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alwaysmicado · 18 days

Text

Nightcall

10.4k | 18+ MDNI | Marc Spector x f!reader

Moon Knight Masterlist | AO3

Warnings: angst, smut, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, biting, rough & emotionally intense sex, multiple orgasms, possessive!Marc, choking, spitting, creampie, toxic dynamic Summary: Marc is a bad habit you can’t shake. A/N: This idea has been haunting my dreams like Marc has been haunting reader’s. And just like reader, I couldn’t resist the allure of this elusive, rugged, and devastatingly addictive man. Could you? Happy reading (even though it hurts) and let me know what you think! *Marc lifts & flips you with ease (he’s MK, duh). Dividers by @/cafekitsune.

One year.

It’s been one year since you’ve last seen him.

One whole year of wondering where he is, if he’s left for good this time, if he’s even still alive.

You’ve tried to fill the void in your heart, started smoking again, gave the nice guy from the coffee shop down the block a chance. He’s kind to you, makes you laugh, brings you flowers, and you think you could grow to love him.

You’re trying.

You’re trying so hard.

To forget, to forgive, to heal, to live.

And now he’s back. In your life, standing at your door at 1 a.m.

Marc Spector.

The bane of your existence.

You were lounging on your couch in your pajamas mere moments ago, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows on the walls, when a knock at the door shattered the peace you’d begun to find. Your heart stopped, your head jerking towards the door.

It couldn’t be.

You heard his voice, rough and familiar, sending a jolt through your entire being.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice muffled but unmistakable.

You stood, your legs trembling, walking closer to the door in a trance, bare feet on the wooden floor, your hand hovering over the doorknob. You didn’t answer, but you couldn’t tear yourself away.

He was alive. He came back.

Marc came back to you.

What now?

Taking a deep breath, you look through the peephole, and your heart flutters when you see his face. He looks as handsome as ever, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his t-shirt, dark curls hidden under a baseball cap, beard stubble a little grayer than the last time you’ve seen him.

But there’s a weariness in his eyes, a deep exhaustion that pulls at your heartstrings.

He’s tired.

You know he is.

He’s told you in the rare moments he’d let you in, your sweat-covered bodies tangled in your bed, his fingers brushing over your cheek.

You’d see a spark of something in his warm eyes then. Something akin to sadness, longing, regret. But it would disappear after a few seconds, and he’d harden again, turning around to gather his clothes, telling you he needed to go.

You’d find new scars on his body every time he came to see you. He’d show up with barely scabbed-over cuts, a black eye, a dislocated shoulder, a split lip. And you’d patch him up, kissing it all better.

You stopped asking how he got his injuries some time ago. He’d always give you the same answer anyway.

“Just a scratch, baby. Nothing to worry your pretty head about.”

Whatever it is that keeps him going, it has more power over him than you ever will.

Tears blur your vision, and you slide down the door, sitting with your back against it. You want to stay strong, to remember the pain he’s caused you, but his words cut through your resolve like a knife.

“Come on, let me in. I came all this way to see you.”

It feels like he’s been out there for hours, but you know it can’t have been more than two minutes. Why is this happening?

“Let me in, Sunshine. Please.”

You blink back tears, shaking your head even though he can’t see you, your hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into your palms.

Every time.

Every time, he rips open the wounds he inflicted on you, and you know this time won’t be any different. You want to resist him, want to tell him to go to hell, that he can’t keep doing this to you, that you’ve finally had enough.

But you can’t do it, can you?

Resist Marc.

You both know you can’t. And deep down, under all the bullshit you like to tell yourself, under all the anger, under all the resentment, you know you don’t want to.

You never did.

Going for a smoke outside the bar, goosebumps forming on your bare arms as the wind blew and the rain fell, your feet sore from being caged in high heels for hours, the only thing you wanted was a minute of quiet, a minute where you didn’t have to smile or act like you were having fun.

You were tired—tired of the noise, tired of the people, tired of the pretense.

All you wanted was a moment of peace.

“Shit,” you muttered, staring at your lighter in disbelief as it refused to spark, tears of sheer frustration pricking the corners of your eyes. Leaning against the cool brick wall, you let your head fall back, eyes closed, trying to shut out the world.

How did it get like this? How did you get like this?

Deep down, you know you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. The problem is you. Not the world, not your parents, not the shitty things that have happened to you. It’s you. It’s always been you.

“Need a light?” a voice cut through the rain, smooth and unexpected.

You opened your eyes slightly, just enough to see a stranger standing a few feet away. “Yeah, mine apparently hates me,” you replied, lifting the offending object.

The man chuckled, a warm sound that contrasted with the cold night. “Here,” he said, stepping closer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, his smirk stirring something inside you. “I got you, Sunshine.”

He pulled out a sleek silver lighter, flicking it open with practiced ease, producing a small, steady flame. You put your cigarette between your lips, leaning in to catch the light. His eyes never left yours, a connection forming in that brief moment. He then lit his own cigarette, taking a drag.

The first inhale of nicotine calmed your nerves slightly, a welcome distraction from the chaos inside your mind. “Thanks,” you muttered, leaning back against the wall and savoring the moment of quiet.

“No problem,” he nodded, staring into the surrounding darkness.

He was closer now, leaning against the wall next to you, his presence oddly comforting.

“Rough night?”

“You could say that.” You let out a dry laugh, glancing at him. He was handsome in a rugged way—dark curls, full lips, broad chest, with a confident air that was alluring. “What about you?”

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Rough night.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the gentle curve of his nose and the laugh lines in the outer corner of his eyes. You also noticed his split knuckles in the neon glow of the party lights hanging above.

“I guess we’re both running from something,” you said softly, taking another drag of your cigarette.

“Is that so?” He smiled at you with a raised eyebrow and you smiled back. “I’m Marc, by the way.”

You gave him your name and shook his hand, feeling a strange jolt at the contact. “Nice to meet you, Marc. Thanks for the light.”

“Anytime,” he said, his expression turning pensive.

You both smoked in silence for a while, the rain a soothing backdrop to your thoughts.

When your cigarettes were nearly finished, Marc turned towards you, his movements smooth and deliberate. He leaned in, his hand bracing against the wall next to your head, bringing his face and body close to yours, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, his eyes dropping from your eyes to your lips with unmistakable intent.

You hesitated for a second, brow furrowed, thoughts swirling. The rain fell around you in a soft patter. You searched his eyes and found something, something that promised a temporary escape from your hollow existence.

You didn’t have anything to lose.

“Yeah,” you said, putting out your cigarette with your shoe.

You ended the night with him on top of you, in your bed, all your troubles wiped away for a couple of hours. His hands roamed your body with a hunger that matched your own, and for the first time in a long while, you felt alive.

You thought it was just a one-night stand since he left as soon as you both came down, and you fell asleep, spent and satisfied.

Until he showed up at your door late at night, two weeks later.

There he was, standing in the hallway with that same charming smile, holding up a pack of cigarettes and his silver lighter. “Mind if I come in?” he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s how it all started. This…thing you have going on.

“I missed you,” he’d whisper in your ear, his voice rough with longing as he was buried deep inside of you. “My beautiful girl.”

Those words would wrap around your heart, suffusing you with a warmth that felt like everything you had ever wanted. In those fleeting moments, it was as if all the pain and uncertainty melted away, leaving only the intoxicating sensation of being cherished, if only for a little while. But then, like always, he would leave, and the cold reality would set in.

He would tell you he couldn’t stay, but not why. His eyes would darken with unspoken burdens, and he’d brush a kiss against your forehead, promising he’d be back.

Yet, he never told you it was for your safety. He never mentioned the shadows that lurked around him, the dangers he faced on a daily basis. He didn’t tell you about the battles he fought, tooth and nail, just to carve out a few hours to be with you.

He didn’t tell you any of this, and after some time, you stopped asking. The questions died on your lips, replaced by a resigned acceptance. You accepted that you’d never be more to Marc than a brief escape, a distraction from whatever demons haunted him.

Well, your brain did.

But not your heart.

Your heart clung to every whispered endearment, every stolen touch, every heated kiss that promised more than he could ever give. Your heart held onto the belief that maybe, just maybe, one day he’d stay. That one day, this torturous cycle of brief encounters and long absences would end.

You’d lie in bed after he left, the sheets still warm from his presence, his scent lingering in the air. You’d replay the moments in your mind, his whispered words, the way he looked at you as if you were his salvation. You’d clutch your pillow, trying to hold onto the ghost of his touch, knowing that come morning, the loneliness would creep back in.

Every time he returned, it was like a balm to your wounded soul. He’d pull you into his arms, his kiss desperate, as if he was drowning and you were his only breath of air.

And for those precious hours, you’d let yourself believe that you were his beautiful girl, his light in a world filled with darkness, that he needed you as much as you needed him.

He’d leave again, the door closing softly behind him, and you’d be left alone. You’d tell yourself that it was enough, that these stolen moments were worth the heartache.

But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

You always knew that your heart was breaking a little more each time he walked away.

And you know now that any resolve you’ve built up over the past year will crumble the second you open the door and look into his eyes.

It’s always the same.

No matter how sick and tired you are of his careless behavior, no matter how many times he chews you up and spits you out, no matter how many nights you spend crying over him, mourning him, cursing him, self-hatred wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.

You let him in. You let him do this to you.

Because you love him. Because you’re a fool.

Slowly, reluctantly, you stand, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears. You sigh deeply, and before you can stop yourself, your hand turns the knob, opening the door just a crack.

Marc pushes the door open wider, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment, and before you realize what’s happening, his cap is on the floor and his lips are on yours. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close as he kicks the door shut behind him. He spins you around, pressing you against the wall with a desperate need that makes you dizzy.

“I missed you, Sunshine,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands roaming your body.

“Don’t call me that,” you protest, your palms pressed against his pecs.

He smiles. “But it’s who you are. My Sunshine.”

“I’m not your anything, Marc,” you hiss, trying to push him away. He doesn’t budge. “I’m a warm body for you to fuck. That’s it.”

“That’s not all you are to me,” he says without missing a beat, brows furrowed, thumb brushing over your lower lip with a maddening gentleness. “Why so hostile, Sunshine? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

There it is. That damn look. Concern, care, and hunger, all mingling in his eyes, breaking down your defenses bit by bit.

“Are you fucking kidding, Marc?” you snap, snatching his wrist to stop him from touching you. “You–you were gone for a year. No goodbye, no message, no nothing.”

His gaze doesn’t waver as he cups your face with both hands, and despite yourself, you let go of his wrist.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” The warmth in his eyes and the soft smile on his lips make you want to throw up. You turn your head, your chest heaving.

He gently but firmly pushes your head back, his hands still cradling your face, forcing you to meet his gaze once more. His grip is firm but not painful, a reminder of his strength and control—the same strength that has always thrilled you.

“Hey,” he says softly, his eyes boring into yours, pleading. “I’m here now.”

You’re stunned, frozen in place like a deer in headlights, about to be run over.

It’s too late for you.

All you see is him, the man who has torn your heart to pieces and yet somehow still holds it in his hands.

The world narrows to the space between you, and the chaos of your mind falls silent. You’re ready to die in this moment if it means feeling his touch again.

You give an almost imperceptible nod, a surrender, and his lips are on yours instantly.

The kiss is desperate, a clash of lust and guilt, his mouth moving against yours with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. His hands move down your sides to your waist, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear the distance between you for even a second longer.

You moan into his mouth, your body responding to his touch despite your mind’s protests. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him even closer, needing to feel every inch of him against you. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of smoke and mint, and it floods your senses, drowning out the pain, the questions, the doubts.

Marc’s hands urgently explore the contours of your back, pressing you against him, reveling in your scent. You can feel the hard lines of his body, the heat of his skin, and it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. Your back hits the wall again, and he pins you there, his mouth leaving yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

One hand finds your breast, groping it for a moment, palm rubbing against your hard nipple, his touch needy and rough. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, his name escaping your lips in a broken whisper. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Impatient, his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants, yanking them down along with your panties with practiced ease. You step out of them, exposed, his leg pressing against your core.

You can’t help but buck your hips against him, your body moving on its own accord, driven by pent-up desire and anger. Your hands fist his shirt, gripping the fabric tightly as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. His hands are on your ass, kneading your flesh with possessive urgency, each squeeze sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

Marc’s mouth is everywhere, hot and insistent, licking a slow, deliberate stripe from behind your ear down your neck. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching. He sucks and nips at your skin, frenzied and desperate, leaving a trail of bruises that mark you as his, each one a bittersweet reminder of the fleeting connection you share.

The contrast between the roughness of his hands and the wet heat of his mouth drives you wild, every touch igniting a fire inside you that you can’t control.

“Marc,” you moan, your voice a mix of frustration and need. Your nails dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him on. He responds with a growl, his teeth grazing your neck before biting down, the sharp pain making you gasp.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire. His hands grip your ass harder, lifting your leg slightly so he can grind against you, his hardness pressing against your core, sending waves of pleasure through you.

You throw your head back, giving him better access to your neck as he continues to lick, suck, and bite with abandon, each mark he leaves on your skin feeling like a brand, a claim that you both know will fade but never truly disappear.

“More,” you whisper, your breathing shallow. “Please, I need more.” You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand down his hard torso, rubbing his bulge over the rough fabric of his jeans.

Marc groans and pulls back just enough to look into your glazed-over eyes, his own filled with lust and something deeper, something that makes your heart ache. “I’ll give you everything, baby,” he promises, his hands moving to cup your face as he kisses you again, his lips searing and demanding.

You can feel the truth in his words, even if only for this moment, and you let yourself believe it.

He bites your bottom lip and pulls back with a growl, dropping to his knees, spreading your thighs and pressing his mouth to your core. Your brain takes a few seconds to catch up with what’s happening, your mind foggy, your heart racing.

“Marc, wait,” you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair as his tongue flicks out, teasing your aching clit. “I haven’t—oh fuck—I haven’t showered.”

“I don’t care,” he murmurs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin.

The sensation is overwhelming, his tongue lapping at your folds with a hunger that makes your knees weak. You gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. He groans in response, reveling in the scent and wetness you’re spreading all over his face, cursing under his breath as his cock strains against the inside of his jeans.

His hands tighten their grip on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you steady as his tongue and lips work with practiced precision to make you lose control.

Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a dull thud, but you barely notice. Every flick of his tongue, every suck on your clit sends waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, fingernails scraping his scalp.

“Marc,” you moan, your voice a mix of desperation and bliss, your body trembling under this relentless, sweet torture. “Oh fuck, Marc.”

Hearing you moan his name is like gasoline on a fire, fueling his desire.

“God, you taste so good,” he pants against your skin, his voice filled with raw need, drunk with lust. “Always so fucking perfect.”

Your body trembles as he hums against you, his tongue alternating between slow, teasing licks and fast, desperate flicks before sucking on your swollen clit again.

You can feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each passing second.

“Please,” you beg, your voice a shaky whisper. “I need you inside me.”

He responds without hesitation, his tongue plunging into your wet heat, tasting you, drinking you, fucking you with ruthless intensity. You cry out, your back arching off the wall as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. He replaces his tongue with his middle and ring fingers, sliding them inside you, curling them just right, hitting that perfect spot. His mouth devours you simultaneously, desperately, like a man starved.

Your hips buck harder, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he finger-fucks you in rhythm with his licks. The dual assault of his tongue and fingers is overwhelming, pushing you ever closer to the edge.

Your nails rake across his scalp, and he groans against you, the vibrations sending ripples of ecstasy through your core.

You can barely form a coherent thought, your mind hazy as you can’t hold back the moans escaping your lips. Marc starts sucking on your clit with renewed vigor, the sensation sending you spiraling. You’re on the brink, the tension inside you coiled so tightly it’s about to snap.

The wet sounds of your pussy fill the air, blending with the rhythmic beat of your heart pounding in your chest. He can feel your body tensing, the telltale signs of your impending climax, and it drives him wild.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Fuck, I’m gonna–”

You don’t get to finish the sentence before you shatter into a million pieces, every nerve ending ablaze with euphoric release. Marc doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, holding onto your hip, continuing to lap at you and move his fingers, drawing out every last tremor until you’re left trembling and spent.

For a brief, blissful moment, you feel pure, unadulterated happiness, your fingers absentmindedly running through Marc’s hair. But as reality slowly sets back in, your living room coming back into view, Marc’s mouth on your core starting to become uncomfortable, the weight of what just happened begins to dawn on you. Your eyes meet his, and you feel it all crashing down on you—confusion, heartache, regret.

Marc finally pulls back, his face and fingers glistening with your arousal, a satisfied, almost smug grin on his lips.

He stands, his hands finding your cheeks as he presses his wet lips against yours, sliding his tongue inside. You close your eyes and wrap your arms around his waist, tasting yourself on his lips, your body buzzing with the aftermath of your orgasm.

“You miss me?” he whispers against your lips before pulling back enough to look into your wide eyes. The warmth of his breath mingles with yours, and his gaze is filled with an intensity that makes your heart clench painfully.

The casualness of his question tears at you, as if you had seen each other just yesterday, as if he hadn’t just given you an earth-shattering orgasm after crushing your heart with his bare hands.

And all after you swore to yourself you’d never let him do this again.

You want to hate him, you really do. But how could you? He came back from the dead to see you. You know he needs you right now, so how could you deny him?

You nod, feeling tears well up in your eyes, swallowing heavily. “Always,” you whisper, your voice breaking with emotion.

A smile spreads across Marc’s lips, his eyes softening for a moment, and he captures your lips in a deep, fervent kiss again, as if trying to convey everything he can’t put into words. Then, with a gentle but firm grip, he lifts you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You cling to him, head buried in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as he carries you towards your bedroom.

He clocks the bouquet of pink roses on your dining room table, notices the little card standing next to the vase. There’s a strawberry drawn on the front, but it’s too dark for him to read what he just assumes to be a lame pun about loving you ‘berry’ much.

How cute.

Marc lays you down on the bed, his body pressed against yours, trailing kisses down your neck. You wrap your legs around his waist again, rubbing yourself against his bulge, impatient, hands tangled in his curls.

“Not yet, baby,” he whispers in your ear, nibbling on your earlobe, reveling in the needy noises you make, how you squirm under him, trying to get him to move and give you what you want.

He will. But first, he wants to look at you—at your beautiful body, every inch of your skin.

He gets off the bed and you scoot back, fluffing up your pillows and leaning against them with your back. You watch as Marc turns on the bedside lamp and removes his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his muscles and the scars that tell the story of battles you’re clueless about. He kicks off his shoes, his eyes never leaving yours. When he unbuckles his belt, ready to pull his pants down and fuck you already, his eyes drop down to your wet pussy, and he decides differently.

“Take off your shirt and show me how you played with yourself while I was away.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you pull your shirt over your head, your skin prickling with anticipation. You feel exposed, vulnerable, but the look in Marc’s eyes makes you feel desired, wanted. You spread your legs wide and slide your hand down your body, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. Your other hand moves to your breast, teasing your nipple, and you let out a soft moan, your eyes locked on Marc.

His gaze darkens with lust as he watches you, jeans on the floor, spitting in his hand, wrapping it around his cock, stroking himself slowly. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need. “Keep going.”

God, how much he wants to bury himself deep inside of you, to feel your warm, wet pussy pulsing around his cock, to fuck all his frustrations into you, to hear your sweet moans, to feel your soft skin pressed against his.

It’s all he wants.

All he can think about when he’s away from you. All he needs in nights like this.

You increase the pace of your fingers, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pleasure builds. Marc’s eyes don’t leave you for a second, his hand moving faster on his cock, mirroring the rhythm of your movements.

“You have no idea how much I missed this,” he pants. “Missed you.”

Fuelled by his poisonous words, your hips buck against your hand, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core. “Marc,” you moan, your voice a desperate plea. “I’m close.”

His eyes burn into yours as he moves swiftly, crawling onto the bed and positioning himself between your legs. He nudges your hand away and replaces it with his own, his fingers sliding inside you in one smooth motion, his thumb rubbing your clit.

“Let go, baby. Come for me.”

And with his words, you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, your pussy clamping down around his fingers, pulsating, your hands gripping the sheets. Marc watches you intently, his own breath ragged, cock throbbing so close to your dripping hole.

The ecstatic feeling coursing through you turns into uncomfortable overstimulation quickly, so you grab his wrist, and he withdraws his fingers, giving you a moment to come down.

You look so fucking gorgeous like this. Eyes glazed over, looking at him like he’s all you see, like he’s all you need. But as Marc holds your gaze, your chest rising and falling, he also sees something else in your big, beautiful eyes.

Sadness.

It’s a deep sadness he knows he’s responsible for—a sadness that cuts through the layers of detachment, apathy, and composure he’s built up to survive the trials in his life. Despite everything, there remains a gentle, tender part hidden deep inside him. A part that makes him vulnerable, scared, and like he could be the man you need…if only things were different.

“My Sunshine,” he says softly, his knuckles brushing over your hot cheek. The tenderness in his touch contrasts sharply with the storm of emotions inside him. He leans over you, and the kiss he presses on your lips is soft, oh so soft.

It’s intense. Intense and unexpected.

It’s easier to push aside your feelings when he’s rough with you. It’s easier to tell yourself you’re just two lonely people fucking to feel a little less lonely if all you can focus on is your body.

But then he pulls shit like this and it gives you hope that you might mean something to him. And after years of asking yourself if he’s just an asshole who gets off on playing mind games, or if he doesn’t care enough to realize what he’s doing is killing you, you’re not sure you want to know the answer.

Marc pulls you out of your thoughts when he releases your lips and pulls back slightly, his eyes darkening with a different kind of intensity as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey, parting your lips, your breath hitching in anticipation. Marc lets a strand of spit drop into your mouth, slowly, deliberately, watching as it lands in the back of your throat, and you swallow it without hesitation.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, kissing and nibbling on your jaw, your neck, down to your breast, circling your nipple with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his eager mouth.

“Marc…” you whine, looking down, threading your fingers through his disheveled hair, your heart pounding. You let yourself get lost in him, in the way he touches you, in the way he makes you feel alive. And as you do, you can’t stop the words tumbling from your lips.

“Please stay.”

Marc pauses, his mouth still on your breast, his body tensing. He releases your nipple and looks up at you, his brow furrowing at your watery eyes.

