#anyways it's fine but my hands are covered in little injuries now for no good reason | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whirlwindimagines · 1 year

Note

Listen your Vash and Wolfwood writeups are my favorites right now!

If it’s not too much too ask, how about we get a reader where they don’t like to ask for help a lot. And the one mission they come back from, they end up having a hard time walking and ask Vash or Wolfwood to help them. Maybe they can carry them depending if it fits.

Can you tell I’m touch starved 🥹

Ugh same I want to be carried by Vash so bad, don’t mind me acting up. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed what I’ve written!! 💙😘 And I hope you enjoyed these little short stories, I hope this was what you were asking for. I am also very touched starved ;p; Haha I see you asked for either one, but I wrote something for both because I can't read correctly.

Vash and Wolfwood (Separate) helping you while injured.

Vash the Stampede:

You roll your eyes at Vash’s lecture, because seriously? He’s lecturing you about hiding injuries, mister oh I was just shot but it’s only a little bullet wound it’ll be fine. You begin to zone out thinking back on how you even got here…

You remember running, and then a small explosion the ground under you shakes and then gives way, you fall fast barely having time to scream out for help. Yet somehow Vash is there, peering over the edge of the cliff, eyes wide. He jumps after you, if you live, you’re going to kill him yourself.

You only fell a short distance off that cliffside before Vash manages to catch up to you, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you towards him. He takes the brunt of the impact when the two of you luckily crash into an overhang. Even with Vash shielding your body, you feel the hit of the impact hard. You must have hit your leg on the way down because it hurts like a bitch. You stare at Vash eyes wide, and jaw-dropping, you’re going to scream at him but Vash quickly gets the two of you to your feet.

“Are you okay?” Vash asks as if he didn’t just fall off the cliff with you, “Yes.” your voice is breathless, but you mean your words beside there weren't time to think about it when the shooting continues. Both of you scrambled up the cliffside to get to some flatland and cover.

Once the dust settles and the adrenalin subsides you drop to your knees, you don’t know where Vash had run off to at this point, you were thankful though wanting a moment to yourself to assess the situation. Trying to stand was painful, but you managed to get to your feet. Okay, you could do this, placing weight down on your right foot made you see stars.

Grounding you self you leaned against a nearby building. You could hear Vash calling out your name, shit not wanting to worry him. You bite down on the pain and place the weight down on your foot lightly.

It was fine you were fine, nothing seemed broke anyway. You called out to Vash, and he rounded the corner smiling brightly once he saw you. “You, okay?” You nod not trusting your voice for a second. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You say with a small smile, growing nervous under his gaze.

You push ahead maybe making it ten steps before Vash grabs your arm, startling you. He looks unconvinced by your little show of bravery. “Seriously Vash I’m fine.” You say maybe a little harsher than you meant. Vash huffs places his hands on hips, as you try to contain an eye roll. “Your hurt!”

Thus starts the argument, going back and forth for a good ten minutes. You are brought back to the present with a snap of Vash’s fingers, “are you even listening?” You sigh rubbing your temples now you have a headache, “I’m not, look it’s very sweet how concerned you are, but I’m fine end of conversation.”

You turn on your heel, turning on the wrong foot you yelp and stumble catching yourself on a wooden crate next to you. You feel your face burn at Vash’s scoff, you’re going to give him a piece of your mind. Before you can Vash scoops you into his arms, one arm going under your knees and another around your back.

You blush even brighter stuttering over your words Vash doesn’t look at you a blush high on his own cheeks. “Can’t you just accept my help?” Vash whines, tightening his grip on you. Feeling like you’re going to cry either from the pain or the embarrassment of it all, you grip Vash’s jacket burying your head in his chest. “Fine.” You mutter, and then a softer ‘thank you’.

Nicholas D Wolfwood:

You’re so tired, the blast of gunfire is loud off to your side. You wonder how long this fight will last, you’re sure once Wolfwood gets serious it’ll be over quickly. But you have no idea where the man ran off to, weapon in hand you aim around the corner and shoot.

Your aim is a little off, but it doesn’t kill the man so small victories. Hiding back behind cover, you reload your weapon. When you move out of cover to aim, your face to face with one of the bandits. Oh man, you think as the guy lunges for you.

Managing to sidestep the guy, you use your gun as a blunt object to hit them over the head. They move and you miss your gun coming down hard on their shoulder, they cry out in pain. Aiming your gun, you don’t get a chance to shoot though when the bandit backhands your face with his own gun.

You hit the ground hard, seeing black spots. You have no idea where you dropped your gun, but you try to scramble to find it. The bandit grabs you by your ankle twisting it hard, you cry out in sudden pain. Kicking out and away, the man not taking a liking to that stomps down on your leg hard. It was painful, but it doesn’t fully requester, as you finally get ahold of your gun and get a shot off. The bandit goes down, it’s quiet all around you. Maybe it was over?

You force yourself to stand, swaying from side to side as you do. Taking deep breaths, you start to move the pain makes you take a miss step and you drop to your knees. A hand on you shoulder makes you lash out; the person catches your hand and you drop your shoulders when you make eye contact with Wolfwood.

“Shit sorry–“

“Are you alright?” He interrupts you, his gaze going up and down your body, you wave a hand dismissively, brushing his hand off in the process and moving to stand with the help of the alley wall next to you, his hands hover around you but he waits for an answer, “fine, guy got the jump on me that’s all” you were fine, you just needed some time by yourself to fix yourself up and you would be good.

“Oh yeah? Walk towards me.” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, he’s standing there with his arms crossed and a smug look on his face. Your too damn stubborn for you own good, and maybe a little bit too prideful. You snap a ‘fine!’ at him, before taking a step towards Wolfwood. The moment you put pressure down on your bad leg you crumple, but Wolfwood is there to catch you.

Faceplanting into his chest you can feel him shake with laugher, as you blush brightly gripping his suit jacket in your hands. “This doesn’t mean anything.” You grumble out. Wolfwood laughs loudly, he maneuvers you a bit so he can swing your arm over his shoulders, his other hand resting on your waist.

You are embarrassed but grateful that Wolfwood isn’t continuing to tease you as he helps you limp around. “Thanks.” You mutter it softly, he leans his head down toward you, “sorry didn’t quite catch that.” You can hear the smugness in his tone, you don't repeat yourself. The silence stretches out, but you hear him say a soft ‘you’re welcome’ and well it does warm your heart a bit, maybe in the future you’ll be a little better about asking for help.

#vash the stampede x reader #vash imgaine #vash imagines #vash x reader #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #nicholas d wolfwood x reader #nicholas d. wolfwood x reader #wolfwood x you #wolfwood imagine #wolfwood x reader #trigun #trigun stampede imagine #trigun stampede x reader #trigun stampede #trigun x reader

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yesimwriting · 1 year

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Hi, I'm kind of picky of FF in general, smut especially, but your "Pulling away" is just beyond perfect. Do you maybe have time and the enthusiasm to write something like that again? Not sure what other characters you'd write for (out of your master list) but another Joel would be great anyway. Thank you for your work!

A/n ahh thank you!! the feedback i've gotten on "Pulling Away" has been unbelievable,, and i very rarely usually write smut without being prompted to lol, i feel like it's too obvious that i'm a virgin who has had very few sexual experiences, even less if you don't count the ones i didn't fully consent to,, but that's neither here nor there, i'm doing better now i promise :)

also ik my masterlist is super limited compared to who i actually write for lol,, updating it is my absolute enemy but i'm working on it 😭

also the build up in this fic is criminal!! that's my bad!

Summary: You, Ellie, and Joel have recently decided to permanently settle in Jackson. The promise of stability seems to lead to boundaries adjusting during a sleepless night after Joel appears in your bedroom.

smut warning, 18 plus !!

----

It's existed in him as undeniably and permanently as the lines etched into the slightly calloused skin of the back of his palm. Control is something that Joel Miller knows, something he clings to the same way he keeps a gun in his hand when he needs to.

Control is what keeps him from reacting when your arm moves too carelessly and your elbow manages to push against his ribs. The side that you know is more yellow-purple than the soft tan it should be. If you weren't lying next to him, you would have assumed that the shift of your arm had no affect on him. But you're pressed closer to him than you've ever been, so you can feel the shift despite his intentions. It's subtle. A pinch in his breathing and a brief wave of tension in his spine.

"Sorry," your blurt out is instinctual, and you're not sure if it might be making things worse. You've never been this close to him and it burns so much you can practically feel it melting the thin ice holding the two of you above water.

Burns in a good way. A way that you've only ever felt through brief flutters that have come up more and more recently. Lingering touches patching up injuries, reassuring squeezes of hands that are always brief and never mentioned, the press of Joel's knee against yours as you sat at that table in Jackson, overwhelmed by the presence of so many strangers.

And now this. You, Joel, and Ellie had been given a place to stay. You used to dream about your own bed. A safe roof over your head and a clean blanket keeping you warm. Finally getting it left you restless. Being away from Joel and Ellie felt unnatural even if they were in the same building as you. There are so many strangers here, and even though they have no reason to strike you down, it's still weird.

You couldn't help the obsessive thoughts. It felt oddly compulsive, the urge to wrap the two of them up in warm blankets and bubble wrap and just watch them be okay. It's weird, but what can you say, Ellie and Joel are your people.

And then Joel wandered in after some talk with his brother. It had surprised you, considering the way he had avoided you earlier, but you'd never complain about having him close.

You're still not sure how it happened. How Joel started asking you about how you were settling and telling you that Ellie was just fine. He had gone in to check up on her and then lingered until she fell asleep. The thought of that domestic moment made your heart swell and you found yourself relaxing.

Somehow Joel ended up taking some of your covers. There's a draft, it's winter. You forced yourself to not focus on that in any other context. Refused to give it any other meaning. And then he moved closer, eventually laid his head on your pillow. You almost convinced yourself it was just a way to be a little comfortable while keeping up conversation. But then the talk eventually faded and you had to move to let him fit and you ended up like this. Safe and fragile.

This stray from what's normal is okay tonight. Everything is still weird, you three like awkward, feral cats compared to the people of Jackson.

"You're fine," he breathes, voice rough with sleep.

His acceptance is easy but it does nothing to make you less aware of your position. You're more on top of him than you need to be and your mind is suddenly scrambling, trying to remember every injury you've ever seen him receive.

Untangling yourself from the gentle cocoon you've created is an ache in your chest, but the thought of hurting him is worse. You move your leg close to the edge of the bed and start the careful process of retracting your arm.

Joel shifts with a slight sigh, his own hand following your own. He snags your wrist, pulling you back into place. "You're fine." Joel repeats his earlier words, so half thought out and mumbled together you think they might even be sleep idled.

"Careful," you try, fighting against the blood rushing to your face. "I don't want to hurt you."

Joel's hand moves down your forearm with a slowness that almost feels deliberate. You have to press your lips together to keep from exhaling too sharply. He turns his head and even in the dark you can feel the focus of his gaze.

He swallows once, lips parting for a moment before he speaks, "Hurts more the other way." It's vulnerable and not, undercut by something that feels so factual you briefly have to think about whether or not that's physically possible. "It's good pressure."

Your eyebrows draw together at the realization that he's not entirely joking. The audacity. He's always referencing his age and the soreness that's going to have to catch him at one point or another but now there's not a single concern for his joints or potential hip damage. You've always had a feeling that at least a part of that rant has to be bullshit, or at least some kind of exaggeration.

You scoff but make no move to pull away as Joel settles. "I don't believe you." Normally you wouldn't state anything so transparently. Any flash of softness is glass and barely tangible. Trying to grasp it by speaking about in the open makes it vanish. Like waking too suddenly from an incomplete dream. But you don't feel at risk, something about the dark and the warmth and his hand on your forearm. "You're so full of shit--what happened to old man knees and arthritis and hip joint iss-"

"You're making up those last two."

There's silence for a brief moment and then laughter. A stupid burst of giggles that has you forgetting the little bit of normal left. Your forehead briefly falls down, your face pressing against his shoulder as you try to keep it down. He laughs with you after a second, a reluctant, almost annoyed display of amusement.

You're still recovering, breathing a little heavier than usual and coming back enough to realize that this level of closeness may be pushing it. You lift your head just as Joel's hand finds a place between your shoulders. First a fist and then his fingers patiently relaxing. You don't think you've ever been this still in your life.

"I can't keep track of all your old man ailments," it's a whisper that's more against his skin than not.

He lets out a breath, "You needed me to help you onto a horse today."

You halfheartedly glare even though you're too pressed into him for him to be able to see you. "I could do it by myself now." Likely a lie, considering it had only taken a second with Joel's help and the concept of casual horse riding still feels foreign. "I just hadn't ridden one before."

His hand shifts up your back, an unbelieving hum escaping him. Has Joel always been this warm? And somehow both so evidently sturdy but still comfortable? Safe? You don't know what possesses you, maybe it's the urge to not feel so divided from him in any way, but you turn head slightly to make it easier to speak: "You're not actually that old."

He pauses at that, fingertips freezing against the fabric of your pajama shirt. "Older than you."

You let out a sigh, feeling like there's a hint of something else tucked into his words that you're too tired to explore. "So?" He lets out another flat breath, a sound you don't quite understand but makes you want to compensate, "You can get old, though, when it's your time."

He shifts in a way that feels like a combination of stifling a laugh and a display of a touch of reluctant curiosity. "You givin' me permission?"

"Not like that," you shake your head against his arm, "I just--I don't know--I think it'd be good if you got to be old with arthritis and bad hip joints and whatever else happens. It'd mean you were still alive."

You don't realize what you're saying until the words slip out. The blankness of your statement is too honest and you blame the fact that you're actually starting to feel like you could benefit from the sleep you've been putting off. It's instinctual to turn into him in a vain attempt to get closer even though you're already hanging onto him in a way that feels ridiculous. Your fingers curl in to him a little more, clutching at the surprisingly soft fabric of his shirt.

It's a subtle change, but you're not surprised that Joel notices. You are, however, not expecting him to understand. The hand on your back draws up even further, pushing you against him more firmly. Maybe Joel did have a point. Good pressure.

"Don't go thinkin' about it."

For once, you want to listen to him without putting up a fight just to see that line between his forehead reappear. But you can't. It's not that easy. Even here, as safe as it's ever going to get, there's still a chance of loss. And even if the world was perfect and Joel could guarantee that there would never be a dangerous patrol or anything threatening him again, there are still other things that worry you. There's no reason for you all to stay together.

When your only response is to halfheartedly nod so that he can feel the motion, Joel lets out a partial sigh. The movement of his chest is more noticeable than the sound. His hand travels down the expanse of your back, something you only recognize because of the warmth his touch leaves in its wake. You're only half there until his fingers brush against a small expanse of exposed skin where your sleep shirt had ridden up. Nothing insanely suggestive, nothing that should be considered too intimate. It's likely an accident, too. It's too dark for it to be intentional.

Knowing this is not enough to keep your body from tensing. Joel's fingers move upwards with no warning, slipping between the only layer dividing you. The cotton of the T-shirt is trapping him and the heat of his touch as his hand settles on your hip.

"You here?" His question is low, like he's trying to compensate for the hint of worry leaching into his tone. "With me?" The second part of the question is an afterthought, said so quickly and earnestly it feels like an impulse.

You're melting, and you don't mind it all. In fact, you're starting to think you might prefer it. "For now, at least."

It's half joke, half something else. A punch that some cynical, over worrying part of your brain needs to throw. You hope he won't see past the shell of humor, but feel the uphill battle in his silence. In the eventual drag of his thumb across the curve of your hip. The gesture is a contradiction in itself--small and cautious yet so natural. What should feel foreign is so familiar it coats it all in a layer of intimacy that's difficult to just sit with.

