holb32

[holb32]

about time | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader summary: it was long since you stopped being just aaron’s plaything, even though he refused to acknowledge it. but everything changes when, after a mass shooting, he almost loses you. content/tw: mass shooting, hostage situation, deaths, r is taken hostage, age gap, situationship (?), criminal minds level of violence, lmk what else, sugarbaby/daddy relationship  (barely mentioned) word count: 4k a/n: based on this request! it always takes me so long to write because my brain is fucking broken and i’m apparently incapable of writing something without giving 1-2k of backstory and i end up taking to damn long to finish... i hope this is good, rn i’m kinda hating myself, ngl. anyways enough with the pity party let’s love and make love! speaking of it, i LOVE you all 💗🪽💗🪽 dividers @uzmacchiato

masterlist

“Did you find something to eat? -A.H”

“barely. idk if 200 dollars will do the trick next time”

“All that sass won’t get you far. -A.H.”

“will it get you to finally admit how crazy you are about me?”

As expected, you didn’t get a text back after that.

Your relationship with Aaron was… not conventional. Late night calls, secret dinner dates, hurried sex, expensive gifts and no space for emotional connection.

At least, that’s how he would describe it. He was a busy man, almost twice your age and a big job with even bigger responsibilities than your younger-aged mind couldn’t handle yet – his words.

You saw right through him. He was indeed a busy man, and the age gap wasn’t something one could argue. But his job and responsibilities had absolutely nothing to do with his emotional unavailability. Instead, it had everything to do with him being scared.

Being scared of what it would mean to be in love, to care about someone like that again. It was a kind of fear that only someone who’s had that kind of happiness once just for it to be taken out of them could understand. He couldn’t let himself fall for it again. It was a bait, a trick. A mousetrap from the universe to check if he would dare to be happy again.

Spoiler alert: he wouldn’t.

Sometimes you would feel him getting too interested in what you had to say. Laughing about your jokes. Asking about things you mentioned once and thought he would bother to remember — like the hanging the last episode of your favorite tv show left you on, or that one friend who kept throwing passive-aggressive comments at you and you swore you’d do something about it.

You’d see the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t seeing. You’d feel the feather-like kisses he gave you when he thought you were asleep. You’d hear the words that he so stubbornly refused to let slip out of his mouth. He’s the profiler, true, but you’re not blind.

For that reason you tried, subtly at first, to get him to admit how he truly felt about you. But he always got impatient about not understanding your hints, and discretion was never one of your qualities. Then, you moved to being blunt. Just straight up calling him out, demanding an explanation. That ended up being worse, with him always panicking and leaving you alone, ghosting your texts and declining your calls until you ended up knocking on his door, wearing nothing but a trench coat and ready to take whatever breadcrumb he was willing to give.

So, you settled on a – not so – happy medium, giving him space to swallow his feelings, but always letting him know you wouldn’t be okay with this forever. Usually with a flirty text, or a mock threat, and sometimes even with half-hearted jokes. To which he’d always react with a huff and a roll of his eyes, – and if he was feeling particularly happy, a chuckle.

That morning was one of them. The two of you slept through his first alarm, only getting up too late for him to cook you breakfast – which he insisted had nothing to do with love, just good mannerisms. So, as he dropped you to your campus on his way to Quantico, he slipped two folded dollar bills on your bag as you gave him a goodbye-blowjob right at the library parking lot, and warned you to get something to eat.

Only when you were at the cafeteria across the street did you notice that they were one-hundred-dollar bills each, and you made sure to spend it, just how he’d like.

Trying to stop the twitch of his lips as he read your texts, even though no one was watching him, he put away his phone before he got too distracted by your words, and focused solemnly at the massive stock of reports on his desk.

The next time Aaron looked up from the papers was when Garcia straight up barged into his office, leading him to stop whatever he was doing and look at her. His colleague had a tendency to drama, but she would never barge in like that if it wasn't serious, he knew that. If that wasn’t enough of a tell, the horrified look on her face sure enough did the trick.

“Garcia.”

“Sir, mass shooting. It just happened. Hostage situation, right now. We need to–” he held his hand, already standing up and walking closer to her, gripping her shoulders and just then he noticed they were shaking.

“Penelope, breathe.” he ordered, urging her to calm down in that authoritative tone of his that always gets things done. As a proof, Garcia nodded, breathing slowly until her words stopped sounding slurred. “Where was it?” 

“George Washington, at the lecture hall. There are 2 dead there we know of, but no one knows precisely since the building is on lockdown…” and it feels like everything else is on mute, because Garcia said the words.

George Washington, where he got his degree from. To where he was called to give a speech for the students a few months ago. Where he met you. Where he dropped you off this morning. 

Where he was going to lose you.

On autopilot he walked away from his office, Penelope trailing right behind him debriefing the case.

“I want all the team there, get the cars ready. We leave in ten. You debrief the rest of them on the ride.” he snaps, not giving space to complaints. 

During all seven minutes in which he took off his suit jacket and adjusted the velcro in his kevlar vest, he’s trying to call your phone. Touching your name shining in his screen and placing it on speaker, watching as the selfie you chose for your contact – against his will – blinks until the call falls.

He repeats the cycle all the way down the elevators, his scowl and the death grip he has on his phone being as effective as a shining outdoor in neon letters with a “stay away!” written in capital letters.

As the infamous beeps of his call not being picked up ring in his ear, he tries to calm himself down. He thinks you probably wouldn’t be there. The campus is huge, there was a high chance you weren’t there, exactly. You’d probably be in class right now, with your phone on silent. Maybe you're not in class, but just ignoring his calls as a way of punishing him for not admitting his feelings. 

After not having any of his calls answered, while he’s on the passenger seat coordinating with other units, his mind wonders. 

Then, he tries to negotiate. If you’re not there, he will admit. If you’re just messing with him and call him back in five minutes, he will give you a tiny lecture, but then will confess his feelings. He swears, he promises, he begs. Nonetheless, you don’t call back.

“What do you got?” Aaron asks the chief of the precinct who first got there, as soon as he gets within earshot. The man held out his hands, introducing himself with a polite nod. “Hothcner. How many dead?” he snaps, clearly not wanting to waste time. Behind him, Reid and Morgan exchange a hesitant look.

The captain stops for just a second, but soon is walking him to the FBI equipped van “Witness counted 5 deaths. We heard other shots since they locked themselves. We were only able to identify 3 of the bodies. 1 of them was sent to the Coroner's office.”

“The rest?” Morgan asked. He stops on his tracks, facing each of the members of the BAU with a dark expression.

“Still in there.”

“The other two.” Reid asks “Do we have their name?”

“Over there.” he points to another van “They’re talking to the witness too.”

Before the officer manages to get the words out, Hotch is already heading to said van. There were too many people. More than 30 students, about 15 employees. Professors and cleaning staff. None of them were you.

“We don’t have the time to speak to all of them.” JJ said, sighing. Hotch frowns, his eyes scanning them.

“We have to.” he says dryly, moving to coordinate the officers in order to get as many depositions as possible, instructing them to go directly at him if they have information that could help build the profile.

Time was flying by, but they got something. One of the witnesses, the only one who managed to get out of the lecture hall before they locked themselves out, saw it. Two shooters, covered up and down. One of them was taller, broader. The other was smaller, thinner and curvier. They thought it was a girl, but that was just guess work.

More than ten of the witnesses agreed that the taller unsub was the head of the operation. They were armed to their teeth, backpacks and machine-guns, two each. None of them saw their faces which was a good sign – As good as something could be in this situation.

If they didn’t want to be seen, they wanted to escape. If they wanted to escape, they needed to negotiate. And if they wanted to negotiate, it was just a matter of time for them to make contact.

Then, they waited.

For a lack of a better word, it was torture.

Aaron felt his limbs go numb, he was close to getting tendinitis from the position of his thumb, hovering over your contact, calling from time to time just to see if you’d pick up. He hoped you’d wake up from a nap, hoarse and amused voice calling him a psychopath for all the missed calls, and would tease him at how obsessed he was. This time, he would agree.

But it never happened, and every time his call went to voicemail, he got even more bitter.

It was safe to say, no one on the team was immune to his snapping. From being ignored and interrupted to straight up yelled at, Emily was the one who stepped up to say something first.

“Hotch, what’s going on?”

“You don’t get it.” he said bluntly, his eyes glued to the last shots of the surveillance camera before the unsubs cut the power of the building.

“Yeah, we do. It’s our…”

“No. No, you don’t.” he snaps at Morgan this time, turning to see the confused and exasperated face of the team, eyeing him like he was a maniac. They were probably right.

Before any of them could say anything, the phone started ringing. Not his, the one from their van. The FBI one, from the number they gave the unsubs through the megaphone from outside.

Everyone rushed there, Garcia ready to trace it and try to get their name.

Hotch was the one who picked it up.

“Hey, there.” the unsub started, his voice syrupy from the other end of the line.

“Aaron Hotchner, I’m with the FBI.” he started, his voice much calmer than he truly was.

“Hmm, fancy.” the unsub mocked “Who else is over there?”

He glanced at the other members, watching if they were paying attention too “SWAT, HRT.”

They giggled “Oh, wow. And the media?”

Hotch sighed “Yes, on live. You have some people there with you, right? Want to let them go, so we can solve this racionally?” he offered, his voice soft and polite.

“Not really, no.” the unsub hummed, his voice carefree. Hotch bit the inside of his cheek to keep the composure.

“They’re innocent people. We shouldn’t let them get hurt, don’t you think?” he tried again. From the other line, they clicked their teeth.

“Not innocent, but I suppose I understand why you’d think that.”

Hotch’s ear perked up, immediately analysing their words “I don’t have all the facts. Why don’t you tell me?”.

“You’re right, you don’t.” the unsub snapped “So don’t get in my way.”

“I can’t do that.” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Worth a try.” the unsub chuckled “I want to negotiate. Is that the correct word? Just kidding, I know it is.”

“Perfect, let’s negotiate.”

“I want to leave, and I don’t want anyone following me. I want you to send all those fancy officers home, and I want to live.”

“That’s understandable.” he hums, trying to sound as open as possible “But I need you to release those hostages.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” they yelled, and Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in fear.

“Worth a try.” he muttered, and the call went quiet. Aaron looks at the team, confused. Just before he speaks again, he hears something. A laugh. A loud, humorous laugh.

“You quoted me, man. You’re funny. I fuck with you.”

Aaron’s eyebrows are arched so high they’re almost reaching his hairline.

“Since I like you so much, I’ll tell you what. Make another offer, a reasonable one. And I’ll hear it.”

“Give me the name of the ones you killed. And give me proof the rest of them are alive.”

“Hm.” quiet again “Counter offer, I tell you how many were killed and then, I’ll give you a proof of life.”

A minute passes with the call on mute. Garcia traced it, it’s one of the hostage’s phones. One of the witnesses recalls seeing them.

“Agent Hotchner.” a voice sings, and Hotch unmutes the call. Dozens of people surround him, trying to listen to the information closely.