He hates to see you like this.

“You know I can’t,” he says, his calm voice betraying none of the guilt that’s clawing at his heart, making it hard for him to breathe.

But he can’t comfort you. Not now. Not when you’re supposed to be his salvation. Not when he knows it’d be a lie.

He sits back on his heels between your spread legs, his eyes never leaving yours as he pumps his painfully hard cock.

“Why?” you whisper, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Why?”

Marc leans over you, arms braced next to your head, capturing your quivering lips with his, preventing you from making him feel worse than he already does.

You moan into his mouth and he can’t wait anymore. Needs to be inside you. Needs to make it all right.

He shifts in closer, pressing his cock against you, just sliding it between your folds, up and down, letting out a raspy sigh at the friction of it. His cock gathers your wetness quickly—you’re always so fucking wet for him.

Before falling asleep on whatever cot he’d find himself on, he’d sometimes allow himself to fantasize about waking up next to you, feeling your warm body, hearing your soft breathing, sliding his hand down the front of your panties, and feeling how wet you are from dreaming about him.

His breath catches in his throat just thinking about it.

“Marc…” you plead, and he smiles to himself—it usually takes far longer for you to start begging, so it must mean you really missed him. You squirm again, hips twisting like you’re trying to get him inside you, and he watches you intently, soaking up every little expression, every little moan, every little plea.

“What do you want, baby?” he murmurs, dragging it out just a little bit longer. He loves to hear you, loves to get you to admit it. For you, the truth is in the action of it, but he likes to listen to you say it out loud.

“You,” you moan desperately. “I need you, Marc. I missed you so fucking much, I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs with an imperceptible smile.

“Uh-huh,” you nod, staring up into his eyes.

Marc’s cock twitches at the genuine need he can see in your eyes, the sight like a potent drug going straight to his brain and filling him with more bliss than anything else could. He knows what you like, knows what buttons to push, knows exactly how to touch you to make you forget the world around you.

It makes him feel good to make you feel good. It always has.

And it’s more than the gratification of feeling your pussy pulsating around his cock or hearing you scream his name while your orgasm overtakes you. It’s more than his pride, his ego, his need to feel like he’s doing good for once in his life.

It’s you.

It’s his misguided effort to make up for all his misdeeds. His atonement. He tells himself it’s enough for him to fuck your brains out, to pour all of himself into you without inhibitions while he’s with you to offset his absence.

He tells himself that, holds onto it—needs it to be true.

“Please…” you whine, and he pushes up against your clit, feeling the pulse of it. You shudder at the intensity, the pressure, and he grins. “Fuck. Fuck me.”

“Dirty mouth,” he chides, and you whine in frustration as he brings his hand up, pressing one finger to your slightly parted lips. You open them wider, suck his finger in, suckle for a moment and then bite.

“Fuck me,” you demand, voice muffled and tongue pressing against his fingertip, wet and warm.

Your teeth loosen up and he slides his finger deeper, right to the back of your tongue. You don’t gag, just stare him down defiantly, and he can’t wait any longer. He reaches down with his other hand, guides himself to your entrance, cock pushing deep into the tight heat of you, as slow as he can stand it.

You’re so fucking good.

His head starts to roll back instinctively, but he holds it steady and slides his hand over to your hip, gripping your flesh as his cock splits you open.

When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, you let out a low moan, brows furrowing, throwing your head back against the pillows. He pulls back a little only to drive right back in, hard, and this time you moan a hell of a lot louder. Quickly, he stifles the sound with his palm, pressing his hand right over your mouth—not because he doesn’t want to hear you. No, because he knows it heightens your pleasure.

Your resulting moans are muffled against his hand as you start trying to meet his thrusts, your hips working towards him, desperate for it. You love it when he smothers you like this, love feeling his big hand over your face.

He first discovered the power of it when you were arguing about something silly and you wouldn’t shut up—he did it jokingly, only to be surprised when you immediately fell silent. You didn’t even push him away or do anything obnoxious like lick his palm; you just went totally compliant. It was an instant reaction, as though it was something your body was conditioned to obey.

He grips your hip, feeling your soft skin against his palm, his other hand covering your mouth as he thrusts into you hard, until the bed is rocking rhythmically against the wall. The hand on your hip slides higher, over your belly, groping your breast, pinching your hard nipple. His other hand slips from your mouth and you’re panting now, your face hot and almost grimacing, your whole body taut and tense for him.

But then his hands meet at your throat, and you go limp, your lips stretching into an exhausted smile. He keeps his hands still, just on either side of your neck, curled around your shoulders, his thumbs across your collarbones.

“Go on,” you say breathlessly, biting your lip in anticipation, lifting up your head in order to strain a little against his hands. He says nothing, smiling wickedly back at you, his hips working shallowly, cock thrusting against your G-spot.

“Go on,” you whine, impatient, and he wants to say, “What?” and grin sardonically and make you beg for it, but he’s too greedy, eager just like you are.

He wraps his fingers around your throat and squeezes, quick and sudden, watching your pupils dilate and your lips fall open. You’d let him choke you to death if he wasn’t careful, he’s sure—you get so fucking caught up in it—so he has to be vigilant, letting go when you look like you’re about to pass out.

It’s difficult to judge, though. You look blissed out already, and he can feel your tendons working against his fingers as he jabs his thumb just under your jaw, tightening his grip. You make these sounds—gasps at first, and then little choking coughs, your throat all raw, and all the while he’s thrusting into you, hard and fast.

He eases off a second, lets you catch your breath, and you draw it in, hoarse and gasping, looking dazed. Almost high.

You jerk your chin at him as if to say, “C’mon, again, what are you waiting for?” and he complies, one hand this time, big enough to reach quite a way around your neck. His other hand snakes down the center of you, down between your legs, along your hot skin to where he disappears inside, your slick folds parting to let him in. He teases with his fingers, finds your clit, gentle there even as he’s gripping your throat so tight he’ll probably leave marks.

You buck wildly against him and he holds you down, grinning, relentless, finger flickering over your clit as he fucks you, chokes you, brings you closer and closer to the edge—

He feels your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, then his arms, grabbing frantically at him as your whole body tenses, and you’re spluttering out a desperate, “Yes, yes,” and then he feels that same clenching around his cock, a quick spasm, so tight he can’t help but groan.

You come with your eyes shut and your mouth open, and he keeps going a moment longer than he needs to, stroking you where you’re oversensitive, making you shake and squirm.

Marc lets go of your throat and takes ahold of your breast instead, chasing his own release, fucking you harder and harder and closing his eyes because you’re gazing at him in that way that chips away at his resolve.

“Slow down,” you suddenly whisper, so full of him, so desperate to keep it that way.

He slows down minimally. “Why?”

“I–I don’t want….” you trail off as he licks and sucks on your neck, his hand groping your breast. “Please, I don’t want it to end…”

He pulls back a little and just…smiles at you, that irritating smile that says, “You honestly still think you’re in control here?”

It wouldn’t bother you as much if you weren’t still processing that he’s actually here, flesh and blood, after abandoning you, and having the balls to act like the past year didn’t happen. Like he didn’t stab your heart and leave you to bleed out slowly.

“I know you don’t want me to slow down,” he pants in your ear as he picks up the pace again, alternating between shallow thrusts that hit your G-spot perfectly, and deep thrusts that make you gasp. “You want me to fuck you like your little boyfriend never could.”

You freeze. Marc’s labored breathing, the wet sounds of your pussy, the sound of rain coming from outside your window—it all becomes white noise as your brain catches up with what he just said to you.

And then something snaps inside you.

Something primal, violent, desperate.

You grab the nape of his neck and pull him down for a bruising kiss, biting his lips hard, tongue swirling around his, the taste of blood in your mouth making your head spin. Marc moans into your mouth, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t stop his own movements inside you.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer again, and you hate it. You fucking hate that he’s doing this to you. And you hate even more that you’re letting him.

He pulls away and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his bloody lips staining your shoulder. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you as your nails rake down his arms, leaving angry red trails in their wake. You claw at his back, holding onto him with all you have. He groans at the pain and looks into your eyes, reveling in the pure need he can see in them.

You see how much it turns him on to see you like this, and it makes you even angrier.

Marc leans in to kiss you again, but before you know what’s happening, your hand shoots up to his throat, fingers digging into his jaw, pushing his face away. He growls at you and tries to kiss you anyway, stubborn and unyielding, his lips brushing against yours despite your resistance. You buck your hips and twist your body, trying to dislodge him, your hands pushing and shoving at his chest and shoulders.

You manage to get one hand around his throat, squeezing as hard as you can, your nails digging into his skin. Marc groans, his breath hot against your face, but his grip on you doesn’t falter. He grabs your wrists, attempting to pin them above your head, but you fight back with all your strength, writhing beneath him, your legs kicking out, trying to find leverage to push him off.

“That’s enough,” he growls, his voice rough and intimidating as he finally manages to secure your wrists. “Calm do–”

You turn your head and bite the arm that’s pinning your wrist down, canines piercing the skin.

“Fuck,” Marc hisses through clenched teeth, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate, as if he’s trying to match your intensity, trying to make you feel the same pain you’re inflicting on him. The bed creaks with the force of your combined movements, the air thick with the sounds of your mutual anguish.

“You wanna hurt me, baby?” he pants as he lets go of your wrist and instead grabs your chin to force you to look at him.

“Yeah,” you whisper without hesitation, your pupils dilated, your voice dripping with venom and need.

Marc’s eyes darken with a mix of lust and something deeper, something almost like understanding. “Good,” he says simply, grabbing your ass and rolling you both over, so you can ride him. He pulls up the pillow behind his back, so he’s propped up and you can hold onto his shoulders. “Take what you need.”

He moves his hips slowly, tenderly almost, as if to tell you he’s done fighting with you and wants you to feel good. You’re not there yet, you’re still seeing red. Clawing at his chest, nails digging into his skin, leaving scratches that will take days to fade.

But it’s not enough. You need more. You need to make him feel the pain he’s caused, to make him understand what he’s put you through. You push his face away, his stubble grazing your palm, and he turns his head, biting down on your thumb, groaning at the taste of you. Spurred on by the sensation, your teeth find his shoulder, biting down hard enough to break the skin.

“Stop,” he grunts, the word strained, his cock twitching inside you. You don’t relent immediately, your teeth sinking deeper until he grabs your shoulders, trying to push you off.

Finally, he manages to grip your throat, not squeezing, but enough to make you stop. The pressure is firm, commanding, and it stills your movements. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and desperation. “Enough,” he says with finality, his voice rough and low. “I want you to fuck me, not kill me.”

You stare down at him, your chest heaving, the raw emotion in his eyes grounding you. Slowly, you release your grip on his shoulders, the tension in your body easing as you adjust to the new position. His hand remains on your throat, a reminder of his control, but also of the thin line between pain and pleasure that you both walk.

You start to move, rocking your hips against him, swollen clit rubbing against his trimmed pubes, taking him deep inside you. His grip on your throat tightens just a fraction, enough to send a thrill through your body, but not enough to hurt. His other hand grips your hip, guiding your movements as you ride him, each thrust a release of the pent-up emotions that have been tearing you apart.

Mouth slightly agape, Marc’s eyes never leave yours, the connection between you intense and unbreakable. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Use me.”

And you do.

Your movements become increasingly more frantic, muscles tense, driven by a need to feel him, to feel that he’s really here with you.

“You left,” you pant, eyes piercing his, pleasure building inside you with every movement of your hips.

“Yeah, I did,” Marc replies, his tone unapologetic and infuriatingly calm. He lets go of your neck and cups your cheek instead, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your cheekbone.

“I–I thought you were dead,” you choke out, tears stinging your eyes as you find the perfect pace, hands resting on his pecs. The pressure in your core builds, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge.

“You fucking asshole, I thought you were dead!” Your voice cracks as the hurt and anger that have been festering inside you pour out, mingling with the unbearable pleasure he’s giving you.

“I’m not dead, baby. I’m right here.” His voice is softer now, tinged with an edge of remorse. He accentuates his words with a powerful thrust of his hips, driving deep inside you. The sensation forces a moan from your lips, your anger momentarily drowned out.

The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, trailing down your cheeks as you ride him harder, your body seeking solace in the physical connection. You lean forward, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling, your eyes closed.

“I hate you,” you whisper. “I fucking hate you, Marc.”

His response is immediate, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he drives into you with renewed vigor. “I know, baby,” he pants. “I know you do.”

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, push you closer to the brink. You hold onto his broad shoulders as your walls tightens around his cock, the muscles in your legs aching. The rush you’re experiencing is intoxicating, the line between pleasure and pain, love and hate blurring until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

As the pressure builds to an unbearable peak, you cling to him, your body trembling. “I need you,” you whine, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, I need you.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, his grip on you tightening. “I’ve got you.”

The words are a promise, a plea, and as your orgasm crashes over you, you feel a moment of clarity. Despite everything, despite the pain and the anger, he’s here. He’s with you.

You collapse against him, your body trembling with aftershocks, your breath coming in shallow gasps as tears stream down your cheeks. Marc wraps his strong arms around you, holding you tight as he chases his own release, his hips moving with relentless intensity. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice both a comfort and a torment.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, too far gone to stop himself.

You’re lost in the moment, too out of it to hear him.

“Tell me,” he urges again, needing to hear you say it.

When you still don’t respond and he feels he can’t hold back any longer, he pulls your head back by the nape of your neck.

You look like you’re somewhere else entirely, flying high, eyes glassy.

“Hey,” he says sharply, slowing his thrusts down as much as he can physically stand it, searching your face until your gaze meets his.

“Huh?”

“Tell me you’re mine,” he repeats through gritted teeth, brow furrowed. “Please.”

His eyes are warm and you see him—the Marc who shared his favorite childhood recipe with you, the Marc who reassured you after your boss was an asshole to you, the Marc who made you laugh until your sides ached.

“I–I’m yours,” you whisper, the realization that it’s the truth breaking something inside you. “I’ve always been yours.”

Your words are like balm for his wounded soul, and he feels like he can finally let go. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Marc. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

“Fuck,” he groans, his thrusts becoming sloppy. He’s close. “I could–I could never stay away from you. Never.”

The confession slips out, raw and unfiltered, and it’s like a dagger to your heart. You bite down on his shoulder, trying to silence the sob that threatens to escape as he fucks you with everything he has.

“Gonna come, baby,” he pants. “Where do you want me?”

You feel like your body doesn’t belong to you, your mind foggy. But you know exactly where you want him, where you need him.

“Inside.”

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

But he’s here to give you everything he can. And he does, spilling his warm cum deep inside of you, his cock pulsing, hips stuttering as he groans your name.

Not baby.

Not Sunshine.

Your name.

He wraps his arms around you, softly, almost reverently, feeling your bare, sweat-covered skin against his palms. He holds you close like this for a moment before rolling you both over so he’s on top of you again, his cock still buried inside, his body slumping against yours.

Feeling his weight on you is grounding, soothing, calming you like nothing else in the world ever can. You try to absorb the feeling of his heartbeat against yours, knowing this moment of closeness won’t last. Marc usually doesn’t hold you for long after he’s fucked you.

You inhale his scent, draw shapes on his back with your fingertips, scratch his scalp softly, nudge his shoulder with your nose, press little kisses on his skin. Each touch is a silent plea for him to surprise you, to stay with you for a little bit longer.

He relaxes on top of you, the deep tension he’s been feeling for so long slowly giving way to a sense of calm. It’s peaceful, his mind quiet for once.

How he wishes he could stay like this forever; feeling your heartbeat, your soft touch, holding you close as you fall asleep, nose brushing the nape of your neck, a protective arm draped over you, keeping you safe.

He’s convincing himself to stay. He can feel it.

Just this once.

To put a smile on your pretty face.

To show you he cares.

It means so much to you, and how could he–

“I love you, Marc,” you whisper against his skin.

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you immediately regret saying them as you feel his muscles tense and he pulls out of you, leaving you painfully empty. His cum starts leaking out of you, pooling on the rumpled sheets beneath you.

Marc sits on the edge of the bed with his back turned to you and you sit up, leaning against the headboard, watching his profile with tearful eyes.

“Marc,” you say quietly, extending your hand to lightly touch his arm.

But it’s too late.

The spell is broken.

He gets up and fishes out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter from his jeans pocket, lighting one up, the orange glow casting shadows on the wall. He blows out a stream of smoke as he pulls up his jeans, sitting back on the bed, eyes distant as he looks out of the window.

You feel a pang of hurt, but you press on, desperately needing him to understand. “You–you don’t have to love me too,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “But please, you’ve been gone for so long and I–I only just got you back. Please, just stay with me this one time. Just this one time.”

He turns his head to look at you, his eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place. You shake your head slowly, resigned, then reach for his cigarette.

He gives it to you, watching as you put it between your swollen lips. You take a long drag, the smoke filling your lungs, and then exhale slowly, closing your eyes for a moment.

Marc eyes you curiously, recalling how you proudly told him you’d stopped smoking the last time he saw you.

Some things have changed, he supposes.

And some things…haven’t.

“Where were you?” you ask.

“Egypt,” he replies simply, caressing your leg.

“The whole time?”

“The whole time.”

“And the…business you had there, is it done?”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding, an imperceptible smile on his lips. “Yeah. You could say that.”

You take another drag from the cigarette before passing it back to him, the smoke a comforting distraction. “Will you stay in town now?”

Marc looks at you, and for a moment, hope flares in your chest. “Mhm. That’s the plan.”

You reach out and trace the remnants of what you can only imagine was a nasty bruise below his ribcage. “Aren’t you tired of this?”

He chuckles. “Of course I am.”

“Then why the fuck don’t you stop?”

He sighs. “It’s not that easy. There’s people who count on me, who need me.”

You avert your gaze, laughing mirthlessly, quickly wiping away a tear with trembling fingers. Marc watches you intently as he smokes, his hand resting on your thigh.

“I see,” you say softly as you meet his gaze, a sad smile on your lips. “Nothing’s changed.”

He doesn’t say anything in return.

“Why did you come back?”

I wanted to be as close to you as possible.

“My…job required me to. And I think it’ll stay that way for the foreseeable future.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He gently strokes your leg, unconsciously trying to soothe himself more than you. He’s about to say something, he doesn’t even know what, just something, when you can’t hold it in anymore.

“I get that I’m not a priority for you, Marc, I really do,” you whisper, your expression so full of sadness he can barely stand to look at you. “You made that abundantly clear when you disappeared without having the decency to say goodbye–”

“Sunshine…”

“–but I don’t understand why you won’t do this one thing for me.”

Marc’s brow furrows deeply as he watches your lip quiver with frustration.

“I-I promise I won’t ever ask you again, but please stay with me tonight. Please. It doesn’t even have to be the whole night. Just an hour, Marc, or–or half an–”

“Sunshine, no,” he says a bit sharper than intended, his own nerves frayed. He gets up and looks at the moon.

You just…don’t understand.

You don’t understand what keeps him up at night, what keeps him away from you, what he’s vowed to protect you from—and he can never tell you.

He knows he should have left you alone when he saw you outside the bar that night, should have walked away and spared you the pain.

But he couldn’t do it then, and he can’t do it now.

Because he’s a selfish asshole.

Because he loves you.

He flicks the cigarette butt out of the window, then bends down to put on his shirt, the act mechanical, his face set in a mask of determination. You haven’t noticed before, but now you notice how careful he is when bending and stretching.

He must be in pain.

“Marc,” you plead, your heart beating so fast you feel like it’s going to explode.

He puts on his shoes, the silence that’s stretching between you suffocating. He’s killing you. He’s killing you, and yet you’re more afraid of losing him forever.

This needs to stop. You need to stop.

“If you walk out of that door, I don’t ever wanna see you again.”

Marc halts his movements and your pleading eyes search his, the genuine desperation in them twisting a knife in his heart. For a moment, you think you see something in his eyes—a flicker of the man you need him to be—but then it’s gone.

He sighs heavily, then rounds the bed, leaning in to cup your cheek. “You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead. “I’ll see you around.”

“Please,” you whisper, but it’s too late.

When he reaches the front door, his cap in hand, you stand in the living room, naked and vulnerable. “I hate you, Marc Spector,” you say, your voice filled with all the pain and anger you feel.

He turns, his eyes softening for just a moment. “No, Sunshine. No, you don’t.”

And with that, he’s gone.

It takes a few seconds for your body to react to what just happened, and when it does, it’s overwhelming. Your stomach sinks, your chest tightens, and your vision blurs as you grapple with your ambivalent feelings.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you crumble, the exhaustion and heartbreak taking over.

Heading back to your bedroom, your eyes catch the roses your boyfriend gave you yesterday, a cruel reminder of the life you’ve been trying to build without Marc. All the work you put in, down the drain.

And for what? Why do you do this to yourself?

In a fit of anger and despair, you grab the flowers and throw them off your balcony. You watch as they scatter on the rain-wet street below, the cool night air wrapping around your naked body like a cloak. You stay for a moment, heart pounding, staring at the flowers as Marc’s cum runs down your thigh.

God, you’re a dumb idiot.

You turn off the TV as you head back inside, turn off your bedside lamp, the darkness a welcome solace. You go to the bathroom without turning the light on, clean up, put on a fresh pair of pajamas.

You do hate him.

You need to tell yourself that, for tonight at least.

Curled up in your bed, you clutch at the pillow where his scent still lingers, letting the darkness take you as the man who holds your heart is once again slipping through your fingers. The tears come again, silent and unending, each one a testament to the love you can’t seem to let go of, no matter how much it hurts.

Because for better or worse, Marc’s a part of you, and you can’t escape it.

Down on the street, Marc watches the scene unfold from the shadows, the flowers landing at his feet. He stands there, drenched in regret, his heart heavy. He wants to turn back, to hold you and tell you everything will be okay, but he knows he can’t.

Not with the life he leads.

Not until he’s finally free.

He walks to his car, parked on the opposite side of the street. Coming from the reflection of the driver’s window, the car illuminated by the street lamp above, he hears a familiar voice.

“You’re a cold bastard, Marc,” the man in the reflection says, his tone filled with quiet condemnation.

“Thanks, bud,” Marc sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You wanna explain to him that we’re gonna be late, then?” He raises an eyebrow, but Steven just shakes his head disapprovingly.