An odd sense of almost panic that makes it impossible to think settles in you. Something in you feels like it's burning, a slow fire that's patiently spreading. You don't know if you want him closer or farther or something in between.

The mix of unknown emotions is enough to distract you from your derailing train of thought. Maybe that's the point. Some strategy on Joel's end to force a mental reset. If it is, it's working. You wouldn't say you're breathing any better or more calmly, you're just more aware of the way air enters your lungs and filters right back out. The world seems to be reduced to that. Just your breathing. And Joel.

The little of him you can make out in the dark and the feel of him everywhere without him feeling close enough. He's steady, secure in his firmness like he's some immovable force. Joel is also starting to feel like a natural heater, radiating just enough warmth to make everything comfortable.

What is wrong with you today? These thoughts might be more dangerous than the other ones. They're definitely close to being more overwhelming. All of this has to be in your head, the result of all the feelings you've been attempting quell all day culminating and a touch of something else. The thoughts about Joel that you've been fighting against since you first met him finally winning.

Every time you've forced yourself to stare at your hands after the edge of Joel's shirt rode up as he reached for something or moved a certain way. Every stray thought that rooted itself in your mind like an invasive species while you patched him up after a rough day. Every painfully overwhelming moment where you let yourself get distracted by his hands for reasons you could never justify. Those same hands are on you right now.

Okay--you need to get it together. Stop playing at something that's definitely all in your head. Your eyes drift up, searching for Joel's expression in an attempt to convince yourself to be normal. To remind yourself what's at risk if you don't get what you've been begging yourself not to let be actual romantic feelings in check.

He's already looking at you, eyes focused and jaw so tense you can tell from your position. Joel presses his lips together. The hand that's on you shifts upwards. Nothing drastic, but the heat of his pinky is now melting into the skin above your ribs.

You have to bite your tongue to keep from letting a shaky breath escape you. It's too much and nowhere near enough. It's another contradiction that throws you through a loop. You need him closer and the desire twists at you even further. There's a level of hesitant care in all levels of him. In his touch, in the way he's watching you. Like he just can't help it.

It's so overwhelming you have to do something. So you do the only thing you can think of. You reach out to him. Your hand finds his upper forearm.

The motion seems to shift things. Joel lets out a breath, but it's not the easygoing sound it was earlier. It's strained. "Y'should get some sleep."

You're not all that tired anymore, but his tone and your own confusion makes you want to listen. At least he hasn't done anything to imply that he's leaving.

A part of you wants to leave it at what it is. There's no reason to risk his presence by pushing. You don't know what that last moment was about, but Joel's earlier gruffness from today seems to be coming back. "You okay?" The question feels awkward hanging there on its own. "You've been moody."

The hand still under your shirt adjusts with him. "Moody?"

"Mhm." His fingers ghost up your spine, making it twice as hard to organize your thoughts. "More earlier than now, when..." God, you can barely remember with the way he's tracing patterns onto your skin. "When we were with that group?"

Joel's lips briefly pull into a frown. "I know that Jackson people are a little different than us, but trusting them all so soon--" He cuts himself off briefly. "Just don't think it's a good idea for you to accept it all so--"

He pauses as you shift against him as you move to sit up. Joel watches the separation with sharp caution. He doesn't ease until you settle again, your chin resting against his stomach. "Seriously?" It's a lighthearted enough disagreement. "I'm not overly trusting anything. I feel like a crazy person half the time because I feel like I should be staring down anyone that talks to Ellie or you for a second too long."

The confession eases Joel much more than it should. It's proof that he's been searching for...proof that he's needed. That you're still here. Still his and Ellie's above anything else.

But it's been an unsure couple of days. You're good with people, likable in a natural way. You know how to make people feel easy. It's not your fault that you're the natural communicator in the trio, and it's a good thing that at least one of you is inclined towards that sort of thing. It's just been harder than he thought, to watch people always talk to you, even if it's just a way of communicating something to all three of you. Especially when you smile or laugh as another way to ease them.

It's even worse when it happens to be other men. You don't see it, the way their eyes linger or their tendency to lean in just a little too close. Don't know the way your polite smiles and words draw them in. There isn't exactly a plethora of new women appearing daily, so your novelty is only an amplifier to all your good traits.

Tommy's been giving him shit about it. How long did you have to close the deal on that when you were her only option?

It was an almost brotherly form of teasing, but it still rubbed Joel the wrong way because of how true it is. He can't justify the bitter, protective vile that leaves his chest feeling too tight when he sees how well you fit. How easy it'd be for you to end up with one of the guys from here, closer to your age and a lifetime less of baggage.

Joel hates the breathlessness of it, hates that he has time to think about these kinds of things now. The resentment is too much, bubbles up and comes out in the form of something mean, "Doesn't always look that way."

It's not an overly done insult, and somehow that's worth. Joel's faint accusation is personal and it lands the way he knew it would. You sit up so quickly, Joel can't even try to stop you. "What the fuck does that mean?"

The bed is small, clearly meant for one. Sitting up didn't exactly accomplish what Joel has to assume was your goal--to create distance. You're still tangled together, only it's different now. You're practically sitting on his lap. His mind, which should be focusing on the fact that he's upset you, that he's pushing you in the exact direction he doesn't want you to go in, can only think of your sleep shorts.

Maria promised to get you some pajama pants as soon as some came in, but that hasn't happened yet. Winter makes clothing a little scarce, so you've been managing in a pair of elastic shorts. Thin, elastic shorts.

"Just that it looks like you've been getting comfortable. Trusting others, spending time with Ben."

Your lips pull into a firm pout. "I'm not going out of my way to trust shit. Yeah, I talk to a lot of people, but that's just because I rather that than have them talk to you or Ellie first. It--it feels safer that way."

There's such a genuineness in that, Joel almost feels bad, almost feels the need to back step. But your indignation at the implication that you're trying to leave is too alleviating. Until you try to crawl towards the edge of the bed. Away from him.

Joel props himself up on his elbow and reaches for you. His hand finding your forearm feels like giving something up. A silent, too raw plea for you not to go. He knows it isn't quite that in so many words, but you understand. You always do in your talent for feeling the way he bends for you when he can.

For a moment, that's it. Just his hand on your arm, still perched on the edge of the bed, still flighty. One move and you might be gone. It'd be so easy.

Joel's never really considered himself a pissing on his territory type of person or one to be found of dependents, but he'd be lying if he didn't say Jackson didn't worry him. He's not an idiot, he knows he's been rough to travel with and that he's taken time to get to here, but you've always stayed close. Some of that must have been influenced by survival.

Not that Joel wants you to stick around because you have no other choice. He'd never use that against you, it's just something that he wonders about from time to time. A fear that this might be how he finds out that's the only reason the two of you have been together for so long.

He's been thinking about loss more lately. After the decision he made, after what almost happened to Ellie. Losing Sarah left him stagnant for 20 years and some days that grief still flares up and makes breathing feel impossible. It's a wound that will never fully heal, and maybe that's for the best. Hurt means not forgetting, but Joel knows he doesn't have anymore of that left in him.

What if he did just fuck everything up? Not just for him, but for Ellie as well. He sees the way she looks at you, like you're everything. He's peered into your mornings together, the world that is your little routine and your inside jokes. If he messed all of that up because he only knows how to be an asshole when any type of feeling comes up...

Joel knows action better than he knows words. Caring is easier an action, and so is apology. His hand releases your forearm, trailing down your arm and settling on your exposed thigh. When you don't push him away or try to move, Joel feels like he can fully inhale again.

"You know my priorities, right?" Your voice sounds more hesitant than before. Nervous. "It's you and Ellie. It's been you and Ellie and nothing's going to change that. It doesn't matter if we're here for two more days or two more decades."

A pinch of guilt rises in his chest. Normally that level of promise would make him feel the need to cut all ties. Safer that way. But Joel doesn't want to hold you at arm's length, not right now. Carefully, his hand moves forward, closer to your inner thigh than knee.

He should say something. Admit to his own insecurity or apologize. "I know," is all that comes out, even though it doesn't really matter, you have every right to walk away. Your eyes still soften, though, like he managed to come close to saying what you needed to hear. "I shouldn't have said that."

His hand moves up even further and this time you have to react, your breath catching itself on your throat. The noise fucking gets to him. Gets to him in a way nothing has in a minute.

"You're kind of an asshole, sometimes," it's breathed out in a way that feels like you're accepting his apology, "And it's only going to get worse as you settle into your old age."

There it is. The joke was forced through the uneven timbre of your breathing, but it's there. All you, all forgiveness in the way the corner of your mouth turns upwards.

Joel's thumb drags across the soft skin of your inner thigh, "So now I'm already there?"

You blink, unsure on how to react to anything with his hand tenderly working the skin of your inner thigh. Everything in you is only capable of focusing on the feeling, of chasing it. "Getting there." Joel's thumb and pointer finger briefly pinch at your skin in a way that has to be intentional, right? His touch is approaching the end of your shorts.

The closer he gets, the worse the distance feels. Your face feels like it's burning at the thought. This is Joel, not some random guy that things could be casual with. Or maybe he could be casual, but you--god, you're getting ahead of yourself. This isn't--it--

"Too old?" Joel stretches forward, sitting up a little more. "You lookin' for younger like Ben?"

There's something odd in his tone. A flat attempt at humor that misses because it's too straightforward. Ben. Again. This is the second time his name's come up tonight. Why? And that's not even the strangest part. His assumption is what sticks out the most.

"I'm not..." Fuck, his hands are killing you. "I'm not looking. Not actively and if I..." Okay, it's officially too much, he's turning you into a transparent puddle. His hand pauses and pulls back down, settling on your knee. Firmly. Unbudging in a silent demand to continue.

He traces circles onto your knee with his thumb. "You can say it," he encourages in a way that feels like he's patronizing you.

The words feel like too much. Some lines might have been crossed today, but nothing life changing. You two could still dismiss the whole thing, crawl beneath thin sheets, fall asleep, and wake up the next morning like nothing ever happened. But his hands on your thigh and the needy ache you're not sure you fully understand it left you with. And what it felt like to have him closer.

Joel's sitting up fully now, waiting. "If I was looking, it wouldn't be at Ben, it'd be..." His hand calmly trails back to its previous spot on your leg with each of your words. Fuck, you're struggling to think again. "At you."

At that, his fingers push upwards, touching directly between your legs. "Really?" He's quick to create a steady rhythm, pulsing his pointer and middle finger at a speed that makes it impossible to breath. Your eyes screw shut so tightly you see stars. "You're so wet, can feel it through those shorts of yours."

The way Joel's voice catches on itself makes a weak sound slip out. You'd be embarrassed by it if he gave you the chance to be, but before you can even think twice about it, Joel's free hand finds the back of his head. His fingers tangle into your hair and he pulls you forward so harshly you try to gasp. The sound doesn't make it out, Joel's mouth is on yours before it has a chance.

He holds you against him as he takes his time pulling on your bottom lip with his teeth and letting his tongue glide over the bites. Your mouth opens for him instinctually, asking for more.

Joel's taking his time and moving at a speed that has him everywhere all at once as his fingers continue to work you through the fabric that divides you. He releases you with no warning, the hand at the back of your head finding a new place right beneath your chin. His fingers pause, forcing out an instinctual whine.

He's panting near your ear in a way that makes you miss his touch even more. "So this is all for me, sweetheart?" His eyes flit from your face back down to your lips.

Even though the question is dripping with roughness, there still manages to be a hint of something else there. Something genuine. It doesn't matter, though, because all you have the willpower to do is nod. Joel turns his head, pressing a kiss to your temple that's so close to tender it leaves you spinning. He trails the barely there kisses down to your ear before whispering, "Then prove it."

The word's send a jolt through you. "Prove it?"

Joel tugs you closer, you listen clambering back to where you were before trying to leave. Joel rests his back against the wall and makes a point of extending one leg. You don't fully get it until he's helping you ease onto his thigh. The material of his sweats is nowhere near enough.

"Joel--"

"Sh," he hums, soothingly as he runs a hand up and down your back, "It's okay, sweetheart." The hand that's still on your hip squeezes firmly. "I've got you, y'know that." He helps pull you forward on his thigh and the pressure after so long without nothing hits you harder than you thought it would. "There you go," you push down harder, faster, "Just like that."

The longer you go, the more Joel encourages you, whispering sweet nothings and words of encouragement as the knot in your stomach continues to grow until your body feels it. You're seizing up, body ready to throw itself off of a ledge. Your thigh squeezes around his leg, which must be how Joel knows you're close, because before you can find release, his hand is leaving your back and moving onto your arm. In one, fluid motion that should be impossible, he flips you two.

Your back is on the mattress and Joel's above you, pinning you in place with his body. You can feel him, all of him, hard and struggling between the layers that divide you.

Your lips part, but you don't know what to say. You're still reeling from your stolen orgasm, and you're not sure if you want to curse him out for it or simply ask why and how. Bad back your ass the way he just turned the two of you over with no real effort.

Before a single sound can come out of you, Joel folds the edge of the T-shirt you sleep in, exposing your stomach. A fluttery kiss to newly exposed skin. Again and again until he has to push up even more of your shirt to continue. "This," his voice comes out lower, harder as he tugs at the fabric, "Off."

You sit up just enough to help him tug the shirt off as quickly as possible. The desperation makes it harder than it ever should be to take off a shirt, but the offensive piece of fabric eventually finds its way to the floor.

The bareness you feel is startling, even in this level of darkness. Joel doesn't give you a chance to let your mind wander or insecurity take root. His mouth is exploring the newly exposed skin immediately. It's a rabid mix of love bites and placating the irritated marks with soft passes of his tongue and genuine, devoted kisses.

It's then that you realize there's a reason he's taking his time. He's definitely hard, you can feel him pressing against your thigh, but that doesn't matter to him. He's taking his time because he can. Because he's enjoying it, getting off on having you writhing and desperate under him.

"Joel," your voice is so small it feels like it belongs to someone else.

He pauses, lifting his head just enough that the scruff of his facial hair scratches comfortingly against your skin. A reminder that he's still him. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

You carefully lift a hand, making sure your movements are easy to follow in the dark. Joel lets your fingers settle in his hair. "Need more-need you."

"I know, sweetheart." His voice is low and soft, impossible to not trust. "You can wait a little longer." His teeth drag against your skin again. "Can't you, baby?"

Fuck, he could ask you anything like that and you'd have to say yes. "Mm."

He takes it as the answer it's supposed to be. Joel goes back to it until his fingers finally snag around the elastic band of your shorts. In one swift motion, he tugs it and your underwear away, leaving you fully exposed. He gives no warning before moving his mouth to your thighs, slowly moving up until the only thing left is your center.

With no warning, Joel licks through your folds. You practically cry out. "I know, sweetheart," he mumbles, barely looking up, "You can take it."

After that, he picks up the pace. Just as you think you're going to get used to the overwhelming pleasure, Joel moves his hand down your waist to use his thumb against your clit. Fuck. You're panting, whining, begging.

Joel groans. "You're close, I can feel you." His fingers replace his mouth, "You gonna come?" Another whine, like your body has forgotten how to make any other sound. "Yeah?" He's picking up the pace, pushing his fingers into you in a way that hits you somewhere deep. "Come on my fingers, sweetheart, I've got you."

His pace reaches its peak and his thumb works at your clit until you're finally pushed over the edge. Joel reaches you before you can scream, muffling the sound of your orgasm by pressing his lips to yours.

You can taste yourself on his tongue as he works you through your high. Joel knows when to stop, when the pleasure comes close to bordering on painful, he moves his hand back up your waist and focuses on just kissing you.