“I’m right here.”

“So, before anything, do you want to take a guess?”

“Not really.” Hotch says between gritted teeth, patience hanging by a thread. The unsub laughs, again. “Fine by me. Here we go: we have 7 casualties.”

The room stands still, looking at each other. It’s more than what they thought. If anyone saw Hotch’s fingers starting to shake, no one made a comment.

“Now the other part.” Hotch says quietly.

“Fine.” the unsub says, and they hear a few thuds, something falling and a loud cry. Aaron wants to interrupt, but he knows better.

“H-Hi. I’m Meghan.” a lady says between sobs, and she sounds young.

“Meghan, I’m Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the FBI. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m scared. Please, hurry.”

“Meghan, listen. This is really important, do you recognize them?” he urges, controlling his voice to sound reassurance.

“Time’s up!” the previous voice sounds from afar, and the next thing they hear is the sound of shooting, and for what Hotch could count, they emptied their clip. “That was number 8.” the unsub speaks, clearly amused.

“How is that proof of life?” Aaron snapped, not caring if he sounded angry.

“Can’t you hear it?” they asked, and only then he paid attention: echoing through the call there were cries, sobs, screaming. He couldn’t count how many people, but a good amount.

“Every 5 minutes you deny what I want, I’ll shoot another one. Toodle-oo.”

And it was then, right before the call ended, that he heard it.

It was muffled, distant, but for him it was clear as the day: your voice. Even through the robotic sound of the phone call, he would be able to recognize you. At first he thought it was his name, a cry for help. But it was only when the call was hung up that he managed to figure it out.

“Ethan, don’t!” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It took them little to no time to realize that Ehan was the unsub, not a hostage. Garcia runs his name and records, finding out he was kicked out of college for assaulting students. He was in one of your classes, and if he were still a student, he would’ve been in that lecture hall as well. Though in the end it didn’t really matter, because he ended up there anyway.

The other unsub was girlfriend, Keira, and they refer to each other as partners in crime. She felt her boyfriend’s expulsion personally, and by breaking into their private chats, Penelope read that they planned to take revenge on everyone who contributed to it. Which, by their means, meant everyone who didn’t help Ethan.

Ethan had violent and narcissistic traits, including sex crimes records. Keira, on the other hand,  matched the profile by her devoted submission to Ethan, aggressive posts on social media  and the  fact that, growing up, she was the main suspect of the mysterious deaths of the pets in her neighborhood. It wasn’t confirmed, but she moved out shortly after that.

“We have to make them turn against each other.” JJ asked. The team gathered to discuss their plan quickly, not wanting to dare to have more deaths.

“There’s something wrong.” Reid said, interrupting them.

“What is it?”

“She recognized them, Hotch.” he said, quietly. “She saw their faces. You know what that means.”

He did know.

With a shaky breath, he answered “We’ve dealt with that before.”

“Let me talk to them. One last time.”

“Reid…” Rossi warned. They all catched on: Hotch knew you. But under those circumstances, no one dared to ask him the nature of your relationship. Spencer and David exchanged a glance, silently weighing their risks. It could make things worse, but right now there wasn’t another scenario. Especially with the minutes passing, sooner or later the number of deaths would rise.

“Hotch.” Reid insisted, firmly this time. Aaron was helpless, and his eyes showed it as he looked at the youngest member, trying to see a hint of uncertainty. Not finding any of it – or at least not enough for him to be untrustworthy –, he agreed with a sharp nod.

They gathered around the phone, and dialed the same phone number that called them. The phone rang only about 3 times before a voice answered.

“Just in time.” Ethan said, his voice condescending “Want to hear number 9?”

 “No.” Reid said bluntly, looking Hotch in the eyes “The coast is clear, you can leave now. Leave the hostages there, don’t kill anyone else.” he spat fastly. The whole team widened their eyes, confusedly murmuring. Reid held his fingers high, warning them to listen.

On the other end of the line, Ethan panicked. He stuttered, sighed, and tried to play it off. Before anything else could happen, Spencer turned off the call, rising to his feet in a minute.

“It was a trap, they’re not planning on escaping.” he explained, moving with the team on his tail closer to the school.

After that it all happened fast, they coordinated with SWAT to burst into the building, the snipers on spot ready to shoot them. They’ve seen it before, something like that. The unsubs didn’t actually consider surrendering. The negotiating was nothing more than a strategy, to win time and to play with the authorities. To give them a sense of power, just to rip it off their hands.

They offered exchanging the hostages for their freedom, knowing no one would give them that. They would kill them all, and it would be the authorities fault. Contributory negligence.

Getting the unsubs by surprise, they managed to eliminate them without any other casualties. Reid’s theory proved right after they barged in. Almost 40 alive, 12 dead. They lied, planning to kill all of the hostages before the police came in.

Aaron wasn’t looking at any of them.

He scanned the crowd quickly, it took him less than 5 seconds to analyse the scene, to count the bodies laying on the ground. His subconscious registered the whole picture, but he was only looking for you. Amongst their faces of fear, the amount of people crumpled on the small stage, like a horror play you were all part of. He wasn’t ready to look for your body, not yet.

It took you little to no time to stand out, your face pale and your eyes blank, whole body in shock as you made your way out of the hostages piled up. He saw you walking, his legs working faster than everything else, making their way to find you.

The second you heard his voice calling your name, it was like you were taken out of a trance, blinking confusedly and only having time to look him in the eyes before your body crashed against his. Hotch wrapped your arms around you, his whole torso covering you up like a human blanket. His hands were on your head, your shoulders, your face.

You had blood all over your face, but it wasn’t yours. He held you in his arms, kissing your temples and shutting his eyes close as he felt your body shaking as you sobbed. He hated that he was hearing you cry, but he loved that he was hearing you at all.

Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just stand there in the middle of everything, hugging you close until all the panic left his body. He was on duty, after all.

But there was no way he would just leave you by yourself too. Instead, he helped the victims, guiding them out and taking them to paramedics. He coordinated the officers, the forensic team and the other FBI members at the scene. All that with you right under his arm, shielding you against everything and everyone. 

The only time Aaron let go of you, was for the paramedics to check out on you. And even then, he didn’t leave your side.

After all the rush eased down, and all of the more injured victims were taken to hospitals, Rossi walked by, giving you a sympathetic look before patting Hotch on the shoulder.

“I got this. Go rest.”

Just another proof of how shaken he was, Aaron just nodded thankfully, agreeing without a fight to let things go for the night. He glanced at his team, making sure they were okay. Apart from the teasing glances, they seemed happy and relieved. With a small smile, he waved at them, turning his attention back to you and only you.

As the sun began to set, the headlights of the police cars and the streets shone against your face, and he frowned at the dried blood on the left side of your face.

“I thought I was going to lose you.” he said quietly, wiping your forehead with a piece of wet cloth from the van.

“Almost.” you tried to joke, but your voice sounded weak and wobbly. He gulped, his eyes solemnly focused on getting you cleaned.

“You took a serious risk by yelling his name.”

“I thought it was going to help.”

“You shouldn’t have.” he scolded.

“Did it help?”

“Yes.” he answered, because he realized that you needed to hear it. And because it was true “But don’t ever do that again.”

“I don’t plan to.” you joke again. Again, it doesn’t land.

“Why didn’t they shoot you?” he asked, this time quieter than the others, and looking you straight in the eye.

“He was going to, I was the next. You got there first. You saved me, Aaron.” you explained. Aaron nodded once, then twice. Then a third time, and he kept nodding like he wanted to confirm, he wanted to engrave it in his brain that he did save you, you were safe. Safe and sound and in his arms again. He wanted his mind to believe it, and his body too.

You saw the moment it settled: the threat was gone, you were alive. His stoic and stone expression melted, giving space to raw emotion. He was angry, and he was happy, and sad and relieved, and above everything he was in love.

‘Love’ was written in bold shining letters in his eyes. He grabbed your now clean – barely – face with his hand, cupping your cheeks and bringing his lips onto yours. He kissed you like his life depended on it, and on some levels it did. His tongue was on yours, he tasted like coffee and salt and life.

You kissed him back, his hands roaming all over your torso, your hands planted on his chest. It felt like the whole word stopped the moment you felt him whispering your name against your lips, urging you to never leave his side, ever again.

He kissed you, and you tasted your tears as he did. You smiled as his team wolf whistled in the back, and you giggled as he smiled too. It was traumatic, and it was sad. But you needed that, you needed that thread of life you found with him. You had the right to do so. You were alive, and you were his, and for now, it was all that mattered.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma @marina468 all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna @bernelflo @pastelpinkflowerlife

[holb32]

Someone New - Gally x Fem!Reader Masterlist

Summary: 10 years after the boys arrive at the Safe Haven, things have gotten better inside but the outside world is still in bad shape. Many people are still trying to survive, unaware there is safety somewhere else. You are one of those people, and you have someone who’s life is more valuable than yours.

Genre: Fluff/Angst/Smut

Chapters: ?

Warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, enemies to lovers adjacent, child endangerment, slightly bad parenting, parental death, lots of trauma, hurt/comfort

Disclaimer: child character is already named, if that happens to be your name then feel free to change it but that would be a crazy coincidence also this was written with cis fem reader in mind but is left as ambiguous as possible appearance wise

———————————————————————

Prologue - Gally is ending his daily patrol of the mainland when he comes across something unusual hiding bushes

Chapter 1 - Gally learns about how the little girl ended up alone, while you have your own problems.

[holb32]

Mr. Holmes' Maid (7)

Summary: You’re his maid.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Maid!Reader

Warnings: angst, power imbalance, master-servant relationship, the reader was an orphan, inappropriate behavior, fluff, bitchy Irene, angry Sherlock, hurt and comfort, miscommunication

Mr. Holmes’ Maid (6)

Mr. Holmes’ maid masterlist

The next few days blend into one another. You didn’t see much of Sherlock, and he didn’t come to you at night.

You spent your time serving tea and enduring Irene Adler’s presence as he buried his nose into documents and police reports.

While you tried to ignore the silence between you and your master, Irene didn’t miss any chance to give snide comments or make sure you knew your place.

Irene Adler was a sharp but also cruel woman. She couldn’t bear sharing Sherlock’s attention with someone as plain and unworthy as a maid. You were nothing but scum in her eyes, not worth the dirt under her nails.

Doing your duty was all you could do. A maid holds no power, and Sherlock was busy discussing the case with Irene. You didn’t dare tell him about the things she said and did to you.

More than once, she tripped you, pushed you around, and poured hot tea over your hands and feet.

Today was the worst day of all. You tried to read a book at Sherlock’s library. It was always open to you, and he was kind enough to teach you to read even better.

Mabel helped you at the orphanage, but Sherlock taught you how to read more difficult words. You are able to read even the most difficult books now, thanks to your master.

“Scum is not allowed at the library,” Irene snapped at you the moment you entered the library to put a book back and get a new one to read before going to bed. You didn’t know she was still around and flinched at her harsh words. “I told you to know your place.”