Marc scoffs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think so.”

He takes the silver lighter out of his pocket, lights a cigarette, and leans against the car door, looking up at your windows. He imagines your silhouette as you’re lying on your side, your soft skin, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. He imagines you’re dreaming of him, finding peace in your sleep.

He knows he’s dreaming himself, knows you’re tossing and turning, cursing him. And he deserves it. He knows he does.

“Tick-tock, Marc Spector,” comes the resonating voice of Khonshu, his towering figure perched atop a nearby rooftop, his skeletal bird skull gleaming in the moonlight.

Marc rolls his eyes, takes a last drag of his cigarette before putting it out with his shoe, and shoots the impatient god a glare that earns him a chuckle that echoes through the night.

He looks up at your windows one last time, his heart aching with a longing he can’t afford to indulge. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gets into his car and turns on the radio.

As he speeds down the road, the city lights blurring past, leaving you behind, he feels the crushing loneliness of his life.

It’s strange.

Feeling lonely despite never being, you know, alone.

Right on cue, he catches the intense gaze of a dark pair of eyes in the rearview mirror.

“What? You gonna tell me I’m a cold bastard, too?”

Jake looks back at him with a sly grin. “Nah. You don’t need me to tell you what you already know,” he scoffs. “But it’s a real shame, Marc. Leaving that poor girl to get fucked by boys who don’t know what they’re doing, just ‘cause you don’t have the balls to–”

“And that’s enough of you,” Marc mutters, turning up the volume of the radio, refocusing on the way ahead.

⚡ Kavinsky’s Odd Look is playing in Marc’s car as he’s driving through the night, thinking of you. ⚡ Marc’s Ferrari Testarossa – the sexiest car there is. ⚡ I adore the synthwave aesthetic if you can’t tell lol.

Moon Knight Masterlist | AO3

#fic: nightcall #marc spector #marc spector x f!reader #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector smut #marc spector angst #moon knight #moon knight x f!reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #moon knight smut #oscar isaac characters #marc spector fanfiction #moon knight fanfic #oscar isaac fic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months

Text

The Quiet Ones 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: I slept for like ten hours and it was fucking wild.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You watch the long needle slide out from under your skin. You don’t feel it much. That man, Lloyd, loops the tube around the IV bag stand. You sit in the bed still, disoriented and dull. You can feel the tension buzzing off of him, as if he’s holding himself back. That scares you more than anything he’s done.

Before you can say or do anything, your stomach growls. The tumble is painful as your insides squeeze violently. He looks at you and takes your hand, tugging you towards the edge as he snickers.

“Hungry, jellybean?” He teases, “come on. I’ll make you a nice omelet.” He pulls until you shimmy across the bed. You turn your legs out and can’t help but use his strength to stand. He’s patient as he easily hauls you up. “You okay, babykins? I could carry you. Like before.”

“N-no,” you try to wiggle your hand free but his grip is unbreakable. He squeezes and you quit your resistance.

“You might be a bit groggy, that’s normal. The smoke, the meds--”

“Meds?”

“Well, I slipped a bit extra in the bag,” he shrugs as he glances over at the IV, “just so you could sleep.”

You look at him, your horror burning from your eyes. He grins proudly and swings your arm, turning to lead you to the door. You take short steps, muscles stiff and achy, shoulders wracked from sleeping on your back. You look down at yourself and shudder; at least you’re still wearing your own clothes.

“I’ve been doing cooking classes. I can do a florentine that will blow your tits off,” he boasts as he angles you through the door.

The hall is airy and echoey. The house must be huge. You get that sense easily. You don’t need to go around and count the rooms. He takes you down the long hallway and you stop at the top of a set of stairs. They bend in the middle but more corning, there’s a large space between each. They’re polished to a shine and look slippery as the morning reflects off of them.

“Just a step at a time,” he goads as you latch onto the railing.

You put a foot down and grip both him and the railing. Another tide of wooziness comes over you. It could be what he gave you or your days of restriction, but it’s too much. The world is too much.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos as you take a second step down.

This is strange. It reminds you of a movie you watched as a kid with a maze and twisting and turning walkways and a taunting villain. You’ve awoken in his trap and you see no escape in sight.

You slip on the third and let out a squeak as you feel yourself falling. He’s quick to catch you, scooping you up easily even in the narrow space. He lifts you and continues down swiftly, bringing you onto flat ground. You murmur and rub your head as you feel his heartbeat against your arm.

You feel a tickle in your hair and hear him take a deep breath. Is he smelling you? You repress a shiver at the thought as your eyes struggle to focus on the shapes all around you.

He carries you into another room, a kitchen, as spacious and sleek as any other part of the strange house. A white marble counter lines two walls and wraps around into full C, marking off the cooking space. On the other side, there’s glass table in an abstract, asymmetric shape with metal frame chairs around it. The whole place is out of one of those design magazines. All impractical at the expense of aesthetic.

He sits you in one of the chairs, it’s just a rigid as you expect. He stays bent, holding you by the shoulders until your hold yourself up. He drags his hands down your arms as he reluctantly pulls away. You flutter your lashes and rub your eye sockets, trying to block out your reality.

“My sleepy bean,” he beams and plants a kiss on the top of your head. “So how about it? Eggs florentine? Or are you in the mood for something a bit sweeter? I’ve perfected my crepes.”

You grumble and drop your hands slowly, crossing your arms as a chill rolls through you. You feel it pricking in your chest and across your skin. You’re not wearing a bra and your tee shirt is thin. You keep your arms locked.

You listen to him moving around. You don’t know what to do. You’re too weak to do anything. Even if you could get on the other side of the walls, you have no idea where you are. Where help could be.

You rock as your fear bubbles up. Why is he doing this? Why does he think you want him? Why you? Of all people. You mind your business, you keep your head down, eyes to yourself... you don’t deserve this.

You glance over at him as he starts to hum. Your lip quivers as you watch his shoulders blades stretch the fabric of his shirt. He’s a bit ridiculous in a full set of satin pajamas, the dark black speckled with a subtle grey leopard print. He’s too much.

You turn your head straight and let it hang. You resign yourself to helplessness. You have to be logical about this. You can’t spark his suspicion to soon. You have to wait for a window and then... figure that out, you guess. You don’t like uncertainty. You have a routine and you keep to it. That’s what keeps you safe. Or so you thought.

“...wise men say, only fools rush in...” he sings softly and you wince. The lyrics of the Elvis ballad make your skin crawl. He’s actually deranged. You don’t know him, you're strangers.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know tree nuts are a no go,” he chimes as he whisks, turning to you with a broad smile.

You blink at him. How does he know that?

“Don’t think you’ll be needing any but I also got penicillin on the no go list and the latex thing... there’s alternatives,” he chuckles and you furrow your brow. “How’s that ticker doing? You been taking lots of iron?”

Your body hollows out. How much does he know about you? How? You can guess he’s snooped around your medical records. Obviously, he’s a man with criminalistic leanings. Is this even his house? Has he taken you to a fortress he commandeered by force? Is there some terrified family bound in the basement? Is there a basement?

He continues to futz around the kitchen as you curl your shoulders down and chew on your lips. Speaking of your heart, it’s beating again, racing, almost painfully. You’re a mouse trapped in the corner by the feline with his bristly whiskers.

Your eyes wander over to the large windows and you stare out at the curated landscape. The property is beautiful and lush. You imagine a whole team maintains the perfectly trimmed hedges and colourful blooms. The stone mosaic pathway and the leafy archway over a bench. It’s like a dream, more so, a twisted nightmare painted in hues of fantasy.

A plate clinks down before you and a sweet aroma brings you back inside. You face forward as Lloyd steps back on his heel, watching you with anticipation. You look at him then the plate. He pulls out a chair and plops himself down, planting his elbow as he cups his chin and watches.

“Let me know what you think,” he insists.

You take a breath and unlock your arms. Slowly, you drag them apart and take the thick butter knife and long fork. The cutlery feels too big for your small hands. You lean forward as the drizzle of dark syrup across the rolled crepe lures you in. Your stomach roars noisily and he giggles.

“Aw, you must be starving,” he muses, “please eat, baby, I don’t want you to ever go hungry again.”

You exhale through a ripple of disgust. You cut into the thin crepe and into the filling. Slice off the end of the roll and scoop it up with the filling. You carefully open your mouth around the fork and take a bite. Your eyes flit up to meet Lloyd’s as his gaze sticks on you. There are flames in his blue irises.

You pull your mouth off the fork in embarrassment as he hums. He’s a weird, weird man. All of this is weird. Surreal.

You look down at the butter knife and contemplate the gold cutlery. It’s heavy, it would hurt if you used the handle to give him a conk, but the blade is too dull to do much. It can slice through a crepe but wouldn’t do much on meat and bone. You don’t think you could do it, either. The thought of hurting others is just unnatural.

“Is it good? Tried my own combination,” he explains happily, “dark chocolate syrup, not too much sugar, some softened cream cheese in the middle with black cherry jam.”

You swallow and look around for something to wipe your lips. Short of a napkin, you lick your lip and clamp them together. He shifts in his chair, an act that makes you feel uncomfortable.

“Good,” you croak.

“Oh, wait,” he stands suddenly, “your coffee. Oopsie.”

He struts away and your stomach mulches the single bite greedily. As much as you want to be stubborn, you’re so hungry. And it’s delicious. It’s better than your usual flavourless fare. You could gobble it all down in a second but you won’t. You carefully cut out another bite as he returns with a tall mug.

He puts the cup down by your plate. You gulp down a forkful and set down the cutlery. You consider the mug before you take it, the white porcelain marked with the golden outline of a rose above the letter ‘Mrs.’. He has another in his hands, black but with a bowtie above ‘Mr.’. What the hell?

“Colombian dark roast. A little less caffeine so your heart won’t mind so much,” he says.

You nod and take the cup. The thought of coffee is enough to override your agitation. You take a sip and hold back a sigh. It’s good. You hate all of this but it’s all so good. You put the cup back and return your attention to the crepes. You pause and glance up at him. He doesn’t have a plate, just his cup.

“Oh, jellybean, you’re so sweet,” he smirks, “I gotta keep my protein up. I’ll have some eggs and a shake soon. Right now, you just worry about you.”

You dip your chin down and focus on eating. Small bites. You don’t want to seem too greedy. You don’t want him to see how much you need this. Does he know everything? Of course, he was watching but did he know the days you spent feeling as if your stomach was eating itself?

He pushes his hair back, trying to tidy the long strands as he watches you, “we’ll get washed up after breakfast. Then you can get settled in and relax. I’ll take care of everything else, alright? You just need to get all dolled up when the time comes,” he explains as he drags his fingertip around the tabletop, “not that you need to do very much.”

You just chew. What can you say or do? This man is straight up crazy. Not only are you his prisoner, he’s been stalking you. It doesn’t matter when it started, look where it’s ended. No, this can’t be the end.

“What’s...” you speak before you can think. You shake your head and smother your question with another bite.

“What? Go on, sugar lips, ask me anything? You wanna know my favourite colour? My favourite song?” His cheeks tint pink as he plays with a button on his pajamas.

You clear your throat and put down the fork and knife, “what’s going on... later?”

He tilts his head curiously.

“The... dress and... doll up?” You repeat his words flatly.

“That’s a surprise,” he trills as if it should be obvious. “Don’t wanna spoil it, do we?”

“I guess,” you sit back and fold your hands in your lap.

“You don’t gotta think about anything, sweet cheeks. You leave the thinking to me. I’m gonna take care of you,” he avows as his hand stretches across the front of his satin shirt. “You just gotta be you.”

You feel his gaze bearing down on you. You peek up to find his eyes slipping down and you feel them centre on your tee shirt, your nipples poking against the cotton. You hunch your shoulders and cross your arms again.

“How’s the coffee, jelly bean? You like it?” He tears his attention from your chest.

“Good, thank you,” you murmur.

“Ugh, I love hearing your voice,” he puts his coffee down and reaches between his legs. You blanch as he drags his chair closer as he lifts himself. He puts his hand on your knee, stroking with his thumb, “will you call me ‘honey’?”

You stare at him. Your cheek draw tight and your lips flatten. You want to shake off his touch and scream but that foggy glaze in his eyes deters you. This man is wild.

“Okay, er,” you gulp tightly and cough, “honey.”

He hums into a sigh and his hand slips higher on your leg before trail back down, “oh,” he shakes his shoulders, “that tingles. Do it again.”

You fight not to let your true emotion blaze through. You hug yourself tighter and bite down before you can muster the word, “honey.”

“Oh, baby, that’s nice,” he winks and sits back, eyes grazing up and down your body, “you cold? You’re all twisted up like a pretzel.”

You nod. It's an excuse you’ll gladly take.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner, jellybean?” He stands suddenly and you notice the way he tugs on the waistband of his pants. You turn your head, blurring your vision so everything around you is vague.

He rushes off and you wait. You don’t know what else to do. You’re still too weak to make a move. Whatever he gave you is potent. Or maybe, you’re just too scared to do more than shrink and surrender.

He returns with a fluffy purple robe in his hands. He comes around the back of your chair and you lean forward to let him drape it around you. He curls his hands over your shoulders and bends over you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You need more coffee, baby cakes?” He asks as he kneads your shoulders.

“Still working on it,” you pull away from him and grab the cup, “thank you...” you let the words dangle in the silence, tension piquing, “honey.”

He sighs and draws away with a tickle up your neck, “mmm, isn’t this wonderful?”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #the gray man #the quiet ones #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

Text

1968 [Chapter 10: Poseidon, God Of The Sea]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

It’s Friday, November 1st, and it begins like every day does: with you sneaking a birth control pill and swallowing it with a handful of cool water from the sink. Aemond is usually gone before you wake up—writing speeches, reading newspapers, strategizing with Otto and Criston and Sargent Shriver—but you always lock the bathroom door just in case he reappears. You’ve popped the tiny pink pills out of their circular packages and hidden them in hollowed-out tampons, each opening sealed with cotton balls. You don’t like taking the pills; you don’t fully understand how they work, and you don’t like feeling out of tune with your body’s own rhythms, but they are infinitely better than the alternative. You can’t imagine having to carry Aemond’s child now, sacrificing your comfort, your health, your future, your life for a man who doesn’t know the real you and doesn’t want to. You return the modified tampon to the box you keep in the linen closet, then begin to pin up your hair.

When you venture downstairs, you’ve thrown on a long flowing floral skirt and chunky black sweater, black flats, small unceremonious gold hoops in your ears. You’ll have to change before the journalists arrive to fawn over the children as they bake homemade apple pies this afternoon. You’ll have to wear whatever Aemond tells you to. But presently, it’s Aegon you’re looking for; you begin with the basement.

He isn’t sprawled across his futon, he isn’t lazing on the floor. He isn’t there at all. As you stand on the steps, you see only Eudoxia, muttering irritably in Greek and crawling around on her hands and knees as she picks globs of red out of the shag carpet.

“What is wrong with him?” she says when she glances at you. “Can you believe this? Melted candle wax everywhere. He is a pig. A pig! Someone should make bacon out of him. Then he could finally be useful. He’s just about fat enough. He could feed the whole family, and all the dogs too.”

You don’t know how to reply; you can’t apologize for helping to make the mess, you can’t agree that Aegon is a plague and nothing more. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

“If Aemond saw me putting you to work, I would be deported back to Tyrnavos.”

“No, Doxie. Asteria would fall into the sea without you.”

She peers up at you through fallen strands of her hair, dyed a palpably artificial pitch black. Then she grins, large doughy cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. “Go help Aemond win his election.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say dutifully, and head back upstairs.

In the living room, Aemond and Otto are hissing like snakes as they leaf through the Wall Street Journal. The newspaper reports that Nixon’s poll numbers are climbing in this crucial eleventh hour. They can’t decide if that’s true or if the Wall Street Journal, a Nixon-friendly publication, is trying to give him a little extra momentum as Election Day approaches. Criston nods at you from where he sits on the couch, looking exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes and shoulders slumped low; Aemond and Otto don’t notice you at all. You keep moving.

There is chatter and giggling and the clanging of bowls and pans in the kitchen. You peek inside from the doorway. Fosco, Helaena, and the nannies are making pancakes with the children. Butter sizzles, spatulas scrape, bubbles appear in wells of batter. Helaena is lifting Evangelos so he can pour a cupful of smooth, milky batter into one of the pans on the stovetop. Cosmo, drizzling maple syrup over an ambitiously tall stack of pancakes, waves at you. You smile and wave back. In the corner of the room, Ludwika is smoking one of her Camels and shooing away Aegon’s second-youngest son Thaddeus, whose fingers are covered with flour.

“Please take your paws elsewhere,” Ludwika says, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. “This dress is Prada.”

Fosco spots you. “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks as he approaches, wiping his palms on the apron tied around his slim waist. Flour dusts his eyeglasses. “We have enough batter to make about 500. Although I cannot promise they will not be burnt. Our chefs are rather inexperienced.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.” You take one last look around the kitchen, wondering where Aegon could be.

Fosco understands. His voice drops low and discrete. “I have not seen him this morning.”

“He isn’t usually up yet.”

“He’s not, this is true.” Fosco taps his chin, leaving white dabs of flour there. “Maybe he’s sailing?”

“Maybe. I’ll check.”

“And I have no idea where you’re going or why,” Fosco says with a wink before returning to the stove.

Outside it’s grey, misty, only 50 degrees. It would be a bad day for sailing. The wind rips at your clothes and your hair like a man’s lustful hands; the waves are choppy and treacherous. You think of Icarus plummeting into the ocean, of Andromeda being offered as a sacrifice to assuage Poseidon’s wrath, of sirens beckoning doomed sailors. From where you’re standing in the backyard of the main house, shivering with your arms crossed over your chest, you can’t see Aegon’s boat Sunfyre bobbing in the rough surf. You turn left to investigate Helaena’s withered garden.

As you walk, the hem of your skirt dragging dead autumn leaves, you skim your fingertips over the evergreen emerald hedges, cool and damp. At the center of the garden—like a diamond in a wedding ring, like the sun surrounded by its planets—you don’t find Aegon smoking a joint or napping under Zeus’s shadow, only a silent stone circle of gods who watch you with unmoving, all-knowing eyes. You spin slowly, studying each of them, deities who loved and cheated and offered mercy and cursed and killed. From his gurgling fountain in the middle of the clearing, Zeus glares at you most fiercely, wielding his lightning bolts, aching to loose them. The wind rattles the leaves of the hedges; crows caw from somewhere out in the mist.

“Oh! You’re here, darling?” Alicent says from the arched doorway cut into the greenery. She’s pushing Viserys in his wheelchair. Sparse white spiderweb-strands of hair hang limply from his head, mottled with liver spots. His fingers are bony and clawlike. “In this awful weather?”

You scramble for an explanation. “I just, um, needed some quiet.”

“Yes, the children are very rambunctious this morning, aren’t they?”

“Children?” Viserys echoes, as if he is only just learning of them.

“Your grandchildren,” Alicent reminds him. “Aegon and Helaena’s kids. Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, Cosmo, Daphne, Evangelos, and…” Panic crosses her face. She realizes she’s forgotten one, but she doesn’t know who.

“Neaera,” you say.

“Of course. Such a sweet girl, gentle like a lamb.”

You weren’t blessed with that sort of disposition. Sometimes you wish you were. Life seems easier for women who don’t feel bitterness or forbidden ambition, who pain moves cleanly through like clear water. They have no thorns for it to snag on and grow roots into the bones, the soul. They are never at risk of becoming poisonous like Jupiter’s moon Io. “What brings you to the garden on a day this dreary?”

“I feel close to them here,” Viserys rasps.

You stare down at him, baffled. “Close to who, sir?” You rarely interact with the ailing patriarch of the Targaryen family. He is often confined to his bedroom, attended by Alicent and Eudoxia and his nurses, and even when he is physically present his mind is sluggish, alien, impenetrable. Now Alicent’s eyes are downcast, and she drifts away to inspect the statue of Poseidon, a formidable bearded man holding a trident and with dolphins and sea turtles emerging from the waves of white marble at his bare feet.

“I left them back in Greece,” Viserys says, his gaunt face vacant, distant, vaguely sad. He is bundled up in a thick wool robe that hides how skeletal he has become. “I thought about having them brought over to be interred at the mausoleum, but it felt wrong to disturb their bones. Now I cannot visit their graves. I can only hear them here, among the gods our ancestors worshiped.”

“Who…?”

“Aemma and Rhaenyra,” Alicent tells you from where she now stands by Aphrodite, gazing longingly at the goddess of love. You notice that she is clutching a komboskini in one hand; she must believe that what her husband is saying is blasphemy, but she doesn’t condemn him. “Viserys had a wife and daughter before he met me.”

You feel a sudden and overwhelming stab of grief for the old man; you are thinking of Ari. “What happened?”

“The sea took them,” Viserys explains. “A riptide off the coast of Euboea. We found their bodies three days later.”

“Oh God. I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.” You don’t know what else to say; it’s too disastrous, too unspeakable.

“Aemma was pregnant. It was a boy. She delivered him in the water, a coffin birth.” And you know from his face, his voice, that Alicent and her children never stood a chance, that Viserys has only one true family, only one set of names carved into the scarlet chambers of his failing heart. You think of Aemond’s heart, claimed by Alys and her son; you think of your own.

“They’re at peace, Viserys,” Alicent says. “They are in heaven with my mother and Ari and Mimi.”

He continues, as if he hasn’t heard her: “I thought that if I made something of myself in America, if I helped contribute something incredible to the world, then they would not have died for nothing.” Viserys reaches out with trembling, gnarled hands, and when you realize he wants to hold yours you let him. His grasp is weak and cold. “Aemond will be president. He will save countless lives, he will save this nation’s soul. And you have made that possible.”

Where’s Aegon? Is he okay? Why is no one else ever looking for him? “Thank you, sir.”

Viserys begins hacking, doubling over in his wheelchair, and Alicent hurries to soothe him and provide a handkerchief that Helaena embroidered green spiders onto. When he has recovered, you leave them with the gods: Viserys to grieve his old life, Alicent to mourn the one she never had.