After a few minutes, you regain control of your thoughts. The urge to pull him closer takes over once again. Without thinking, you're tugging at the hem of his shirt. You almost think twice about it, but decide that it's only fair. He's touched so much of you and seen even more. All while fully clothed.

You're not as good or tactful about it as he is, likely due to the gap in your experience, but Joel picks up on what you want. He pulls away cautiously, eyebrows furrowing together like he's debating before finally giving in.

He discards his shirt just as carelessly as he got rid of his own. Joel tries to reconnect the two of you together again before you can take full note of him. It's a tactic you find the strength to beat, turning your head just enough to indicate that you're pausing.

Joel allows that, stills against with no protest. The silent promise that it's your pace is comforting. You let your eyes rake over his chest in what you hope is subtle, but really doubt actually comes off that way. You can feel him tense under your gaze. You stretch out a hand carefully, touching him because you can. Your attention focuses on the details that you can make out despite the limited light. A few marks of varying sizes are visible across his skin.

Scars. You wonder how many of them there are and the stories behind each. What it'd feel like to touch and learn each of them until they're as familiar as the lines of your palms. Your hand drifts down, faintly touching a particularly long mark.

Joel's hand moves, catching your wrist before you can make it any further. You frown up at him. "I want--"

"I--" He cuts himself off, unsure on how to explain it. You deserve to know what a war it will be to get him to open up, but he doesn't want that to change things. "Not yet, okay?" He squeezes your hand in his. "I'm not an easy person to care about, to get close to, but I--I can try to--"

"I disagree." He frowns at being cut off, but lets you continue. "And you don't have to worry about forcing anything right now, whatever you have to give, that's what I want."

That's all it takes. Joel crashes his mouth to yours, holding you there for much longer than before. He shifts away just enough to be able to pull down his pants. He strokes himself briefly before lining himself up with your entrance.

Joel enters you with no warning, easing himself in until your hips are pressed together. You're a mess despite his soothing words. He pulls back and pushes back, again and again until all you're seeing is white, blinding pleasure. "Fuck!"

"You're squeezin' me so good, sweetheart," his groans are hot and heavy against the shell of your ear. "Oh, sweetheart," he's losing his tact, his movements becoming more and more desperate. "You gonna come with me?"

You nod, eyes screwing shut as Joel picks up the pace until you're a mess again. He clamps a hand over your mouth as your second orgasm hits you fast and hard. It takes all of Joel's strength to pull out before finishing.

He lets himself relax against you after, a mess of sweaty limbs as you both recover. After a minute, Joel sits up. "You leaving?"

Joel brushes back your hair out of your face gently. "No, sweetheart, just need to get something to clean you up, okay?" You're about to protest again, but Joel beats you to it, "You don't want to sleep like this." When your only reaction is to pout up to him and cling to his arm, Joel leans down and finds a shirt to offer you. "Ellie's an early riser that never learned how to knock. You want to deal with this in the morning while pretending you're not?"

That's a point that sticks. You could probably explain Joel being in here early in the morning or he could climb out of your bed at first sunlight to keep this from being weird for Ellie...but your current state? Yeah, that's undeniable. "Come back?"

Joel squeezes your hand, taking a moment to watch your small expression fondly. "Promise."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us fanfic #the last of us x reader #the last of us #tlou x reader #joel miller x reader smut #pedro pascal x reader smut #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic #joel miller smut

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billlydear · 1 year

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SUPERNOVA - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART ONE)

word count: 3135 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: max's english tutor has a black eye and a shitty alibi. billy sees right through it.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, mentions of abuse, injuries mentioned (black eye), reader is abused by her mother just like billy is by his father

A/N: thank you for 300 followers!!! have this as a little gift from me to you <3 basic biology part three is in the works, don't worry! i just wrote this in a fit of sleep deprived passion the other night after thinking about it for a week or so and i wanted to share :) i hope you enjoy! the ending of this is pretty straightforward and, though i plan to write more parts, this can be read on its own for now.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

There’s never a good reason for Max to stomp into Billy’s room. It’s always either her demanding a ride somewhere, asking for money, or shouting at him to turn his music down. This time, though, there’s no music playing, and it’s nearing 11:00 PM, so he’s not sure why she’d need money or a ride.

He glances up at her, really more of a glare, through his eyelashes, reclined against the wall as he lounges on his bed. He’s got a magazine in hand and the pages are as boring as the cover was, but he’d rather stare at faded jet ski advertisements than read the book he’s supposed to be working on for English.

She stops just inside the doorway, jacket on and shoes laced. He narrows his eyes at her, something of a question, and she sounds just as venomous as he looks when she replies.

“I need to borrow your window.” She mutters, piercing eyes set on him.

He’s heard her say a lot of weird things since they started living together. Mom, I can’t find my left rollerskate, Why is my bra in the freezer?, and We’re not going in the theater, we’re going to sit outside and talk, have previously topped the list but this is off the charts.

“Sure, Max,” He drawls, fingers tightening against the waxy magazine paper, “Just haul it back in here when you’re done, okay?”

“You know what I mean,” She huffs, already lunging for his bed. She practically topples him in her overzealous attempt to reach the window, and he shoots a hand out to steady himself as the mattress rocks. He has half a mind to kick her onto the floor but he watches her click a flashlight open from her jacket pocket, and stares with suspicious intrigue instead.

“Come on, come on,” She huffs, clicking the light on, off, on, off, “Where is she?”

“Who?” Billy leans forwards, peering out the window into the blackened neighborhood, “Jesus, Max, don’t go shining lights into people’s windows at night, they’ll think you’re some creep trying to watch them change.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you know that from experience,” She grumbles, shoving his hand away when he tries grabbing the light.

“I’m not kidding,” Billy seethes, muscled arm coming to combat her defenses, nearly shoving her off of the end of the bed, “What are you even trying to do, anyways?”

“I’m trying to talk to my tutor,” She snaps, landing a sharp slap to his thigh that reddens the skin there, “Butt out, butthead.”

“Assface,” Billy grumbles, rubbing at the tender spot on his leg with half a mind to whack her upside the head. She ignores him completely, desperately flicking the light at a ground floor window.

“Do you really need tutoring help now?” Billy groans, the incessant clicking preventing him from what was supposed to be his before-bed relaxation.

“She wasn’t at school today,” Max explains in a huff, “Or- like, she didn’t show up at my school. She called this morning to say she was sick, but she sounded fine, and I heard someone in the parking lot say that they saw her outside her house, just sitting there, like, really late last night.”

“So she was getting some fresh air,” Billy deadpans, “Now get out of my room.”

“Would it kill you to cooperate?” Max turns to him with such a judgemental stare that Billy’s surprised he doesn’t wither away right on the spot. Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl scorned, he thinks, annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“She’s obviously not coming,” Billy reasons, his patience wearing thin after almost two minutes of flashlight nonsense, “She’s probably sleeping. She’s got the flu or something, and you’re gonna wake her up and make her even more sick. Just leave her alone, and leave me alone.”

“I’m not asking you to be a part of this!” She gushes, jaw set in a hard frown and eyes rolling when he props his elbow up on the windowsill, cheek smushed into a bored expression against his palm.

“I just want to see if she’s okay, because she doesn’t normally get sick, and I haven’t seen her window open all day, and I really think that something might be wrong, so-”

After a staggering two minutes and forty-six seconds of morse code from hell, your curtains part. Max practically lights up at the sliver of light that appears between the drapes, but when your face pops between it, her breath hitches in a gasp.

Your eye is bruised. It’s swollen shut and purple, an ugly stain that blooms down your cheek, like a rose that sticks its thorns straight into Billy’s chest. His posture, previously saggy and bored, stiffens until he’s nearly pressed against the glass, brows furrowed in horror as his lips part ever-so-slightly.

“Oh my god,” Max breathes, and you regard them both with a weary gaze.

Max lifts the lower half of Billy’s window, slipping out the gap with such agility and speed that Billy doesn’t have a chance to try to stop her before she’s already outside. He rushes to follow her, cringing as his bare feet land in damp piles of leaves.

“What happened to you?” Max runs to your window, bracing her hands on the sill.

“Nothing,” You try to smile, and it pulls at the skin around your eye, finishing the expression off with a wince, “I just- it’s silly, okay? I slipped and fell on the ice out front and I hit the stair rail on the way down. I was too embarrassed to go to school, ‘cause I knew everyone would ask, so I just called out sick. I’m sorry, Max, I know today was our day, but I’ll do double time once this heals.”

The more you ramble, the quicker you spew your pre-determined speech, the more the thorns lodge themselves in Billy’s gut. It’s familiar behavior, having an outlandish excuse at your disposal, reciting it like poetry, blaming the bruises on a misstep down the stairs rather than a rage-fueled fist. He’s done the same to countless teachers, all staring down at him with a condescending sneer, assuming he’d instigated another fight.

Max might not be well acquainted with different types of bruises - and god he hopes she never has to be - but Billy certainly is. And your black eye is not from a stair railing, he knows that. It looks the same as his does whenever Neil decides he’s in a fighting mood, and it doesn’t seem like you have the frozen peas that Billy usually medicates his marks with.

“It’s okay!” Max promises, and thankfully she commands enough of your attention to where you don’t notice Billy’s grief-stricken stare, looking for all the world like he’d been punched in the gut.

‘It’s okay, we can just meet up some other time. Or- or I can come over to your house! So you don’t have to show your face anywhere. And I won’t tell,” She insists, hands dug snugly into the pockets of her jacket, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

So are you, Billy notes, just not to the people with the same ones.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” You frown slightly, biting the inside of your cheek, “This really hurts, and it’s kind of giving me a headache, so… might be best to just meet when it’s healed.”

“That’s fine,” Max nods, reaching up and through the window to sling her arms around your neck in a rushed hug, “Just- call me when it’s better, okay? My teacher set us this new essay, and it’s got some stupidly complicated prompt, so I need your help figuring out-”

Billy watches as your head ticks up, eyes widening slightly as you tune into the sounds of your house. He knows the look all too well, you’ve heard someone coming.

“That’s great Max,” You stammer, reaching for the window pane to close it, "I’ve gotta go!”

“-how to… write it.” She finishes, face wrinkling in confusion when you slam the window shut, yanking the curtains closed, “Feel better…”

“Go,” Billy jumps to action, hearing a raised voice from within your room, not your own, “Max, move!”

He pushes her along the side of their house, shoving her around the back until they’re out of the line of sight from your window. He peers around the corner from behind an overgrown trellis, one that lets him see you without you seeing him. He waits with bated breath, ignoring Max’s indignant protests and slamming a hand over her mouth.

She licks his palm, but he manages to stay calm and keep it there. He will smear it on her cheek later, though.

Sure enough, Billy watches your curtains fly open. There’s a woman in the window now, and you’re standing behind her, expression unreadable. Then you speak, and Billy can’t hear it. Your voice must be soft, gentle, calming. The woman barrely reacts, eyes scanning wildly for whoever you’d been talking to. But Billy keeps Max quiet, pinching her hard when she tries escaping his grip.

Billy watches the woman in your window with a hatred he’s only ever felt towards Neil. She acts the same, menacing glares and a puffed-up chest. You react just as he does, a personified tension-diffuser as you shrink in on yourself and give steady, slow answers. She’s shouting, you’re mumbling. She’s advancing, you’re backing away. She’s grabbing your wrist, forcing you close to her, and you’re squeezing your eyes shut.

Billy’s stomach churns; he can’t watch this any longer.

He herds Max to the other side of the house, keeps her restrained with one hand and pries at her window with the other. It opens smooth and easy, no squeaking that would alert their parents to their escapade.

Once they’re both inside, she flips.

“You asshole,” She huffs, “You manhandled me! You really couldn’t just let me have one nice conversation with my friend? You had to yank me away like some psychopath?”

“She wasn’t going to come back,” Billy murmurs, a glint in his eyes urging her to lower her own voice, “And she didn’t fall down the stairs. Go to sleep, Max.”

He feels a pillow hit him in the back as he strides out of her room, and each step down the hallway towards his own feels like he’s numbing from the inside out. The role reversal of his own life had been so mind-shattering, watching a scene from his household happen in real time in front of him instead of a torturous memory in his nightmares.

By the time he reaches his room, his fingers are too numb to shut the door. He kicks it closed instead, staring out of the still-opened window to watch your own. The curtains are drawn again, shutting you off from the world.

He stands there staring for what feels like seconds, but is probably minutes with the way his brain is warping his thoughts. Abuse felt so lonely, it was a soundproof room with padded walls, but they stung like hot coals when his dad came stomping in to shove him up against them. His family, his safe space, his padded room, came with the irony of only existing alongside pain, fear, and anxiety. And knowing there was an identical room beside his for god knows how long, thick layers of insulation drowning out each of your cries and blocking out each other’s existence, makes him sick.

His eye stings with the residual image of your own, a feeling he knows all too well. His hand, on instinct, tingles with a cold sort of sensation, the same that he got from grabbing the ice-covered peas out of the freezer.

He’s off to the kitchen in a hurry, feet padding carefully across the floor so as not to alert anyone of his presence. The biggest challenge is opening the freezer door quietly, but he’s a pro at it by now. He takes the peas back to his room, but this time he doesn’t curl up in his bed with them pressed to his eye, he clutches them tightly and heads for the window.

Max’s flashlight is discarded on the sill, and he wraps it in his free fist. He clicks it on cautiously, testing the sound to see how it echoes in the empty space between your house and his. It’s not obnoxiously loud, hopefully no one can hear it.

He flashes it against your window, only for a second, then ducks beneath the sill. He waits, expecting an explosion of sound as your mother reaches out to grab him. But nothing happens, so he straightens up to his full height. The wind nips at his bare arms, goosebumps erupting over the skin not covered by his muscle tank. He waves the flashlight once more at your window, covering it with his thumb to flash it instead of clicking the button rapidly.

He hears shuffling from inside, then silence. Then shuffling again, a little closer, and silence. Then more shuffling, and the routine continues until he hears your fingers scrape at the window pane.

You duck under the curtains this time, easier to slip back inside and shut the window instead of drawing the curtains, “Max, I can’t-”

Billy doesn’t know what to say when your eye catches him. He blinks, once, twice, three times, watching as your anxious eyes rove over him. Only then does he register the chill in his hand, the peas.

“Here,” He murmurs, voice soft and slightly raspy, as he holds the package out to you, “Ten minutes, then turn the package around, then ten more minutes. And if it’s still icy, do it over again.”

You take the peas because you have to, because he’s pressing the cold package into your hand. Your fingers wrap around it and you peer curiously at the image on the front, only glancing back up at him when he shifts in his stance, leaves crushed beneath his feet.

“The package rustles,” He warns you, “Be careful. Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t,” You finally murmur, breaking your stunned silence, “I- Uh, thank you. It’s.. Billy, right?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, nodding once. He’s half aware that his curls aren’t exactly perfect like they typically are, because nodding sends one of them tumbling into his eyesight over his forehead, “That’s me.”

“Y/N,” You mumble, and this time even Billy hears the heavy footfalls in your hallway. They set you on edge again, and he yanks his fingers back from the windowsill so that you can snap it shut, “I gotta go.”

“Bye,” He whispers, voice lost to the night as he stands outside your window. He ducks beneath the sill again, where your mom can’t see him if she decides to search the premises. He doesn’t hear anything from your room, though, and he takes it as a good sign when the footsteps retreat. Then he hears the soft crunch of the package of peas, muffled beneath what he assumes is your blanket as bed springs creak from within.

His eyes snap shut at the sound, envisioning you curled up beneath your comforter, hugging the bag of peas to your bruise. It’s a position that feels so natural to him he almost replicates it, back slumped against the siding of your house. The rustling stops; you got yourself settled.