“I…Master Sherlock allowed me to borrow books,” you defiantly said, holding up the book you wanted to give back.

“As if the likes of you could read!” She snatched the book out of your hands before backhanding you with it. “A useless maid and a thief, too. I’ll talk to Sherlock about you.”

“Master Sherlock knows I borrowed the book.” You sniffled and tried to get the book back to put it back on the shelf. Sherlock likes to have his books in order.

“You should watch your tongue and stop with that attitude,” she huffed and flung the book across the room. “The moment I’m Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, you'll be back on the street where you belong. Now get out of here!”

You stormed out of the room, choking on your tears. Sherlock wasn’t around; he was out for another investigation, so he couldn’t see you lock yourself into your room to cry your eyes out.

“Maid?” Sherlock knocked on your door later at night. He was seeking your closeness, wondering why you locked the door for the first time since he took you in. “Y/N, is something wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?”

He pressed his forehead against the door, sighing deeply. All Sherlock wanted was to hold you in his arms after days filled with the new investigation and Irene Adler.

“Maid, are you mad at me? Please let me in.” He gently knocked again. “Have a good night, then. We can talk in the morning.”

The next morning, you silently packed up your things. Irene made it clear that you are no longer welcome at Sherlock’s home, and he didn’t stop her. Even if he wasn’t around when Irene attacked you, he must’ve known she hates you and wanted you gone. You were sure about it.

The seamstress offered help, and now the time had come to accept her generous offer. You were not too bad at knitting and sewing. If they let you stay at their place, you would pay them back with hard work until you get back on your feet.

Leaving your master and his home was the hardest decision you ever made. There was no place for you here any longer. You didn’t want to wait for Lady Irene to push you out in the dirt, onto the street to live among the sewer rats.

You’ll take what’s left of your pride, if you ever had pride in the first place, and follow the seamstress’s advice.

“Where’s the little maid today?” Irene watched Sherlock sulk. He was staring at the same pages for half an hour and didn’t pay attention to her. “Sherlock, did you hear me?”

“She didn’t leave her room this morning,” he grumbled and waved her off. “Maybe she’s not feeling well. Y/N is always reliable and a good maid.” Sherlock was still wound tight from your silent rejection last night.

“You should get rid of that useless maid. She’s clumsy and a thief,” she accused you of stealing the book you borrowed from Sherlock’s library. “She dared to lie to my face. Can you believe this maid? She deserved more than one slap.”

Sherlock didn’t listen to Irene’s rant until she mentioned you. He lifted his head, glaring daggers into her skull. He slowly rose from his seat, dropping the papers in his hands, to stalk toward Irene.

She stiffened, her breath hitching in her throat when his large palm wrapped around her throat. A scream tore from her throat when her back hit the wall behind her.

Sherlock wasn’t proud of his reaction. He never laid a hand on a dame before. Until now, he saw himself as a protector, not a violent man pushing ladies around.

“You will never touch my maid again,” he growled, his eyes darker than the pits of hell. “Who gave you the right to touch her? I allowed her to use my library, and you come here, uninvited, and dare to change my rules?”

Irene was shaking like a leaf. She was never easily scared, not even by men telling her she could not be a detective. Sherlock’s reaction, though, scared her to the bone.

“If you ever come here again, I’ll make sure you regret it. If I hear you touched my maid again, you will regret that, too. We are done. Get out before I forget myself and break your neck.”

Irene watched Sherlock step away from her. The grim expression on his face told her this wasn’t one of his games. Sherlock was dead serious, and it made her regret her decision to ever lay hands on you.

“She’s just a mediocre maid. We share a past,” she stammered, eyes glued to his angry face. “Sherlock, we are great together.”

“No, we are nothing,” he replied and pointed toward the door. “Pray that you did not hurt my maid too much. If you did, I’ll be coming for you. You have ten seconds to get out of the room and my sight.”

Irene didn’t hesitate to run out of the room, never looking back. Her plan to get Sherlock back and become Mrs. Holmes was shattered with every step she took to leave his home.

“Maid? Y/N?” Sherlock knocked on your door. You were about to sneak out of the house in the dead of the night. Now you were trapped with no chance to escape. “Please open the door. Irene had no right to lay her hands on you.”

“I’ll be gone soon,” you sniffled and wiped your eyes. “She’ll be the lady of the house, and I'll get back to the sewer I came from.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped for a second. He didn’t hesitate this time. Sherlock rammed his shoulder into the door, over and over again, until the lock budged, and he was able to enter your room.

You were clutching your few belongings to your chest, tears in your eyes, seeing the state he was in.

“Maid. My sweet maid…no. Please don’t leave me,” he pounced on you, like his life depended on it. He murmured your name and gently ran his hand over your hair. “I should’ve seen what she’s doing to you, Y/N. I was distracted by the case and…”

He nuzzled your cheek. “No, that’s no excuse for leaving you alone with her. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

“I should go,” you murmured. “If she becomes Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, I cannot stay. She said it herself.” You silently cried into his chest. Sherlock’s heart hurt hearing your desperate sobs.

“She’ll never become Mrs. Holmes,” he said without hesitation. Sherlock wanted to tell you that you are the only woman he wants to wear his name, but he couldn’t rush things. “Please stay with me. I cannot let you go.”

You didn’t fight him when Sherlock picked you up in bridal style to carry you out of your chamber and toward his bedroom.

You hid your face in his shoulder, still sobbing because the thought of leaving your master, your Sherlock, broke your heart.

[holb32]

An absent mate

Summary: Your mate cares more about a taken omega.

Pairing: Wolverine x Omega!Reader

Warnings: a/b/o, a/b/o dynamics, abandonment, emotional cheating, heavy angst, pregnancy, loneliness, language, shitty friends, shitty alpha, Jean being the worst ever, Jean hate (sorry)

Square filled for the Wolverine bingo @buck-star created for me: Square 23: a/b/o

In the beginning, you believed everything would turn out for the better. Everyone encouraged you to pursue the alpha you fell in love with. You believed their words, their lies, so easily.

Logan wasn’t happy with all the attention you gave him at first. But the more you threw yourself at him, the more he got fond of you. Or so it seemed.

You spent many nights tangled in each other, touching every inch of your bodies, while you got more and more lost in Logan.

His mark soon was on your neck, indicating that he finally settled for an omega and forgot about the one he couldn’t have.

You soon would find out that the passion he showed in the bedroom did not dull the ache whenever he ignored your needs.

Hugs, a no-go. Kissing, only when it was to start something else. Being around you for longer than needed was out of the question.

Day by day, you realized that you got trapped in a loveless bond by no other but your chosen family. The people you trusted the most.

“Logan, where are you going again?” You almost pleaded while grabbing his arm. “I told you I need you today.”

“I told you that Jean needs me. Scott is on a mission, and she’s all alone,” Logan bites back, wincing as you flinch at his harsh tone. “Give me an hour or two, and we can do whatever you want to do.” He tries to charm his way back into your good graces, but you only scoff.

“What if I ever get pregnant? Will you be there for me, too, or just ignore me?” Your questions make Logan stop in his tracks. He considers your words before walking toward the door.

“We shouldn’t have a baby.” His words cut deeper than any knife. “I’m too old to have children.”

“You will outlive all of us. Me…anyone,” you scoff. “You’re not too old. You simply don’t want to have children with me.”

“No…I…” Logan shakes his head. “I’d outlive our child, too, Y/N. I don’t want to see them die like everyone else.”

“You could play with your grandchildren, and their children,” you sniffle. “Anyone would kill for that chance, but you…” You protectively wrap your arms around yourself. “If Jean’s child were yours, you wouldn’t hesitate.”

“That’s not…true.” He tries to argue, but you are too wound tight to give in today. In the past, you endured the pain in silence.

“Forget it,” you sniffle and already turn back around. “I can handle my problems on my own. I’m not a weakling like Jean.” You grab your jacket and bag and storm out of the room, slamming the door shut.

Jean stands in front of your room, running her hand over her visible bump. She smirks, knowing you got into a fight with your mate because of her.

“Get fucked.” You curse and storm past her. In your condition, you shouldn’t stress yourself or always get into fights with your mate. It’s no use. He will not turn toward you, and Jean won’t stop playing the victim.

“I’m so done,” you think in your mind, catching Professor Xavier’s attention. Usually, you guard your mind like a dragon guarding a captured princess. Today, your heart and soul a screaming because you cannot endure more heartbreak. “That’s enough heartbreak for a lifetime.”

After returning from your doctor's appointment, you decided to talk to your fellow X-Men.

You don’t understand why Logan claimed you if his heart was still hung up on Jean.

They all assured you that Logan feels the same, but now you feel like they lied to you.

If you are right, the betrayal cuts even deeper.

Walking along the hallways, you change your mind. If you ask them directly, they’d only lie to you to shelter your feelings.

It’s against the rules, but to get the truth, you are willing to break all the rules.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath before using your powers. You focus on everyone telling you to make a move on Logan.

Not only did Logan and Jean underestimate you, but your fellow X-Men did too.

In full control of your powers, you can read their minds all at once.

Your eyes fill with tears, realizing, they knew Logan would never reciprocate your feelings all along. None of them was truly on your side.

“All of you.” You accuse, pointing at Professor Xavier in particular. “Every single one of you told me to give Logan a chance. You told me he’s bad at admitting feelings.”

“We only asked you to give him a chance to make him happy,” Storm tries to save the situation and calm you. No such luck.

You scoff at your stupidity and shake your head. “You didn’t ask me to give him a chance to become his mate, his partner, or the mother of his pups.” You emphasize your last words, running your hand over your swollen bump. “No. You did it, so he got someone to fuck!”

Professor Xavier flinches at your outburst. Not only because your words are true, but also because you screamed in his mind.

“You wanted me to let him fuck me while his whole attention was focused on Jean. A taken woman. A mated omega. Someone else’s wife.” You sniff and look away from them. “You made me believe he’ll reciprocate my feelings one day.”

Professor Xavier wants to say something, but you raise your hand to stop him. “Save it, professor. He doesn’t care for me. Logan is all over Jean all the time because she won’t leave a taken man alone.” You snarl the last line. “She’s nothing but a homewrecker, and all of you decided to look the other way. I’m done.”

Logan finally joins the others, staring at you as if you lost your mind. He heard every word thanks to his higher senses and advanced hearing.

“If you are unhappy, go.” He growls and points at you. “But before, give me my favorite shirt back.”

You can’t believe his cruelty, but you are not surprised either.

“Fine, have it.” You drop your bag and jacket to take off his shirt, throwing it at Logan. Everyone gasps, even your mate, looking at the prominent bump you hid so well over the last few months. You’re five months pregnant and are already showing a big belly.

Logan’s shoulders slump, and he gasps loudly. “You’re pregnant too?” He asks, as if you tried to hide your pregnancy from him.