You plod through sand dunes out to the Atlantic Ocean, peering into the fog as you search for Aegon’s sailboat. Still, there is no sign of him. You glance back towards the main house as sea spray peppers your cheeks and your knuckles. You’re beginning to get nervous. Where the hell is he? Is he passed out somewhere, is he sick, is he hurt?

And then, at last, you see him: sitting at the bottom of a small bluff so he is invisible to anyone not at the water’s edge, arms linked around his bent knees, not smoking, not drinking, not gulping pills, just gazing out into the waves that thrash and rumble beneath a grey sky, his too-long blonde hair whipping in the wind. He wears one of Daeron’s army jackets over a white turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, no shoes, a collection of other men’s dog tags slung around his neck.

“Hey,” you say as you join him, dropping down onto the cool, crumbling sand.

Aegon smiles. “Hey.”

“It’s strange to see you awake before noon.”

“Yeah…I didn’t really sleep.” No, he didn’t, you can tell: his eyes are bloodshot and his voice tired, husky. He is watching you, so hopeful but so afraid. “What are we gonna do?”

About us. About Aemond. “If he loses on Tuesday, I can leave him.”

“What if he wins?”

You don’t have a good answer. You shrug, avoiding Aegon’s eyes. ��It’s not forever, you know? It would be four years, and then…”

“Four years?” Aegon says. “No, I can’t wait another four years. I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. And what if he gets a second term? Eight years? I’ll be almost fifty. We’ve already lost so much time, I can’t surrender another decade.”

“Aegon, first ladies don’t quit. It’s never happened before, not once since 1789. It’s a part of the democratic process. People aren’t just voting for Aemond, they’re voting for me too. You know that. You told me we were a package deal, and you were right. If they trust me and I walk away, it’s…it’s…it’s treason, it’s abandonment, it’s wrong. And Aemond needs to have the political credibility to get what he wants done.”

“Look,” Aegon says, like it pains him. “I get that my life is already half over, and I haven’t done anything worthwhile with the last forty years, but I want to be different. I want to be better. And I can do that, but I need you to give me a chance.”

“You think Aemond would let me leave? If I publicly humiliated and undermined him?”

“We don’t need Aemond, we could figure it out—”

“What do you think he and Otto would do to you, Aegon? They would ruin you anywhere you go, they would have you declared mentally unfit and take your children away.”

“They don’t own us!”

“They do,” you insist. “And if you try to fight them it will destroy you. You’ve never cared about strategy, and I love that you’re truthful, and I love that you’re real, but I need you to understand what you’re asking for right now.”

“But he breaks the rules,” Aegon says, and his eyes are glistening. “He has Alys. He has a kid out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And what, I’m supposed to hope Aemond loses?” Aegon swipes tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Because that’s the only way I get to touch you? Nixon wins and more draftees get butchered in Vietnam, and Daeron doesn’t come home, and the white supremacists get to resegregate the beaches at Biloxi, Mississippi and wherever the hell else they want to, and civil rights protesters get attacked by police dogs, and teenagers get sentenced to decades in prison for marijuana possession?”

“I’m sorry.” You can’t tell him he’s mistaken about any of that. He isn’t.

“I’ve spent my whole fucking life in a cage, but I’ve never felt this powerless.”

“Aegon?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I…” It’s terrifying to ask. “Am I the same way Mimi was when she was younger? Is that why you like me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you’re different than Mimi. Mimi was fun, and we could party together, and I cared about her, obviously, but…” He stares out at the ocean, shaking his head. “She wasn’t as strong as you. And she couldn’t really get to me. I feel like you could kill me if you wanted to, you could reach inside my chest any time it crossed your mind and crush me in your fist and I’d be gone.”

You stretch out your fingertips until they collide with his sweater, warm yielding flesh woven over his ribs. “Not so easy,” you say. And then Aegon smiles and he leans in to kiss you, the ocean roaring like an ancient beast, a titan, a maelstrom. The wind rakes through your hair and stings your eyes. You ask when he rests his forehead against yours, your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek: “Do you wish you could go back to when you hated me?”

“Never. I’ve gotten used to not being alone.”

“The kids made pancakes. You should go have some.”

“Come with me.”

“You first. I’ll be five minutes behind you. We shouldn’t walk to the house together.”

“Why?” Aegon teases. “Because people might think we fucked in the basement last night?”

“I’ve already told them. Aemond is waiting for you in the kitchen with a bazooka.”

Aegon laughs and struggles to his bare feet, slipping on the sand. “Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya.” Once he’s gone, you recite the full length of Here’s To The State Of Mississippi in your head, then trek across the sand and through the backyard to rejoin the rest of the Targaryens.

When you open the sliding glass door, Otto is standing in the hallway. His icy blue eyes sweep from your simple black flats to your windswept hair, still pinned up but unacceptably tousled. “Why the hell aren’t you dressed for the reporters?”

“Because they won’t be here for another two hours. Surely you are well-acquainted with the itinerary that you yourself arranged.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, girl.”

“Remember when you used to defer to me about things? Were you stupid then, or are you stupid now?”

“Do you know what Joe Kennedy did when his daughter Rosemary threatened the family’s reputation?” Otto says, eyes glittering cruelly.

You really don’t know; you weren’t aware that JFK had a sister named Rosemary. “What?”

“He took her to a surgeon to be lobotomized. Now she’s hidden away in a little cottage in Wisconsin, can’t speak, can’t walk, with full-time nurses to wipe the drool off her face and change her diapers. How would you like that? Would your obscene little flirtation still be worth it? We could tell people that you were in a car accident or fell down the stairs. The doctors go in through the eye socket, you know. And you’re awake the whole time.”

“You can’t do that to me,” you say, shellshocked.

“Oh, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find the will somehow.”

There is shouting from the basement, and you and Otto both bolt for the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Aegon and Eudoxia are embroiled in a ferocious confrontation, red faces, hands itching to slap and shove. Aegon roars, jabbing his index finger at her like a petulant teenager: “I told you to stay the fuck out of my room!”

“You are filthy, you leave crumbs everywhere! We will have mice!”

“Where’s the garbage?” Aegon demands. “Huh? Where’d you put it? Out by the curb?”

“It has already been picked up.”

“No, no way! That’s bullshit!”

“You’re too late!” Doxie says. “The truck went by 20 minutes ago. And why is this a problem? What precious heirloom did I steal from you? An empty rum bottle? A magazine full of naked women? Candy wrappers, cigarette ashes, melted candle wax? You live like a pig, you should not be so outraged when you are treated the same as one.”

“Aegon, what happened?” you ask. Otto is equally bewildered, surveying the markedly clean basement, his brow knitted into deep crevices.

Aegon doesn’t answer. He only glances at you—frustration, anger, but shame too—and then sighs in defeat and stomps up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

Eudoxia looks at Otto and shrugs nonchalantly. “At least there were not so many used condoms this time.”

Your gaze catches on the end table by the futon. The empty cups are gone, the ashtray is spotless…and there is no folded white corner of a receipt poking out from under it.

The math problem from Mount Sinai, you think, that relic, that talisman, that worthless scrap of paper that Aegon never wanted to talk about but kept so close to him, just like you cling to the card he gave you and Aemond cherishes his engraved Ouija board. It’s gone. It’s almost like it never happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

After the journalists arrive and the apple pies, so quintessentially all-American, are made—you help Cosmo with his job, layering strips of dough into lattice crusts that turn golden in the oven, glinting with sugar crystals like diamonds—Aemond’s retinue begins the last of their campaign stops by travelling via limousines to Philadelphia, just an hour and a half across the width of New Jersey and over the Delaware River. In your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you soak in a bath opaque with bubbles, steam hot and dewy on your skin. Your hair is long and free. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Tomorrow Never Knows by the Beatles.

Your hands have just slipped beneath the hot water—your skull full of Aegon, things he’s done, things he’s said—when you hear the bathroom door open behind you. You rest your arms on the spotless white rim of the tub, porcelain-enameled steel, and try not to look like you’ve been interrupted. Aemond’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor, then he kneels by the bathtub and wraps his arms around you, his long uncalloused fingers skating over your shoulder, collarbones, nipples, before linking like a long necklace. He likes you best like this, when your scar is hidden, something that might have been a nightmare or a sad story that happened to somebody else. He rests the mutilated left half of his face against the right side of yours; his eyepatch scratches against your temple. You shift uncomfortably, you can’t help it. You don’t want him touching you. His arms tighten around your ribs.

“You know, JFK’s mother went through a crisis of sorts as a young wife,” Aemond says calmly. “She realized her husband was a hopeless philanderer and tried to leave him and go back to her parents. But her father sat her down and explained that she had made a commitment. Marriage is for life, and you don’t abandon your vows when the circumstances prove difficult. So she went back to Joe. And if she hadn’t, there never would have been a John F. Kennedy, or a Bobby, or a Eunice or a Ted, or a million other things too.”

“I am so fucking sick of hearing about the Kennedys.”

“You used to love being compared to Jackie.”

“I’m not her. I’m never going to be her.”

“I’m giving up things too,” Aemond says. Now he’s combing his fingers through your hair, unraveling tiny knots, yanking at your scalp. “If I win, I won’t be able to see Alys and our son. It would be too risky, someone might catch me. For as long as I’m president, I’ll have to be apart from them. You don’t think that’s painful? But Alys understands. She knows it’s for the greater good.”

“Please stop touching me.”

“You’re mine to touch as much as I want to.”

You stare at the seafoam green wall and try to pretend you’re in another place, another year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aemond says sympathetically, an appeasing sort of tone, like he’s trying to strike a bargain. “I’m a realist, I’m aware that I can’t keep you locked up in a basement or put you in a straightjacket for the next fifty years. That doesn’t serve either of us. If you are truly desperate to be rid of me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. And I require a partner who is fully committed to my cause, my legacy. Not a captive. I can’t fight Nixon and you too.”

You twist around in the tub to look at him, skeptical, amazed. Is there a way out? “So what are you offering?”

“I need you for as long as I’m president,” Aemond says. “If I win, I need you for at least four years, probably eight. And a short while after that to establish myself in retirement and fade from the headlines, another few years. But then…we could work out some arrangement that is mutually agreeable.”

The hope is so fragile, so fearful, splintering glass. “You would let me go?”

“We’d have to negotiate the details, particularly as far as our future children are concerned, but…yes. In some sense, at least.”

You can’t find any words. You don’t want to offend him, to shatter this moment. And yet the price is so steep. Four years, eight years, ten years. But then…but then…

Aemond smiles, his remaining blue eye bright and cunning. His fingertips trace the slope of your jaw. “I care so deeply for you. You are my Aphrodite, you have made my wildest ambitions possible. You will help me save this country. I am worshiped because of you, I am trusted, I am envied. No one has a wife as beloved as mine, and everybody knows it. So I feel…I’ve considered…” His hand moves down to your throat, drawing invisible chains of gold or silver. “If you’ve given me so much, I can extend some mercy in return.”

“You can’t harm Aegon,” you say. “Or take his children away, or do anything else to punish him.” And then you lie, a necessary fiction, an invention, a myth, Prometheus stealing fire to give it to humans, Zeus hiding Io from Hera. “He hasn’t betrayed you.” And he’s saved me over and over again.

“Of course I won’t harm Aegon. I need him too. This act he has now of the devoted, reformed, tragedy-besieged single father? People adore it. At this rate, I’ll be able to make him the attorney general for my second term if he uses the next four years to rack up some experience. And his children are gold mines for the photographers. They have filled the void left by our own son’s death.”

“Ari,” you say.

“What?”

“He had a name. He wasn’t just ‘a son’ or ‘our son.’ His name was Ari.”

“You’ll feel better once we’ve had others.” Aemond stands and holds out a hand to you. He’s wearing a black suit like he’s getting married, like he’s going to a funeral.

You gaze up at him, not wanting to leave the water. You belong to him, but when he touches you it feels like the earth dying when Persephone is stolen away by Hades each autumn, it feels like Eurydice’s spiderweb-fragile life evaporating when Orpheus dared to look back at her as he led her out of the Underworld. “What if I can’t get pregnant again?” you ask. “It took over a year the first time. And the surgery…what if there’s too much scar tissue, what if I’m just…just…broken?” There’s real pain in your voice that staves off any suspicion Aemond might have. You do want more children, you believe, you know; just not with him.

“Then it is God’s will. But we’ll keep trying.”

Aemond draws you out of the water like a fish from the sea, something to devour, skin and muscle, delicate bones sucked clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sunlight is cloudless and glaring. Leaves swirl in the brisk wind in jewel tones: gold, ruby, fire opal, honey calcite, tiger’s eye, red jasper. Aemond has just finished a speech at Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, standing in a stone gazebo that you can’t help but think resembles a Greek temple, tall columns that house deities of love and death, oceans and fire. Alicent and Helaena have taken the children to attend the opening of a new public library on the other side of the city. The rest of Aemond’s entourage—you, Criston, Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, Aegon—are arranged in a semicircle around him on the stage. Only 50 yards away, there is a small parking lot full of police and press vehicles. Philadelphia residents have walked miles to hear Aemond speak, to glimpse him, to cheer for him, to take leaves he’s stepped on or loose threads from his navy blue suit as relics like the bones of a saint. You match him, as you always must: navy blue dress, high heels, hair neat, makeup mature and understated, gold jewelry gleaming on your ears, throat, wrist. Ravens flap their wings from the skeletal limbs of bare trees. A car radio is blaring Break On Through by The Doors.

“Senator Targaryen,” a reporter calls as flashbulbs strobe dizzyingly. “What do you think about Tommie Smith and John Carlos getting death threats for raising their fists in the Black Power salute at the Olympics in Mexico City?”

There is a split-second lull; it is a difficult question. Aemond must remain the savior of the hippies and college kids and civil rights activists, yet he must not let the old-money urban elite or suburban families mistake him for a discord-sowing radical. You and Aegon exchange a glance; Otto placed him on the opposite side of the gazebo, and this is not a coincidence. Then Aemond decides what to say. “Peaceful protests—even those that can make us confused, defensive, fearful—are not a threat to democracy,” he speaks into the microphone steadily, deliberately, commandingly. The crowd leans forward as they listen, enraptured. Journalists’ pens fly across the pages of their notebooks. “They are not the harbingers of some doomed descent into anarchy. They are a manifestation of the fact that we have already failed. Our nation has failed, our laws and our leaders have failed, and this is our chance to address those dire inadequacies. I urge every single American to listen to what Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos have actually said about their concerns and their hopes, to be empathetic, to be honest when reflecting on what our country has achieved and yet so desperately still needs to improve upon. These men are not enemies of the United States. They are the United States. They are a part of us, and we are a part of them, and we must not allow prejudiced, ignorant voices”—he means Wallace, he means Nixon—“to draw divides between us. The harassment that Mr. Smith, Mr. Carlos, and their families have experienced is a travesty. It is something that we should expect from a fascist or communist regime, not from a democracy. And to do my small part to show my admiration for them and atone for the mistakes of this nation that I so fervently hope to make better, I would like to personally fund private security services for the households of Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos for the foreseeable future.”

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers shouted, signs held aloft. Your eyes snag on one, clutched by a middle-aged woman bundled up against the cold; only her eyes—grey, tearful, shining like quarters—are visible above the red plaid of her thick wool scarf. On her sign is a large photograph of a young man in uniform, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. Below the photo in red marker is written: Ryan Farrelly, my youngest son, burned to death in Phan Thiet on September 21st. Bring Daeron home! Bring them ALL home!

The woman waves at you. You raise your hand wave back. And then there is a sound that comes from everywhere, a boom of thunder, an explosion, bullets like the one that demolished Aemond’s left eye in Palm Beach back in May, a lifetime ago, a truth that has become mythology. There is something hot and sticky splattered across your face, and you can’t see; when you wipe it away with your sleeve and open your eyes, there is a hole in your palm that you can look through like a window.

Where else?

But when you check your chest, your belly, you are whole. It is only a hand would, and that won’t kill you. It doesn’t even hurt yet, though the blood runs in torrents down your arm. You peer frantically around to see if anyone else is hurt.

Aegon, Fosco, Ludwika, Criston??

People are rushing the stage to shield Aemond and his family from bullets. Police are tackling somebody in the audience and beating him bloody with their batons. Aegon is screaming and shoving through the chaos as he fights his way towards you. Otto slams him against one of the columns of the gazebo and holds him there, because Aegon is not the one who’s supposed to get to you first. Now Aemond’s arms are around you, and he is ushering you down the stone steps towards the parking lot, and Criston is running alongside him and telling Aemond that the closest hospital is Jefferson Methodist, but UPenn is better and only two miles farther.

“Who else?” you ask as you cradle your hand against your chest, blood turning your dress from navy to black. Now it hurts plenty, like waking up from your c-section, like a crimson wave that is scalding and crushing and dragging you under to be drowned. “Is anyone else—?”

“No, just you,” Criston says, a reassuring grip on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. Nobody else is hurt.”

“Senator Targaryen, this way!” a police officer is yelling, and he leads the three of you to his black and white car. Criston leaps into the passenger seat; Aemond pulls you into the back with him and slams the door. The sirens shriek and the police officer careens out of the parking lot, Criston giving directions, Aemond yanking off his suit jacket to wrap around your hemorrhaging hand.

“I’m not going to lose it, am I?” you ask dazedly. None of this seems real. You wish Aegon was here. “I need my hands.”

“No, honey. I don’t think they’ll have to amputate.” Then Aemond stares down at the blood on his palms, warm scarlet ruin, water and oxygen and iron that once pulsed in your arteries and veins and now stains him. He frowns, then wipes his hands on his white shirt until almost all the blood is gone from his skin. He is cleaning you off of him. He is readying himself for the cameras that will undoubtedly be waiting at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

Inside the glass doors of the building, dust motes circle in aisles of sunlight; you watch them as doctors and nurses push you towards the operating room on a stretcher.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Mrs. Targaryen,” a doctor says as he ties a sterile white mask over his nose and mouth.

Don’t let Ari die, you almost murmur in response; and then you remember that’s already happened.

There are needles gliding into your veins, bright lights, pain vanishing like the memory of a dream dissolving when you wake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four hours later, you are propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, your hand surgically repaired and bandaged, morphine in your IV drip. The doctors think you shouldn’t lose much function—the bullet was from a pistol, blessedly small in size and missing most of your major tendons and nerves—but you won’t know for sure until it’s healed. Ludwika is here with you, lounging in the chair beside your bed and flipping through a copy of Cosmopolitan with her Louis Vuitton stilettos propped up on the ottoman. She is content to be here, but this is technically a job; she has been tasked with supervising you while Aemond and Otto meet with the Philadelphia police who are investigating the attack. The rest of the family—everyone except Aegon, who you suspect has been forbidden to enter the premises—has already been here to fret over you and ask if you need anything. But you aren’t in the mood for visitors. You are stunned, and aching, and you hate hospitals. You keep thinking of tiny babies in incubators, priests in black robes.

Your room is already filling up with flower bouquets. Every few minutes, the phone rings and Ludwika has to answer it. Each time she announces who it is—“Oh, hello Lady Bird, so nice of you to offer your well-wishes!” and then looks to see if you nod, agreeing to take it. The current first lady says that you are already as beloved as Jackie Kennedy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon calls you a gladiator.

There is a mint green Zenith radio on your nightstand, the volume turned way down low, and a television mounted on the wall. NBC news is on, but you’ve muted it to attend to the barrage of phone calls. There is a knock on the doorframe. Aegon stands there in his khaki pants and ill-fitting viridian button-up shirt and tan moccasins, wide searching murky blue eyes, carrying a white Dairy Queen cup.

Ludwika observes him as she puffs on a Camel cigarette. “I am suddenly struck by the inspiration to spend Otto’s money at the gift shop. I hope they take American Express.” She rolls up her magazine, shoves it into her oversized Gucci purse, and clicks in her heels out of the room and down the hallway.

Aegon commandeers the chair and drags it closer to your bed so he can feel your cheeks and your forehead, so he can get a good look at you. “Hey, little Io. You hurt your hoof, huh?”

“It’s not that bad. The caliber of the bullet was really small. Who shot me? One of Wallace’s Klansmen?”

“No, just some insane guy who thinks Aemond is a Russian double agent trying to overthrow capitalism here and put us all in gulags. I heard you could see right through the wound.”

“Yeah, I had a hole in my palm.”

“Just like Jesus.”

“I guess they fixed it.”

“Messiah status revoked.” Aegon sets the Dairy Queen cup on your nightstand. “I brought you a lemon-lime Mr. Misty.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“They gotta make sure you’re okay, babe. You could spike a fever or something.”

“Aegon,” you say seriously. “I can’t be in a hospital. I need to leave.”

He understands; his voice is gentle. “I might be able to get you out tonight, okay? I’ll try. I’ll talk to the doctors.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

Aegon turns up the Zenith radio, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He sings along, snapping his fingers and shimmying his shoulders, his hair shagging over his eyes:

“Hey, where did we go?

Days when the rains came

Down in the hollow

Playin’ a new game…”

Reluctantly, you give him a smile. And you think very clearly, though you don’t say it: I love you.

Aegon leans across the bed to rest his head on your lap. He says softly as you run your fingers through his hair with your good hand: “Maybe Aemond will lose.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

On the muted television, Nixon is giving a speech in Charlotte, North Carolina to a euphoric crowd. You can’t hear the people gathered there, but you know their applause are thunderous. Nixon is flashing peace signs with both hands and beaming radiantly, this man who was once so poor, tragic, ordinary, unwanted, unloved. He has learned what it feels like to be a god.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Sunday, November 3rd, and your hand hurts like hell. You swallow your pills, smiling a little. Now Aegon is getting clean and I’m the one swimming in a haze of narcotics. Who could have predicted that? Still in your robe and bare feet, you swish to the hotel bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, rebandage your hand and make sure it isn’t growing dark insidious vines of blood poisoning.

When you venture out to the kitchenette, Aemond is in a sapphire blue suit and seated at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face hidden by columns of black ink and interspersed photographs. This is unusual; he should be scheming with Otto and Sargent Shriver by now.

“Everything okay?” you ask with only vague interest as you go to the refrigerator to get yourself a leftover slice of apple pie, meticulously wrapped and packed in a cooler by Eudoxia before your departure from Asteria. Aemond doesn’t answer. You plop a piece of apple pie onto a plate, return the rest to the refrigerator, and then turn to your husband. And only now do you register the newspaper’s front-page story.