Only then does he move, climbing back through his window and shutting it for the night. He can’t sleep, though, eyes drifting towards your window from his seat on his bed. He watches, he waits, he stares until his eyes sting, every second that passes a blessing for the lack of commotion it causes. When he does fall asleep it’s after the upstairs lights of your house have shut off, because only then is it over, only then is it safe. He sleeps in solidarity with you, knowing that the click of the lightswitch puts you at ease just like it does him; if there's someone else awake, it’s not safe to sleep. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a stiff neck from sleeping up against the wall, but his eyes will flutter open and the first thing he’ll see is your window, hopefully open to showcase peace inside.

Never in his life has he felt connected to someone his age. That’s what abuse does, that’s what Neil does. He isolates Billy, keeping him under his thumb so the boy can’t escape his clutches. But now there’s a glimmer of hope right next door. Hope, he supposes, isn’t the right word. A muddy black eye isn’t hopeful. It is, though, when it’s matching his own, when your scars and bruises line up with each other’s to map out constellations of torture. He wants to chart them, find out where the patterns are, spit out the stories behind them.

He’s spent enough time stargazing his own past, picking a new ball of fire each night to examine. To pick apart, to wish he’d have acted differently in, to regret. Now there’s a whole other sky mere feet away from him, and he yearns to chart it, to explore its patterns in the desperate hope of finding companionship. Oh, that cluster? A missed curfew. That bright one? Backtalk.

He’s always felt like a potential supernova. Like one day, all of the hurt, rage, and despair inside of him is going to burst forth in an explosion of color, blood and guts paired with anguish and heartache.

And now, knowing there’s another ticking time bomb beside him, two panes of glass separating the two dying stars, he has hope. Maybe it’s morbid, to want to explode in tandem. To seek connection in even destruction. All Billy knows is that if he can’t get out, he’ll die.

He thinks about it for a moment; getting out. Shooting across the galaxy, hurtling over the inky black sky until the swirling black hole that is Neil Hargrove can’t suck him in anymore. Landing somewhere where he burns bright without the threat of explosion.

And for the first time since that vision began, he sees two stars. One yours and one his, twin flames, both rocketing towards a safe corner of the universe, one where no one else can dim your glow.

Billy knows right then and there, he has to get to know you. He’s never tried making real friends, never wants to get close enough to have to reveal that Daddy hits him and Mommy - New Mommy - doesn’t care. But you’re the same as him, a dimming star puttering along with the desperate hope of migrating instead of exploding. And if you can feed off of each other’s light, merge into one, he knows you’ll be strong enough to escape together, to go out without a bang.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove oneshot #billy hargrove blurb #billy hargrove drabble #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x reader fanfiction #billy hargrove x fem!reader

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beautifulblooms · 8 months

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I shine only with the light you gave me - Denied! Father Figure! Price + Male! Sergeant! Reader

So I'm an evil little twat, and based this off "The Moon Will Sing for Me" by The Crane Wives, it's totally evil and very sad, trigger warning for death, won't tell ya whose, gotta read that besties, anyway, enjoy!

CIS Women and Female Aligned people, please DNI, this story and all of my others are for non-binary, masculine aligned and male readers!

It had been a rough mission, returning to base with a bullet wound in his arm, it wasn’t (y/n)’s dominant arm but it still made steadying his gun difficult. Walking back to Price’s office to give his mission report, (y/n)’s injured arm was wrapped and covered by the sleeve of his hoodie, the bandages not visible, but the dark circles under his eyes and the slumped shoulders showed his exhaustion perfectly fine.

(y/n) had talked with Captain Price a few weeks before now about how he felt connected to the older man like he was the father figure he never had growing up…and the captain hadn’t taken it well, straight up refusing to acknowledge or interact with the younger man outside of professional meetings no matter how hard (y/n) tried to talk to him.

Knocking on the door of Price’s office, (y/n) waited for a response, the usually warm and kind voice of his captain present and giving him a little bit of hope. “Come in, door’s open,” Price didn’t look up from the papers on his desk when the door opened, continuing to write until he heard (y/n)’s voice, the pen in his hand slowly being gripped harder as he tried to keep himself calm.

“I’ve got my mission report, it um, it went well, minimal injuries to the team.” Setting the small stack of stapled papers on the corner of Price’s desk, (y/n) took a step back as he spoke fairly softly but still with some confidence, hoping to get to actually talk to Price today.

“Thank you, sergeant, you’re free to leave. You have another mission in a few days, be sure to rest while you can.” The words were forced on Price’s part, he didn’t want to form more of a connection with the younger man, knowing that it would only lead to disappointment for (y/n) at the very least. He had no idea how to be a father figure, Price was lost in the concept of treating someone like his son, one he’d never had or planned to have. He regretted letting (y/n) get so close to him at all, Price knew that the young soldier would do anything he asked, any mission, anything that needed to be done in the shadows he made.

Taking a small step back from the desk, (y/n) considered telling Price about the injury to his arm, but he also figured that if he was being sent on another mission so soon, he must be doing something right…right? “Of course, I’ll be sure to do that,” Without much of another word, (y/n) turned on his heel and left Price’s office, thinking about what else he could’ve done, he’d been trying so hard to earn his approval, just like he had with his actual father. He wanted nothing more than to be told he’d done a good job, that the man he treated and loved like the sun, like a father, saw him in the same light.

The next few days he should’ve been resting were spent worrying, thinking about how badly this mission could go…little did (y/n) know that it was exactly that, the mission wouldn’t be good. It started out well, (y/n) had gone in with his team and easily navigated through the “abandoned” Soviet bunker, found the needed information, and were headed out to exfil…little did they know that it wasn’t abandoned, and a selection of Al-Qatala soldiers were headed towards (y/n)’s unit.

(y/n) and the rest of his team were more than halfway to exfil when they started to be attacked by the enemy soldiers. It wasn’t more than they’d dealt with before…but the sniper far off from the rest of the group was a damn good shot, and right when one of the other sergeants of (y/n)’s unit saw the lens flare…he’d been shot in the stomach, causing (y/n) to fall to the forest floor with a shocked expression painted on his face.

His team quickly handled the rest of the Al-Qatala soldiers, including the sniper, but they were too late for (y/n), who was slowly bleeding out into the leaves and grass below him, his blood mixing with the dirt as he looked up at the moon, full and bright in the dark sky. The bullets still whizzing around him were almost nonexistent as (y/n)’s vision started to fade to a tunnel, his only focus on the moon and the sounds of the forest, the birds and other animals calling to their friends and family, the soft rustle of his body against the leaves below him, it was like the moon was singing a song to him as he died.

Closing his eyes fully, (y/n) couldn’t help but smile as he heard his teammate shout about the sniper being down…at least they’d get out without being hurt too badly. Laying there he couldn’t help but think about Price, the father figure he couldn’t have, the father figure he wanted to have.

“The moon will sing a song for me, I loved you like the sun…bore the shadows that you made with no light of my own…I shine only in the light you gave me…I shine only with the light you gave me”

The funeral was planned for a few weeks later, Price made sure it was as beautiful as (y/n) deserved, stepping to the casket he couldn’t bear to look fully at the young soldier he’d failed…the soldier he saw like a son but refused to accept when he wanted and needed it most

“I’m so sorry my boy…you didn’t deserve this, you deserved to shine like the sun, not to live in the light I gave you”

#male reader #male reader fanfic #x male reader #mlm account #nblm account #captain john price #captain price #john price #price mw2 #price #mw2 fanfic #cod mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #mw2

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jesuisici33 · 7 months

Text

Fuck it Friday

tagged by @daffi-990 and @hippolotamus i have a busy day today, so here's some vampire!buck in case i'm not able to get to my laptop much today!

The scent of Eddie’s blood hits Buck’s nose before Eddie’s son of a bitch makes its way to his ears.

Turning towards him, his nostrils flare as the blood is all he can focus on in that moment. It’s the first time he’s seen or smelled Eddie’s blood. Eddie’s always so careful on the job. He’s smelled Hen’s and Chim’s blood around half a dozen times at this point. Sometimes due to injuries on calls, sometimes due to something as mundane as a papercut. Yet Eddie’s skin always remains pristine. Buck just had some blood the other day, he should be good. Eddie’s blood shouldn’t be affecting him like this. It’s not even that severe of a cut, it just appears that way due to how much is coming out. A towel pressing down on it for a few minutes and a bandage and he’ll be fine.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Buck asks, looking around in cabinets. Eddie’s not stupid, he’s bound to have more than one in his house. “Get that towel to help stop the bleeding – you know the drill.”

A hand stops his movements. It’s Eddie’s bloody hand. No towel on it at all, the blood still flowing freely from where it’s been cut on his finger. “Wait. What if you…” Eddie’s voice trails off. Buck takes a long moment to finally look at his face. His lip is bitten and his brows are puckered in contemplation. “I mean, can’t you just suck it clean?”

Everything stops. “I could. Is that what you want?” Buck’s hand grabs hold of Eddie’s. His mouth is close to the cut, where the blood is still coming out. Not as quickly as it was before. Buck licks his lips.

Eddie nods. “Less of a cleanup, right?”

Buck could look into those words more. However he has Eddie’s blood in his mouth and that’s all he wants and can think about. A groan makes its way out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He’s been drinking bagged blood for so long he’s forgotten how good it tasted coming straight from a human. Even if it’s just from a tiny little finger. He’s O positive, a flavor he’s tasted many times from many humans. Except it’s Eddie’s O positive blood. It tastes even better because it’s him.

All too soon, the blood is gone and Buck seals up the cut with his tongue. A neat little trick with his vampire gifts. Not wanting to waste any left over blood, Buck licks whatever trails started down Eddie’s arm. A gasp comes from Eddie. Opening his eyes, he sees that Eddie’s own are no longer the warm brown he loves, but black with pupils. Fear or arousal? Buck isn’t quite sure. As soon as Eddie’s arm is clean from blood, he steps back. “You’re all better now. No bandage required.”

“Thanks, man.” The reply is automatic, despite Eddie's hoarse voice. He coughs, trying to appear casual. “Guess we have to throw this away, huh?” He gestures to the carrot he was chopping earlier, now covered with his blood. Agreeing, they throw it away and start cleaning up, Buck letting Eddie know they still have enough for their meal anyways.

Eddie keeps looking at him out of the corner of his eye every few seconds. Buck is about to open his mouth to ask what’s going on – does he still have blood on his mouth or something? – when Eddie answers his silent question for him.

“You look a lot better after - after what we just did. Healthier. Your eyes are brighter and your face seems to be glowing.”

Before Buck can respond, Eddie calls for Chris to help set the table, effectively cutting the conversation off.

tagging @eddiebabygirldiaz @monsterrae1 @apothecarose @mammameesh @thewolvesof1998 @forthewolves @fortheloveofbuddie @disasterbuckdiaz @loserdiaz @pirrusstuff @your-catfish-friend @rmd-writes @wandering-night19 @liminalmemories21 @spotsandsocks @honestlydarkprincess @heartshapedvows @ramonaflow @bonheur-cafe @tyfinn @wildlife4life @wikiangela @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @ladydorian05 @callmenewbie

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aussiepineapple1st · 1 year

Text

Civil Agent

Leon x GN!Reader

A/N: I will do my best to make it gender neutral, I am used to drawing genders not writing them, so please let me know if I miss any gender specificity I miss while proof reading! Thank you and Enjoy.

Summery: You work in a pub Leon frequents.

Words: 3,105 Contains: Domestic Leon, Comfort, Scared Reader

Working in a pub had it's ups and down, you had been working there for a solid 2 years now and actually didn't hate your job. Yes there were the odd pub brawls and the occasional wolf whistle by both genders at you while you were working, but no one had actually touched you. Not physically anyway, you would always feel the person who had wolf whistled staring at your body as you would continue serving drinks from behind the bar. You got to know the regulars that came in by name and had become friends with only a select few of them. Not to the point of hanging out with them afterhours, but maybe a phone number and text was shared rarely between you. One man in particular was your favourite customer.

He was a mystery, quiet if not spoken to, he never let slip what he did for a job, he hadn't even shared his name with you. Sometimes he would come to the pub almost every night and then he wouldn't come for days to weeks. Upon his return he would always be moving a little stiffer, band-aids stuck to his face and hands, bruises and grazes covering his pale skin. Bandages were sometimes wrapped around his hands or arms. Even entering the pub with an arm in a sling on some occasions. Whatever he would do to get these injuries you sure hoped he wasn't getting into any trouble with the law, thinking maybe he would be jailed for some kind of fights he might be in. That is all your mind could think of, I mean, it would make sense that he didn't come in for days to weeks randomly, right?

Some time had passed, the man hadn't been back in about a week now. He hadn't appeared since just before the recent bombings here in Washington City, then there was that awful outbreak that happened in New York 3 days ago.

The pub was rather silent tonight, that happened on Mondays. You were in the back connecting the taps from the bar to another metal keg when you heard the bell and squeak of the door, alerting you that someone had entered. There were previously no pub goers around when you had headed to the back.

"I'll be there in a second!" You call out, letting the customer know you wouldn't be too much longer.

"No rush." Called that familiar yet mysterious voice of said man you had been thinking about over the passed week, only hoping he was alright. You missed your small conversations when he was away.

You let out a sigh as you connect the hose and pat your hands on the apron around your waist. straightening your tie, you liked to look smart when working, you head out to greet one of your favourite customers. Upon walking out you glance over to him, stopping in your tracks. His right arm was in a sling, grazes all over his face, a cut on his lip and body slumped over the bench a bit further than he normally would.

Walking over to stand in front of him you give him a soft smile in greeting, the man looking up to meet your eyes. He could see the worry in yours and pulled his shoulders back, bringing a fist in front of his mouth before clearing his throat.

"I know I look like crap, but I'm fine." He assured you, eyes darting away as you give him a nod.

"Good.. Usual?"

"Please."

Your smile only grows, his one worded sentences were the cutest sometimes. Stepping away from the lower bench at your hips you go into the back to grab a special, much older bottle of his usual. It was your favourite as well, having kept this one for a good 10 years now and decided to bring it to work every day until this favourite stranger returned. Removing it from your bag you smile and tap the glass bottle as you walk out to return to your spot in front of the man. You take two glasses and place them on the bench in front of him.

"Oh you don't need to open another one, there is still half a bottle up on the shelf." He points, slightly confused, then notices the two glasses.

"This one is on me. A special one I have been saving from home." You poor the drinks for the two of you and hand him the bottle to look at it.

"What's the occasion?" He asked, brows raising as he looks at the brew date.

You shrug. "I dunno, let's saaay.." You think as he hands the bottle back to you and you screw the lit back on it. "An early birthday drink. To both of us." You grin, a slight amount of cheekiness in your eyes that the man had noticed.

"Well, I won't say no to that." He takes the glass waiting for you to take yours and clinks them together. "Happy Birthday to us."

You both take a sip, the liquid burning, but cool from the ice that was in it. Both of you hum in delight as the taste was very rich. You exchange a look to each other and nod. It was a good drink.

"So.." You say placing your glass down on the lower bench. "Where have you been this time? Ran into another tree on your bike?" That was one of the many excuses he had made up in the past.

"Yeah..." He puts the glass up to his lips, hovering it there. "Something like that." He then takes another large sip.

Your eyes squint as a hand rests on your hip, leaning on one leg, your index finger tapping at your side as you think. "Look, you don't have to be truthful with me, your business is your business. But when you come in after days to weeks looking like..." You motion a hand to him. "Like this, I can't help but worry, especially with all these outbreaks and the recent bombing here in the city."

The man could tell in your tone that you were worried, he knew you cared for him, but you also cared for a lot of your customers. He had seen that time and time again with how you would always ask if people were okay when they seemed down. Hell, you have even asked him if he was okay more times than he could count.