“Yeah, that,” you run your hand over your bump, “isn’t your problem, right? That’s what you told me last week when I, once again, tried to tell you about my pregnancy. But you were busy rubbing Jean’s back because she was nauseous.”

You laugh loudly at the absurdity. “She’s pregnant with another man, and you do anything to make her feel better while your mate suffers alone, hoping her mate will at least help her with her nest. I was only ever an afterthought to you, nothing else.”

“How did you not know she’s pregnant?” Ororo’s eyes clouded watching you grab your jacket to cover yourself. “Logan? How did you not know?”

“I…” Logan averts his gaze and shakes his head. There’s no excuse for not knowing about his mate’s pregnancy. For months, he took care of another omega.

You look Jean straight in the eyes and say, “Don’t worry Jean, I give my mate free. You should ask Scott to do the same so you and your chosen mate, the one you love, can be together.”

Jean looks anywhere but at you. Her hands tremble when she places them on her belly. Her pup kicks, and she feels bad for you for a moment. She had the attention of two alphas, while you had to do everything on your own.

Your features darken, and you smirk cruelly as she looks flustered.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot you only wanted Logan to give you his full attention out of jealousy. You never wanted him, but seeing him become my mate didn’t sit right with you. Correct me when I’m wrong.”

Jean doesn’t answer. Her silence speaks volumes, though.

In the beginning, she kept her distance and watched you get closer and closer to Logan from afar. Until one day, she decided not to let Logan stop yearning for her. It didn’t matter that you wore his mark, and that he called you his omega at that time.

“I still don’t understand how Logan didn’t know about Y/N’s pregnancy.” Ororo looks at Logan. “Logan?”

“Because he gives a shit about me. I was only good for getting off. I have no worth to him. Not when Jean is all over him most of the day and night. I always wondered if Scott loves being a cuck.”

Gambit snorts at your comment. He shakes his head and shoves people out of his way, holding out his hand. “Do you want me to drive you somewhere?"

“No,” you slap his offered hand away. “I don’t want anything from you or the likes of you.” You walk past him, not sparing Logan a glance as you walk toward the front door. “I hope you all go to hell.”

With that, you slam the door shut behind you, leaving them alone with their regret.

[holb32]

What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

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[holb32]

Bitter - chapter one

my wattpad account booted me out since I don't have the email for it anymore, after like 15 years? so I'm putting this story here for now until i decide to move it over to A03 as well, regardless I hope everyone enjoys! this book is finan x fem!oc whom is named Singe!

Disclaimer: Singe and all of her plotlines, along with any other additional characters added are mine and mine alone. I do not give permission to reupload, translate etc. anywhere else that is not under any of my official handles.

Summary: Uhtred and Ragnar's younger sister Singe is loyal without fault, and maybe that will be her downfall one day; but that day is yet to come. Tasked with bringing her brother back to the graces of King Alfred once more, an irishman changes everything Singe thought she knew about fate.

The path was not easy, finding Uhtred would not be an easy task. It took days to get to Cumberland while traveling with a large group. The only person that the young woman had bothered to talk to was Hild, a woman of her God. It pained Signe to say it, but she did enjoy the woman’s company. Signe would leave her to her prayers every so often, not wanting to impose on a conversation between the woman and her ‘true God’. She even found herself no longer rolling her eyes when any of the other Saxon’s that she and her brother traveled with would make comments about their Christian religion. 

Arriving in Cumberland reminded Signe of entering into an abandoned village. The people looked starved and exhausted as they watched the newcomers approach a large building in the center. “Sister Hild,” A man spoke from the balcony of the structure. Signe frowned her eyebrows at the man, her eyes narrowing in a gaze. She knew a priest when she saw one, but she had never known them to speak in a King's absence. “And company. What business brings you here?” The man questioned, his eyes lingering on the two Dane’s amongst the group of Saxons. 

“We are here on the orders of King Alfred.” Ragnar spoke, sending the man a sarcastic smile. “I wish to speak to King Guthred.” 

The man observed Ragnar for a second longer, before the only thing he could let out was; “You are a Dane.” Signe had to suppress the scoff, but she could not help herself from rolling her eyes. There was no denying that herself and her brother stood out from the others like a sore thumb. 

“I am.” Ragnar replied, this time his smile was genuine. Signe grunted as her horse shifted from under her. They had been on the road all morning until they had reached Cumberland, and she imagined they would not be resting within the village tonight either. The conversation between the others held no interest to her, instead she found solitude in picking at the skin around her fingers. 

“Uhtred is lost.” Signe’s ears perked up at the sound of her brother’s name. Her eyes landing on a new man before them, he looked weak; like a gust of wind would knock him over. 

“Lost by your hand.” Signe spoke, many around them turning to face the woman who had been silent. “You are the one who sold him, no?” 

“I am truly sorry, Uhtred is lost. I need to gather my thoughts.” If granted, Signe would have gotten off her horse at that very moment and gone after this King herself. If they did not find Uhtred, he would be long gone; or worse off dead. If Uhtred was dead, then no one would get their freedom back. Signe ignored the small girl that weaved in and out of the horses, handing Hild an apple, as the king disappeared into the building once more. 

“If you are truly sorry you will give me the name of the slaver!” Ragnar called, but it was no use. The only men who remained were the priests. 

“Uhtred is indeed lost.” One of the priests said, before they too disappeared into the building once more. Everyone looked between each other, it was Ragnar who would decide their next move. Signe could see her brother struggling to come to terms with what they had been told, her eyes drifting to Steepa who was stationed behind her. 

“We leave Cumberland. We will set up camp away from here, it would not be wise to stay the night.” Signe spoke, Steepa nodding before calling for the rest of the group to make haste. There was not a moment spared as the group left the walls of the pathetic kingdom, making camp half a day away. 

“Thank you, for stepping in when I could not.” Ragnar spoke, lowering himself down onto the log Signe had claimed. The woman said nothing, but nodded in response as she stared into the crackling embers of the fire in front of them. 

“I was afraid of what I might do if I stayed the night within those walls.” Signe muttered, her eyes falling to her brother beside her. “Besides, I would like to enjoy every moment outside of a cell incase we do not find Uhtred.” 

“Do not say that Signe, we will find Uhtred. We will bring him back to the King and we will finally take back our homeland.” Ragnar told the woman. 

Signe sighed, looking from her brother to the star painted skies above them. The warmth of the fire was welcoming in the late hours of the night, most of the men now sleeping peacefully around them. “The day of overthrowing Kjartan is close.” The two shared a look, a small smile tugging at the corners of Signe’s lips. “We will show no mercy when we avenge our family.” 

“Not an ounce.” 

At first light the group had packed up their camp and made way for the slavers that would know more about Uhtred’s whereabouts. The whereabouts of the slavers were known by many, but no one dared to go close to their camps for fear of imprisonment themselves. The thought of such a place sent shivers through Signe, how cruel does one have to be in order to sell another man away like a farm animal? 

When the camp was in sight, Ragnar looked over his shoulder to his sister. “You will stay close to me at all times, do you understand?” 

“I am more than capable of fighting off a few pathetic men.” Signe uttered, but nodded her head when Ragnar did not so much as chuckle at her words. They rode into the camp, Ragnar requesting water for the men and horses which was granted happily to them.

Ragnar nodded his head to Signe, signaling the girl to follow him as he approached the man and boy in front of them. “You are Jonis?” Ragnar questioned as Signe placed her hand over the hilt of her sword as she stared him down. 

“I am.” The man quickly replied, his eyes flickering between the pair. Signe had come across many men like him in her lifetime. They were weak, using their men's lives at their own disposal in order to be the ones who live. He carried a sword but Signe had a feeling he would wield it no better than the child that stood beside him. 

“We’ve been told that you took a man, a warrior, from Guthred of Eoferwic.” Signe spoke, her eyes narrowing as she spoke. Joins gulped under her stare, Ragnar nodding at the man as encouragement to answer the question. “You sold him as a slave, correct?” Signe pushed, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her sword tighter. All she needed was one reason to kill the man where he stood, only one reason to free the slaves huddled together under the shade of a tattered tent. 

“I see the faces of so many creatures.” Jonis spoke, his eyes now on Ragnar alone. Creatures? This man was brave enough to look Ragnar in the eye and call these people as creatures, they’re own brother. 

“I’m not here to open your belly, Jonis.” Ragnar told the man he was always the more calm one when it came to speaking to others. Signe liked to talk with her weapons, getting information was much quicker that way and she was growing bored of the talk. 

“Not yet.” Steepa spoke, approaching the siblings and the man. 

“I would yield to the tree, before he starts using his fists.” Signe hissed, her green eyes not breaking from their glare. 

“I’ll pay you.” Ragnar offered, making Signe roll her eyes. Nothing in this world would come for free, but paying a man like him is never wise. 

“You will not feed the slaves!” Jonis yelled, making everyone look to Hild who stood under the tent handing out bread to anyone she could. 

“And you will not bark like a great fat hound!” Hild yelled back, making Signe snicker to herself. Signe was happy that Hild was so strong willed, she was truly a woman that could hold her own. 

“You said you would pay?” Jonis questioned Ragnar. 

“You think my brother tells you lies?” Signe asked, stepping forward only to be dragged back by Ragnar. The blonde Dane dug into the coin pouch he had, tossing a piece of silver to the boy who stood beside Jonis. 

“The warrior slave, called himself Osbert.” Signe’s eyes widened at the name. She had not heard the name Osbert in many many years. The name dead to the man who once possessed it. Ragnar glanced between Hild and Signe before tossing the boy another coin. “There was another man, smaller, Saxon.” Signe glanced to Hild, hearing her breath catch in her throat. They were never informed of another man being taken alongside Uhtred, but by Hild’s reaction he was quite the important Christian man. “A sea trader named Sverri took them both.” 

“Where is Sverri now?” Hild asked. 

“Wherever the sea and the promise of silver takes him.” Jonis told them. “Life at the oar is hard and short.” Signe shivered at the thought. Spending days and nights on open waters, rowing until your body would eventually give into exhaustion. “Sverri will return, I’m sure. To refresh his crew.” 

“When will he be back?” Signe asked, looking up to Ragnar as she feared the answer they would get. 

“Autumn and winter will pass, but come spring, the first full moon after Sigr Blot, we will gather for business at the beach.” Jonis informed them. Summer was hardly at an end now, by the time spring came that would be in almost eight months time; if not longer depending on how the Gods favored them. “Sverri will be there, I swear.” 

“And between that time he sails where?” Ragnar asked, his eyes narrowed in an attempt to block out the sun. 

“His ships plough the roughest sea, he could be any place.” Jonis confessed. 

“You tell us nothing.” Hild said in defeat, throwing her arms down to her sides in disbelief. 

“I tell you what I know to be true.” Jonis defended. “All you can do is watch the beaches and wait.” Ragnar nodded at that, everyone making their way to collect their horses to leave for Winchester. Signe lingered behind, stepping closer to Jonis and grabbing the collar of his tunic. 

“I promise Jonis, come spring I will have your head.” 