The photographs, all three of them, are of you and Aegon. They are blurry, taken from a distance, but you recognize the moment immediately. You can feel it again: ocean wind in your hair, his lips on yours, your hand on his face as you willed him to be closer, healed, permanent. You are sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, turbulent and perilous. The journalists must have been north of you, shrouded in mist, their camera shutters clicking feverishly. The headline reads: A Family Affair?

And you remember what Aemond said on your 23rd birthday before he left for the Washington State Convention in Tacoma, how he scolded Aegon when he saw him lighting a joint in the backyard at Asteria: You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.

You can’t speak, you can’t breathe. Aemond knows. The whole world knows.

Slowly, Aemond lowers the newspaper so you can see his face, scarred and hateful and horrifying, lethal like the volcanic hellscape of Jupiter’s most cursed moon.

~~~~~~~~~~

What are my earliest memories? Aegon getting drunk on his futon in the basement while I played with toy soldiers on the green shag carpet, Aemond with his poems and his myths, Helaena letting a praying mantis creep across her knuckles, Criston teaching me how to swim and sail, my mother cleaning sand from my face and hands and giving me water to wash the grit out of my teeth, my father wandering through the doorways of Asteria like a ghost, always on the periphery of my vision, and I had the sense that if I reached out to touch him my hands would pass resistlessly through his skin and sinew like a stone through water.

These are the things I think of here in the rain-dripping darkness, bruises down to my bones, eyes swollen almost completely shut, teeth broken and throbbing like blows from a hammer, fingernails ripped out. I know Tessarion is here because I can hear her, soft sympathetic squeaks, the padding of her tiny feet. I know John McCain is still alive because sometimes he taps back through the cracked concrete wall. I have run out of folklore, so now I tell him the truth. I tell him that I am afraid each beating will kill me as my body becomes a stranger, someone weak and brittle and helpless. I tell him that all my life I wanted to run as far as I could from home, but now I would crawl back to them through razor wire, I would fall into their arms in a shredded bloodstained heap and I’d be happy to do it. Isn’t that funny? I mean, I don’t laugh much these days. But maybe you can appreciate the irony.

Has the election happened yet? Has Aemond won? I’ve lost track of the days, but it has to be getting close to November 5th. What happens if he can’t get me out? What happens if Nixon wins?

I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I don’t want to have adventures like Heracles, Achilles, Jason, Odysseus, Perseus, Orpheus, Ajax. I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

I can hear keys jangling against the lock on my cell door. My heart jolts into a breakneck, pounding rhythm; I think that sound will terrify me all my life. Some things you just can’t forget, you know? Some things dig down deep and build a home in the marrow of your bones, a rust-red cave of immutable memory. I know exactly what the communists want from me. They’ve been asking since they dragged me out of the Loach four months ago.

Everyone has a breaking point. This is mine.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fic

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meowordeath · 6 months

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A/N: :3 I was inspired to make this because of another post I was reading. This is my first time publicly posting fanfiction, so let’s all keep an open mind if there are mistakes !!

Doppelganger? Francis Mosses x Reader

Warning: Angst? I think this qualifies as angst.

wc: 900+

There is a routine, there has always been a routine. Why is today different, something is different, but what? Something feels off, but everything is in order, you’ve checked, double checked, hell you even triple checked, why does today feel… off? “Darling..?” His voice, did it always sound like that..? Did he always… look like that? He tilted his head toward you, as he slowly lifted his arms up to your shoulders. “Oh Darling. You must be tired. You’ve had a long day at work, rest, I can take care of everything else.” You sigh looking at him. His smile was warm exactly how Francis would always look at you.

“You’re right, I… I must be exhausted, nothing seems to be out of place. I’m sorry, I must look crazy.” You let out an airy laugh as you rub your face. He let out a quiet laugh, moving your hand aside and replacing it with his own. “It’s just one of those days, even if you do look loony searching the apartment.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest. When did this feeling of something off start to consume you? He didn’t move to embrace you, just letting your head rest on his chest. He slowly eases you off him, turning you around steering you toward the bedroom. “You should rest, whatever was wrong will be alright tomorrow darling.” He said softly. You nod walking to the room, he didn’t follow you.

Time felt as if it was moving extremely slow, the clock was ticking but was the time passing? Changing alone, that felt new, was Francis still wearing his Milkman attire?

The bed was cold, you hated the cold. Francis was warm, he… where was he? You just stared at the ceiling, beginning to darken as the sun had set. Left alone with your thoughts, acutely aware of every noise in yours and Francis' small apartment. Maybe an hour had passed when you heard the soft click of the front door. It’s night, where could he have gone, perhaps he wanted to smoke before bed.

You turn on your side, pretending as though Francis was there. “Today was rough, Francis.” your voice came out in a croak. Francis was facing you, laying on his side. “Mm, tell me what about it was so rough.” You sigh, rolling onto your back. “You’re why it’s rough, stupid man.” His chuckle is slightly loud, it sounds just like you remember. “Mm, really, I don’t remember doing wrong by you?”

You turned your head toward him looking into his eyes. He was still on his side, his face serene like he was madly in love with you. “You didn’t come home, how am I supposed to tend to our apartment by myself asshole.” Francis finally rolled onto his back. “Mm, I don’t know what you mean, I am home.”

You were pulled out of your daze from a click of the front door. Hastily you stand, making your way to the living room. It’s dark, you can’t see a single thing, you can see his silhouette though. Slowly you reach toward a lamp. “Don’t turn on the lights.” He spoke sharply, it wasn’t a request, it was a demand.

“Oh, darling, why aren’t you in bed.” He says exasperated. His silhouette stalks toward you. Your hand trembles, hovering right above the switch of the lamp. You make the move to turn it on lights once more. “You turn on that light, and you will die like Francis!” Your blood turned cold at what he said. “Do you want to die? Francis, sure didn't.” His voice spoke, you knew deep down, you knew this wasn’t Francis, you just were unable to come to terms with it.

His hand went over your own and you could feel a wet sensation on it. “Just go to bed darling, and nothing has to happen. We can forget about all of this.” He… It? It leaned in resting its forehead against your own. You were terrified and also mourning at the news It had told you. “Why… Why did you have to take Francis? My Francis…” You shook as you tried to hold in your grief. “Because it was easy. He delivered right to my doorstep, or well to my old identity’s doorstep. He was just supposed to be a snack, until I saw his memories. He lived in what is quite literally a temporary livestock farm for me.” It let out an excited breath, you could feel it against your face.

“I’d rather not kill you, it may give me away to the D.D.D, but if you don’t go to that fucking bedroom and go to sleep, I will.” It threatened you. You let out a sobbed, before covering your mouth. It had a tight grasp on your other one, it showed It meant it. “I can’t…” You croaked out. “You can, or you will die.” You shook your head violently, ripping your hand from his grasp, bringing them both to your face.

It sighed. “You fool, I gave you the chance to live, at least you’ll be reunited with your beloved Francis.” It says in a condescending tone. You can’t help but cry, both out of fear and anguish. “Before you die, don’t you want to gaze upon your beloved's face once more.” It clicked the light on, not even allowing you to answer. It ripped your hands from your face. You take in the bloodied sight of Francis face, you can’t help but sob once more.

“I’m so sorry Francis.”

hope you like this :3

#francis mosses #francis mosses x reader #thats not my neighbor #francis mosses x you #milkman #milkman x reader #milkman x you #milk man x reader #milk man x you

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vipwinnie · 1 year

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Smoking Problem

Theodore Nott x reader

Summary : Theo has always been addicted to cigarettes but this time it was too much

Y/N's POV

I sat in Theo's bedroom with tears in my eyes as cigarette smoke filled the air. I watched my boyfriend, his face contorted with anger, smoking one cigarette after another. This habit had become a gap between us, an impassable wall. At the beginning of our relationship, I didn't think this would be a problem. But as time passed, I realized how cigarettes had taken over his life. I spoke to him repeatedly about the dangers to his health, to our relationship, but my words seemed to be lost in the smoke. Arguments had become commonplace. Every time I asked him to stop, he got defensive, arguing that he could smoke if he wanted. The tension between us continued to grow, until that fateful day. That day, the argument reached a level I never thought possible. My words were filled with frustration and disappointment, and his were laced with anger and resistance. The ring he had given me, a symbol of our love and our promises, had become a silent witness to our imminent destruction. In a fit of rage, I stood up, tears streaming down my cheeks, and threw the ring on the floor. The sound of metal against tile echoed through the room, marking the end of our love story. The silence that followed was deafening. But no sooner had the ring hit the ground than something unexpected happened. The boy suddenly stopped shouting and his face showed surprise. He looked down and saw the ring on the ground. The anger faded from his face, giving way to sadness and regret. He immediately picked up the ring, his hands trembling, and rushed over to give it back to me. He wanted to be forgiven, to repair his mistakes. But it was too late. I had already made my decision.

Theodore’s POV

I sat alone in my bedroom, my heart heavy and my mind tormented by the violent argument with my girlfriend. The days that followed were hell, a descent into the depths of sadness and distress. I found myself in a terrible state, unable to control my emotions. Tears flowed almost constantly, flooding my face as I remembered the harsh words we had thrown at each other. Every thought of her reminded me of our argument and the pain that came from it. Sleep was my worst enemy. I tossed and turned in my bed, unable to find rest. Images of our quarrel haunted my dreams, waking me up in sweat and leaving me exhausted throughout the day. The food no longer had any taste. My appetite was gone, replaced by a lump of anxiety in my throat that prevented me from eating anything. Every bite felt like cardboard in my mouth, useless and tasteless. I felt lost, like a part of me had been ripped away. I found it difficult to concentrate on my daily tasks, my mind continually being flooded with thoughts of regret and sorrow. My life seemed like a collection of painful memories and empty feelings. Yet, despite all this pain, I knew I was responsible for our argument. I had let anger and frustration take over, instead of communicating constructively. I blamed myself for letting our relationship reach such a breaking point. The days passed slowly, each minute seemed to last forever.

One evening, while I was lying on the floor crying, my friends Draco and Blaise came to find me in my room. Blaise said:"Man, are you still thinking about her? You've got to move on." Draco chimed in:"Yeah mate, moping around isn't helping. You need to get back out there." I sighed."I know guys, it's just...we were together for so long. I miss her." Blaise put his hand on my shoulder."I understand. But sitting here won't change anything. You've got to go talk to her, sort things out." Draco nodded."He's right. You won't know if you have a chance unless you try. The worst she can say is no, and at least then you'll have your answer." I thought about it. They were right, I had been moping around for long enough. I needed closure, one way or another. "Alright, I'm going to go look for her. Thanks for talking some sense into me guys."

I finally decided to make a sincere declaration of love to her, in the hope that she would forgive me. I took a deep breath and walked towards where we used to meet, a bench near the lake. When I saw her, my heart soared. She was there, sitting on the bench where we had shared so many happy moments. Her face was full of sadness, but I could still see the love she felt for me. I took a deep breath and approached her. "Y/N," I began with a shaky voice, "I'm so sorry for everything that happened between us. I didn't mean to hurt you, and I sincerely regret every harsh word that I could say. You are the most important person in my life, and I can't imagine my life without you." She looked at me, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “I blame you, you know,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. "But I love you so much, and I can't stay mad at you forever." I took a small box out of my pocket, containing the ring I had given him when we first started dating. "Y/N, I want you to know how much you mean to me. This ring symbolizes our love, and I want to give it back to you as a renewed promise. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to be the best boyfriend, to make you happy every day." Tears began to stream down her face as she took the box into her hands. She carefully opened it, revealing the sparkling ring inside. A radiant smile lit up her face, and she held out her hand so I could hand her the ring. “I forgive you,” she said softly, her eyes shining with happiness. "And I promise to give you another chance. I love you, and I want to be with you." I felt an immense relief wash over me as I slipped the ring onto her finger. I took his hand in mine and realized how lucky I was to have him in my life. We kissed, sealing our reconciliation and our renewed love.

#harry potter #theodore nott #theo nott #theodore nott x you #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott x you #pansy parkinson #mattheo riddle #blaise zabini #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin #fanfiction

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pedroscurls · 1 year

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Innocent Eyes

Character(s): Javier Peña and Reader (female, second person POV) Summary: Javier and his partner, Steve Murphy, finally have one night off. So, when they go to a local bar to unwind, Javier certainly wasn’t expecting you to walk through the doors. Word Count: 5,251 Author's Note: So, this one-shot originated from a dream I had last night lol and it was all I could think of all day. I hope you all enjoy this! Happy reading🫶 Warning: smut!!! (idk if this needs to go into detail, but javi gets it innnn🥵)

Javier was exhausted, tired from working around the clock just to get an inch closer to catching Pablo Escobar, but every time they got close enough to even reach him, he was gone before they could even act. So tonight, instead of choosing to stay in and get rest, Steve managed to convince Javier to just have a couple of beers with him at the local bar near their apartment.

If anything Javier knew to do, it was to distract himself of the reality of his life. He already had his mind set that he would take a woman home to help him further distract himself from how helpless he felt whenever he went to work. No matter how much effort he put in, how much intel he received, it just was never enough.

And as he was sitting in a small booth across from Steve, his eyes wandered. There had already been plenty of women that came up to their table, trying to get the two men to buy them drinks, but Javier didn’t find any of the women appealing enough to bring them back home. Steve was off-limits, married, so it wasn’t like he could even take any of them home either; he had always been so faithful to his wife, Connie.

“So, plan for tomorrow is–”

Javier shook his head. He was leaning back against his seat, giving him a clear view of the entire bar. Bringing the cigarette back to his lips, Javier just glanced over at Steve.

“I really don’t want to talk about work.”

“Right, right,” Steve said. “You’re right. We’re supposed to unwind, relax…”

“Whatever the hell that means,” he shrugged. “How’s Connie?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders, looking over at his partner. “Fine.”

Javier chuckled, letting out a puff of smoke. “Can’t imagine that this is what she expected.”

“It isn’t,” Steve replied. “But she’s stuck by my side through everything. This is just another thing we gotta get through.”

“You’re a lucky man, Steve.” Javier said.

“And you? Never had a woman you ever thought of settling down with?”

For a brief moment, Javier’s mind drifted to Lorraine. He had been so close to getting married, but even now, he couldn’t imagine being a married man while having to deal with Pablo Escobar and the demons that only seemed to come out at night. He was envious of Steve, having Connie who was a strong enough woman to stick by him, no matter how difficult it would be.

All the women Javier had been with never had gotten close as Lorraine did and even then, he wasn’t sure that Lorraine was the woman he was meant to be with (hence leaving her at the altar). Besides, Javier didn’t think he could even go through the stages of being in a relationship anymore. The talking, the getting to know each other, the sharing of secrets… the women that Javier encountered didn’t want that either, so it just worked out. It was always just a few nights shared, not bothering to talk about each other; it was just another distraction.

“Not the settling down type,” Javier replied, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’m fine with the way things are.”

“Ah, you mean the women at the brothels?” Steve chuckled. “You know what you’re doing, man. As long as you’re clean, guess that’s all that matters.”

“I’m not stupid. I get tested regularly. Besides,” Javier said, downing his drink. “Why in the hell are we talking about my sex life?”

Steven laughed, raising a hand in the air to get the waitress to come by to the table so that they could order another round. “Fair enough.”

A group of women came by to the table, giggling and trying to entice both Javier and Steve by leaning over the table, pushing their breasts together and towards their direction. Javier couldn’t help but look, his eyes obviously raking over their frames. They were beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but the fact that they were exuding desperation was a complete turn-off for him. Usually, Javier didn’t mind, especially if he needed to distract himself, but for some reason, tonight, it wasn’t working for him.

But, as the doors swung open to the bar, Javier turned his attention towards the door. Then, when you entered the bar, he felt himself become immediately intrigued. You looked to be lost, looking around the bar like you had no idea where you had just stumbled in. You definitely didn’t look like the rest of the women that were in the bar either. The dress you were wearing was black compared to the other colorful dresses that the other women were wearing, but it was still skintight, though reaching just above your knees. It looked as if you had barely worn any makeup, except for the dark red lipstick that Javier found inviting, practically begging for him to nip and bite as he pleased.

As you skimmed the room to find the people you were supposed to meet, you noticed him. He was leaning back against his seat, white button shirt underneath a dark denim jacket. The cigarette hung between his lips and his arm draped over the back of the seat. He didn’t look at all the least bit interested about the women who were at his table and when you noticed that he was looking back at you, a blush immediately appeared on your cheeks. You gave him a smile and brought your hand up to tuck the hair away from your face.

When the women at Javier and Steve’s table realized they weren’t interested, they scoffed and decided to walk away, blocking Javier’s view of you after he had locked eyes with you. When he saw you smile and noticed that you were looking at him too, he felt an unusual feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Javi,” Steve said, gently reaching over to nudge at his arm. “Hello?”

“What?” Javier replied, pulling his eyes away from searching the room for you and looking back at Steve. “Sorry. My mind was–”

“Occupied by the woman who entered the bar. You never quit, do you?” Steve chuckled.

Javier rolled his eyes. “Are you getting the next round or what?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

When the waitress came by the table, Steve ordered them another round of beers. Javier, on the other hand, kept looking around the room and when he finally found you with your back facing him, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander your frame. The dress clung to your curves in all the right places, but the length was still modest enough that you weren’t showing too much, unlike the other women and especially unlike the group of friends you were with.

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom. I’ll be back,” Javier said. He stood from the booth and finished his cigarette before he decided to walk in your direction. He knew he had the confidence to be able to come up to any woman and start a conversation, but he wasn’t sure why he was now feeling nervous.

As he inched closer to you, Javier could hear the voices and laughter amongst your group. But when you turned around, Javier felt like his breath was taken from him. Your group of friends dispersed onto the dance floor and you remained, probably because he was looking at you without saying a word.

“Um, hi?” you finally said, breaking him out of his trance.

“Hi,” Javier replied, clearing his throat. “Hey.”

You looked up at him and tilted your head. Your eyes were luring him in, so innocent and pure like you hadn’t yet been corrupted by the world. He had to wonder why you were here in Colombia, what your name was, what you did for a living, the things you liked and disliked… It certainly went against everything he had known. Women served as a distraction for Javier and he never thought that learning about the women he slept with was worth his time, but here he was, wanting to learn every little thing about you.

“You okay?” You asked. He was quiet, which was surprising to you, especially since he had seemed to exude so much confidence and charm.

“Sorry,” Javier chuckled nervously. “I’m Javier. You can call me Javi, or Javier, or whatever you’d like.”

You smiled and Javier bit at his lower lip at the sight. “Javier,” you repeated. “That’s a very nice name.”

“And yours?”

You told him your name and Javier smiled. He found himself being unable to look away, despite the loud music and chatter that filtered the entire bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Javier asked.

You looked over his shoulder at your friends who looked to be unbothered by your lack of presence on the dancefloor and you glanced at the booth that you had noticed Javier was sitting in when you walked in and noticed the man he was with was sipping his beer.

“What about your friend?”

Javier looked over his shoulder at Steve and shrugged. “He’s fine. He’s a big boy who can handle being alone for a few.”

“Well, in that case, I’d love a drink.”

—

An hour later, Steve had decided to call it a night, raising a hand to wave at Javier who was deep in conversation with you. Your friends had also decided to go to another bar, making sure that you were okay before they left. And now, you and Javier were sitting next to each other at the bar, inches separating your bodies.

“So, you’re visiting,” Javier repeated. “Why Colombia?”

“One of my friends is getting married and this is her bachelorette party. She wanted to go to Colombia, so… Here I am,” you replied, sipping your drink. “What about you? You don’t have an accent, so I’m assuming you aren’t from here.”

“I’m actually from Texas. I’m here for work,” he replied. Javier found himself captivated by your presence, by the innocent look in your eyes, by the way your smile managed to give him butterflies. Javier Peña had to wonder if this was love at first sight… How cliche. He made sure to make a mental note not to tell Steve, or else he’d probably never hear the end of it.

“Oh?” You asked, intrigued. “Can I ask what you do?”

Javier bit the inside of his cheek. He looked down at you and tilted his head. He knew that he had to be careful with telling people what he did for a living, especially since he was going after the most wanted man who had so many people supporting him. If he wasn’t careful, Javier knew he would be the next person on Pablo Escobar’s hit list.

“Can I trust you?” he asked quietly. Javier leaned forward, his body facing you. His legs were spread apart to give some space for your seat. You, however, were facing forward and you looked over at him, biting your lower lip as he inched closer to you.

“Is your job top secret, Javi?” you whispered.

Javi. The way you said his name sent the blood rushing straight down towards the center of his pants. In fact, he wanted to hear more of it, wanted to hear you moan and scream his name in pleasure.

“Ay, bonita,” Javier whispered, lips hovering near your ear. “No tienes idea.” You have no idea.

You cleared your throat and turned your head to face him, seeing him up close in your personal space. He was searching your facial expressions, seeing if this was something you didn’t want, but when he saw you lean closer to him, Javier didn’t move, didn’t falter. He noticed the pink hue in your cheeks, the anxious biting of your lower lip, and he certainly noticed the way your legs squeezed together.

“Y–You speak Spanish,” you whispered lowly.

“Sí, bonita.”

“I really want to kiss you,” you admitted. “But I want you to know that I don’t always do this and I’m not that type of girl and–”

Javier chuckled quietly. “We don’t have to do anything, bonita. I’m fine with just talking.”

“Really? Even if I want to kiss you and possibly invite you back to my hotel room?”

Javier cleared his throat. He wanted that so badly, but the innocence in your eyes, the purity that you exuded made Javier want to take his time with you. He wanted you to be comfortable, safe, and absolutely certain of what you wanted before he took you to his bed.

“Something tells me, bonita, that you aren’t completely sure and I’m okay with that.”