"I'm okay." He gives a light chuckle, a rare smile pulling at the sides of his lips as he thinks about just how caring you were. "Just..." The smile seemed to fade almost instantly as he looked to the side. You felt a slight stabbing in your gut seeing his expression, it was awful, like he had seen a war and was the last survivor.

You probably shouldn't do this, but you reach out, hesitating slightly but go for it. Placing your hand on his left as the other was still in the sling. You felt Leon flinch as your hand touched his, removing it from his for merely a second before placing it back on his hand. "There is no one here right now, and the camera's don't have any sound on them, they are just visual, so if you want to talk about it?" You tilt your head slightly, your eyes soft and the smile on your face let him know you were trustworthy.

The man looked around at all of the camera's, he had memorised exactly where all of them were. You remove your hand from his not wanting to make it any more awkward than it probably already was, you take another sip of your drink waiting patiently for his answer. "You could always start with telling me your name?" You take a sip of your drink and he reaches into a pocket of his black jeans pulling out a folded thin, black, leather wallet. Opening it he placed it out on the bench in front of you, showing a metal badge and ID card.

You almost choke on your drink, having half swallowed when you saw the unexpected item place in front of you. Your hand coming up to stop from spitting out anything as you cough, the liquid going through the wrong pipe as you had basically gasped. Putting your glass down with a slight bang the man stood from his chair as you coughed, taking deep breaths as your lungs were burning from the effects of the liquor.

"Are you alright?!" He asked with a tone you hadn't heard from him before.

You nod at him and put a hand up as a signal that you were okay. Straightening up after you could breathe properly again, you turn back to him and take the badge from the bench to have a look at it. The man sitting back down, but posture straight with a worried look on his brows.

"Sorry, I didn't expect you to pull out a fricken Government Badge." Your voice was strained as you read over the badge. "Division of Security Operations?" You ask, your voice starting to go come back to normal slowly. "So you're a security officer?" You hand the badge back having read his name and Level clearance of 13.

"Something like that." He takes the wallet back and puts it away in his jean's pocket. There was that line again, he had said it more times than you could even count, only rolling your eyes slightly at the answer.

"Well, Mr. Something Like That." You tease. "Can I call you by your name or do you want that secret still?" You asked, a hand patting your chest to help with the burning in your lungs.

He thinks for a moment then lowered his head, eyes closing before he looks back up to you in the eyes, your own being sucked into his ice blue's. "You can call me Leon." He said with a small smirk on his face.

You felt a flutter in your stomach, you were sure your cheeks or ears had turned a shade of pink as you heard his name from his own lips. Leon. "You know, Leon.." You say trying out his name for yourself. "I always thought you looked like a Caleb." You shrugged.

This earned a small chuckle from Leon as he took another sip. "Caleb? Now that's an interesting name."

"I was tossing between Caleb or Lachlan." You add smiling back at him, mirroring his own.

Leon enjoyed coming here to talk with you, it was one of the only times he would laugh his hardest at some of the things you would say. He rubs his tongue along the front of his teeth behind his lips as he was thinking. you would see the tapping of his left index finger on his glass. His eyes had become distant and you knew he was thinking, so you wait. You had nothing else to do right now anyway, you had cleaned everything and no one else had entered the pub. You look to the clock as it showed 12:36, it didn't feel that late as it was a slow night.

"I was wondering.." He finally speaks up, your attention coming back to him as your brows raise asking a 'what's up?'. "Could I give you my number?"

You felt your stomach twirl once again and you nod. "Of course, here let me just give my phone to you." You say taking out your phone, unlocking it and making a new contact before handing it over to him.

His left hand brushed against your soft fingers, his own fingers felt rough and calloused. He must really work his hands a lot, he always seemed to wear gloves, maybe they were habit from his job? Better grip on things? You weren't sure, but as you think about this he was already handing your phone back to you. You take it back and look at his contact. He had typed his phone number and an address, looking to the name of the contact, you try to supress a smile. Caleb.

"Here, let me send you a text so you get my number." You say typing away.

Leon's phone dings in his black leather jacket and reaches into it reading your message.

"Hello, Caleb, nice to finally meet you." Leon just smiles at the text and puts his phone away.

"Got it." He states and placed his hand back on his glass as you top it up.

----------

The both of you spoke about you and what your week was like, telling Leon about all the small funny things that had happened, said and what had changed in the pub. The time was now 3am and it was time to close up, Leon had offered to walk you home, now knowing your car was currently being serviced. It was one of the things you had told him about, a leak in the hose of the coolant had gotten into your engine. You had caught it before anything serious happened, the whole engine having a clean out and new hose put back in.

"No, it's okay. I only live half an hour walk away." You explain, this area wasn't bad with crime, actually it was a very nice area, though you did like to drive just in case.

"Okay." Was all he would say before walking the other way, normally he would be stumbling from being drunk. However he had paced his alcohol intake tonight, talking with you instead of just drowning in the liquor to forget what he had been through.

Luckily he was still on vacation for another 3 weeks so he had time to relax after everything. Let his arm and shoulder heal, even though his right shoulder would still never heal, it was a chronic injury he had sustained around 20 years ago.

After a 30 minute walk you walk up to your house, you still had a smile on your face, thinking about how Leon would smile as you told him a joke, or how he listened intently when you spoke. You felt your cheeks go red as you thought about it, his name being repeated in your head. Coming to your door you pull out your keys, fumbling with them and dropping them on the ground. Thinking nothing of it you pick them up, your hands hovering over them as you notice something. Fishing line.. Clear, stuck to the bottom of the door. You pick up your keys and follow the fishing line with your eyes up the top of the door, a small slip of what seemed to be paper was subtly sticking out. Your first thought was to pull on it, but something inside your chest tightened and you suddenly became scared.

"No.." You whisper to yourself as you slowly step away from the door. You look in the window and saw a shadow move inside. "Darn it.. I left something back at the park." You say aloud and turn around, hoping whoever it was inside heard you and thought you were heading to the park. No way you were going inside, not when you knew someone was waiting for you.

You pull out your phone and quickly fumble with it, almost dropping it as your hands were shaking. you contact the first person you thought of as they were just in your thoughts moments ago, your fingers typing quickly.

-----

Leon was in his home, having taken a taxi rather than walking for 3 hours up hill. He had a house out in the hills on the outskirts of the city, not wanting to be amongst all the traffic and constant lights. He was brushing his teeth, wearing dark grey trackies and a thin black shirt. He hears his phone ding and frowns, who would be texting him at this time? It was almost 4am. He spits the toothpaste out of his mouth and cleans up before walking to his phone on the island bench in his open kitchen/living area. He saw the text from your number, not putting your name in so you couldn't be tied to your name if his phone was stolen by the enemy.

Opening the phone he reads your message.

"SOmeone is my houe and I don't know what do please meet me int he pb"

The spelling was all over the place, he knew you had typed it quickly, jumping into action he removes the sling on his right arm, you were in danger and he had to get to you quickly. He grabs the keys to his bike and straps his belt around his waist, quickly attaching the single gun holster to at his lower back. Running out of his house as he puts on his jacket, wincing at the movement of his arm.

Quickly staring his bike he races off to wards the pub, speeding to get to you as fast as he could.

-----

You wait inside the pub, huddled under the bench on the inside of the staff area, you try your best to not cry. Your body was trembling and you were wiping away tears before they would fall, you weren't religious, but you pray Leon had seen your message and would get to you before whoever was in your house. Should you call the police? It was probably a good idea, but Leon worked for government security, he was more trustworthy, right?

After checking the time since you had hidden 10 minutes had passed. You had run back to the pub as fast as you could, shaving off 15 minutes off the 30 minute walk. "Please, Leon.." You whisper to yourself, holding your knees as tight as possible to your chest.

You hear the sound of a motorbike outside the pub, feet running to the door and pushing against the locked door.

"(Y/N), It's me! Leon!" He called through the thick wooden door.

Your heart had stopped when you heard the bang of the door but then hearing Leon's voice you immediately come out of hiding and run to the door. Unlocking and opening it. Leon stood there, panting slightly, eyes wide with worry. You noticed he wasn't wearing his sling but launch yourself into him, wrapping your arms around his chest.

"Okay.." he says looking behind the himself before wrapping his arms around you, eyes squinting from the pain in his right arm. "Let's go inside and you can tell me what happened."

You nod and let go of him wiping your eyes and walking inside.

🏷️: @phoenix666stuff @maehemthemisfit @greywardensaywhat @growingupnrealizing

#civil agent #fanfic #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon x gn!reader #leon x reader #post vendetta #reader #resident evil #resident evil fanfic #vendetta #vendetta leon #you

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theteasetwrites · 2 years

Text

Soft Spot | Part 2

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: SMUT—fingering, praise kink, finger licking, doggystyle, missionary, gentle sex, Daryl being soft, swearing, violence, Merle being a creep ❧ Word Count: 6.4k

❧ Requested by @deathishereditary (this request—this is the second part)

❧ Summary: Adjusting to life in Daryl’s camp, you have a less than enjoyable interaction with Merle when he is caught spying on you changing in your tent. Daryl leaps into protective mode, and you just admit, it awakens something in you.

❧ A/N: Here it is! The smutty sequel to Soft Spot. I really love this Daryl x Reader couple, they're so cute! I honestly don't even care if this Daryl is OOC (in my opinion, he isn't OOC... I could genuinely see him being this soft/cutesy with his SO, but maybe that's just me lol). Also I came so close to adding a daddy kink but I restrained myself.

Daryl watched with a sharp, alert gaze as you dipped yourself in the water, nude and vulnerable in the middle of walker-infested woods, but you insisted upon him taking you further out, away from the prying eyes of the group at the quarry, who still were amazed by your presence, even after a week had passed since Daryl found you.

“A nice bath,” you had said. “I need a nice bath, Daryl. Please?”

As usual, he relented, taking you out to a pond nestled amongst the trees in the forest just outside the camp. It was perfect for privacy, it being shrouded in trees and bushy overgrowth, but his main concern was walkers, as usual. That, and you were still recovering from your two-day-old injury, walking with a slight limp that sent a sharp pang of hurt through his own body. If you needed to run away, he was sure he’d have to carry you, but what you wanted was what you would get, as far as he was concerned.

“Don’t go too far now!” he hollered to you. “Best to stay close, shallow end.”

You smiled and shook your head. “You should come in! The water feels so good… And you’re filthy, Daryl.”

He scoffed. “‘M fine.” Of course, the water did look inviting, and so did you, with your breasts bobbing ever so slightly in the weak current. His drawn out stare brought a blush to your cheeks, and you subconsciously covered your breasts, despite knowing he’d seen them many times before.

“Can’t you just come in for a little bit, pumpkin?” you asked sweetly, playing on his weakness for you. Of course, you always used your power for good; he could never say no to you, and you used that to get him to do things that you were sure would be good for him. This time, you were determined to get him clean. For his own good. “For me?”

He chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, fiddling with his crossbow as he leaned back on the tree he’d been dutifully standing guard at. He had to admit, he was filthy, caked in dirt and blood and sweat and God knows what else. Probably tree sap, which made him slightly flammable. He was sure he’d brushed up against some poison oak, too, and that was the last thing he wanted to deal with, on top of everything else going on.

“What about the walkers?” he asked you. “Someone’s gotta keep watch.”

“You can keep watch in here,” you laughed. “Please, sweetheart?”

A flash of your wide, batting eyes was enough to push him over the edge. He stripped himself of his clothes rather quickly, hoping to get the whole ordeal over with so he could go back to watching out for walkers again, then marched towards the edge of the pond with his crossbow and knife in hand, naked.

You found yourself beaming at the image of him stripped bare, dipping himself in the pond while he rather reluctantly set his weapons on a rock for ease of reach. “I ain’t gonna be in here long,” he said. “We should get back soon, anyway. Sun’s gonna start goin’ down in an hour or so. Gotta put some more ointment on your wound.”

You sighed and waded closer to him, your feet barely stepping on the ground below the water. Ignoring his rambling about safety, you reached for your washcloth and raised it above his head to wring the water out over his hair. The light, ashy brown strands stuck adorably to the sides of his face and his forehead, while his face scrunched up tight in reaction.

“We’re going to get you clean, mister,” you said with a smile. “Nice and clean… I just wish we had soap.”

He rolled his eyes, though his quivering lips that curled into an ever so slight, barely detectable smile betrayed him. You began scrubbing his bare chest with your washcloth, though your touch was so light and delicate that you feared you’d have trouble really scraping off all that caked-on dirt and gore.

Your tongue stuck out between your lips just a sliver as you concentrated on getting bits of sticky tree sap out of the sparse forest of short, wiry hairs on his broad chest, the same one you fell asleep on every night. It was good to know it would once again be clean for tonight.

“How did you get tree sap in your chest hairs?” you giggled sweetly.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” he replied, with his usual scoff thrown in. If you hadn’t known him so well, you might’ve thought he was serious, but he was joking with you, you could tell. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse for you to wash me, though…”

“Mhm, sure…” Your smile seemed to fade as you watched the water drip down his chest, suddenly reminding you of how different everything had become, how the world would never be like it was before. Most of all, that intrusive thought snuck up on you again, as it often had at the most inconvenient of times: Do I belong here?

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head and managing a small smile. “Just thinking…”

“‘Bout what?”

You scoffed and shook your head to throw him off your trail, but he only lowered his gaze and looked more seriously at you, trying to draw the anxiety from your mind out into the open. That intense, blue-eyed gaze was nothing short of immensely powerful.

“I miss our apartment,” you finally said. Your gaze moved downward as you scrubbed his abdomen, trying not to look him in the eyes with the shame you felt in admitting your sadness. “I miss my family. Going to work… Never thought I’d miss that. I think I even miss that stupid squeaky floorboard in the living room, and the overflowing toilet that drove you crazy. I was just thinking about all that.”

He smirked at the memory of your apartment’s terrible plumbing system, and how much you shivered underneath the stream of cold water from the old shower. The water heater was always so fickle, no matter how many times Daryl tried to fix it. The only solution was to get in the shower with you in an attempt to shield you from the direct assault of icy cold water, and to try to keep you warm with his body heat.

“This is better than that damn shower, though,” he said, trying to lift your spirits.

“I suppose,” you laughed. “And at least we have each other, right?”

“Right.” He leaned forward to peck your lips, his eyes fluttering to meet your gaze as his lips gently pulled away, but not too far, as he wasn’t quite willing to leave your lips completely. “Ya know I’d never let anything or anyone hurt you, right?”

You nodded vehemently. If there was anything you knew, you knew that. “Of course,” you said. “You’re my hero.”

“I am?” he asked with a smirk.

“You know you are… Always making me feel safe. You’re so good to me, and I’m such a wimp.”

“Ya know I hate it when you say that.” His hand raised to graze your cheek, and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch, a touch you were so desperate for, as always. “You ain’t a wimp. You’re perfect. I don’t blame ya for bein’ scared, for missing things. Everyone’s scared… Maybe I’m a little scared, too. Scared of losing you.”

You smiled sadly, though you tried to lighten the mood just to keep yourself from crying. “Merle, too?”

He scoffed. “Merle? Pfft, he’s all right, but he ain’t you… My bunny.”

He elicited a soft whimper of surprise from you when he grabbed you by your waist, pulling you against his chest and causing you to drop the washcloth into the water with a splash.

His lips crashed onto yours, sweetly and yet with so much hunger, as he hadn’t been this intimate with you since before you were separated a little over a week ago. For the two days you were at his camp, he’d only touch you to hold you or kiss your cheek, as he knew you were still recovering from your injury. Still, he hadn’t been immune to his desire for you, his innate need to be with you in the way only he could.