[holb32]

the closer his rut, the more often your werewolf husband wakes in the early hours of the morning with a hard cock and hairy skin sensitive to the smallest touches due to the unbearable ache.

it’s hot. too hot in the bedroom, so he has to rip the bed sheets away from his side or he’ll start going more insane than he already feels. you’re facing away from him, ass pointing toward him in an unknowing taunt as you remain asleep on your side. yet he still wakes you, tugging you from your slumber and flush against his front.

even in your groggy state, you know. you can feel the leaky head of his dick pressing into your fold–pulsing its heated requests right against your entrance. a tired lift of your leg is all it takes for the wolf to grope your tit and slide inside you with a growl into your neck. he’s already coming by the time he bottoms out, pumping his seed as he keeps fucking you.

the both of you know that if he doesn’t get out what he needs to right now, he'll be a clingy, whining grump… so he fucks you for the entire morning. embracing you while you clutch him back, your drowsy state and the way his tip nudges up against your cervix wrenching multiple orgasms from you. your husband coming almost continuously for the entire period, creaming your walls with nonstop, throaty howls. and only stopping when the two of you are covered in sweat and panting with exhaustion.

“can’t wait f’you to to take my knot,” he slurs at your back, holding your trembling figure. letting his eyes shut, he rambles. “gonna mark you up. fill you with pups, then watch y’get all big and round. make your tits swell up nice ‘n pretty with milk…” 

a few more sentences, and the wolf’s fast asleep. snoring low and right against your ear while rubbing a palm across the damp skin of your stomach.

WANNA READ MORE ABOUT WEREWOLF HUSBAND? FIND HIM ON MY PATREON!

[holb32]

Hello Nova! I'd love to read an explicit, romance + smut + drama, Sandor x reader where the reader is Jon's twin sister, and it's a forced/arranged marriage trope.

I think the plot where it's as a punishment by Joffrey, but that's kinda cliché, so how about:

Reader had been married before to some Northerner lord, but he died or had it annulled, and while discussing Sansa and Joffrey's marriage with Cat, Cersei comes up with the idea to marry her off to the Hound, so she could "breed" the next gen of the kingsguard, promising if she had girls they'd have a place in court or be married to worthy suitors.

Cat obviously wants her away, and Robert or Cat can convince Ned it's a good idea since nobody else wants to marry reader.

Idk if it's too crazy, but I can't wait to read it. I am obsessed with your writing. Keep up the good work! ♡

A Dog's Honor

Requests are closed

- Summary: You never belonged anywhere. Not in the North, not with your family. But you might belong with him.

- Pairing: snow!reader/Sandor Clegane

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: This ones is fresh from the oven. I hope I've managed to write everything you had in mind. ☺️

The godswood had not changed in all the years since your childhood, nor had the bitter chill in its air dulled with age or memory. The red leaves of the heart tree still whispered above the quiet pool, still bled their sap in the likeness of weeping. You sat beneath it now, wrapped in a cloak of grey and white, your breath fogging in the cold as you tried to lose yourself in the old gods and your own thoughts. But they would not leave you be. Not when the castle was teeming with southern strangers, golden lions and oiled courtiers who eyed you with a mixture of polite disdain and open curiosity. You, a Snow, a widow with no remnant of a title save what had briefly been granted through your dead husband’s name, and a Stark only in blood and shadow.

Voices carried from the great hall beyond the trees. Loud, boisterous—Robert’s laugh, like the roar of a bear. Then Cersei’s cutting tone, low and biting. You flinched before you even heard your name.

“…And what would you have us do with her, Lady Catelyn? Leave her to become a silent sister? Or let her wither away here, haunting these halls like some northern ghost?”

You heard your step-mother’s voice, quiet and clipped, trying to hold firm against the lioness’s derision. “She is still mourning. Y/N’s husband died only last year.”

“Yes, and no new offers have come since, have they?” Cersei drawled, amusement coiling in her words like a snake. “Pretty enough, in a cold sort of way, but too Stark to tempt a southern lord. Too quiet. Too solemn. And now too old to dangle in front of a noble boy with his cock still wet.”

“Cersei,” Eddard said, warning thick in his tone, “That is enough.”

But the queen only smiled. You knew it without seeing. That smile was a blade sheathed in velvet.

“I have a proposal, if your northern honor allows some sense,” she said. “Let the girl be wed again. To one who will not care for her sharp tongue or her wintry silences. One who will breed loyalty, if not beauty.”

You felt it then—the pause. The cold hush of something heavy falling into place.

“To Sandor,” Cersei said at last. “My son’s dog. He is no knight, but he serves better than most who wear the title. And we’ve always spoken of what should come after. The next generation of the Kingsguard must be stronger than the last, especially if they are to serve Joffrey when he is king. A Snow and a Clegane—harsh stock, but strong. She would breed warriors. Sons for the sword, daughters for the court. Perhaps one might even wed a knight or a minor lord. It is more than she has now.”

Your blood had frozen. You rose from the godswood without a sound, the trees no longer speaking to you.

Inside, the hearth roared as if in mockery of the cold that had taken root in your chest. You stepped through the doorway as your father turned sharply, his face white with fury.

“She is not some broodmare to be bartered for steel,” Eddard snapped.

“No,” Cersei agreed sweetly, turning to you now. “She is a widow with no prospects. Unless you have a better suggestion, Lord Stark?”

Robert, red-cheeked from wine and the hunt, waved a hand. “It makes sense, Ned. She’s not likely to find better, and Sandor has served Joff well. Let him have something of his own at last. She’s your daughter by blood, not your name. And she’s of age. Let them be married before we leave for King’s Landing.”

You stood at the edge of the hall, every eye on you. Your breath shallow, your mouth dry. Sandor Clegane was there too, leaning against a stone pillar in the shadow of the firelight. His expression unreadable, though his eyes burned like coals beneath his brow.

“You’d marry me off to a dog?” you asked, voice low but steady.

Cersei tilted her head. “Better a dog than no master at all.”

“Enough,” Eddard said, rising now, voice as hard as ice. “You will not speak of her that way again, Cersei. She is of my blood.”

“She is of no house,” Cersei replied. “You know it. That is why it fits.”

You turned your eyes to your father, your true father, who had always loved you as his own. Eddard’s mouth was pressed into a grim line, his jaw tight.

“Y/N,” he said at last, soft and solemn, “It may not be what you wanted. But I would not see you waste away here. And Robert… is not wrong. There may not be another offer. Not one that protects you.”

You did not speak again until long after the feast, after the queen had smirked her way through supper, after Robert had poured more wine into his beard than his cup, after Sansa had clung to the idea of marrying her prince like a child with a doll. You found yourself in the stables, your fingers stroking the mane of your mare, trying to ignore the ache behind your eyes.

“You’re too proud for this place,” came a gruff voice at your back.

You turned. Sandor stood in the doorway, face half-shadowed, half-burned. His eyes flicked over you, not with lust or cruelty, but with something bordering on pity.

“I don’t need pity,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t offer it,” he replied. “Just telling you what I see.”

You studied him. He was not handsome, not gentle, not kind. But he had never lied to you, not once. Never dressed his words in honey.

“You don’t want this,” you said.

He gave a grunt of laughter. “What man wouldn’t want a Stark girl in his bed, hm? Pretty enough. Strong hips. But I’m not fool enough to think you want it either.”

“I don’t,” you whispered. “But I won’t be caged here like a relic.”

He stepped closer. The scent of leather, of horse and steel and smoke clung to him like a second skin. He loomed, tall and scarred and brutal, but not cruel.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice low. “Not unless you ask for it. And I won’t chase you in your bed. Not until you tell me to.”

You stared up at him, and something inside you shifted. Not surrender, but a kind of grim acceptance.

“I’ll never love you,” you said.

“Good,” Sandor muttered. “Love’s for fools and bards.”

And when he turned and left, leaving you alone in the silence of the stables, you realized you didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.

The wedding had been cold in all but weather. The gods had not smiled, though the sun had shone brightly over Winterfell’s courtyard where Cersei Lannister presided like a vulture draped in silk, offering venomous smiles and mocking toasts. You had worn silver and grey, a gown stitched with direwolves and lined with pale fur, but it might as well have been a shroud. The words were said quickly, without warmth or joy—your father’s voice strained, your hand stiff in Sandor’s gloved grip. When the maester had called for a kiss to seal the vows, Sandor only dipped his head and let the edge of his mouth brush your temple. He had not touched your lips, not claimed you with the hunger you half-expected. Just a brush, a breath, and a step away.

Catelyn had watched it all with a tight, triumphant smile, as though your removal from her household had been a long-awaited purge. She had hugged Sansa too tightly afterward, whispering too loudly that "your sister will be fine, she was never meant for the North." You had seen the way her eyes avoided yours during the feast, heard the way her voice grew more cheerful the further you were from her sight. And Jon—gods, your twin had looked ready to throw his goblet at the queen when the toasts began, red-faced and shaking, but he had no power to stop it. No title. No name. Just a bastard like you once were, before widowhood had offered you a different kind of prison.

The bedding had been skipped, at your insistence, and for once even the queen had relented. "Let her scurry off with her beast in peace," Cersei had murmured with false kindness. "We’ve had our amusement for one day."

Now, inside the old bedchamber the servants had hurried to prepare, you stood with your back to the heavy door. Sandor had not lit the hearth yet, but the faint light from a cluster of candles painted your silhouette across the stone wall. You could still smell wine and pine needles from the feast, the ghosts of winter mingling in your lungs as you breathed slowly, deliberately.

He stood near the window, half in shadow, unfastening the black surcoat that had been brushed clean for the wedding. You watched his scarred face from the side, the way the firelight licked the ruined skin, how his eyes were darker than you'd remembered, full of watchfulness instead of hunger.

"You don’t have to be afraid," Sandor said finally, voice rough like gravel, but quieter now. Almost hesitant.

“I’m not,” you replied, turning to face him.

His eyes flicked to you, then away. “I told you before. I won’t force you. You’re not some whore the Lannisters threw at me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your hands moved to your waist, untying the laces of your gown with stiff fingers. The fabric sighed as it slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your feet like mist. Beneath it, your chemise clung to your skin, thin and silken, more southern than northern in its cut. You saw the way his gaze shifted—his jaw clenched, his fingers flexed—but he didn’t move toward you.

“I know you won’t force me,” you said softly. “That’s why I’m not afraid.”

You stepped out of the dress fully, baring yourself to the cold and to him. Your hair hung loose down your back, the ends brushing your hips. You shivered, but not from fear.

“Let’s just get it over with,” you said, lifting your chin. “Isn’t that what’s expected?”

He made a sound in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. He crossed the room slowly, each step heavy, until he stood before you. Not touching. Just looking. You wondered if he would be cruel, if the roughness in his voice would translate to violence in his hands—but instead, he touched your wrist, just a brush of callused fingers. Then your collarbone. Then the slope of your jaw.

“You think I want to hurt you?” he asked, not quite a question.

“I think you know how,” you replied, staring up at him.