You sighed in relief. You were telling the truth. This wasn’t what you were used to. Even back home, you had been the only one in your friend group that didn’t partake in one night stands, but this was different. Colombia wasn’t home and you probably wouldn’t ever see Javier again after tonight, so you figured that you should try something different. You were sure that Javier was going to agree without question and take you back to your hotel room, but when he sensed your hesitation that this wasn’t something that you were absolutely sure you wanted, it only made you want him more.

“But I still do want to kiss you. Can we do that?”

Javier grinned. He nodded and cupped your cheek, running his thumb along your jawline. “Me encantaría, bonita.” Then, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against yours, letting his eyes fall shut. Javier felt you kiss back immediately, almost leaning forward out of your seat to move your lips against his with fervor. His other hand moved to your seat, bringing you and it closer to him. As a result, you let out a gasp which parted your lips for him. He smiled against your lips and darted his tongue out to run along yours, hearing you quietly whimper against him.

Javier felt the center of his pants tighten at the sound and he felt your tongue eagerly run along his as both of your lips moved against one another. The hand on your cheek moved to the nape of your neck, your hair entwining in the spaces between his fingers. With a gentle squeeze, Javier gently pulled away and pulled your head back. Your eyes remained shut and you tilted your head up, feeling his lips move along your jawline. Javier dragged his teeth against you, nipping gently as his lips moved from your jawline to the side of your neck.

This certainly wasn’t just talking.

“Javi,” you whimpered quietly, moving your hands to his thighs.

Javier smiled against you and pulled away, licking his lips as he looked at you. “Sorry, got carried away there.”

“You really know what you’re doing, huh?” you smiled, biting your lower lip.

“I know a few things.”

“I promise that I don’t go around kissing strangers. I’m actually a real good girl.”

Javier cleared his throat at that. He tried to think of something else, to think of anything else, to stop himself from getting an erection right here, right now. He wanted to test that out, to see how truly a good girl you really were.

“I think you know what you’re doing too,” he replied.

You blushed and bit the inside of your cheek. “I know a few things too,” you winked.

Javier chuckled and leaned forward to gently peck your lips. “Wanna grab some food? I know a good spot nearby.”

“I’d love to.”

—

You and Javier were sitting next to each other at a local taco shop. He had paid for your food, which you thanked him by giving him a kiss on his lips. He wanted to kiss you longer, but you had pulled away before he could get too carried away. And now, you were both laughing with each other, taco in hand, and it felt like you had known him forever, like this was normal.

“My dad owns a ranch back home,” Javier smiled. “I used to pretend to sleep in to get out of doing my chores,” he chuckled.

You laughed quietly, looking over at him. “Sounds like a teenager thing to do.”

“Oh, trust me, my dad caught on pretty quick. Didn’t last long.”

“Is he a strict man? Your dad, I mean?”

Javier shrugged. Since coming to Colombia, he hadn’t ever talked about his personal life; it just didn’t seem right to mix work with his life at home, but he found it so easy to talk to you, to talk about his life from before Pablo Escobar, from before Colombia, from before the DEA.

“I wouldn’t say strict,” Javier replied. “He's a man of few words, but he’s taught me everything I know. The man I am today is because of him.”

You smiled. “Sounds like a great man. Do you miss home?”

Javier didn’t know how to answer that. He hadn’t been back home in years, too focused on trying to catch Pablo Escobar and not wanting to go back home without anything to show for it.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s been a long time.” Javier took a bite of his taco, glancing over at you. When he swallowed his food, he decided to change the topic of conversation.

“What about you? Any siblings?”

“Two younger brothers,” you answered. “But my parents were strict,” you laughed. “Being the eldest and the only girl came with a lot of responsibilities and expectations.”

“Ah,” Javier replied. “Sounds about right.”

“Growing up, I always wanted to leave home, get out of that small town, but,” you shrugged. “I always found my way back.”

“Why’s that?”

“Always felt like they needed me in one way or another,” you replied. “Coming here, to Colombia, was definitely out of my comfort zone. I’m used to people relying on me, but I would be lying if I said that this vacation is only because of my friend’s bachelorette party.”

“And what else is this vacation for then, bonita?”

You set your taco down and wiped your hands. You turned to face him, looking up at him with big, soft eyes. Javier bit the inside of his cheek. The way you looked at him made him feel all sorts of things; you were looking at him like he mattered, like the things he had done since coming to Colombia didn’t define him, like he wasn’t a disappointment, and he found himself craving more and more of the feeling you were stirring up inside of him.

“Well, I wanted to have fun,” you replied. “I wanted to do things I don’t normally do, to step out of being that good girl that people expect me to be.”

Javier bit his lower lip. There you go again, saying those words like it wouldn’t cause a reaction out of him, but the way you were looking at him and the way you were inching closer, the more and more he realized that you were becoming increasingly sure that you wanted him as badly as he wanted you.

“Oh, so you want to be bad?” Javier asked, running his fingertips along your back.

“With the help of a certain someone,” you replied.

“And who might that be, bonita?”

You leaned into him, biting your lower lip. “I’m sure you know the answer to that already, Javi.”

He growled lowly and leaned down to capture your lips heatedly. Immediately, you melted into him and moved your hands to his chest as you gently nipped at his lower lip. Javier groaned against you, pulling away as he felt the center of his pants tighten.

“Tell me what you want, bonita…”

You were breathing heavily against him, pulling back enough to look up at him. “You… I want you, Javier.”

—

Javier had been peppering kisses along the back of your neck and shoulders as you tried to unlock your hotel room door. His hands were resting on your hips as he nipped gently at your skin, causing you to push back against him to feel the throbbing bulge beneath his pants. He groaned at the sensation and pulled you flush against him. When he heard a quiet thank god when the door unlocked, he pulled away and walked you both inside.

Javier felt you pull away to turn the lights on as he followed you towards the bed. He watched as you took a seat at the edge of it, immediately reaching down to remove your heels. Once they were off, Javier watched as you kicked them to the side. He had already removed his denim jacket, tossing it somewhere in the room.

He was unbuttoning his shirt when he saw you look up at him, reaching back to pull the zipper down on your dress. Javier grunted to himself at the sight of you looking up at him so innocently and so pure that he wanted your eyes focused on him when he finally got the chance to fuck you.

Javier shrugged the shirt off from his body, reaching down to unbuckle his belt to relieve some pressure in his pants. You stood from the bed and turned around, motioning for Javier to pull the zipper down. It was obvious that you could have done it yourself, but wanting Javier to do it instead made him even more excited.

Javier’s pants were undone and he reached up to drag the zipper slowly down to reveal more of your bare skin. When he realized you hadn’t worn a bra, he used his free hand to squeeze himself in excitement. He leaned forward, peppering kisses along more of your exposed skin. Once the zipper was completely undone, Javier took a step back to watch the dress pool around your ankles to reveal that you were now only just wearing a very skimpy lacey, black thong.

“Fuck me, bonita,” he whispered, watching as you turned around to reveal your exposed front.

“I’m trying,” you smiled, letting out a quiet giggle that made his member throb even further.

Javier pushed his pants down his legs, kicking them to the side. You gasped in surprise when you noticed that he hadn’t been wearing any underwear, his manhood standing erect and leaking at the tip.

“Well, seems like I’m the only one naked.” Javier said, reaching down to tug on his length.

You nodded in agreement, tucking your thumbs into the waistband of your thong and pulling it down your legs. Once it reached your ankles, you pushed it aside and slowly lowered yourself to your knees. You looked up at him, licking your lips as Javier slowly stepped forward.

“Can I?”

Javier growled. “So polite,” he said, stroking his member a few times before he let his tip rest against your lips. “Wow, you really are a good girl, aren’t you?”

You smiled, parting your lips and running your tongue along his tip. The taste of him settled on your tongue and you wrapped your lips around his tip, sucking gently as you brought a hand up to stroke the base of his length. Javier groaned, moving a hand to your hair as he kept his eyes focused on you.

You pulled away, licking your lips as your hand continued to stroke him. Still, you were staring up at him with the same look you had given him the moment you walked through the doors of the bar earlier that night.

“Fuck, bonita,” Javier groaned.

You smiled in accomplishment and wrapped your lips around his length, bobbing your head and hollowing your cheeks as your hand continued to stroke what your mouth couldn’t cover. Javier’s hand tightened its grip around your hair at the sensation and when you pulled your hand from him to try and push yourself further down onto his length, he moaned, hearing you gag quietly as the tip of his length hit the back of your throat.

Javier thought it was too much, but you continued, bobbing your head repeatedly and quickening your pace. He had to pull away from you, to prevent himself from coming too fast before he could even feel your walls wrap around his member.

“You keep that up and this is gonna be over,” he teased, gently taking your hand and pulling you to your feet.

“I’d like to do that again,” you smiled, running your tongue across your lower lip.

“Oh, this good girl thing is just an act, isn’t it?” he grinned, moving his hands to your hips.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “What can I say? I guess you bring out the bad in me, Javi.”

Javier groaned and gently laid you back on the bed, crawling above you as he settled himself between your legs. You stared up at him, eyes still so innocent and pure and he felt like he could come right then and there with the way you were looking at him.

“Damn, bonita,” he said, taking the condom you handed him. “You’re driving me crazy the way you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Javier slid the condom onto his length and grasped it in his hand, slowly running his tip along your sex. He kept his eyes focused on you, watching as your lips parted for a moan to escape.

“You look at me like I’m the only thing that matters,” he whispered, slowly sliding into you and groaning as he felt your tight walls immediately wrap around his member.

You gasped, keeping your legs parted for him. Javier lowered himself to press his lips along your jawline, wanting to be close to hear your moans against his ear. His hips slowly moved in and out of you, allowing your tight sex to loosen up to his length. He had to wonder if you had done this before or how often you had done this with how tight you were and it was driving him crazy; he didn’t know how he was going to let you go after tonight.

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t even process what his words meant because all you could focus on was the way he felt as he thrusted in and out of you, the weight of his body against yours, providing you a surprising sense of safety and security. Javier’s lips continued to move along your skin as he pulled his hips back and pushed back into you repeatedly, creating a rhythm that elicited quiet whimpers and moans from you.

Javier was always so rough with the women he had been with, so rough and quick, but this time, for some reason, he wanted to take his time. He wanted to revel in the way you felt wrapped around him, the sounds of your moans and the way you said his name, and certainly the way your arms moved to wrap around his shoulders, holding onto him.

“Javi,” you whimpered, feeling him deliver a sharp thrust. He remained still within your depths and you moaned, feeling so full of him that you wanted more. You wrapped your legs around his hips and tightened your hold around his shoulders as you lifted your hips to move against him, moaning loudly as it bounced off the walls.

Javier groaned, pulling back to prop himself up onto his hands as he watched your hips move against him, rolling them up and down. He pushed into you, moving a hand to your hip to stop your movements. Javier pulled out to his tip and slammed back into you; he repeated this for a few thrusts before his pace quickened. The sound of his skin slapping against you mixed in with the sounds of your moans. He gripped your hip, his fingertips digging into your skin as he leaned down to bite at the side of your neck, sucking on it afterwards.

“Fuck, bonita,” Javier groaned.

“Oh god, Javi,” you moaned. “Please, don’t stop.”

Javier grinned, slamming his hips into yours repeatedly. “Tell me how it feels, bonita.”

“Javi,” you muttered, feeling your climax slowly edge its way closer. “Feels so good… Oh my god…”

“I’m gonna want to do this again,” Javier whispered, his hips not faltering as he felt your walls begin to tighten even further around him. “Next time, I’m gonna fuck you from behind and watch your ass bounce against me.”

You would be lying if you said that you had experienced this before, that the men you had been with had given you this much pleasure, but Javier was different. This was different, in all the best ways possible.

“Please,” you whimpered.

“And then,” Javier groaned, slamming into you. “I’m gonna eat this pussy and make you come until the only thing you can think about is me, bonita.”

That was it. Your walls tightened around his length as your body began to shake once you reached your climax. You held onto him and heard Javier’s grunts and groans against you as his hips began to thrust into you erratically. You knew he was close too, so you ran your nails up and down his broad back as you whispered into his ear.

“Come for me, Javi.”

Javier delivered one last thrust and released himself into the condom, groaning against you. He hadn’t ever reached his climax as hard as this and he had to wonder if it was because of you. He was telling the truth that he wanted to do this again and again and again…

But he also wanted to get to know more about you, spend more time with you, show more of himself to you, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Colombia wasn’t home to you and you would be going home in less than a week. This was all it could ever be.

When he pulled out, you whimpered and watched as he removed the condom, tying it shut and tossing it into the nearby trash. He lied back down with you and pulled you into his arms as you tried to catch your breath.

You looked up at him, biting your lower lip as you started to wonder how this could even work when you went back home. Maybe this was why you never did one night stands because while you wanted more sex with Javier, you also wanted to get to know more about him, more about his family, his home, but how could that be possible if you were expected to go home and he was supposed to stay here for work?

“We are doing that again,” Javier said, smiling. “I’m a man of my word, so–”

“So, you’ll eat me out and then fuck me from behind?”

Javier narrowed his eyes, leaning down to peck your lips. “I think I want to keep you, bonita.”

“That’s a great idea,” you smiled. “Can we make that happen?”

You kept staring up at him, which gave Javier that same feeling from earlier this night. He wanted more of you, obviously in more ways than one, but you made him feel good about himself, made him feel like he wasn’t just some disappointment, made him feel human. In fact, you gave him hope that this could be something more. He never did understand the concept of love at first sight, but what he was feeling was something he hadn’t ever felt before.

Maybe it was love. Maybe it was something else, but Javier wanted you.

Needed you.

“I think we can,” he finally replied.

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mariariley · 1 year

Text

Russell Adler x reader

✪ relationship headcanons ✪

2nd person

female reader

NSFW warning

Word count: 1.1k

masterlist || have a request/ask? Here are the rules <3

He prefers keeping it professional so he would never date a woman that works with him

In his free time he tends to approach a stunning woman he sees sitting alone at a bar. He's respectful and would only aim for single girls (even though he can definitely steal bitches-)

He would make cheeky jokes about his ex-wife, spontaneously letting you know he's single as well

He prefers his girl loyal and respectful because that's all he is. He also doesn’t like envious women

His way of flirting is very casual. He can "rizz you up" without even trying, make your cheeks glow bright red with a single sentence

He's quite experienced and definitely knows what he's doing. He doesn't mind age gaps as long as they're legal

I would say he's quite picky actually. He goes for the looks, elegant or unique, independent, anything that can tell him that you're sticking out in a way

He's very good at reading people so with merely a small talk he can tell if you're worth his time or no, if you're, how he likes to say, "just a pretty face"

As your partner he's very old school and passionate

Doesn’t mind if you’re just a housewife, that’s kinda his jam anyway

He likes using nicknames such as “doll face”, “sweetie” and the classic American husband one: “honey”

He would strictly keep you out of his work, not keeping you informed at all. He would claim the only thing you should know is if he's alive or not

On longer, more serious missions you two could end up out of contact for weeks just because his job requires so (which might cause arguments just like with his ex-wife)

He loves when he comes home after a hard day and you greet him with warm dinner. He would always reward you for that

He likes buying you stuff, nothing too expensive but still not affordable for everyone. He just loves spoiling you

Perhaps he would think about marriage a bit too quickly. He's a divorced (traditional) middle aged man after all, he would love to put a ring on you to mark a new fresh start and leave everything he has with his ex-wife behind

He isn't crazy about having children but wouldn't mind becoming a family man. Nevertheless, it is not that easy considering his job so the agreement on forming a family might take time (only if you want kids that is. If not, no forcing)

In bed he likes taking it slowly. He's very passionate and likes making it hot and intense

Taking his sweet sweet time, showing you all experience he's got, somewhat edging you the whole time would always make you arch your back and grab onto his hair in heavy overstimulation every time

He likes oral, prefers rather giving than receiving. It’s crazy what his tongue can do

Loves women’s breasts. Doesn’t matter what size, he just loves them in general, his favorite part to kiss (and collarbone and shoulders)

He prefers missionary so he can kiss you all over and have a proper look at you. He always whispers how good and tight you feel around him or: "You're taking it so well, sweetie", "That's my sweet girl"

He also likes the spooning position where he gets to hold your leg up

He especially loves doing the "exhausting" cowgirl when he's already drained your battery with a heated session of rough thrusts. He'd just lay back, smoke his cigarette and enjoy the view of your legs trembling while struggling to ride his girthy cock

"Come on, honey, just a little longer" he'd encourage you with a sly smile on his face

He loves when you moan his name or just Adler. Considering that's what they call him at work, it would really get him going, making him feel dominant

When you'd moan his last name he would grab a fistful of your hair, grope you tighter and go rougher, perhaps leave a couple of hickeys on your neck, breasts and collarbone

Sometimes he likes bending you over his office desk and make you take it from behind as he'd, as usual, smoke a cigar while giving you backshots

He would grab your chin or hair, making you look at him over his shoulder. He loves seeing your uncontrollable expressions of pleasure while hitting your g-spot over and over again, telling you how beautiful you look

He never pulls out. If you're having unprotected sex, he loves looking at his hot sperm leaking out of your gapping, pulsing pussy (excuse my language)

He would make sure you're clean and comfortable after, always keeping your limp body in his arms while smoking yet another for complete pleasure. That cigarette after sex is like a cherry on top for him

Speaking of being clean, he's a king of hygiene. His hair is always shiny and soft, his clothes always fresh out the closet and, of course, an expensive cologne is a must

He has very strong body and facial hair so his beard grows back quickly. When he's at home he always takes care of it, every third or fourth night a soothing smell of aftershave fills your nostrils

It's difficult for him to be 100% precise considering his deep facial scars so sometimes he cuts himself by accident. He loves when you take care of the small cuts

Speaking of which, you're the only one he allows to touch his scar. He loves when you kiss it and admire it

He's a fan of beauty marks, especially if you have any on your face. He will kiss all of them, maybe even count them for fun

He loves playing with your hair, brushing it, braiding it, anything really. He thinks women's most beautiful (physical) features are their hair and smile (also loves when women wear strong lipsticks, red is his favorite color)

If you wear glasses, expect him to buy you bunch of expensive frames. Glasses are his passion, he would even buy you sunglasses to match his

Big fan of jewelry, especially necklaces and earrings. On a mission in another country, when he'd walk past a jewelry shop, he would always stop and take a look

He's a nightmare for every jewelry shop because he is picky and he will make the employees turn the whole thing upside down, trying to find a perfect piece for you

"Honey, I'm home! And I brought you something~" would be the well known greet whenever he comes home from a long mission

He might be a reserved man but that isn't stopping him from putting his job aside just for a little while and treat you with honesty and passion

In fact, he fears something will happen to you if anyone finds out you're his s/o. He's secretly very paranoid he's putting you in danger by just having you in his life

Dividers by @firefly-graphics 🥀

#russell adler #russell adler x reader #russell adler headcanons #russell adler x you #russell adler x y/n #black ops cold war #cod cold war #cold war #call of duty cold war #call of duty black ops #cod bocw #call of duty #call of duty headcanons #call of duty x reader #cod cold war x reader #cod x reader #russell adler smut #cod smut

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flowerandblood · 1 year

Text

The Golden Cage (4/5)

[modern! mafia boss • Aemond x female]

[warnings: sex content, smut, angst, sexual tension, fluff]

[description: Aemond works with the mob and finds a new accomplice. His attention is drawn to his daughter, trying to isolate herself as much as possible from their criminal underworld. Angst, domination kink, a lot of sexual tension.]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

Several weeks had passed since their kiss and what she'd told him; he did not come to their house, contacting her father only by phone. She felt immense satisfaction at the thought that she had finally taken advantage of his weakness and turned it against him.

She thought that he deserved it.

She tried to forget the pleasant feeling and the shivers she experienced when the tips of their tongues touched each other in a wet dance. She pretended to herself that she felt nothing.

One evening, she went with her friends to a restaurant with delicious Italian food; they celebrated the end of the exam session and a short break between semesters. She managed to pass all subjects with very good results and felt that she was finally slowly regaining control of reality.

She thought that one more year and she would leave, cut herself off from it all.

After a few hours and two drinks that made her head buzz pleasantly, she said goodbye to her friends and headed home, exhausted. She glanced at the Uber app, but all the drivers were busy which didn't surprise her on a Friday night. She decided she'd go find a taxi, as there were always plenty downtown.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye across the street and saw a car with two men in it, watching her intently. She felt an unpleasant shiver, but thought that maybe she was just imagining it.

She skirted them, then heard the sound of the car door opening. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the same men were following her leisurely across the street, a short distance from her.

She felt cold sweat on her back.

Ever since she'd seen the man pointing a gun at her father through the window that day, she'd imagined that someday something would happen to her.

A car would drive past her and someone would suddenly pull her inside, someone would rape her in the park at night, come up to her after class and threaten her. That's why she only walked in the evenings on the main, crowded streets. Now, even with so many people around her, she felt terrified.

She turned into another alley to see if they would follow her, and to her dismay, they did. To make matters worse, there was no free taxi anywhere. She suddenly realized she was near the Black Moon Club.

She felt her heart beating fast, a million thoughts ran through her head. She wondered if this was a good idea, but she had no choice.

She headed towards the club.

She saw from a distance that the same security guards were standing at the entrance as last time, one of them sighed when he saw her.

“Today is also a closed party, little one. No invitation, no entry. Your father is not there today." He said briefly, standing with his arms folded in front of him, he was three times her size and looked down at her with a stony face.

"Just tell Targaryen that the little birdie wants to talk to him." She said quickly, her voice trembling slightly. The man looked at her shocked and opened his mouth to say something, but she was faster.

"Please." She whispered pleadingly.

The man sighed heavily, nodded to his friend, and walked down the stairs, when he opened the door, hard, loud club music could be heard for a moment, the other man pushed her aside with his hand to allow other invited guests to enter.

After a few minutes the first bodyguard returned, this time looking her up and down in some kind of disbelief.

