to the castle. Yet since the day of the King’s Coronation he has found his way into her arms to her each night. In these quiet moments she lets herself think there is a reason for it.

They trace their fingertips over each other’s skin and he tells her things she shouldn’t know, that the King has named a new Hand in Ser Criston Cole, that while Queen Alicent seeks to avoid open war, Aegon wants to fly headfirst into it.

“It’s not his place. He’ll not stand a chance against Meleys or Caraxes.”

The names are strange to her. Sometimes it feels like a cruel joke, a reminder that some Silk Street whore is not meant to understand the realm he exists in. Other times it feels like an honour, like he’s gifted her a part of himself, a glimpse into his mind.

“He is no warrior, but he wishes to live up to his namesake. He wants for glory alone; it is a reckless pursuit but he would risk his life for it.”

“He is the King, is it not his war to fight?” she says. 

“He is not capable of it,” Aemond says, “but I…”

It is not a thought he dares to finish.

King Aegon wears the crown of the Conqueror, or so people say. She’s never seen a real crown. She’s seen paper ones worn by the mummers in the square, and she’s seen girls wearing wreaths of flowers on their heads for the festival of spring. They are only delicate things. Real crowns are made of gold, silver and steel. As Aemond’s eye flutters shut he looks divinely peaceful, but unsettled where his sapphire continues to stare at her. She pictures a crown of spring flowers fashioned from steel and imagines it upon her Prince’s brow.

Footsteps thud upon the stone floor, too close to the curtain, closer than anyone should dare to come near. She lifts her head as it’s drawn back.

It takes a moment for them all to realise what’s happening. Several faces stare at her– at Aemond. One of the men has silver hair, shorter and choppier than Aemond’s. He bares his teeth as he grins.

She sees a flash of fury in Aemond’s face as he turns to face them.

The silver haired man starts to laugh, the sound shrill and unpleasant. His friends do not join him. “Aemond the fierce!” he cries, pointing, staring.

Ameond parts himself from her instantly. He retreats as far as the edge of the bed, hunched over himself, his knees in the crooks of his elbows. He keeps his head hung, not looking at the men and the leader of their pack. He does not look at her, he does not look at anything. 

She sees the child he once was, frightened and confused. 

The man staggers towards the bed, clearly half out of his mind by the smell of wine drifting from him when he perches on the bed. On instinct she covers her breasts, devastated to realise her robe is out of reach.

“And here I thought you were as chaste as a fucking septon! You know,” he says to his companions, “I brought him here for his first too. And how far you’ve come, curled in the arms of a whore like a greenboy!”

There’s a bite to his– the King’s words, a cruelty that only makes Aemond shrink further into himself. Her heart aches for him, that she cannot help him. 

“Are you tired, brother? Did you fuck her like a hound?” An idea he emphasises with an impersonation of a hunting dog.

Aemond doesn’t move or speak.

Still in hysterics, Aegon turns his gaze to her, unashamedly lingering on her chest and her legs. “Hard luck for your squire, Ser Martyn,” he says, drawing his tongue over his lips, “as pretty as this one is, she is very much occupied.”

His laughter is the only sound in the chamber and it pierces her skull. 

Aemond starts to shift. Helplessly she reaches out her hand, unsure of what it is she intends to do. He doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look at her.

He stands before the King and his companions. His humiliation has melted away. In the place of the boy is a man who speaks calmly and clearly. “Your squire is welcome to her. One whore is as good as another.”

He strides from the chamber and she is entirely forgotten.

Or so she wishes that were true. There are still four men in her midst. And she is still, for all the hours she has spent in Aemond’s company, a whore in a pleasure house. 

I've kinda given up on taglists, sorry <3

A/n: I'm quite happy with this! I've been playing with the idea in my head for a few weeks, then I saw episodes 2 and 3 and it just had to happen. Would be very cool if you wanted to let me know what you think :)