He barked a laugh at that—harsh, humorless. “Aye. I know how. But I won’t.”

His hands were large, the palms broad and scarred, but when they cupped your waist, they were gentle. Almost reverent. You let yourself lean into him, closing your eyes as he lowered his mouth to yours. His kiss wasn’t practiced, not soft or sweet like a bard’s tale. But it was real. Earnest. Solid. You clung to him with surprising desperation, your breath caught in your chest.

He undressed slowly, letting you see every inch of him—the fire-scarred skin on his shoulder, the crisscross of old wounds, the strength in his arms and chest. When he took you to bed, it wasn’t hurried or brutal. He laid you down carefully, the mattress creaking beneath your bodies. The cold didn’t seem to reach you anymore.

There was pain at first, yes. But he murmured something against your ear—low and gruff, but soothing. One of his hands tangled in your hair, the other braced beside your head, never pinning you, never pressing too hard. And when he moved inside you, slow and careful, it was more considerate than you had ever imagined him capable of. You bit your lip, breath hitching, but you didn’t cry out. You didn’t need to. He read the tension in your limbs, the way your fingers gripped his back, and adjusted to you without a word.

After, you lay half-covered by the furs, staring at the timbered ceiling, heart still beating too fast. He rested beside you, eyes half-closed, one arm slung across your waist.

“You were gentler than I thought you’d be,” you murmured.

He snorted, but there was no scorn in it. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

You turned to face him. “Why’d you agree to it? The marriage.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Because they would’ve married me off to some court lady otherwise. Or given you to some fat old fool with gout. I figured if we had to be used, might as well be by each other.”

You blinked, stunned by the rough honesty. Then he shifted closer, his heat wrapping around you.

“I’ll keep you safe, girl,” he said against your hair. “You and any babes that come from this. No one will touch you, not while I live.”

You believed him. And for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to exhale.

[holb32]

Mostly all my fanfic are NSFW and are for mature readers. Please check the tags before reading. Have fun reading these and stay safe! - L

Follow my tiktok to see edits: HERE and If anyone wants they can leave a tip on this LINK.

Keep reading

[holb32]

A Dragon Queen’s Court - Masterlist

Summary: Aera Targaryen. First daughter of the Mad King. The Targaryen that was left behind. The Princess who refused the throne. Raised by Baratheons and Lannisters. She became what no one expected. The woman that the realm needed. A princess that walked amongst the folk and wasn’t afraid of speaking her mind.

Pairing: Oberyn Baratheon x fem!targaryen!oc x Renly Baratheon

Prologue

Part I. (2.8k) - After being imprisoned in her ‘room’ for three weeks, she was finally given her old room back. Not out of kindness, that’s what she knows. During the wedding of the new king, Robert Baratheon, and his new wife, Cersei Lannister, she got company by funny visitors. Together the three went on a mission to gossip about the lords that were in the castle tonight.

Part II. (2.5k) - The queen is pregnant. So, Aera made it her mission to help her, to ease her worries. And so, it was also her duty to overlook what she’s eating, that wouldn’t harm the baby.

Part III. (2.5k) - This time Aera decided it would be a great idea to supervise the king, Robert Baratheon. As well as testing the Kingsguard.

Part IV. (2.8k) - The prince is born. Everyone is glad that everything went well, but it didn’t take long for disaster to strike for the Targaryen Princess. The news have spread as quick as the wind, and didn’t take long before the whole castle knew.

Part V. (2.3k) - The feast for Prince Joffrey has started, but Aera still felt down. So she retreats to the lake in the godswood. There she gets found by the queen, Cersei. After going back to the hall, she meets the young Baratheon, Renly.

Part VI. (2.9k) - It is Aera’s Targaryen fourteenth names day. For once she wishes for peace, but when are her wishes granted. Especially with the Baratheon-Lannister children around. Let’s not forget the drunk king.

[holb32]

Hello) if you liked it, you can follow me, I will be pleased)

Do you sometimes need to put out headcanons? I have so many ideas

[holb32]

I Rather Use Sticks and Stones

Tags: fluff, dad!simon riley, wife!reader, bullying, mention of violence(nothing graphic)

I gathered from the poll that you guys really wanted the whole dad!au so I hope you can enjoy this! :)) cheers! Also sorry it came out so late! I was out with family (⌒-⌒; )

You frustrated at this point, where was he? Where is your son? What the hell even happened. You hoped they’d all been answered by now. You’re husband is trying to get here quickly as possible and you’re son is still in the infirmary…

From what you were told at least, he was trying to defend another little girl during playtime. You hoped that was the honest to god truth. A hulking figure stood behind you, silent and yet so watchful. “Simon? Where have you been?!” You huffed. He patted your shoulder as he sighed. “Got caught up in traffic love.” You shook your head, “At least you’re here…”

“Where is he?” He asked, brows furrowed. “Right here Mr. Riley.” A man said. Your tiny son came out through a side door, bandages and bruises all over his boy. A little pout on his face, with his eyes slightly glossed over. Poor baby..

“Jesus Christ?! What happened? They’re only 8?!” You wheezed out before going to your son, holding his face and looking at him. But his eyes weren’t focused on you, they were focused on his dad. His eyes lingered low as he sniffled. “Sorry..”

You sighed, and held his head. “Well can you please explain what happened?! I mean, look at him!” You grunted at the man which you could only assume was the principal. “Well yes, the other little boy’s parents are already here, we can sit down and chat if you’d like?”

You looked up at Simon, his eyes narrowing down. Gazing and picking apart the man. He could feel the man sweating in fear from here. He wasn’t willing to chat with the brat who decided to pick a fight with his little mini me.

“Fine, I hope they have some common sense.” He grunted, still looking furious. “Alright, no need for insults sir, right this way.”

“No insults my ass…” He mumbled under his breath. You followed the principal inside his office, your son clinging to your side. The boy was sitting on the opposite side, his mother shushing him as he father lays there with anger boiling up in his body.

You sat down with Simon opting to stand up and lean against the wall. Your son sat beside you, lips still pouting and mopping. “Okay, let’s discuss what happened. Your son decided to “defend” another student from your son.”

“Okay, what’s the issue?” Simon spoke up. “Well, we don’t condone violence here and we don’t want to foster that type of environment here.” The mother frowned at you, eyeing you up and down. Her lips pierced downwards as the grip on her son.

His face was beaten up as well, but not as bad as your baby’s face. His lip was busted, a little bit of blood still trickling down. His left eye was black and purple. And his arms has deep scratch marks and tiny yellow bruises on his little bicep.

“Well obviously you do since this little boy here attack my son!” The woman spoke up. You rolled your eyes at the lady, scoffing at her words. “Okay, ladies let’s settle down. Now it’s has come to my attention that your son was trying to defend another student, a little girl.” Simon’s eyes panned down to his son, eyes showing or at least trying to show his respect for his son. All of this lets him know that he raised him right.

“Well I don’t see a problem as well, I think maybe this young man is the problem, not my son. In fact, seems like you’re okay with bullying and harassment.” You spoked up, head raised high and eyes looking into the Principal’s inner soul. “No, no way you’re spinning this onto my sweet angel! He probably just wanted a toy and was a mistake! Your son is just brute!”

If you could jump over the chairs and knock her face off, you could. But your son needs you right now, and wouldn’t risk your son’s happiness over some stupid lady. Suddenly a little voice came up, his words wobbled and churned.

“He pushed her so I pushed him back. That wasn’t very nice of him to make her cry.”

You cooed at him, rubbing the side of his head and kissing his temple. “That was very nice and brave of you. We’re very proud of you.” Your son laid his head on your chest, still sniffing and sobbing quietly. “See!? That type of behavior is why our son got assaulted!” The father of the boy stood up, his face getting heated. Simon’s back came off the wall, his brows furrowed. His position moved from the wall to standing behind your chair.

You felt the sweat leak down your face but your face stayed the same. “ I suggest you’d sit down now. I’d hate to send you packing.” Simon said loudly, his voice commanding the room. “Gentlemen! Please! I’ll be punishing both boys, we just can tolerate someone who starts fights. 5 day for you. And two for him.” He mumbled, the pressure of the room getting to him.

Your son curled further into your side, his lips quivering slightly. “That’s totally unacceptable! This boy is a known bully! He’s picking on girls and trying to start issues for no reason! If anything he is needs to be suspended!” You shouted at the man. The principal’s eyes darted around the room, sallowing his throat.

“No! You will not be turning this onto my son! Your son is aggressive and it clearly shows. He needs to be expelled! That little girl is probably fine and it’s apart of life!” The mother exclaimed back.

You gritted your teeth as you mumbled curses under your breath. “And we clearly see where he gets this behavior from.” The father spat at you. It was very clear to who he was referring. Simon moved further to the boy’s dad, easily towering over him. His realization was obvious in his eyes. He was shaking a bit and his palm were fountains.

“What was that?” Simon’s eyes furrowed downwards, eyes looking down at him. You stood up and pressed Simon’s chest. Slightly pushing him back. “Enough..it’s fine.”

After signing paper. You took your baby back to the car. Schools nowadays have a no fighting policies yet never enforce it correctly and your son has become a victim to it. Walking back to the car, your son held your hand.

“Mama?” He spoke up softly. You hummed at him. Little hiccups erupted his eyes watery and soft. “A-are you and daddy mad at me? I-I didn’t meant to! I just wanted to protect my friend..” Simon bent down to his level. Holding his face. You follow along, holding his hand.

“You did a good thing today son. I’m very proud of you.” He says, voice soften and less harsh. His walls crumble when he sees his son. He sees himself in him. He’s trying to become what his own father can’t achieve.

“You know what? Ice creams on me yeah? Someone as strong as you deserves it.”

Your son’s face lit up as he grabbed his father, clinging closely to him. “Really?!”

“Really.”

[holb32]

For wife Wednesday, no one knew ghost was married until he gets hurt and here she comes running into the hospital room

There was more unknowns about Lieutenant Simon Riley than knows. Even for the task force and brotherhood he was in, they didn’t know that much about him.

Where was he born and raised? Manchester.

Does he have any siblings? Unknown.

Who’s his next of kin? Unknown.

Mother and father still alive? Unknown.

When these questions are asked in the hospital, to try and determine who to contact to inform them that Simon’s hurt, not even Price can say.

Even if he does know, he won’t say a thing. Simon Riley keeps his cards close to his chest, and his personal life is strictly under lock and key. There’s a thick steel wall between who they know and whatever personal life he has when he goes home.

“Lieutenant Riley, we found a number for Mrs. Riley and she’s on her way.” One of the nurses casually mentions after the initial round of questions, and the surprise from the other three soldiers is unyielding.

“Mate, wha’? You’re bloody married?!” Gaz is the first to vocalize the shock, the absolutely mind blowing discovery that Simon Riley has a wife. “Cap did you know?”

Price doesn’t say anything to confirm nor deny, a shrug if the only answer Gaz gets from him. And Simon lays on the bed, staring at his brothers in arms, just a silent as before.