"You can come in." He said and she breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced to the side and saw that the men who were following her were standing by the night lamp, smoking cigarettes, watching her closely.

As she followed him down, she was hit again by the painfully strong music and the suffocating smell of tobacco. It was semi-dark in the club, the lights on the dance floor flickered again and again, stimulating her already terrified and tense body.

She wondered what she was even doing.

She thought that all she could do was beg him on her knees to let her call her father in peace, she just needed to be in a safe place for a while and wait for him there.

The man led her to the back of the club to rooms separated from the rest by glass, apparently some sort of VIP area, from one of the rooms she heard the groans of two people and felt a shiver.

He opened the door for her, and she entered a room that contained only a round table and a long couch surrounding it. The bodyguard closed the door behind her, and the music stopped as if she had suddenly fallen under water. She sat on the couch, only now feeling her legs tremble.

She jumped as Aemond entered the room after a while, he closed the door behind him and looked at her expectantly.

"You're impudent." He said dryly.

She swallowed hard and looked down, embarrassed. She felt her cheeks burn.

"I'm sorry. Two men were following me and I got scared. I didn't know where to go. I just want to call my father from here to come pick me up." She said quietly, without looking at him. Aemond looked at her blankly.

"No coverage here." He replied low.

She looked at him shocked and remembered that indeed, when her father came here she couldn't reach him on the phone. She buried her face in her hands, desperate. There was a tense, awkward silence between them.

“Wait here." He said as he opened the door again, she looked at him, pursed her lips.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry." She said helplessly.

She saw him purse his lips and hesitate. He closed the door, as if he had changed his mind.

She felt her heart pounding loudly.

He was staring at the floor, something in his gaze that terrified her.

"What are you apologizing for?" He asked finally. She swallowed hard, clenching her hands on the couch.

"For how I treated you." She whispered softly. He looked at her and a shiver went through her; he looked like a predator about to rip his prey apart, her breathing quickened.

"Do you realize how thin is the edge you're treading on?" He asked, and she felt her stomach clench, his gaze boring right through her.

She felt something strange in the air, a kind of tension that she couldn't put into words. She felt the air around them thicken and become heavy, she couldn't take her eyes off him.

"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, her chest felt hot, her breathing quick and uneven.

"After what you've done even your last apologies won't be enough." He spoke low, pressing his lips together in such a way that she felt a squeeze between her thighs.

She had no idea what was happening to her.

"If you want me to call your father, apologize properly."

There was a long silence between them.

She knew exactly what he wanted.

What terrified her was that she wanted it too.

For some reason, she felt she needed it.

Relaxation, relief, drop of adrenaline.

"Do you want to show me how you get out of your cage?" She asked softly, her voice trembling slightly. She was referring to words that he had told her at the club that night.

She never forgot them.

She saw his pupil dilate in shock, his body shudder, his tongue hit the inside of his cheek with satisfaction.

"Yes." He said low.

She got up on shaky legs, and sat down on the round table in front of him, sliding off her shoes, which fell with a dull thud to the floor. He looked at her clearly in disbelief that it was really happening, he must have wondered if she would humiliate him again.

He approached her uncertainly, menacingly, lust mixed with madness in his eye. He slid his hand into her hair.

"I don't know if I want to hit you or fuck you more." He hissed as he looked at her pale face. She felt a strong shiver run through her.

She trembled with fear, helplessness, lust and desire, her lips parted slightly.

"I wonder the same thing when I look at you." She whispered.

A smirk appeared on his face as he tilted her head back, his fingers tightening in her hair. He smiled in a way that gave her goosebumps, he looked like possessed by something.

"Come on. Hit me. See what happens then." He hissed, teasing her, knowing she was powerless and at his mercy.

For some reason, she smiled at his words. His brow furrowed at the sight, his mouth tightened, he was about to add something else, obviously annoyed by her expression but she cut him off.

"I've got nowhere to run to. I'll never be safe anywhere." She whispered helplessly, honestly, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Maybe it would be better for me if you beat me to death right now."

He stared at her intensely, breathing unevenly, she saw in his eye that those were the last words that he would expect from her. He swallowed hard, his lips slightly parted, as if he was thinking hard about something.

"Give me what I want and I will protect you. You and your father." He spoke low, his voice a little softer.

She stared at him in disbelief, her heart pounding wildly.

For some reason she felt a sudden urge to touch him.

Her trembling hand went up to his face, he pulled away at first, refusing to let her touch him, but then gave in after a moment, he squeezed his eye shut as her fingers brushed his cheek.

"What do you want?" She asked helplessly, even though she knew the answer. He looked at her with eye that could burn cities.

His hand on her hair relaxed slightly, he leaned over her, and to his surprise, she didn't move away. A strong shiver went through her as he simply pressed his forehead against hers and looked into her eyes.

Something had changed in his gaze, but she didn't know what. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

She realized that he wanted her to make the first move.

She lifted herself up slightly and brushed his lips, she thought that they were pleasantly moist and full. She heard his gentle sigh, his lips touching hers timidly, their mouth opened, but barely brushed against each other, making both of them shiver.

She thought that those tender, subtle caresses didn't suit them at all, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe none of what they both said was true.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, and he grunted lowly as she pulled him close. He landed between her thighs, his pulsing manhood pressing against her panties, she felt wet all over, her body trembling with arousal. She thought, surprised, that she wasn't afraid of him, she knew that from the very beginning he had some strange, unexplained weakness for her.

She bit into his mouth greedily, squeezing his lower lip between hers, sucking it. She heard his soft, throaty groan and felt her nipples harden at the sound, she wondered what kind of condition she could get him to since he obviously wanted her so much.

He sucked in a quick breath as her hips began to rub against him, pressing against him, her free hand tightened on his back, holding him close, she could feel his cock throbbing under her hard, thirsty and desperate.

She felt his large hand pull up the fabric of her dress and squeezed her buttock, rubbing it as if to test how soft she was. They both gasped into each other's mouths as his hand slid down the other side of her thigh, to her panties, pushing the material away with his thumb, running over her hot, leaking entrance, she sobbed softly at this sudden delicious sensation.

Hearing this, he barely suppressed a groan that got stuck in his throat, he slid his tongue deep into her mouth and, to her delight, began to massage her with intense, circular motions around her clit, teasing her, making the tension between her thighs unbearable.

His touch was intense, calm and tender, not in keeping with his violent disposition and she was horrified to think that she wanted him to fuck her. She shivered as the tip of his finger slid a little into her, his lips leaving her for a moment with the wet click of their saliva.

“You take birth control pills, right? You're not going to make me wear this rubber shit?” He purred, his finger moving in and out of her in a light, calm rhythm, brushing against her top wall where was the point that gave her the greatest pleasure. She had to concentrate very hard to answer his question.

"Y-yes." She just mumbled, unable to get any more out, a grin appeared on his lips at her words. He slid his finger out of her and started undoing his pants, looking at her expectantly.

"Take off your panties." He said with a note of satisfaction, seeing the state in which she was. She swallowed the humiliation that she felt seeing his expression.

She didn't have the strength to fight back.

She slid the fabric off her hips to the ground, and he grunted in satisfaction seeing this. He placed his large hands on her thighs, massaging them steadily, and spread them out in front of him, both of them were breathing fast, feeling what was about to happen, full of desire and heat.

She leaned back, squeezing her eyes shut, as she felt the tip of his cock press against her insides. She spread her thighs wider, wanting to finally feel him inside her, and he slid a bit into her with a low, guttural groan.

He tightened his hands on her buttocks, slid out slightly, then rooted into her deeply, to the very end, filling her tight walls so much that she gasped, letting out a small sound of delight.

She could feel him throbbing aggressively inside her and unable to take it anymore, she began to move her hips towards him, lowering herself against him, feeling pleasant, hot waves of pleasure all over her body. He clamped his hands on her buttocks tighter, stopping her, pressing his face to her neck.

"Wait." He whispered helplessly, twitching inside her greedily, panting softly and she realized then that he was on the verge of coming inside her.

She stroked his hair, for some reason feeling the need to soothe him, embracing him, and after a moment she inhaled the air in surprise, feeling that he returned the hug. They stayed like that for a moment, breathing deeply.

She shivered and moaned in surprise as he felt him begin to move timidly inside her, rubbing her where she needed it, her hands tightened on his buttocks, wanting to feel him more and deeper.

"Harder." She mewled softly, and his hand tightened on the fabric of her dress. He grabbed her hair, this time more gently than before, lifting her head, forcing her to look at him, still moving inside her.

"In a moment. Let me enjoy yourself." He whispered, and she felt a thrill of pleasure run through her at his words, her heart pounding hotly.

His thumb brushed over her lips, lingering on her lower one, parting her slightly, his thrusts slow, sticky and loud. His hand slid under her strap and slid down her dress, exposing one of her breasts to him.

He leaned in, shoving her nipple into his mouth, she moaned loudly in surprise as his hips suddenly began to move faster and harder inside her, the perverted, wet slaps of his thighs against her buttocks resounding over and over again in the room.

She pressed his face against her breast, feeling a shiver of pleasure every time his tongue teased her nipple, she knew that if she kept going like this, she would come.

Her hips responded greedily to his thrusts, impaling on him, allowing him to penetrate her as deeply as possible. They both gasped helplessly, his mouth letting go of her breast as he pressed himself against her wet, lust-swollen lips again.

They began to lick each other with the tips of their tongues, fucking each other more and more brutally, low, uncontrollable moans escaped from their mouths.

"Is it so fucking hard? Is it so fucking hard to be my good girl like you are now?" He gasped into her mouth, his fingers gleaming tight around her hips, her fingers intertwined in his hair.

She moaned in pleasure at his words, feeling a pleasant shiver run through her, feeling her core clench tighter around him. He imposed a fast, intense rhythm, he rooted into her pushing apart the moist, fleshy structure of her insides.

One of his hands released hers, sliding down, his thumb teasing her clit, rubbing against her once in a while, not giving her what she needed. She pursed her lips, pressing her forehead against his, looking pleadingly at him. His face was impassive, he was breathing heavily with her, his gaze black.

"Apologise. Apologize like the good girl you are. I know you can." He hummed with satisfaction, feeling how she tightened on him every time he rooted his swollen cock inside her again.

Her lip quivered, her nipples all hard and showed through her dress, betraying how desperate she was. The tip of his nose brushed hers encouragingly as if to embolden her, their bodies hitting each other with a wet slap.

"I-I'm sorry." She sobbed softly, helpless, her hips responding greedily to his every thrust. "I'm so terribly sorry."

He kissed her passionately upon hearing this, his thumb immediately began to massage her more intensely and faster, a strong shiver went through her. She moaned sweetly into his mouth, meeting his thrusts even faster.

"Fuck. Such a good girl. I'll reward you. I'll make you come and cum inside you." He whispered in a trembling voice, being on the edge himself.

She moaned into his mouth, tangling her hand in his hair, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Cum inside me, cum inside me as many times as you want." She mumbled quickly and leaned back, feeling her orgasm approaching.

He moaned loudly, surprised by her words, his cock pumping chaotically, loudly, and brutally into her, they both threw their heads back and groaned helplessly as their bodies clenched together in powerful orgasms, his cum gushing in waves into her in hot core. Her walls pressed against him, heightening his sensations.

They both moved for a moment longer, surprised at how wonderful it felt, staring at each other with their mouths parted, she swallowed hard as she thought about what she had done. She saw him smirk at the look on her face and exhaled loudly as if he felt relief for the first time in months.

"So you can make a nice apology if you really want to."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9

Others: @okfashionista @toodlesxcuddles @abrielletargaryen @daemonskelitsos

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aerkame · 1 year

Text

Eye of The Beholder [part 1]

I think my body is trying to tell me I had too much caffeine and sugar today.

As always I'm doing an everyone x reader because I always do. (This is just part 1 though, so that comes later) This should be expected by now. Everyone will be loved and you can not stop me. *simp snarl* Okay I'll chill out it's fine. It's all dandy. It's cool. It's alr. Credits: Mob AU belongs to Clownsuu (I am assuming they're alright with this?) Welcome Home characters belong to Partycoffin

Notes: Reader is a firefighter puppet (this takes place in a puppet world duh), I had to do quite a bit of research.

__________________________________________________________

Heavy smoke pushed against the mask that protected your face as the wood beneath the creaked with each step. You had to be careful not to rush, any one of these boards could be loose and the ceiling looked like it was ready to cave. A loud crack sounded from somewhere upstairs, never mind taking it slow. You have to hurry now.

You dashed past the broken elevator just as a board fell from the ceiling. One hand firmly gripped the axe face down and the other grabbed the railing as you made your way up the stairs making sure to check the surroundings every few feet. Each step felt exhausting with the weight of the coat on your body and cautious steps that had to be taken lest you fall into the growing fire in the lobby. The temperature became hotter the higher you went, it was almost unbearable by the time you made it to the 4th floor.

The rest of the team and the captain had yet to make any contact and it was beginning to grate on your nerves. You suspect the reason why, it was the same reason this hotel went up in flames to begin with. Hell, that mob fight was still probably going on despite this spreading fire. Heaving as the oxygen became tighter, you prepared to cut the door down, raising the axe at a good angle before swinging.

Chips of charred wood fell away bit by bit until there was a clear opening to step through. Two figures lay in the room surrounded by burnt belongings and cases of unidentifiable liquids, they must have been doing something shady or possible mob activity. That would explain a few things. You shook your head to clear your already foggy mind. Nothing else mattered right now though, you found the missing persons and now you needed to make sure they made it out okay.

You wished you had backup.

The grey man was easy to pickup but you were beginning to worry about the other unconscious man. Both were larger than you, but you were stronger, you can do this. You tried a second time, then a third time before managing to stand, having both the grey puppet and red-haired puppet over your shoulders. The axe was left behind, there should still be a clean exist through the lobby if you hurried.

The fire had spread far faster then you thought. The path you planned out was now littered with fallen beams and burning chunks of the ceiling.

Seeing no other way around this, you gently placed the two men down as you unlatched a pocket to bring out two trauma blankets, hurriedly wrapping both in the protective fabrics. The last thing you needed was either of their felt skin catching flame.

A quiet wheeze caught your attention.

The grey man appeared to be struggling to breathe, you unlatched your own mask to put it over them, keeping it close enough so the tank's hose wouldn't snap away. It was going to be okay, the exist wasn't too far.

You carried the two once more, this time with more difficulty, your steps became uneven and your breath was ragged, no longer having the mask to filter out the smoke.

It's okay you told yourself, you are so so close. You never noticed the red eyes that followed you.

Pushing through the burning and itchiness in your chest, you made it to the front of the building before stumbling out and falling to one knee, not wanting to hurt the victims still on your shoulders. Everything felt so heavy. It was so hot.

You flew into a coughing fit after placing the two men on the sidewalk and looked around. Your team nor your captain were anywhere in sight. They should have been here by now. Where was the truck? Where were the ambulance? You tried to stand but failed.

Another cough escaped and you fell to the sidewalk, clawing at your coat to get it off. Your head was hurting and you felt sick. It was too hot.

Your eyelids fluttered before everything faded to black.

______________________________________________________

One knee bounced over the other as the music playing in the background went on. The brightly lit 'Closed' sign in the front flickered.

"Sally, do you understand what exactly it is you did tonight?" The voice was monotone with an edge to it.

The yellow puppet made a nervous laugh, shrugging their shoulders. "I got the target and Frank n' Eddie managed to save the evidence?"

Wally clicked his tongue in annoyance. "You made quite the mess for what was supposed to be a clean job. Two buildings burned down and a firetruck blown to bits." His foot tapped impatiently. "And now the police have gotten themselves involved if only to appease the public." Glasses clinked behind the counter as the bartender cleaned quietly. Wally continued.

"You're lucky at least one firefighter made it into the hotel before it collapsed. Frank and Eddie wouldn't be here otherwise." His voice was dripping with venom, but he made no move to do anything.

Wally rested one hand over the other as he stared at Sally. "Now, I want you to make me a promise Sally. Do not ever use those damn explosives again unless it's already been discussed beforehand. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-yes boss!"

"Good."

He peered over the counter, taking a sip from the beverage in hand, swishing it around a bit. "Barnaby, did Frank get the identity of the firefighter?"

"Yeah, he said somethin' about a mask or whateveh. But he got the face and name after a bit of diggin'," Barnaby stared off to the side as he inhaled another breath from the cigar. "Should be easy to tie up loose ends this time around, as far as I know that firefighter was the only one who saw the cases in that room."

A grin grew on the boss's face. "Well then. As soon as Eddie and Julie are ready, he'll be the one to pick up the special package."

Sally may or may not have used an explosive during a deal at a hotel that caused a giant hole in the side of the building and started a massive fire...and she may or may not have accidentally blown up a firetruck and caused a roadblock.

Also dayymn, it only takes 2-10 minutes to suffocate from smoke. No wonder firefighters need masks and a whole tank on their back when going in.

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cupidjyu · 1 year

Text

my nerdy love

eric x reader (requested by anon! sorry i cannot reply to your message directly bc i feel like that would spoil the whole fic LOL but tysm for your kind words ^^)

genre: loser eric, college!au, eric is such a nervous wreck, he's also always angry, jealous eric, villain hyunjae (not really) notes: i love these kind of stories like they're so funny LOL i hope you guys enjoyed! i enjoy writing losers more than i do flirts... song rec!

word count: 2.5k

Act 1

in the back of a large lecture hall, sat two best friends, both born in the same year. they were not paying attention to the professor whatsoever.

sunwoo poked the other’s shoulder, “yo… are you good?”

the other boy, named eric, was currently fuming, looking off into the distance where you were now sitting. there was another man who had recently plopped down next to you. eric watched as he took your pencil, twirling it around as you whined at his teasing. eric then glared with heated jealousy as you leaned over the man to try to reach it.

sunwoo asked again, “are you-”

“no,” eric yelled, making some people turn their heads and frown. eric apologized silently as he lowered his voice. “no, i’m not good. that guy is just so-” he groaned. “annoying.”

“if you like y/n that much, just go up to them or else he’ll steal your sweetheart,” sunwoo casually replied.

“i can’t just-”

“yes you can,” sunwoo refuted. “you guys are literally working on a final project together. aren’t you comfortable with them already?”

eric did not reply, only looking at sunwoo sheepishly.

“don’t tell me,” sunwoo groaned. “were you a nervous wreck?”

eric recalled that time when you were assigned to be his partner. he kept stuttering over his words and even dropped coffee all over your bag which he had to spend his whole paycheck to pay for it. even though you insisted it was fine.

“look man,” eric tried to defend himself. “you have to see what y/n looks like up close. like an angel, i swear.”

“still,” the older glared. “try not to be a coward for once.”

eric sighed, looking back to where the man was now playing with your hair. and out of nowhere, he glanced back to where eric was sitting. he looked him right in the eye and much to his anger, the man winked. eric slammed his laptop closed and took his belongings, leaving the room.

now, you and eric were working at one of the popular study spots, trying to finish planning out the final page of the project. eric was so, so giddy to see you and get some alone time. he even dressed up (which sunwoo teased him for).

“wait so-” he started to ask a question. “what about if…?” he trailed off because you were now leaning into his side to look at his computer. he blushed, looking away.

“what were you saying?” you looked at him expectantly.

“uh-” he faltered. “i… um- i wanted to ask if-”

“y/n!”

you turned around at the familiar voice. eric glanced in that direction too and of course, it was him again. eric looked him over, his eyes narrowing. he was tall, possibly (definitely) taller than eric, which severely hurt his ego. he was also insanely handsome, which eric despised. the younger puffed his chest out to try to look stronger but it was of no use, as the boy dragged a chair over to sit next to you, his muscles showing even through his oversized shirt.

“what are you doing here?” you smiled. you smiled! eric’s heart plummeted, envy quickly taking over every inch of his heart. i could make you smile like that too.

“just stopped by,” the man grinned, with his horribly attractive smile. “i’m exhausted from that exam.” as he talked on and on, he looked at eric with an amused glint in his eye as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer. smoke was practically coming out of his ears at this point as you laughed, shoving the man away.

oh, eric was about to explode.

“ah!” you gestured to him. “this is eric, by the way.”

the man looked at eric knowingly, a sly smile appearing on his lips. “so that’s your name…”

“what?” eric asked, with a hostile voice.

“nothing, nothing,” the man was definitely amused as he got up. “i have to go, bye y/n! and don’t miss me too much!”

oh, how eric hated him.

later on, eric confronted that same man.

“hey,” eric gripped his shoulder, turning him around. “what’s your problem?”

the man feigned innocence, “what’d i do?”

“you know i like y/n, don’t you?” eric asked, his hand forming fists. “you know and you’re always hanging around. you even look at me while you’re being all touchy. don’t! don’t try to act slick… uh…” he paused, his mind going blank.

the other simply smirked, tilting his head, “you don’t even know my name don’t you?”

eric was about to reply but the man beat him to it.

“hyunjae,” he interrupted. and then he turned around, waving goodbye with a flick of his hand. as he walked, he glanced back at eric with a cunning smile. “and i have no idea what you’re talking about. have a nice day!”

eric loathed him.

Act 2

much to eric’s surprise though, hyunjae had disappeared for a while. were his prayers and wishes with shooting stars finally answered? would hyunjae finally vanish and stop disturbing his soon-to-be love story? it seemed like that for a while.

it was finally eric’s chance to get closer to you, with sunwoo’s constant urging. and so, he came up to you one day after the lecture.

“hey, y/n,” he gave you a nervous quirk of a smile. you looked up and smiled brightly. his heart stuttered almost immediately and so did his breath as he quickly tried to compose himself. he frantically played with the strings of his hoodie. sunwoo snickered in the background.

“hi, eric,” you softly greeted, tilting your head. eric felt like he could faint on the floor at that moment.

“do you-” he suddenly jabbed his finger at your textbook, making you jump. “want to study the next chapter to- together?”

your eyes widened and you felt excitement through your veins.

“oh!” you stood up, eagerly as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “sure!” you grinned. “let’s go to the library now then if you’re free.”

“really?” he looked at you hopefully. and then he trailed after you out of the room almost like a lost puppy.

sunwoo shook his head, “he’s got it so bad…”