He needed your soft, sweet body beneath his, letting him guide you as he drew you closer and closer to abject pleasure. He needed to hear your little moans and whimpers of uncontrollable, carnal bliss as he hit deep into you, gently and with the utmost care, but also with so much passion you swore you saw his eyes roll into the back of his head.

For fear of hurting your leg, he had been holding back the heat that was rising in him, but with you naked, soaking wet, no less, he couldn’t keep pretending he wasn’t desperate for physical intimacy. The privacy helped, too, of course. Sharing a tent with Merle wasn’t the most ideal situation, you’d be the first to admit.

His hand reached below water to take a handful of your ass, the pressure of which sent your core careening into his where you felt his hardening. All the while, his tongue slipped into your gaping mouth to taste you, wriggling it around too fast for your tongue to keep up.

His hand moved around to cup your groin, where he put immense, sudden pressure on your clit. You whimpered into his mouth and trembled in his arms, the way he loved. He loved how you reacted to him, how sensitive you always were. It made him want to be more delicate with you, yet at the same time, he wanted to devour you, to elicit the most lascivious noises from your sweet mouth.

“Daryl,” you laughed against his cheek when he finally removed his lips from yours. His tongue tickled your ear playfully, while his hand rubbed more feverishly at your clit until you gasped and clinged harder to his back. “Daryl! Oh!”

The feeling of his finger gently entering you caused you to open your eyes in shock, and immediately your gaze was drawn to a lumbering figure slowly, but steadily, approaching, coming closer to the pond as it moved between the trees in the summery golden hour.

“Oh, Daryl,” you moaned, somewhere between pleasure and fear. You dug your chin into his shoulder and tapped harshly on his soaking wet back. “Daryl!” you cried out a little louder now, as the walker surely could see the two of you now. “Look!”

He grunted as you hit his back once more. “What?”

His peripheral vision drew him to the sight of the walker getting dangerously close to the pond. “Ah, shit!”

He waded swiftly through the water, back to the edge of the pond to retrieve his crossbow.

He lifted himself up and out of the small reservoir, naked and dripping wet, to lift his weapon and aim it directly at the creature’s rotting head. He shot the thing down, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

He huffed and looked around, now noticing sundown was fast approaching. “Let’s get back,” he said to you, then held out his hand to help you out of the pond. “Could be more comin’.”

The idea frightened you, and yet, you couldn’t help but smile as he wrapped a bath towel around you, rubbing your arms up and down to dry you off. “What’re you smilin’ about, huh?”

You shrugged and watched him tie his own towel around his waist. “Just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone shoot a crossbow naked before… Kind of alluring.”

He smirked and shook his head, slightly bashfully, and yet with a hint of mischief. “Let’s get back,” he said again. “We got unfinished business, bunny.”

“What about your brother?” you asked.

He shrugged. “He can sleep outside tonight.”

Night fell not long after returning to camp, and you found yourself brushing through your damp hair as you sat upon the cot you shared with Daryl in his tent. He’d left momentarily to retrieve some MREs from the center of camp, leaving you alone in only your towel, slightly exhausted but eager for Daryl to make love to you as he promised.

You recalled how much Daryl loved when you wore his shirts, how they covered you almost like a short nightgown, and how in the morning after sleeping in them, his shirts would carry your scents reminding him of you.

Stripping the towel from your body, you slowly rose to cross the tent and dig through Daryl’s small pile of clothes. His cleanest shirt at the moment was his old yellow plaid flannel with the sleeves cut off (as he had a habit of doing), so you laid it out on the cot before you, then crossed over again to rummage through the pile of undergarments Daryl had found for you just the day before.

It felt wonderful to slip on that clean pair of panties, and before slipping into Daryl’s shirt, you bundled it up in your hands and held it up to your nose, taking a deep breath as you took in his scent of tobacco and pine. The subtle tickle of the fabric against your bare breasts was exhilarating, and caused you to giggle a little to yourself, though the sound was muffled by the soft shirt held against your lips.

Merle’s beady, sharp blue eyes peeked through the slight crevice of the flaps opening up to your tent. They followed your body’s every move, every heave of your chest as you took in another whiff of Daryl’s comforting scent. You might’ve been able to feel a perverse pair of eyes on you if you weren’t so enraptured, but you couldn’t feel a thing other than the cotton grazing your now clean, bare skin.

He watched you intently, almost suspiciously, as if you knew you were putting on a little show for him, teasing him. When you pulled the shirt away from your chest, revealing your breasts once again, his breath hitched and his smile curled into a cruel smirk. It wasn’t that he was particularly interested in you had you not been with Daryl, but the fact that you were was almost like an overt challenge to his masculinity, and his superiority as the older brother. His younger brother with a woman, while Merle was facing the end of the world on his own? It annoyed him, and so seeing you half-nude was a rather amusing thought to him, and you had a hell of a rack, he thought.

“What the hell are you doin’?!”

Daryl’s voice bellowed and echoed throughout the camp. You flinched, quickly pulling on Daryl’s shirt before buttoning it in a haste. Throwing aside the flaps of the tent, you were met with the image of Daryl ferociously attacking Merle to the ground, the both of them nearly rolling into the flames of the bonfire.

“Get off me!” Merle shouted, though his words were slurred as Daryl’s hand squished his face against the ground. Merle spat before kneeing Daryl in the groin, and he quickly moved to get the upper hand, standing above Daryl, who writhed in pain for just a moment. His anger was enough to get him back up.

He scooted himself back and launched himself up to clasp his hands around Merle’s neck, then pushed him steadily backwards until the older brother’s back was firmly pressed against the nearest tree. His hands tightened around his throat as he snarled, with a low growl punctuating his words: “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, Merle,” he said. “I will… You never, ever watch ‘er, you hear me?”

“Pfft,” he laughed. “You’d kill your own brother for that little slut? Boy, it’s time you grew a pair of balls and stop thinkin’ about hooch all the damn time!”

“Oh, yeah?! That why you were watchin’ ‘er change?! You fuckin’ creep!”

Your legs almost gave out where you stood, and suddenly you felt alien in your own body, ashamed of yourself for not noticing the peeping Tom outside your tent.

Dizziness took over, taking you back into the tent and flinging you onto Daryl’s cot, where you buried your head in his pillow and let loose tears of embarrassment.

Outside, you heard more yelling, more arguing between the two brothers, as well as heavy rustling and hitting that must’ve been indicative of violence.

You only hoped Daryl wasn’t hurt, but judging by the fact that he was the one yelling, you supposed it was him delivering most of the blows.

“You so much as look at my woman again,” you heard him say, “I will gouge your eyes out, Merle. I ain’t fuckin’ joking.”

Your breathing became ragged with fear now, having never seen or heard Daryl acting with such rage. You had seen him angry, but never like this. Never violent towards his own brother, and yet, in a strange way, you found it somewhat endearing. He was protecting your honor, so to speak, even if he was doing it in a rather… unorthodox way.

The fear was intoxicating, exciting, you hated to admit. You knew he would never hurt you, or anyone who didn’t deserve it, but his uncontrollable, impulsive nature filled you with a sense of uncertainty that intrigued you. It was different from the Daryl who made you feel safe and secure. Of course, you still felt that, but slightly more on edge. It was terribly alluring.

“Hey,” he said, much more softly now, though still a little heated from his anger. “You all right?”

He sat himself on the edge of the cot, one hand coming into contact with your back as he rubbed it, the warm, heavy hand soothing you almost immediately.

“Mhm,” you mumbled with a sniffle against the pillow. “I didn’t know he was watching me… I can’t believe he saw me naked, Daryl. How am I going to live that down? I’m so embarrassed.”

He huffed and laid himself down beside you, immediately scooping you into his arms and aligning your body with his. You felt one hand smoothing out your hair, and the other holding yours.

“He brings it up again and I’ll set him straight,” he said. “Promise. Won’t let him bother you.”

You smiled and tugged tighter on his hand before bringing it to your lips to kiss his palm. “You scare me sometimes, Daryl Dixon,” you muttered against his hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that angry.”

He frowned, knowing how much you hated the sound of yelling, how sensitive you were to violence. He’d always tried to never let the side of him come out in front of you, since you preferred his softness, but Merle’s act of perversion and invasion of privacy had driven him over the edge. Ever since you arrived, Merle had a chip on his shoulder, hurling crass comments your way and insulting Daryl for how “pussy whipped” he was. The eavesdropping was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Sorry,” he said, burying his face into your hair and tightening his body against yours. “Couldn’t help it. He shoulda known better. He’s lucky he got away with just a bloody nose.”

You squirmed in his arms, somewhere between slight fear and lustful restlessness. His body pressed up to yours did little to distract you from your arousal, but all Daryl felt was your trembling. He felt like a monster, no better than that walker who’d interrupted your bath that evening, or even Merle himself.

“Do I really scare ya, sweetheart?” he asked. “‘Cause I don’t wanna scare ya, not at all… And I’d never, ever hurt you.”

You turned to sit up straight and face him. He stared up at you seriously, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. Even the thought of hurting you was too much to bear. Scaring you was almost just as bad. Someone so sweet and sensitive as you deserved to be protected, not terrified.

“I know that,” you said. “I said you scare me sometimes, not all the time… And besides, I didn’t say I don’t like it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What d’ya mean by that?” he asked in genuine curiosity. “Thought you hate bein’ scared.”

“I do,” you sighed. “But… I don’t know.”

He sat up beside you, reaching his hand out to sweep back a chunk of hair that hung over the side of your face. “Talk to me, sweet girl. Can’t always just sit there lookin’ pretty. I know you got a lot goin’ on in there.” He tapped the side of your head gently with his index finger, eliciting a giggle from you.

“Well, it’s no big deal,” you said with a shrug. “I just thought it was kind of… nice.”

“Thought what was nice?” he asked, his lips curling into a slight smirk as he started understanding what you meant.

You bit your lip and raised your head to meet his gaze, sharp yet soft, cool yet warm. The man was a walking contradiction, in the best possible way. He could be so cruel and mean, and so sweet and kind, all at once. In any case, he was sensitive. Soft, even. Everything he did was out of softness. Even his anger was born of his love for you.

“You know, how you, um… Stood up for me, I guess.”

But that wasn’t the half of it. It wasn’t just “nice,” it was intoxicatingly attractive.

“In fact,” you continued, “it was… thrilling.”

“Thrilling?”

“Mhm… Exhilarating. Maybe a little too exhilarating.”

You giggled as you thought to yourself about the sound of Daryl’s anger, how much it reminded you of his familiar grunts and groans. The redness and protruding veins all about his face were also reminiscent of a scene you often replayed in your dreams.

He caught on quickly, moving behind you and cradling your body between his legs, which enclosed around you tight. His hands grabbed your waist and scooted you backwards until your ass sat snug with his crotch. You simply had no choice but to be turned on now, damn the embarrassment of Merle seeing you half-naked. All that mattered now was Daryl.

“I got you excited, huh?” he asked, his lips tickling your ear as he whispered. “You got a dirty mind, bunny?”

“No,” you laughed. “I’m as pure as the driven snow. You’re the one who corrupts me… By the way, you promised you’d take care of me tonight.”

He knew from two years of experience that “take care of” was your polite little euphemism for sex. He loved it, though. Taking care of you was perhaps his favorite thing to do.

His hand gently caressed your sides, lifting up his worn flannel shirt you’d taken for yourself with each pass, just enough so he could see your panties, and lick his lips at the sight. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “Don’t I always take care of you, princess?”

“Mmm, yes,” you giggled as his fingertips tickled your sides. “You take such good care of me, Daryl…”

His hands rose to cup your breasts, kneading them slowly as his cheek rubbed against yours, his scruff tickling your soft skin.

“You put this on just for me?” he asked. “‘Cause ya know I love it when you wear my shirts… Love wearin’ it knowin’ you were in it. You’re such a sexy little thing…”

You blushed as he reached up to yank open the top button of the shirt, then the next few until he could slip his hand beneath to tweak at your nipple.

“Daryl!” you giggled.

He groaned hoarsely, almost animalistically, against your ear, and trailed his lips down your neck to leave traces of his saliva.

“I’m gonna make you squirm,” he said. “Gonna make your pussy twitch real nice… You’re gonna whimper just for me.”

“Yes…”

His hand slipped down to grab your clothed crotch, sending you jolting in his arms. Your back arched as you thrusted instinctually against his hand, which held steadfast and strong.

“Horny bunny,” he laughed. “So cute… Let’s get these panties off, sweetheart.”

You nodded and reached down to strip off the dainty fabric, Daryl watching with hazy eyes as your core was revealed to him. He immediately parted your legs, which went limp upon feeling his touch. You anchored your feet to the surface of the cot, ready to feel Daryl’s hand pleasuring you.

The abrupt pressure of his palm nearly sent your legs closing in shock and surprise pleasure, but you quickly melted into his touch as he swirled circles around your clit.

His mouth breathed heavily against your ear, your head thrown back and resting upon his broad shoulder. His fingers moved deftly on your clit, while his other hand kept one of your trembling legs open, pressing firmly on your thigh.

“You’re shakin’,” he said. “I got you, (Y/N). Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

“I—I can’t help it,” you sighed. “It feels so good…”

His fingers let loose for a moment before he flattened his palm and rubbed it up and down your slit. Your teeth clenched as you let out a strained gasp at the feeling, then his fingers stretched to tickle your entrance before his index slipped inside.

Another finger slipped in, and your pussy desperately tightened to feel as much of the girth of his two fingers as you could. When his fingers pulled out, he held them to your mouth, dancing his fingertips over your slightly agape lips.

“Open,” he rasped in a whisper.

You should’ve seen that coming, knowing how much he loved to watch you suck on his fingers.

Your lips opened to greet his fingers, and they closed around them to happily suck, licking the taste of yourself off them all the while.

“Good girl,” he said, holding his forehead tenderly against yours as he watched you obey him. He gently tapped your chin, instructing you to release his fingers. “Let me taste.”

He took his own fingers into his mouth now, and groaned in abject pleasure at the taste of your arousal. “Mmm,” he moaned. “So sweet. You’re such a good girl.”

His kiss took you by surprise, and his tongue filled your mouth to the brim, wriggling around wildly as your own tongue tried to keep up. The vigor of his mouth distracted you for a moment from the movements of his hand, now crazily swirling in tight, hard circles over your circle, digging into your core with each thrust.

“Oh!” you moaned into his mouth. “Oh, yes!”

You bucked your hips to meet his hand until he held it tight against you. His movement stopped so all he could feel was your body rutting desperately against him.

“Please don’t stop!” you begged, panting in exhaustion and need. “Oh, Daryl, please…”

“Sorry, bunny,” he said. “Just wanted to watch you for a sec. You’re my beautiful girl. Just perfect.”

You groaned and smiled deliriously, once again sinking your head onto his shoulder as his hand continued moving. “Right there…”

You grasped at his thighs on either side of you, holding on for dear life as your body climbed to the imminent peak of your pleasure. His rubbing became more vigorous, more sloppy and yet somehow more precise as he gauged exactly where you needed his attention.

Beneath you, his own need for attention was growing, and so was his cock, begging for release from the confines of his pants. You felt him harden, exciting you even more. His hand was wonderful, but his cock was magical.

As your body began to shake and squirm more and more, your ass circling and rutting against his cock, he had to keep himself from coming in his pants, but he was determined to pump himself inside you before his orgasm.

“My cock wants ya so bad,” he huffed. “Can’t wait to be inside you, sweet thing.”

“D-Daryl…” You let loose one of his thighs to grab his hair, combing your hand through it desperately. “I’m almost there,” you said.