It’s no surprise that they don’t know he’s married, and even if they did somehow know, they almost expected someone as cold as him. Not some sweet wide eyed woman with soft features and a gentle voice, not a woman who’s in the late stages of pregnancy, sporting a baby belly that looks like it could pop only weeks from now.

“Simon what happened?” Your voice is soft and gentle, even as it’s laced with worry. You make your way toward Simon whose laying in the bed, and he turns to accept your hug, his hands cupping your cheeks.

“S’alright, love.” He stills your frantic questions with a kiss to your lips, his voice taking on a new tone no one has heard before. “Stress’nt good for the babe-”

“I got here as soon as I could when I heard you were injured. Simon, you have to be more careful.” The rest of the 141 feel like they’re intruding on a very intimate moment when you scold him gently. Even as you dote on him by brushing hair out of his eyes, it’s clear that he’s only worried about you.

“Bonnie-” Johnny starts speaking and silences himself again when Simon shoots him a look, a warning—it’s Mrs. Riley or nothing. “Mrs. Riley-”

“Oh, you don’t…” your smile is soft and sweet, real tender like you really are that genuinely kind. “Y/N is fine-”

“We didn’t know you were even married.” Gaz awkwardly continues where Johnny left off, and looks back at John for a response—did he know?

“You didn’t tell them?” You turn slowly, it’s hard for you to manoeuvre because you’re pregnant, but Simon steadies his hand on your hip to aide you.

“To protect you love, the less know about ya the better.” To keep you safe, of course, Simon wouldn’t tell anyone about you, not unless absolutely necessary. “Not cause I was embarrassed.”

He helps you sit next to him, despite being hurt and in a hospital bed, and then helps you lay down next to him. Once you’re settled, his wraps an arm around your waist, mindful of the tubes and cords and IV’s.

The topic shifts from you to something else as long as they visit, and you’re all too happy not to have the attention on you.

[holb32]

TV Show▪︎Outlander 2x13. An AU where the war is won.

Pairing▪︎James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser x Reader.

Reader's Traits/Characteristics▪︎I don't usually include body/hair type, as I like to be inclusive but to stick to Canon, reader is referred to as his 'brown haired Lass' or more specifically, "Mo Nighean Donn". Readers pregnant.

Disclaimer▪︎I don't own Outlander or it's characters, nor do I claim to own them. Credits goes to their respective owners.

A/N▪︎Mentions Willy II (Jamie's bastard son). As my blog is based primarily off of Alycia Debnam-Carey and her characters (or, at least, it was, before I turned it into a multifandom blog), it's only fair, I'd use a quote from 'The 100'.

Imagine... Him winning the Battle Of Culloden and as a reward for leading him to victory, Prince Charles Stuart granted the highlander anything he so wished.

Specifically, the land near Craigh Na Dun.

There he was to remain... Up in his cottage, that overlooked the stones, waiting for the day, you and your unborn child will return....

"I love you, Mo Nighean Donn. May we meet again." He repeated the same words, he sent you through the stones, with. Still remembering to this day, how you tried to stall by asking him what it meant, the words being the last he spoke to you before you vanished before his eyes.

And meet again, you shall...

Sure, It'll take almost two decades, and a bastard child, he sired out of wedlock, to happen before then. But it'll be worth it, all the same.

(This blurb was written and posted by ©️noonesgoneuntiltheyregone aka nightowls-multifandom-imagines 18-28/05/23). Likes, comments and reblogs are most appreciated!! Just DON'T steal/copy/claim/repost my works!!

Empty/sus blogs, this includes blogs with auto selected pfp's, will be blocked, upon interaction.

[holb32]

My apologies that this isn’t smut, I’m just really happy you’re writing for Jamie! May I please request a Jamie Fraser x shy clingy wife reader she is always anxious around others and always prefers to sit on his lap playing with his hands even his wedding ring because it always calms her down because she’s just focusing on him and he gently brushes his thumb or hand against hers silently telling her she’s safe🥹🥰 Thank you and I hope you have a lovely day!

oh sweetheart, there’s no need to apologize! i love alllll jamie thoughts… especially this one! <3

cw: s1 jamie (my baby forever,) not entirely historically accurate :)

jamie who always calls out for you in a room of strangers at castle leoch “where’s my wife? little lassie? where are yeh?”

smiles soooo big and dopey when you peek up from the crowd, a smile mirroring him as you literally magnetize yourself to him

wrapping your own arm around his big, strong one and using your other hand to hold his hand

and he’s always prideful of this, too. head held high, chin pointed with pride at his beautiful, sweet quiet lass

he simply cannot handle being away from you for too long, especially physically (which is quite typical for my beloved book!jamie)

he’s always touching you in some way— an elbow on the top of your head to make you squirm and laugh, callused fingertips flecking across your soft cheekbones, or even a guiding hand on the back of your neck through a crowd.

jamie loves having a clingy wife, because he loves to feel that he’s protecting you, giving you what you want, being what you need when he’s unsure of how love works.

one night, colum hosts this big, large dinner in the hall. it seems as if the entire village is there, truthfully.

and you’ve put in so much effort to have your hair tied into sweet, deep blue ribbons; a color to match the murky look that overtakes jamie’s eyes when he’s feeling particulary possessive

and he just MARVELS at you as he stands at your door, watching you with a soft smile

“look at yeh, my little bride. mo cridhe, such a sweet sight”

he drinks up the way you flush, his eyes never leave you for a second and he swallows, completely and utterly taken with you

and jamie’s not the type to leave you stranded at a big party or event… absolutely NOT!

have to use the bathroom? perfect! he’ll stand outside. want some more wine? great, you’ll go grab a glass together! want to sit and gossip with the ladies of leoch? wonderful! he loves gossip!

and if someone gets too touchy… too close… if jamie can sense that they can smell the sweet rose of your bathing oil behind your ears, he’s immediately on you

towering in front of your chaise chair, commanding you with a gritted jaw and a hint of mischief in his eyes “rise for your laird, lady broch tuarach”

and he just adores the way you immediately rise, gazing up with love and obedience - but NOT in the way he grew up thinking wives were meant to be

in the manner of equals— what you ask of me i will do, and i expect the same of you <3

and he tuts for you to move, where he then takes a seat on the chair; extending his long legs out, his kilt riding to his mid-calf, and torso relaxing as he leans backward

“upon my knee, mo luaidh” he tells you softly, his warm whiskey voice comforting you to sit

as your hands rest in your lap, perched on jamie’s knee, his hands find yours

gently he twirls your ring, grounding you as you shy away from speaking to the townsfolk

eventually, you’ll feel the heat of his whisper “so quiet, do yeh wish to leave now?”

and when you turn to him, cheeks flushed as his hand rubs the small of your back

AND AND AND HE DOES THAT™️ SMIRK

you nod, excited to be at home in the presence of your husband

and he is all too happy to do the same

“little mouse, let’s go home…”

[holb32]

Three at the Table// J.F x reader

author's note at end.

Request: Hey, i read all that grows and love how you write Jamie!! I also saw that your requests were open and I was wondering if you would potentially write a jamie x reader, just like super wholesome sweet domestic fluff. maybe its after everything and they just live their silly little lives at lallybroch. i would love you forever if you wrote this but of course no pressure :)

word count: 1.9k

It was the kind of morning you wanted to bottle and keep forever.

The air in the room was cool and still, touched with that faint Highland mist that always drifted in before the sun had properly risen. But beneath the heavy quilts of the bed, everything was warm, lazy, drowsy, golden. Like the world hadn’t quite woken yet, and neither had you.

Jamie was still half-asleep beside you, one arm flung around your waist, the other curled under the pillow he’d claimed somewhere in the middle of the night. His breath was slow and steady against your neck, the soft tickle of his curls brushing your shoulder. His body, all heat and muscle and tangled limbs, was wrapped around yours like ivy on stone.

You blinked slowly, taking in the peaceful weight of him.

It had taken years to get here, years of war and ache and absence. 

But now? 

Now there was a rare kind of stillness. A quiet that only came with safety. With being held.

You shifted slightly, and Jamie stirred with a faint, questioning noise.

“Mm… where d’ye think ye’re going, a nighean?” he mumbled into your skin, voice rough and heavy with sleep. “It’s no’ time yet.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you whispered, reaching up to run your fingers gently through his hair. “Just… thinking.”

“Mm. Dangerous thing, that.” He nuzzled in closer, tucking his face into the curve of your neck like a cat. “Best keep your thoughts for later. Stay.”

You smiled. “Are you going to let go of me?”

“No.”

That made you laugh softly. “Didn’t think so.”

He sighed, content and slow, and pulled you impossibly closer. The tips of his fingers brushed lazy circles over your hip beneath the quilt, feather-light and aimless. There was no heat in it, no rush, just comfort. Just you and him, and the quiet space in between filled only with heartbeats.

You stayed like that for a long while, no need for words, no pressure to move. Just the sound of the wind at the window, the creak of the old wood around you, and the steady warmth of Jamie’s body pressed to yours.

Eventually, you shifted again. “I should get up. Make breakfast.”

Jamie made a pitiful noise and clutched you tighter like a child with a favourite blanket. “Dinna leave me.”

“You’ll survive half an hour without me,” you teased, brushing your lips against his cheek.

“But I like ye best in the morning,” he murmured. “All soft and sweet and mine.”

That made your heart do a slow somersault, even after all this time.

“You’ll like me better with a full stomach.”

He made a thoughtful sound, eyes still closed. “Only if it comes with a kiss.”

You leaned in, grinning against his mouth as you whispered, “Greedy.”

Jamie only smiled sleepily and kissed you back—slow, unhurried, and utterly devastating in its tenderness.

“Only when it comes to you.”

You only meant to slip out for a moment.

Just long enough to start the fire, put on a pot, and make something warm before the rest of the house stirred. The plan was simple: porridge, maybe tea, and a few quiet minutes alone in the kitchen before the day properly began.

But plans, as you were learning, rarely accounted for Jamie Fraser.

It had barely been fifteen minutes since you'd left the warmth of your shared bed, but already you'd heard the slow creak of floorboards upstairs, the unmistakable sound of a very large Highlander trying not to be awake yet.

Then came the soft thud of bare feet, the rustle of linen, and finally, a familiar weight at your back.

“There’s a chill this morning, mo nighean donn,” Jamie mumbled, voice still thick with sleep as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, slow, lazy, and distracting. “Ye should have stayed in bed with me.”

You grinned, elbowing him lightly as you tried—and failed—to keep stirring. “If I’d stayed in bed, we’d both be starving.”

Jamie made a low noise of protest and tightened his arms around your waist, chest warm against your back. “Aye, but we’d be cozy. All tangled up. You in my arms… me pressed up behind ye… verra peaceful.”

“You’re already pressed up behind me,” you laughed, squirming as his hands slid under the hem of your slip to settle against your hips—rough palms, warm skin, and zero shame.

“And yet,” he murmured near your ear, “I could still be closer.”