eric wiped his sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants as he glanced at you. you looked incredibly focused while you read the chapter and took notes on it.

eric on the other hand… he wasn’t doing quite well. he was so caught up in staring at your beauty. his eyes would constantly wander over your features, even wondering how your lips would feel against his. he quickly shook out of it.

you looked at him, puzzled. and then out of nowhere, eric felt your hand be pressed to his forehead.

“are you feeling okay?” you looked worried. “you’ve been out of it for a while…”

his face was completely red now as he backed away. he thought that would be the end of it but much to his embarrassment, his chair had gotten caught on the carpet and he quite literally fell backward.

you yelped, immediately getting up to help him. eric was mortified as he considered just curling up into a ball in the middle of the library. nonetheless, he stood up with a pink face.

“are you hurt?” you asked, looking him over.

“no, no,” he laughed, painfully. “i’m fine.”

you looked at him skeptically. “maybe we need a break…” you pondered. you looped your arm around eric’s making him sputter. “i know, let’s go to the cafe near here?”

so it was a cafe date now. you were drinking your order as you stared at eric who could not seem to look you in the eye. his pupils darted everywhere, his eyes wide and round. he bit his lip nervously as he fidgeted with his bag.

“you’re like bolt,” you observed.

“huh?” he finally looked you in the eye. he wondered how beautiful someone could be just by sitting at a cafe seat near the window.

“bolt,” you repeated. “the puppy from the movie?”

eric practically choked. “you think i’m like a puppy?”

“yeah!” you laughed. he couldn’t help but smile back at your cute expression. “you always look so curious. it’s cute… like a puppy.” there was a beat of silence before you slapped your hand over your mouth, in disbelief that you had just called the arguably cute boy… cute. out loud.

he stared at you, mouth open as he gradually blushed more and more.

“thank you,” was all he could say, completely calm.

he went home and giggled about it to himself at 3 am that same day.

the study dates and cafe dates slowly branched out into other ways to hang out. but eric liked to call them dates. he’s delusional like that. one time, he took you to the movies where he attempted to do the “yawn and put his arm over their body subtly” thing. he failed miserably. apparently, he has bad aim.

“eric?” you looked at him confused as you munched on the popcorn.

he jolted, “h-huh?”

“you just poked my ear.”

“oh! did i? haha,” he fake laughed as he took his arm back. god, sunwoo was so going to bully him about this.

another time, he took you to the mall. you were browsing various bags when your eyes lingered on a specific one. he noticed and was about to buy it for you like the gentleman he was. except he forgot that he was a college student in debt.

“do you like this one?” he smiled sweetly. “i can buy it for you!”

“ah,” you shook your head sheepishly since you had already seen how much it cost. “y-you really don’t have to…”

eric was stubborn. “i insist!” he looked at the price tag attached to it. his eyes enlarged at the cost. it was so expensive. the number of zeroes in the number made him revolt as he hurriedly put the bag back on the shelf. “on second thought…” and he quickly walked away as he mentally slapped himself in the face.

you couldn’t help but giggle at him.

Act 3

hyunjae came back.

eric clearly remembered gasping when he witnessed hyunjae open the door to the lecture hall. he even looked at the poor young boy and winked cheekily. eric swore he saw red.

and of course, hyunjae would bound straight over to you, swinging an arm over your shoulder to pull you into a tight side hug.

“you good?” sunwoo nudged him.

eric could only glare, the paper in his hand now turning into a crumpled ball under his fist.

“i literally hate him.”

unlike last time though, eric did not stray far anymore. instead, he clung to you. he refused to leave your side in fear that hyunjae would come and snatch you away from the only love of his life. as soon as class ended, he immediately was by your side. again, like a puppy.

“hi, eric!” you gave him a hug. he froze, looking down at the top of your head as he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist.

“oh,” he breathed out, surprised. “this… this is nice.”

“mhm,” you hummed. “i think so too.” you nuzzled closer.

(sunwoo wondered to himself, “aren’t they already dating at this point…”)

one day, the two of you were taking a peaceful walk, talking about how horrible your exams went and how badly eric craved instant ramen at that moment. that was when hyunjae suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“y/n!” he ruffled your hair. eric grumbled, rolling his eyes. what a way to ruin his day. “did you do something to your hair?” hyunjae asked, smiling sweetly (obnoxiously, in eric’s opinion). “it looks nice.”

eric mumbled to himself, “i noticed first…”

when you confirmed hyunjae’s observation and finally shooed him away to his next class, you turned and noticed eric glaring daggers at hyunjae’s back.

you poked him. he looked at you, his eyes softening. “everything okay?” you asked.

he paused and gazed at you with an unreadable expression.

“are you aware that he’s been hitting on you all this time?”

you froze, your heart had stopped beating. “eric-”

“it’s seriously getting annoying,” he groaned. “every time we spend time together, he’s always there, ruining the moment. with his stupidly handsome face, his long legs, his perfect hair, his fit body, his-” eric paused. “whatever! you get the point. still, don’t you think that it’s a bit low of him? like does he not get the hint? shouldn’t he back off since i-”

and eric really should have stopped before he would blurt out something stupid. but eric was never good at stopping himself.

“since i like you.”

you stared for a while. he looked at you, his mouth shut closed as a blush began to creep up his neck at the realization that he had just confessed. and then you burst out laughing.

“i-” he stuttered. “i didn’t mean to confess i-”

you kept on laughing. eric continued to try to defend himself.

he scrambled for words, “it’s just that you are so my type. you’re so beautiful and kind and i can’t help but-”

and you leaned up, cupping his face in your hands, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. he gasped, looking at you with wide eyes. and then they darkened, looking straight at your lips. he quickly wrapped a hand around your waist, making you yelp as he pulled you right against his body. his lips were back on yours, deepening the kiss with such tenderness that you couldn’t help but melt in his arms.

you pulled away after a while, trying to catch your breath.

“hyunjae is my older brother.”

…

and it’s like the whole world came crashing down on him.

“what?” he squawked.

“he’s my brother!” you laughed. “he disappeared earlier because he had to go and do a study for the major he’s in. eric…” you poked his cheek. “he’s just very affectionate. no need to be jealous. oh, and by the way,” you leaned up, whispering in his ear. “i like you too.”

eric practically almost fainted.

“you like me?” he exclaimed as if you hadn’t just initiated the first kiss. “and wait-” he gasped loudly. “was he doing all that on- on purpose? are you serious? he knew?” he put his face in the palm of his hands with mortification. “i hate that guy so much. and you- you like me?”

you giggled and pulled him into a kiss, interrupting his little crisis.

he quickly forgot about it when he felt your lips against his.

“oh, i could get used to this,” he mumbled, pulling you closer by the waist.

Extra Scene

“why’re you hiding behind a tree?” younghoon remarked, appearing behind hyunjae who seemed to be spying on two people… kissing and giggling.

“oh they’re so cute, those two little lovebirds,” hyunjae snickered. “all thanks to my plan.”

younghoon punched his shoulder, “stop standing there, you dork. you’re going to be late for your first date. enough of playing cupid for one day…”

“never.”

#the boyz reactions #the boyz fluff #the boyz imagines #the boyz x reader #tbz fluff #tbz imagines #eric sohn x reader #eric sohn fluff #requests 💞#fics 💞

197 notes · View notes

rebelwrites · 7 months

Text

Nineteen: You Got Her Singing Again!

Charles Leclerc x Nova Teller (OC)

Till the wheels fall off Masterlist

Small town meets the fast lane. What happens when two souls meet? Will it end in happiness or will they both crash and burn?

As always reblogs and feedback is highly appreciated ❤�� if you want tagging in future parts let me know ❤️

The morning air was still, the sun was starting to creep up over the horizon and the birds were singing away. There was nothing I wanted more than to stay in bed with the gorgeous man that was currently sound asleep but my stupid internal clock had to screw things up.

“Couldn’t sleep in either?” Jax mumbled, sinking down onto the space next to me on the outdoor sofa, offering me a smoke.

“To be honest my body just hates me at this point,” I sighed, resting my head on Jax’s shoulder as I lit the cigarette, “I was thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” he interrupted, causing me to jab him in his ribs.

“I was thinking about doing something we haven’t done in a while, family breakfast,” I said smiling to myself, watching the smoke float into the air, “I feel it's gonna be a good day today.”

“Pancakes?”

“Duh!”

A brief silence fell over the two of us, I could hear the cogs whirring in Jax’s mind. There was something he wanted to say but was holding back, “spit it out,” I whispered, moving so I was now leaning against the arm of the sofa, tucking my feet underneath my thighs, “don’t you dare say it’s nothing because I can smell your brain burning.”

“It’s about Juice,” his voice was extremely low, like he was afraid I was going to flip out on him again.

Taking a deep breath, I knew I couldn’t avoid this conversation forever, “you said we fucked up with him?”

“It’s not just with him, Nova. It’s with everyone, the club, the businesses, everything,” Jax sighed, running his hand over his face before taking a long drag of his cigarette, “we have just had so much going on this past year we kinda forgot to take a look around us. We weren’t the only ones running ourselves into the ground.”

His words shocked me but more for the fact I knew he was right. It had been staring us right in the face all along. Everyone showed signs of being exhausted when they came into the bar or they blew off dinner plans. Taking a deep breath I finally looked up at Jax, the guilt was written all over his face, reaching over I took his hand squeezing it softly.

“There's one more thing as well,” he paused, running his hands over his face, it was like he was afraid to tell me. He stilled for a moment, looking up at the sky before taking a deep breath, “the weed shop is in Juice’s name.”

“That sneaky bastard,” I half laughed, part of me was proud that he had managed to pull the wool over our eyes with the ownership, “so what happened in the kitchen yesterday?”

“I don’t know, it was like he just snapped, his gaze was vacant, it was like he was ready to give up on life,” Jax mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest, resting his head on his knees, his fingers tangling in his blonde roots, something he did when he was feeling stressed or was starting to spin out.

Once again it was like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, it was just one thing after another but maybe Jax was right, we needed to hire more staff otherwise we were going to single handedly run everyone into an early grave.

“We will start advertising for positions across all businesses,” I said quietly, looking up at the morning sky, pulling another cigarette from the packet that was lying between me and Jax. “We will get through this, we always do.” Jax flashed me a soft smile, he knew how hard it was for me to accept that we needed to get more bodies on board. For me it was like I was relinquishing all control but deep down I knew this was the right move. “Arrange for the whole club to get their asses here for half 10,” I hummed, changing the subject before taking a long drag of the smoke.

Once I had finished the smoke I checked the time on my phone, the local grocery store was opening soon and if I was going to be throwing one of the famous Teller family breakfast I needed to get supplies in, I wasn’t going to have a repeat of last time when Tig threw a hissy fit because we didn’t have any goddamn grapefruit.

“I’m gonna go raid the shops,” I chuckled, tossing Jax his lighter back.

“Don’t forget Tiggy’s precious grapefruit,” Jax called out to me.

“I don’t have a death wish,” I smirked back, throwing him a wink before I slipped back into the house.

The next couple of hours went by in a blur, the bed of my ratty truck was overflowing with enough food to feed a small army but I knew how much food these boys could put away. My head was spinning, my stomach was churning as I went over everything I was going to say to Juice, I had no idea on what to expect, as long as I didn’t get the door slammed in my face then that was a win in my book.

Releasing my death grip from the steering wheel I took a few deep breaths before climbing out of the truck. I needed to do this, I needed to clear the air. I felt like a hypocrite, I kept telling Pops that Tellers don’t quit on family and here I was quitting on Juice, he was family, not by blood but he was a brother and I wasn’t going to let him fall because we were too focused on the Teller bubble.

I found myself standing on the front step of the apartment, the well worn leather hanging over my arm as I found the courage to knock on the door.

Come on Nova, you can do this.

The moment I reached up the door swung open revealing a topless Juice standing in the doorway, “the fuck do you want?” he growled, narrowing his eyes at me.

“This belongs to you,” I whispered, holding his kutte out, “look, I know you don’t want to see me but I needed to come and apologize,” I was met with silence but that didn’t surprise me. “I get if you don’t want anything to do with the club but this,” I said holding the kutte up higher, “this belongs to you no matter what your decision.”

I held my breath waiting to see what his next move would be, feeling a sense of relief when he took the vest that had been hanging on his shoulder for years.

“What is your game here, Nova?” he asked, cocking his brow at me.

“No game, I swear,” I said, holding my hands up, pausing for a moment to suss out his reaction, taking a deep breath I continued, “I’m not gonna toss you to the curb Juan, I know I fucked up, on a lot of things actually, but I want to make amends. We can keep your shop and the club separate okay.”

The silence I received was deafening, Juice broke eye contact with me, a heavy sigh escaped his lips as he ran his hands over his face. I was normally pretty good at reading peoples expressions but right now I was struggling, he had a fucking good poker face and he knew it.

“I don’t want that,” he said his voice was quiet as he spoke like he was trying to believe his own words, spinning around hanging his kutte on the hook on the wall. I watched intently as he rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. “I guess I’m just tired, ya know. We have all been running ourselves into the ground trying to keep everything a float.”

Running my hand over my face, “yea, I totally get that, I think,” I sighed, leaning against the brick wall. The small chuckle that escaped his lips provided me with a sense of hope that all wasn’t lost with him. “Do what you need to do, just focus on the weed shop, hire whoever you want and make sure you get some sleep,” I said softly, looking up at the Puerto Rican, “we will figure this out, I promise.”

I didn’t give him a chance to reply before I was walking back towards my truck. Once I had reached the driver’s door I looked back over my shoulder, “oh Ortiz, family breakfast at the house, everyone is getting there for half ten so make sure your ass is present.”

“Jax, we need to talk to El about Pops,” I whispered, placing the last bag down on the floor. I didn’t know how he was going to react, we both knew this was going to be a hard conversation but one that needed to happen.

“Do you think we should do it now?” he asked, slowly closing the fridge as he turned to face me.

“We won’t be able to hide it much longer,” I sighed, running my hand over my face, “I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything about the sticky notes.”

Jax stayed silent, I knew his mind was racing, weighing up the options of how to approach the situation. Flashing me a look I knew it was time, he let out a heavy sigh before he slowly walked out the room. I was hot on his heels as we moved through the house trying to find Elenor.

It didn’t take long to find her, she was with her new favorite human. The sight of her snuggled up with Charles on the sofa caused my heart to skip a beat, although that was quickly replaced by instant heartache knowing how upset she was going to be when he left town.

“Princess, me and Auntie Nova need to speak to you,” Jax whispered, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his face full of sadness, we both knew this wasn’t going to be easy and all three of us would end up in tears by the end.

Charles flashed me a supportive smile as he pressed a kiss to the top of Elenor’s head, his movements were slow, like he knew what was about to happen. I took a deep breath as I watched him leave the room, giving us the space we needed.

“Everything okay, daddy?” she asked, looking up at us with her big blue eyes. She was so innocent, but she was too inquisitive for her own good so it was only a matter of time before she started asking hard questions.

“Poppy isn’t well, baby,” I whispered, taking the space where Charles was sitting not five minutes ago. The moment I sat down I took her small hand in mine, blinking back the tears that were currently blurring my vision, “remember when he called you my name?”

She slowly nodded her head, her eyes darting between Jax and myself, “Poppy is starting to forget things, princess, that is why me and Auntie Nova have put all the colorful notes everywhere.”

I found myself staring up at the ceiling, trying my hardest to stop the tears from spilling over my lashes. I could hear my heart breaking. How the hell do we explain the full extent of Pops’ health condition without completely crushing her in the process.

“Is he going to get better?” she quietly asked.

That was when I felt any resolve I had, crumble into pieces and the tears started flowing down my cheeks, I wrapped my arms around my niece pressing soft kisses to the top of her head. “Unfortunately, not baby,” I whimpered, I wish I could tell her things would get better but there was no point lying to her, it would only make things worse later down the road, “so we just need to give him as much love as possible, okay.”

The three of us sat there, not speaking, the only sound that could be heard was the soft cries coming from the youngest Teller. There was nothing we could do to change the situation, we were dealt a shitty hand of cards but we just needed to stick together as a family, getting through a day at a time. The sound of the living room door opening caused me to look up, standing in the opening Pops had a sad look on his face.

He didn’t say anything as he walked over to us, the air in the room suddenly felt extremely heavy, scooting over on the sofa I let him sit in between me and Elenor. The moment she realized her Poppy was her she threw her arms around him, clinging on for dear life.

“I love all three of you so much,” Pops whispered, his voice cracking with every word he spoke, “no matter what happens, as long as we stick together as a family, we will get through this.”

Elenor finally looked, roughly wiping her eyes with the back of her hands before she jumped off the sofa, scurrying out of the room. I shot Jax a confused look as we heard her footsteps on the stairs, Jax just shrugged back, neither of us knew what she was doing or what was running through her mind.

She reappeared as quickly as she disappeared, only she was clutching something in her arms. “Poppy,” she whimpered as she clambered up onto his knee, “you need Mr lion more than I do.” Her words were like someone had plunged a knife into my heart, the pain spread across my chest as she passed her stuffed toy over, “he will look after you and make you feel better, like he makes me feel better when I’m not feeling well.”

I couldn’t take it any more, I slowly found myself pushing myself to my feet, I was on autopilot right now as I made my way outside. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts, the moment I stepped out onto the decking my knees gave out causing me to drop to the floor.

I had no idea how long I had been sitting there sobbing my heart out but I felt a sudden warmth wrap around me. I didn’t need to look up to know who had joined me, the feeling of sparks shooting through my body told me exactly who it was and for once I wasn’t afraid of letting him see me so vulnerable.

“I’m here Sunshine,” Charles whispered, gently running his hands through my hair, “I’ve got you, let it all out.”

“Seriously, if you don’t want your head bitten off, stay out of the kitchen,” Pierre mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck looking like a child that had just been scolded, “I knew Nova was a feisty one but damn.”

Charles didn’t miss the knowing smirk on Jax’s face, “dude, I could have told you that, one of the many rules with my sister is do not mess with her, or even try to help in the kitchen,” he paused for a moment, letting his fingers wrap around the hem of his hoodie, he slowly pulled the material up.

“Jackie boy, come on man you are gonna put me off my coffee,” the Scotsman groaned, “I do not need to see your stupid abs this early in the day or without a strong drink.”

“You don’t normally complain, babe,” Jax smirked, blowing Chibs a kiss causing everyone around the table to laugh, “but I wasn’t just flashing my body, this is proof that you don’t mess with my sister whilst she is cooking,” he pulled the hoodie up further revealing a four inch scar, “apparently I was doing something wrong but I think she just wanted an excuse to stab me.”

It was like Nova knew Jax was talking about her because she instantly strolled out of the kitchen with flour smeared across her cheeks, the sight caused Charles’ heart to skip a beat, “if you don’t shut your face I will give you a matching one on the other side,” she said with a straight face.

“Pops, tell her,” Jax whined, with a giant smirk on his face.

“I swear, I will bash the pair of your heads together soon,” JT groaned, glaring at both of these kids before taking a sip of his coffee.

There was a familiar buzz in the air, it was something Charles felt when he spent time with his family, it made him feel like he was home. Everyone around this table had truly accepted him and welcomed both him and Pierre in with open arms.

As quick as Nova appeared, she disappeared back into the kitchen, Charles found himself getting lost in his thoughts. This girl was one he could see the rest of his life with, he didn’t want anyone else by his side.

“Uncle Charles,” Elenor said quietly, resting her small hand on his cheek, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yes, Ellie-bear,” he smiled, looking down at the small girl that had settled on his lap.

“Thank you for making Auntie Nova sing again,” she beamed.

“Yeah man, I have no idea how you managed it but you deserve a medal or something,” Tig hummed, leaning forward on his elbows, “what’s your secret?”

“No secret,” Charles shrugged, “I don’t even think I have done anything,” He paused, looking over Tig’s shoulders looking towards the kitchen. The sounds of Nova’s voice was the only thing he was focusing on, it was something he could listen to for the rest of his life.

He stayed quiet as he wrapped his arms around Elenor’s waist, lifting her up so he could stand before placing her back down on the seat, “look after my seat, little bear,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against the top of her head.

Ignoring everyone he made his way into the kitchen, there was a question he was dying to ask and he couldn’t wait any longer. There was no way this was just a summer fling anymore, the feelings he had for Nova were real. No matter what he knew they could make the long distance work, their connection was too strong.

His heart fluttered as he walked into the kitchen watching his girl buzz around making sure everything was perfect. “Besoin d'aide, Sunshine ? Need help, Sunshine?” he hummed, wrapping his arms around Nova’s waist, resting his head on her shoulder.

“Non, mais je prendrai un baiser. No, but I'll take a kiss,” she giggled, turning around so she was now facing him. Her hands instantly wrapped around his neck as she closed the gap between them. The moment their lips connected, the whole world felt right again. It was official Charles had found the missing piece he didn’t know he was searching for. He couldn’t think straight as Nova deepened the kiss, he didn’t care she was probably getting flour all over him. The two of them were lost in their own little world so they didn’t realize that Jax had walked into the kitchen.

“Fucking hell, Squirt!” Jax shouted, causing the two of them to jump apart from each other, “didn’t you hear the smoke alarm going crazy,” he scolded, frantically waving a hand towel around the device on the ceiling trying to dissipate the smoke from around it.

Charles didn’t know how to act, Jax had just caught them in a full make out session and in turn caused Nova to burn the last few pancakes. He stood there awkwardly hoping that Jax wouldn’t lay into him.

“Too busy making out with lover boy, you burnt the goddamn pancakes,” Jax huffed, leaning against the worktop folding his arms across his chest.

“It’s the last one, it's fine,” Nova hummed, throwing her hand in the air before crouching down pulling a tray out stacked with pancakes and bacon out of the oven, “now get out of my kitchen, asswipe!”

The moment she swapped the tray for a knife Jax quickly scurried out of the room once again leaving Charles alone with Nova. He let out a shaky breath and ran his hand over the back of his neck, “be my girl?” he blurted out, it wasn’t how he planned, he had this whole speech planned but instead the words slipped out before he could stop them.

Nova slowly turned around, her eyes as round as the dinner plates that were laid on the side. Suddenly Charles felt a wave of nausea wash over him, had he asked too soon? It felt like an eternity before she spoke, “say that again, Leclerc,” she said softly, as a huge smile started to creep on her face.

“Be. My. Girl,” he said between each step he took. The moment he was close enough he rested his hands on her hips, “I don’t want anyone else, I know we have only known each other for a few weeks but in such a short amount of time you have set my world on fire and I don’t want to extinguish the flame,” he whispered, brushing his nose against Nova’s. “Tu es celui qu'il me faut, Nova Teller. You're the one for me, Nova Teller.”

“God, I love that sound of that,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his as she spoke, “your girl.”

“Squirt, where the hell is the food?” Jax’s voice boomed from outside.

“Way to ruin a moment, asshole!”

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