He smiled as he kissed your cheek, so innocently, despite the context. Only he could make you feel so pure and light, yet so sexual and, for lack of a better word, dirty.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

Your face strained as you tried to move your body with more pressure against his hand, with only the goal of reaching the orgasm that threatened to close in all around you.

“Oh, oh… Oh, God!”

Every thrust you made threatened to bring you to the edge, but you weren’t quite there yet. It was like your own body was teasing you, holding you on the brink of abject pleasure just for the fun of it.

“Come on…” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Daryl…”

He rubbed harder, swirling faster and with as much pressure as he could manage. “Almost there,” he encouraged. “Good girl… You’re doin’ so good.”

Finally, you felt the knot in your core release, and with a series of strained whimpers and moans, you felt a cascade of warm, tingling pulses envelop you with each uncontrollable twitch.

“I’m coming…” you sighed as you broke out into a delirious grin, your head rocking back and forth on his shoulder. You could feel his eyes on you, watching your face contorted in pleasure with each pulse of your orgasm.

Beneath the palm of his hand, he felt the twitching of your pussy as he slipped one finger in, just to feel your convulsing walls clenching around him.

“Good girl,” he said again.

His lips attacked the skin under your ear, sucking and licking in appreciation.

Once your twitching stopped, and your ragged breathing became more regular, he wasted no time in unbuttoning the rest of your shirt, then tossing it somewhere in the darkness of the tent.

He then folded his legs underneath him and used his body to pin you to the bed, his entire body weight now above you.

Your body was limp, pliable and ready to be maneuvered however he saw fit. As he lifted his body, he tugged off his shirt, rustling up his hair. All you could hear was his soft groans and deep, guttural pants, and then the clatter of his belt buckle and jeans on the canvas floor of the tent.

His strong hands maneuvered you, lifting your hips and spreading apart your legs as they bent underneath you. With his grip on your waist, you felt the sopping wet tickle of his tongue slowly licking up your spine, causing you to tremble and gasp in your increased state of sensitivity.

His lips stopped at the base of your neck, and his cock slid up your lower back, just above your bottom.

“I’m gonna go inside now,” he said. “Lick my fingers.”

He brought his hand up to your mouth, and you did as he asked, being sure to coat his hand in a thick layer of your saliva. He brought his hand back down to his cock, rubbing the spit all over his shaft before dipping his tip gently into you.

His face buried in your hair, he dug deeper, pulling out just a centimeter or so every few moments.

“You feel so good around my cock,” he whispered hoarsely into your ear, that intense southern accent so shaky as he began to lose control of himself. Every inch he moved deeper inside of you threatened his ability to hold back his jagged, aggressive movements. Still, he had to be gentle with you. He knew you liked it gentle, soft, and sweet, and he liked it that way, too, but he still had that aggressive streak, the one you apparently found to be “exciting.”

He wondered if he could go a little harder on you tonight, since you seemed to like his rough tendencies.

He didn’t have to wonder much longer. “Harder,” you whimpered. “Please, Daryl? A little harder?”

His eyes widened as he continued gently thrusting into you, as he usually did. “You sure, sweetheart?” he asked. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you said. “Just a little rougher on me, please.”

You wanted to feel him hit hard into you, to hear his animalistic grunts and groans as he neared his orgasm. And yet, you still wanted his softness, his loving touch. You knew he could somehow master both at once.

“Okay.”

He pulled you down closer to his core, sending his cock as far as it could possibly go inside your pussy. You yelped in surprise, but soon you were overtaken with pleasure as his thrusting became slightly more heavy and deliberate, with fewer intervals in between.

You could feel his hot breath on your shoulder, his lips suctioning to your skin as his hands came down to squeeze your breasts, tender and sensitive.

“Oh!” you cried out. “Yes! Daryl!”

“You like that, bunny?” he asked. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“Oh, it feels so good… Please don’t stop.”

One hand left your breast to paw at your throbbing clit, offering more stimulation as he was determined to have you come around his cock.

“Come for me again,” he panted against your ear. “Come for your man like a good girl… Good bunny.”

Your body twitched and writhed with the overstimulation of his hand and his cock pounding harder than usual, yet still so tenderly and with the utmost care.

His hand applied more pressure to your clit, fingertips circling feverishly and demanding you to come. He needed to feel your walls closing in all around his shaft, milking him until he leaked precum inside of you.

Between his harsh, guttural panting and grunts, and the incessant squeaking of the cot, you could hardly hear anything, senses becoming dull as your body focused on that one point of pleasure, where Daryl’s cock hit your most sensitive spot inside you.

“Ooo,” you sighed. “Right there.”

He hit harder once again, determined to stimulate you even more. All the while, his cock pulsed and throbbed inside you, only sending you into further fits of pleasure.

“Daryl…” you whimpered shakily, almost sounding frightened. “I’m… gonna… come.”

His hand continued to pleasure you, while the other arm wrapped around your torso, keeping you snug tight against him. “I got ya,” he whispered. “I’m right here. Come for me, girl.”

You nodded vehemently, and as his cock continued thrusting, and his hand continued rubbing, you crossed the threshold into bliss once more, writhing and shaking as a string of whimpers and sultry moans slipped from your tender lips.

“Oh, yes!” you cried out. “Yes!”

He laughed deliriously as he felt your soaking wet pussy twitching all around him, strangling his cock in the best possible way.

“Good girl,” he praised against your ear. “Squeeze my cock… That’s it… You’re gonna make me come, too, sweet little thing.”

Your hand shot back as you demanded he hold it, and he did just that, bringing it to his lips to sloppily kiss your palm.

“Oh… I love you…” you sighed dreamily, the shocks of your orgasm calming down. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” he said. “So much, princess.”

With his hands on your hips again, he flipped you around until you lay on your back, legs split open and ready to receive him once more.

His cock teased you, sliding up and down your wet slit. Globs of your arousal dotted his length, causing it to glisten in the faint light of the dying lantern.

“Look at that cock,” he said. “You got me all messy… I gotta get you messy now.”

He entered you swiftly, filling you up more than ever before as his cock swelled to its thickest, longest state, reddened and so close to expelling his cum.

With just a few hard, deep thrusts, and some guttural whimpers of his own, he began leaking inside of you just before he tugged himself out.

“Shit,” he grunted, pulling on his cock with great speed until he spurted his cum all over your stomach. His eyes clenched shut, his lips agape, and his chest huffing and puffing, white strings of liquid expelled from his tip, sprinkling your abdomen and breasts in hot, cloudy globs of semen.

He pumped his hand even after there wasn’t anymore to come out, but he still felt the need to touch himself, especially with the image of you below him, messy and covered in his cum.

“That feel good?” he panted.

“Mhm,” you mumbled with a giggle. “So good…”

Despite how lovely it looked on you, he quickly wiped the mess off your belly, then covered you with blankets (even some he’d stolen from Merle’s bed) to keep you warm.

His arms held you tight, your head resting happily on his chest as his hand absentmindedly stroked your hair. Soon the lantern died out, and you fell into darkness with him, but you weren’t scared. In fact, you were the least scared you’d been in a long time. You felt safe, cared for, loved.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“No,” you replied with a giggle. “I told you, it didn’t hurt. You couldn’t even hurt me if you tried, pumpkin.”

He rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t pretend he didn’t love his special pet name. Oh, you made him so, so soft.

“How’s your foot?” he asked, suddenly remembering your injury. “Shit, I gotta change the bandage.”

He sat up briefly, preparing to rise to his feet to fetch the first aid kit, but your hand upon his chest quickly stopped him. Soft as your touch was, it was strong in that you could control him with just a simple graze of your fingertips.

“It’s fine,” you said. “You can do it in the morning. Hold me.”

His lips quirked sweetly. “That’s what I do best,” he said, and pressed a short, sweet kiss to your forehead, causing your eyelids to flutter in appreciation. “Love you, bunny… My sweet bunny.”

Your heart skipped a beat, as it usually did when he spoke to you like that, so gentle and kind. As much as you found his aggressive nature exciting, it was his soft side that really got you in the end.

“Love you, too, Daryl.”

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scorpionrising · 4 months

Text

there's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me (pt. 3: you taught me a secret language i can’t speak with anyone else)

pairing: aemond targaryen x oc word count: 5036 content warning: see part 1

read part 1 and part 2 here

Daena was kept up nearly the entire night with bile burning in the back of her throat, and any time she laid down once the discomfort abated, it only returned something fearsome. Relief came in the exhaustion that swept over her and pulled her warily into sleep’s clutches. However, she did not even have the time to dream, as she woke with the rising sun as she always did. She always had been the lightest of sleepers, and it had never been so bothersome as it was now. Bryna, the handmaiden who always tended to her on Dragonstone, eased her out of bed with pursed lips.

“Are you feeling well, my lady?” Bryna asked gently.

“I could not sleep,” Daena said through a yawn, still too close to sleep to consider covering her mouth, and then elaborated, “A sour stomach, I’m afraid.”

Daena had spent enough time as part of Rhaenyra’s household throughout her life, having been taken to ward for quite some time after Luke’s birth, and knew Bryna well. A sweet girl somewhere around Daena’s age, likely a year or so older, with pale red hair, brown eyes splotched with green, and a smattering of freckles, Bryna was the niece of Rhaenyra’s favorite midwife. After nearly ten years of being around the other woman, Daena could read her expressions well. Bryna, so typically unshakeable, was concerned, and for that reason alone Daena thought she might out to be concerned.

“Shall I have Maester Gerardys prepare you a… tea? Tonic? Something of the sort.”

Still quite queasy and with a headache creeping up to match, Daena nodded her assent.

“Right away, my lady. Let me help you into your dressing robe first.”

Swathed in the thick hand spun cotton dyed a lovely and rich shade of blue, Daena poured herself a glass of water while Bryna stoked the fire in the hearth. Once she determined that Daena would be alright alone for a bit of time, she dashed out of Daena’s apartments.

When Gerardys arrived, he claimed there was little cause for worry once he realized Daena had not caught a fever. He urged her to rest for the day anyway, and gave her a minty tincture that would help settle her sour stomach. Then, he instructed Bryna to go have Oswyn, his young apprentice, prepare a pot of ginger tea. It all felt a bit over the top to Daena, but it was not as though there were much else for her to do than stay abed so she did not argue as she otherwise might have.

So, when the next day she woke with the same sour stomach, and the day after, and so forth, she requested ginger tea from the kitchens and used Gerardys’s tincture. She thought little of it because she felt otherwise fine.

She sat in on the war councils, offered her opinion where needed and often without being asked, and trained with Jace to regain the muscle she lost in her time gone. The Queensguard often joined in, as Sers Lorrent and Erryk trailed them both whenever they went.

Daena was facing off against Erryk while Jace lounged and Lorrent heckled Erryk viciously. They were being a bit stupid, using real swords rather than blunted blades and Erryk had stripped out of his armor to even the odds between them for injury.

“Go on, then, Daena!” Jace called from the ground. “Put him on his back!”

Lorrent whistled crudely in response.

“That is not proper language around a lady, my prince!” Erryk called with a laugh in his voice.

Daena took his distraction in stride and hooked her ankle around his knee, pulling his feet out from under him. Grinning, she dropped the point of her sword to his chest and shrugged.

“And yet the lady put you on your back anyway, good Ser.”

Erryk’s cheeks flushed a ruddy shade of pink and Daena stepped away from him so he could clamber up. As she wiped the sweat from her forehead off with the back of her arm, Jace leapt up to bring her doublet and sheath over to her. The air was cool but Daena just slung the doublet over her shoulder, blood still hot from the fight.

“Well done,” he complimented, offering her a sip from his wineskin.

She smiled and took a deep sip. “Walk me back to my chambers, will you?”

“I cannot,” he said. “Mother said I was to report immediately to her once we finished here.”

“Very well.” She handed the wineskin back to him and rested her sword on her shoulder. “See you for supper, then.” She turned to leave the training yard and stopped at Erryk. “I release you of your duties for the rest of the day, Ser Erryk. Perhaps now you might agree to recommend to Ser Harrold and Her Grace that I do not require a guard.”

“Ser Harrold told me that you are just as much Her Grace’s heir as Prince Jacaerys,” Erryk told her. “You will not be able to turn away a sworn shield, my lady.”

She stifled a groan between clenched molars. Just another reason to despise what the future held for her. Would she ever again have a moment of peace? Worried she would say something crass if she lingered, she thanked the knight for the match and hurried back into the castle.

There was a narrow staircase that led up through the palisades and all the way to the top floor of the Stone Drum. No matter how often she did it, her legs always ached horribly by the end, but it was the quickest and most direct way. As she stepped onto the small platform of the palisade to continue up the stairs, the door swung open and Aemond stepped into the stairwell. Alone.

“What are you doing?” Daena asked, hearing and wincing at the shrill edge her voice took on. “Where is Ser Harrold?”

“Rhaenyra decided that I can be trusted not to flee, as I have no means of leaving. I am still not permitted weapons or to even leave the castle grounds, but it is—” And she could hear the tightness of resentment in his voice as he spoke his next words. “—quite generous of our Queen, of course, to bestow such immense privileges to her traitorous brother.”

Daena rolled her eyes. “That’s quite a bit of anger from someone who was committing treason.”

“The war hasn’t been won yet,” Aemond said icily.

“I know you hate Aegon and I’m sure you are smart enough to realize he is too vile of a man to ever be a good king,” Daena said. “Why does he deserve your loyalty?”

“Why does Rhaenyra?” Aemond asked. “What has she ever done for me?”

“This is bigger than our personal feelings,” Daena snapped. “This is about what is best for the realm, and what’s best for the realm is Rhaenyra.”

“And I bent the knee, didn’t I?” Aemond hissed, crowding her up against the wall. “I am here, doing as she demands, hardly more than a prisoner. Tell me, what must I do in order to be trusted? Flagellate myself before the masses? Publicly denounce my family? Humiliate and degrade myself even further?”

Seven Hells.

“Aemond,” she said in a gentler voice than he perhaps deserved. “I do not think that if Rhaenyra did not trust you, you would be allowed to be without a guard.”

“Yes.” He sniffed. “She told me it was you who changed her mind about me.”

That was a surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, I am sure you can imagine my surprise.”

A spark of irritation struck up within her. “Why must you assume the worst of everyone, and assume they assume the worst of everyone else?”

“I’ve found you seem to be the exception in that area,” he said.

She scoffed, crossing her arms. He purses his lips in response, and suddenly all she could think of was kissing him again. If only he would kiss her first; she would not push him away, but she could not be the one to cross the threshold.

“I’ve never thought badly of you, you know,” she said, opting for a brief moment of honesty.

It was strange, but he was likely the only person she could be fully honest with now. They had done something terrible together, and it was their shared burden to bear now. He was back to wearing an eyepatch now, too, and she found she missed the sight of the sapphire.

“I like you better without it, I think,” she murmured without thinking, gesturing to his eye.

He recoiled as though she had smacked him. “What?”

Better to double down than walk it back, she thought. It was less humiliating that way.

“The eyepatch. I like your face without it.”

He made a choked, bleating sort of sound from the base of his throat in response. It was dangerous ground to be treading on, but she was still energized from the fight with Erryk; so much that her blood felt like it was singing, buzzing through her like the cicadas who came alive at night during summer in Driftmark. She was feeling restless and reckless, so when he pressed her to the wall and kissed her, she did not complain or even consider pushing him off. Instead, she dug her fingers into his hair and tugged at the roots while he licked into her mouth and pulled her waist flush against his.

“I was watching you fight,” he muttered, breaking the kiss but not so much that his lips did not brush against Daena’s when he spoke. “I have never seen a woman wield a sword before.”

“And now that you have?” she asked.