“Jamie.” You tried to sound stern, but your smile betrayed you. “If you keep distracting me, the porridge’s going to burn, and then you’ll be making breakfast.”

He gave a long, dramatic sigh, like you’d just ruined all his dreams. “Let it burn. I’ve got something far sweeter in my arms already.”

You turned your head just enough to catch his eyes, still sleep-heavy and soft, but twinkling with mischief. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a man desperately in need of affection.”

“You were asleep twenty minutes ago.”

“Exactly. Twenty long, affectionless minutes.”

You laughed, reaching up to ruffle his curls. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned like he’d won something and kissed the tip of your nose. “And yet you married me.”

“Poor judgment, clearly.”

“Aye, but lucky for me.”

With a few more stolen kisses, a good bit of groaning about how “neglected” he felt, and a half-hearted attempt to sway you into abandoning the pot altogether, Jamie finally gave in and slouched into one of the kitchen chairs, though not without keeping a watchful eye on the porridge like a child waiting for cake.

…Of course, that didn’t stop him from leaning over and trying to sneak a spoonful straight from the pot.

“Jamie!” You smacked his hand lightly with the wooden spoon.

He yelped, scandalised. “Ye’ve grown cruel in your comfort, lass.”

“You’ll live,” you said sweetly, nudging him away with your hip.

Once it was finally done, you dished up two simple bowls, just oats with a drizzle of honey and a spoonful of preserved berries Jenny had jarred last summer. Nothing fancy. But warm. Familiar. Home.

Jamie watched you sit across from him with an almost embarrassingly soft look on his face. You felt it before you saw it, the way his foot slid against yours under the table, the way his fingers reached out to gently brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear like he couldn’t not touch you.

“Let me,” he said quietly, already scooping a bite with his spoon and holding it out for you. “First bite’s always better when it’s shared.”

You leaned in with a smile, letting him feed you. He watched you chew like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, his eyes full of affection.

And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get more ridiculous, he said with full sincerity:

“Tastes better on your lips.”

You almost choked on your porridge.

Jamie was still watching you like you’d hung the bloody moon when the telltale creak of the stairs interrupted the quiet.

You paused, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Jamie tilted his head. “D’ye hear that?”

You opened your mouth to respond just as the door creaked open, slow and hesitant. Then, there was a thump and the soft pad of small feet across the floor.

There, in the doorway, stood your son.

Hair like firelight, curls mussed and wild from sleep. He was still in his nightshirt, one hand rubbing his eye, the other dragging a slightly tattered wool rabbit along behind him.

Jamie lit up like sunrise.

Brian.

In his too-big nightshirt, clutching a lopsided stuffed rabbit Jenny had stitched for him when he was born, your son blinked blearily at the two of you with his father’s eyes and your nose—cheeks flushed with sleep, lower lip poked out in that familiar early-morning pout.

“Mam?” he mumbled, rubbing his eye with one tiny fist. “Da?”

Jamie was on his feet in an instant, chair scraping back as he crossed the room in three long strides. “A charaid, what are ye doin’ up, eh? Still early yet.”

“I had a dream,” Brian said, voice barely above a whisper as he padded forward on bare feet, his rabbit dangling from one arm. “And then it got cold.”

You set your spoon down and opened your arms just as Jamie lifted him, small limbs clinging sleepily around his father’s neck as he made a soft sound of comfort and pressed a kiss to his son’s head.

“Well now,” Jamie murmured, rubbing Brian’s back with slow, reassuring circles, “we can’t have ye cold and dream-tossed, can we? Come sit wi’ Mam and me. We’ll fix that right up.”

Jamie sat back down, settling Brian carefully on his lap like they’d done it a hundred times before, which, of course, they had. You slid your chair closer and rested a hand on your son’s back, watching him blink sleepily between the two of you like the world had finally righted itself.

Without a word, Jamie picked up his spoon and held out another bite, this time to Brian.

“Want some porridge, wee man?”

Brian gave a solemn nod, opened his mouth, and took the bite with the seriousness of a king receiving an offering. He chewed, paused, then announced through a mouthful, “Too hot.”

You laughed softly and reached for his small bowl, which you’d already filled in case he woke up. “This one’s been cooling on the windowsill. Come here, love.”

Jamie passed him over, careful as ever, and Brian curled up in your lap like a kitten, limbs loose and warm and so very small. You held the bowl with one hand and spoon-fed him with the other, brushing his curls back from his face as he hummed and chewed and clutched his rabbit against his chest.

Jamie watched the two of you like he was trying to memorise the moment. He could hardly believe he got to sit at a table with this much love in front of him.

“Ye ken,” he said softly, reaching across to trail his fingers along Brian’s ankle where it stuck out from the hem of his nightshirt, “I never thought I’d get this. A quiet kitchen. A wife. A bairn.”

You looked up at him then, heart full, eyes warm. “It’s not always quiet.”

He smiled. “No. But it’s ours.”

There was a moment of soft stillness between you. Just the sound of the spoon against the bowl, the crackle of the fire, Brian’s slow chewing. Then, with his mouth still full, your son looked up and said:

“Da?”

“Aye, cub?”

“I think Mam’s better at makin’ porridge.”

Jamie let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like he’d been wounded.

“Et tu, Brian?”

You and your son both burst out laughing, and Jamie leaned across the table to steal a kiss from your cheek before sitting back with a grin.

“I’ll win ye both over next time,” he said smugly, reaching for his bowl.

“We’ll see,” you said with a wink, adjusting Brian as he settled heavier in your lap, already blinking sleepily again.

The porridge cooled. The morning light spilled gold across the table. And for just a little longer, the three of you stayed there, wrapped in warmth and quiet joy, the world held at bay by nothing more than oat bowls, soft voices, and the feeling of being home.

Jamie’s hand moved gently over your thigh beneath the table, his other stroking slow circles on Brian’s back. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“I could live a hundred years,” he said softly, voice almost lost beneath the hush of the kitchen, “and never want more than this.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, heart full to the brim.

“Neither would I.”

a/n: Anon i love you forever for requesting this. jamie my shayla

[holb32]

𝘽𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠.

Synopsis. — pregnant and aching to stay useful, you push yourself too far. Jamie steps in, determined to carry the weight for once.

͏𝒘 — Jamie Fraser & fem! reader ⟢ ( 1k ) fluff + comfort. not proofread. established relationship.

The air at Lallybroch was thick with the scent of early summer—wildflowers, turned earth, the sweet breath of horses in the stables—and it clung to your skin the way your gown clung to your back, damp with effort as you crouched beside the herb garden. The sun had risen high and unrelenting, yet you insisted on finishing the weeding. Not because it truly needed doing today, but because your body, though slower now, still longed to feel useful. To feel like it belonged to you, not just to the child growing within.

You pressed your palm to the small of your back with a wince and rocked back onto your heels, breath hitching as your muscles protested. The discomfort was constant these days—an ache in your lower back that deepened when you stood, a tightness in your ribs that came and went with the baby’s position, little feet jabbing up beneath them at will. Still, you breathed through it, eyes squinting against the light, hand resting unconsciously atop the curve of your belly.

That was where Jamie found you.

“Mo chridhe,” he called, voice edged with quiet disapproval and something softer just beneath, “what in God’s name are ye doing down there?”

You didn’t turn at first, you’d heard his steps before his voice, the heavy, familiar rhythm of his boots on the path, but you’d hoped he might let you be just this once. Foolish, really. Jamie had been watching you like a hawk since the moment you told him you were pregnant, as though one harsh gust of wind might undo you, might carry you off like dandelion seeds in the breeze.

“I’m pulling weeds,” you answered evenly, not bothering to hide the strain in your voice. “Unless you think they’ll pull themselves.”

For a moment there’s a pause, then, footsteps—closer now, careful but firm—and a warm shadow fell across you as he crouched beside you with all the grace of a man whose limbs were still unburdened.

“You’ve no business kneeling in the dirt with your belly swollen like that,” he said, brows drawn together. “Christ, ye can barely rise without groaning.”

“I groaned once,” you replied, lips twitching. “Besides, you groan more just getting out of bed in the morning.”

“I dinna have a bairn kicking my ribs from the inside,” he countered, though his voice had softened, thick with concern. “You’re pale, and your hands are trembling.”

“It’s just the heat,” you lied.

But Jamie knew you too well. He always had. He saw through your excuses the way light passes through glass—clean, unchallenged, no room to twist it into something prettier than it was. He reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, then slid his hand to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him as gently as if you were made of porcelain.

“You’ll let me do it, lass,” he said quietly, forehead resting against yours. “You’ve done more than enough.”

“I’m not made of glass, Jamie,” you whispered, the frustration bubbling beneath your chest, tangled up with guilt and pride and something else you couldn’t name. “I’m pregnant, not dying.”

He closed his eyes, as if the words struck something deeper than they should have. “Aye. But I nearly lost ye once before. And I’ll not tempt God by watching you wear yourself down when I can help it.”

You felt it then, the way his grip tightened just a little, his thumb brushing small, reverent circles at the base of your skull. You’d thought he was only fussing because of the baby, but it wasn’t just that. It was you, it was always you. He loved the bairn fiercely already, yes, but he loved you more. And the thought of anything—illness, accident, pain—harming you had burrowed so deep into him it had taken root in his bones.

“I just don’t want to feel useless,” you admitted finally, voice cracking. “I hate lying still, I hate being fussed over. I want to do something, anything.”

Jamie was silent for a moment, as though weighing his response carefully. When he spoke, his voice was soft but steady, threaded with emotion.

“You’re building a life inside ye, mo nighean donn,” he said. “That’s more than anything I could ever do. And still ye’ve kept the books, minded the livestock, stitched half the shirts in the house. Even now, you’re trying to tend the garden with your back twisted like a wet cloth. Ye’ve never been useless, not to me.”

You blinked, the rush of emotions sudden and sharp. He always said the exact thing you needed, whether you knew you needed it or not.

“Alright,” you said, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Help me up, then.”

He did, carefully, with both hands under your arms, holding you steady as you rose. His arms encircled you instinctively once you were upright, one hand cradling your lower back, the other resting low on your belly, as though to remind himself you were both still here.

“Promise me you’ll rest today,” he murmured into your hair. “Let Jenny see to the cooking. I’ll finish in the field, and Ian can help mend the gate.”

“I’ll try,” you said, burying your face against his chest. “But if I see anyone handling the preserves wrong, I make no promises.”

Jamie laughed then, low and warm in his throat, and you felt it rumble through you. “God forbid. The last man who salted the blackberry jam instead of sugaring it is still licking his wounds.”

“I wasn’t that harsh,” you said, though the memory made you smile.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes bright despite the worry that still lingered there.

“I canna bear to see you hurt, lass,” he said, more solemn now. “Not when I can stop it. Let me be the one who shoulders it for a while. aye?”

You nodded, finally letting yourself lean fully into his arms, your weight and all the exhaustion that came with it settling against him in quiet surrender.

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