“I mourn how many famed warriors we have lost out on, on account of their sex,” he said.

Somehow, that only made her want to kiss him again. There was no denying it at this point, considering he was never far from her every waking thought. She was no longer merely fond of him, or even more than fond. No, that was too light of a phrase for the fire that burned within her belly at the mere sight of him. It could only be compared to what she felt with Sarya. And that was deeply problematic for many obvious reasons, but she wagered it would not hurt to ignore them for just a few moments longer and keep kissing.

Though, as he slipped his fingers below the waistband of her breeches and pushed them inside of her, she wished it was merely physical attraction. If it were that, surely she would feel less guilty, knowing it were just some sort of animalistic instinct taking over her. But instead, she wanted to listen to him talk just as much as she wanted him inside of her.

When she returned to her apartments, Bryna was in the solar, stoking the fire. “My lady!” she exclaimed. “You’re quite flushed. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“It is just from the sparring with Ser Erryk,” Daena said breezily, though her face burned even warmer under Bryna’s worried stare. “Is there a bath prepared?”

“Yes, my lady,” Bryna said. “Would you like help undressing?”

“No,” Daena said, not entirely certain that there would be no traces of Aemond left on her skin from their encounter in the stairwell, “thank you, I will be fine on my own.”

Bryna nodded and left the chambers soon after. When Daena removed her clothes, she was glad to have sent Bryna away, for there was a small smattering of bruises left from his mouth on her collar. She took her time in the bath, letting the scalding water soothe her sore muscles until it was no longer even a little bit warm and guilt began to creep back in. For that reason alone, supper remained a private affair in her chambers that night. Jace would certainly be cross with her for it in the morning, but better that than facing him amidst all the shame.

She awoke in the morning with the same sour stomach that had been plaguing her for days, except this time she could not help but spill the contents of her stomach into one of the water pails left from when the maids filled her tub the night before. Groaning, she scrambled for the mint tincture Gerardys had given her to rid her mouth of the taste and scrubbed at her teeth and tongue before Bryna entered. Daena felt instantly guilty when Bryna’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I’m afraid my stomach is still rather unsettled,” Daena said, embarrassed. “I think I will see myself to Maester Gerardys’s chambers.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Daena pulled her dressing robe over her night shift and slipped her feet into a pair of blue, brocaded slippers to make her journey up to the top floor of the tower. Gerardys was puttering around his workshop when she knocked on his door. He opened the door, holding some sort of spiral shaped instrument she was not sure she wanted to learn the purpose of.

“My lady,” he said, bowing his head in respect, “how may I help you?”

“I became ill this morning,” Daena said quietly, “if you take my meaning.”

His eyebrows sprang up while his eyes widened, but he nodded and quickly ushered her inside, instructing her to sit on the examination table. She jumped up on the table and teetered awkwardly side to side while waiting for him to speak.

“So, tell me, how far along are you, my lady?”

“What?” Daena exclaimed.

“Is that not what your meaning to be taken was, my lady?” he asked, sounding shocked. “Forgive me, with your symptoms, I merely assumed.”

Daena glanced down at her abdomen subconsciously and started laughing. “That— That’s absurd, Maester, I— I am merely—”

Her voice petered out as she realized quickly that she had no good explanation for why she had been feeling so out of sorts lately, especially when she had a very strong stomach otherwise. He smiled at her delicately and pulled a stool up to sit by her so they could speak.

“When is the last time you bled, my lady?”

“I—” She scoffed. “I cannot recall, but— Things have been utter madness lately, so that perhaps explains why—”

“I could perform an examination, my lady, to be sure.”

Daena’s lips trembled and her left eye twitched. “Very well!”

The Maester’s kind smile never wavered. He stood from his stool and quickly procured a small glass jar for her. “I will need you to urinate in this, my lady.”

Daena scowled, but grabbed the jar. She knew of this test, and it would take the better part of the morning for the end results. But, she did as Gerardys required of her and handed him back the now uncomfortably warm jar. He seemed unphased, however, by the temperature and the smell.

“I will allow this to sit, for now you return to your chambers. Come midday, I will have Oswyn bring you a tea— raspberry if you are with child and ginger if you are not.”

“You will be discreet, will you not?” Daena asked before leaving. “And Oswyn?”

Gerardys patted her hand. “You may count on it, my lady.”

So long as he does not tell Rhaenyra.

She spent the morning pacing the length of her bedchamber, scratching the side of her neck raw and biting her nails down to the quick. Oswyn came shortly after Bryna brought a small lunch of stew and bread that Daena could barely even hope to pick at for all her nerves.

“Your raspberry tea, my lady,” he said, setting the small tray down on the table.

She burst into tears in an instant, causing Oswyn so much discomfort that he stuttered out an apology and sprinted out of the room.

Panic began to seep in, eating away at her bones and sending her to the floor in a nervous heap. The cuts on her knuckles and palms had finally healed to fresh skin, but she pounded the side of her fist into the rough stone anyway.

Her father could not cast her out, not completely— not when she was officially his last living child. But that did not mean he would not spurn her, keep her sequestered away on High Tide with her bastard. She could not believe how stupid she had been, so careless and selfish. And she had done it all to herself. Leaving the tea to get cold, Daena followed after Oswyn, tearing down the corridors and up the stairs to reach Gerardys’s workshop. She blustered inside like a madwoman, but cared little for propriety at the moment.

“I’d like you to make me your strongest batch of moon tea,” she said, hands trembling so terribly that she could not even scratch at the itching on her neck.

“My lady,” Gerardys said, voice dripping with sympathy that Daena did not want to hear. “If you are so far along that you are experiencing these symptoms, it would be too late for that… not to mention potentially dangerous.”

“But— I— I—” She spluttered, unsure of what there was even left to say or do besides throwing herself from a tower to stop the situation altogether. “Maester, I’m ruined.”

“Come now, my lady,” he said, putting his arm around her and guiding her gently to a seat, “You must not fret too terribly.”

It was not so easy to take the man’s advice, but Daena did her best. The quickening had not even happened yet, so there was still plenty of time for the pregnancy to fail before she would need to tell anyone. And if it did not fail, at least she would have the time to determine what exactly it was to say to Jace to convince him to pass off Aemond’s child as his own. Really, what she needed— now, more than ever— was Laenor.

Which is how Daena once again found herself begging Rhaenyra for leave to go to Rook’s Rest.

“I need not even stay,” she pleaded. “I just need to see him.”

“You will not need to leave,” Rhaenyra said, reaching out to place a hand on Daena’s arm. “I’ve sent for him to return to Dragonstone now that Cregan Stark is only days away.”

Daena’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you, my queen.”

Rhaenyra only smiled and squeezed Daena’s bicep. “You will see him before the grand assault begins.”

Thank the gods.

He would know what to do, what to say. He had been younger than she was now when he married Rhaenyra, under very similar circumstances to her being forced to marry Jace. He could help her solve the Aemond problem.

Following supper, Daena made her way out to the gardens once more. The garden terrace faced west, just as the courtyard at High Tide did, and she could watch the sunset as though she were home. With the assurance that her brother would be on Dragonstone soon, she felt a touch more optimistic.

The moment’s peace was quickly disrupted by the sound of soft footsteps she knew all too well. She closed her eyes and held in a deep breath. Aemond’s arm brushed against her shoulder.

“I have… been looking for you.”

“Have you?” she asked, unable to recognize the sound of her own voice for how shrill it was.

“Yes, I—” He stopped himself abruptly. “I feel I must say something, and I must beg you to allow me to speak without interruption. I fear if I do not say it all at once, I never will.”

A bit dumbstruck, Daena felt her eyes flutter rapidly as she nodded.

“You are promised to Jacaerys, and if you wish it, I will never gaze upon you again, but I do not believe you wish it,” he began, pulling all the air from Daena’s lungs. “I have loved you all my life, and I think you have always known this, but now I am leaving no room for speculation and rumor. I love you. Whatever it is we have shared with one another, I do not wish for it to end. It is dishonorable and treasonous, but I would do it all if it meant you turning your gaze upon me. I wish, my lady, to be in your life however you will have me.”

Daena was stunned to silence, merely staring up at him with her lips parted in shock.

“I humble myself before you, Daena. I love you with an enormity I do not have the words to describe.”

She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and sucked in a deep breath. Was this not all she ever wanted? A love that consumed. She opened her mouth to speak— though she did not know what it was she intended to say— and was cut off by Jace drawing near.

“Daena.”

Instinctively, Daena took a step away from Aemond despite them already being an appropriate space from one another. She looked over Aemond’s shoulder at Jace, with Ser Lorrent trailing behind him. His features were tight, pulled taut as he glared at Aemond.

“I was hoping to speak with you,” Jace said. Then, after glancing once more at Aemond, added, “Privately.”

Daena nodded. “Of course.” Then, she dipped her head towards Aemond— “My prince.”— and dashed away for Jace to follow.

Once safe and away from the garden gate, she halted her steps to allow Jace to catch up to her. Ser Lorrent maintained his distance of thirteen paces, as always.

“The greenhouse, instead, perhaps?” Jace suggested as she put her hand on the door to enter the castle.

Daena nodded and allowed him to take the lead. Ser Lorrent did not follow them into the greenhouse, but rather posted at the door.

“I thought this might be a good place,” Jace reasoned. “We can be alone but without tarnishing our reputations.”

Daena avoided his gaze, biting the inside of her cheek guiltily. She had already ruined their reputations.

“I spoke with Maester Gerardys earlier this afternoon,” Jace said, and Daena could tell he was easing into a conversation.

She cursed the Maester internally for not giving her the chance to confess her sins herself. It was a foul, underhanded move. One she did not expect from him.

“He advised my mother and I that it would be in our best interests—” Daena closed her eyes and held her breath. “—if you and I were wed sooner than not.”

“I’m pregnant!”

The words burst from her lips before she could even consider stopping herself. She shut her mouth just as quickly as she opened it, sucking her lips inwards and curling her hands into fists at her sides. Oh, no. Jace blinked at her, chuckled a bit, and then frowned.

“But— Hm. Right, then. We shall be wed before the moon turns. I will tell my mother we— Well, I’m not sure what I’ll tell her, but I will tell her something.”

“Jace—” Daena croaked.

But he did not let her get another word out. “No one will know otherwise. So long as the child does not come out with red hair, who will be able to say it is not mine?” His brow furrowed for a moment as he paused for half a breath. “And the child will marry Luke’s eldest of the opposite sex so that my mother’s line continues.” He smiled, quite proud of himself. “Yes, that will do just fine.”

The familiar sting of tears pricked at the back of Daena’s eyes. “Jace—”

He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped closer to her. “All is well, Daena. This solves many of our problems.”

It broke her heart how much of Laenor there was in him. Jace was not Laenor’s blood, but he was Laenor’s son all the same. She never ought to have doubted Jace’s response, especially when she knew neither of them wanted to have to attempt at making an heir. And having the child marry Luke’s only made perfect sense.

The only fear that remained was only for what would happen when Jace realized the child was Aemond’s. As though able to sense her thoughts, Jace spoke again.

“Will the— the father be a problem?”

Just an hour ago, Daena would have sworn he would be, but now— after that display in the gardens— she was unsure. The way Aemond had spoken, it seemed as though he would do whatever she asked. She also knew it would stoke his pride and ego to know that his child would be third in line to the throne. But would he be able to step aside and allow Jace to raise his children? Of that, Daena could not say.

“He— The man— He is—” She smoothed her hands down over her stomach, trying to imagine the bump that would swell soon enough. “It is Aemond, Jace. Aemond is the father. We— We were together while on the island.”

Jace swore quietly, but did not look surprised. He huffed and sank down onto one of the benches. “Why? After… After everything he’s done, everything he’s said?” He scoffed. “I understand his infatuation with you, but I cannot fathom yours with him. You have always treated him with fondness he has never deserved.”

Crossing her arms, Daena continued to gnaw at the inside of her cheek. After a moment, she sat down beside Jace and clasped her hands together between her knees.

“I cannot quite explain why,” Daena said softly. She sniffled and looked at Jace from her peripheral vision. “Perhaps it is because I know how hard his smiles are to come by, and yet he gives me his smiles freely.”

“Utter madness,” Jace said, shaking his head. “You make him smile, but does he make you smile?”

Daena paused and thought of Aemond’s absurd sullenness; of his bony ankles poking out from beneath the too-short pants of a commoner; of the way he curled into her as they slept and nestled his face into her neck; of how he balked when challenged; of the absurd amount of apples he ate from Mariyah’s stores; of the sapphire she gave him embedded within his eye.

“Yes,” she said easily.

Jace swore quietly once more. “Him calling us bastards, I can forgive— but what he tried to do to Luke? I still do not understand how my mother has allowed him to go free.”

Daena sighed and took Jace’s hand in hers. “What Aemond did was cruel and foolish, but he did not set out to murder. I said as much the night I returned.”

Jace’s face was unreadable. Then, “I would understand it more if it were purely out of boredom while you were trapped together.”

Despite it all, Daena smiled. “So would I.”

At the very least, that made him laugh. Hope for her relationship with Jace was not lost.

“Do you love him, then?” Jace asked.

Daena shrugged. “I know he loves me.”

“Well, that we all know.” He offered a short grin and bumped their shoulders together, squeezing her hand. “Will you tell him?”

“I won’t be able to hide it for very long, will I?”

“Yes, but are you going to let him believe the lie or will you tell him his child will one day sit the Iron Throne?”

The thought was chilling. Her child— the one slowly growing within her belly— would be the most powerful individual in the realm one day. What an unfair life she was bestowing onto the unborn babe.

“Only if we go forth with the wedding,” Daena said, scratching the side of her neck.

He shot her an annoyed look. “I would not dishonor you that way.”

“It is not dishonor if it was both of us wish for,” Daena said a bit miserably. “But, this was my mother’s wish. She never got to be queen, and so that dream was foisted unto me. And it is her grandchild that will seat the throne after you, and I feel duty bound to honor that wish.”

“So, a wedding before the moon turns, then?” Jace asked, a grimace marring his boyish features.

“Yes,” Daena agreed, shoulders slumping. “A quick affair in the sept, yes?”

Jace’s brow quirked. “I would have assumed you would want a Valyrian ceremony.”

“Only if we were in love,” Daena said simply. “That is not a ceremony meant for marriages of duty.”

“And as neither of us put much stock in the Seven, we shall feel no guilt for stepping out on one another,” he surmised.

Daena snickered quietly, staring down at her bony knees through the skirt of her gown. The guilt she felt was not for “stepping out,” and she was sure he knew that.

“Do you hate me for what I’ve done?” Daena asked.

“I could never hate you, ñamar,” Jace said softly. “I do not understand it, but I do not hold it against you. The heart is a strange and rebellious creature. I know its nature well.”

Of course. We both know what it is to want what you cannot have. Daena stewed in it for a while. Then, she heaved out a great sigh and patted Jace’s knee.

“We shall face this together, yes?”

His hand grabbed her knee in turn and squeezed gently. “Always and forever.”

It made her feel only marginally better, but better nonetheless. With Jace and surely Laenor on her side, there was not much Daena would be incapable of accomplishing. The trouble laid in how honest Aemond was being when he professed his love, and if Daena could find it in herself to forgive not just him but herself.

“Aemond was in the middle of confessing his undying love for me when you interrupted us, you know,” Daena said, beginning to giggle.

“Oh?” Jace asked. “And was he doing a good job?”

Her lips twitched. “Very.” Then, she frowned. “I said nothing to him.”

“Will you?” he asked. “Say something to him.”

“I ought to,” Daena said. “It would be cowardly to not face him.”

His head knocked gently against hers. “And you’ve never been a coward.”

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