#making his own path and so on and so forth :]

[presepohne]

heartbreak liquor

PROLOGUE / SERIES MASTERLIST

arranged marriage au | simon ghost riley x oc pamela (second person pov)

warnings: mention of past abuse: mental and physical for both the characters, oc is emotionally weak, not description for the oc except for her occupation, extreme emotional vulnerability, lack of empathy at certain points and severe ptsd and mental turmoil, problems at navigating feelings from both parties, dd:dne, eventual smut.

chapter warning: none

You have been here for a few hours.

Perhaps more, you have lost count.

The air smells stale, the dampness from the rain before settling in the room. The sun has gone below the horizon long before, grey clouds looming around with drizzling shower at the early hours of dusk, morphing into something more.

The rain thudded against the glass panel of the window, you focus on the tricking rain drops against the flat surface. Small trails of water against it, traveling down in jagged paths, too similar of your own. The streetlight filters through them, cascading a different kind of illumination around the room.

A yellow halo, dewy gold that wraps you up in melancholy. The heaviness that settles in your chest since long now felt alive, along with the pitter-patter of the rain. The book between your hand, that you now press against your chest, as you look around the room, was just an excuse to hold onto something.

Just to feel you're holding onto a promise.

Empty office, dark room, smell of something awfully close to blood and gunmetal and something close to home. Your eyes drift among the many pictures of him with his mum and family. There are no pictures of you and him, none actually. Just the one you keep in your journal, that's all.

The frames on the wall in front of you hold different pictures of him and his team. A man with a mohawk, his captain, another sergeant and him, all in uniform at different occasions. Not many though, just few, enough for you to wonder what he was like with them— and not you. Enough for you to believe you were nothing too special.

You have lived here for a good while, very aware of your surroundings, ever so known about each crook and cranny of this office and house you have pretended to exist in for the past eight months.

It would have come as a surprise if you didn't, living in this small space that you both shared, almost a good apartment.

It holds him, his existence as some relic people forgot to erase. He's big in his existence, Simon. You wonder if you could call him your Simon in your own narrative, if that's possible considering the distance between you both. This small space he called office held his entire being; books, photographs, some stupid gifts from Johnny— of course you know his name, that man visited with Simon a lot.

If there was a possibility to know someone you met way before, then you knew Simon like the back of your hand, way before your marriage with him.

It’s like being tied by a bond that had long frayed, a little tug and it will snap.

Considering, you and Simon have always been the two sides of the same coins. There is this veracious appetite of being alone, left alone to your own pain while you try to avoid others. You'd like to imagine Simon has Johnny to talk about his pain, but that too is doubtful.

You ease up, the rocking chair moving back and forth. It was gifted by your colleagues during your marriage. Something you have come to question just for the sake of your sanity. You have seen your mother, how she told you that she was the perfect wife. They listen my love, they don't talk back, they don't—

But that was something you had heard when you were a child and dreams felt like reality. The later part of your teenage years consisted of demands that didn't align with your own happiness, yet just to make your parents happy you had complied.

This marriage has been the same, an instrument to make your parents feel proud of your achievement, that you listened to them.

But it costs something you cannot name yet, maybe it's your soul or your dignity.

It has been months since that day, if you counted then it's eight months since you got married. The worn out wedding band shone around your finger, a small diamond in between, your mother-in-law had said it belonged to her mother.

A family heirloom.

It was ancient, in a way that made your memories stir with ache and want.

You have learnt to remember Simon in breaths, slow and deep breaths that expand your diaphragm with the belief that you can hold him in your chest. He's a puzzle you aren't really sure how to solve, a mismatched palette of colours and blood.

When you first met, you didn't know how it would turn out to be like— this whole ordeal. He's nice, you'd reckon, provides, fills up the groceries, makes sure the house is warm, the faucets aren't leaking, and the washing machine is working just fine.

But amidst the silent agreement between you two, unspoken even if you both hadn't shared much as a day together.

Not even as humans coexisting together. The question of existing as a married couple was out of reach. This silent mayhem you carried, you hoped that he did the same.

But you aren't sure if he does, you can never figure out.

If you were foolish enough you would think you could love him enough, for him to break in your arms, a hopeless thought really.

But you aren't.

So here you are, rocking yourself back and forth, with a book between your hands even if you have been on the same page for the past one hour, your mind always on him. Always— him being rooted in your mind, deeply, irrevocably; a magnetic thought. Tormenting yourself with this responsibility your parents had laden you with, marriage.

It's a big word, you had told your students once. Marriage is a big factor, plays a crucial role in your future, and it's that stage of life where you need to settle down. Calm yourself and offer bits and bobs of yourself to someone you could trust. Someone you had known— someone you would have loved.

The irony wasn't lost on you, now that you're here. Married to a stranger, even a warm house feels too cold to be lived in.

You believed you were a paradox in making.

The front door clicked open, your attention drifting to the dulled thud— a duffel bag being kept down, his definitely. Your gaze drifts around the room again, just to observe, soak the details of the room up with every breath. In the distance you could hear his footsteps around the living room.

Simon Riley is a paradox too.

You close your eyes, you have learnt him, like your own books. You know how he crooks his fingers when turning pages of a book he's reading, you know how he likes his bags packed, you know how he absolutely loves sitting in his office and stare at his and Tommy’s pictures, he loves many things silently.

That's one of your faults here, observing and feeling too deep.

It feels like a crime to even read people like that, even if your own husband was a close up box and the only outlet he allowed you was his body language.

You know him, every crease and fold in his behaviour— you know him physically.

That's the boundary, your boundary— too afraid to dive deeper into his thoughts, what ifs swimming through your head every time you want to open him and want to read like a book, hold the rotten bits he never talked about, those brown eyes which were warm once you believed now just a dull and dry earth. It scares you, the thought that you might get dirty from the blood that stains his fingers.

It terrifies you.

So you take a pause, open your eyes before letting out a breath— stop counting time with the dust collected in your lungs and get up.

Fixing your loose shirt and shorts that hung low on your hips, you open the office door and take your exit. The muddied boots are at the door, a big heavy duffle bag wet with rain and mud. You walk further into the kitchen, tying up your hair when he comes into your view; he's broad, gargantuan in his physique and so is your appetite of knowing him. Your eyes briefly drift towards the new scars and bruises that line his jaw and cheeks, nothing new there.

He still hadn't noticed you it seemed, so you took the opportunity to break the silence that never seems to end. “You're back” you smile, a small fake stretch of your lips as you walk past him into the kitchen to turn on the stove and heat up the dinner you had cooked. There is this silence again, that always lingered after you spoke too fast, after you made a comment too soon.

Making a conversation with someone who won't spare you a second glance, wouldn't really ask if you were really fine, just some humanoid void that exists with you.

The awkwardness that held onto the air coiled in your stomach as you looked back at your shoulders. He was there, eyes closed as he slowly massaged his stiff shoulders. Frame tight, as if being here with you was making his chest constrict.

You'd agree it's the same for you.

He grunts, small trails of water droplets traveling down his forehead, drenched because of the rain. You find yourself fetching a small hand towel, playing it in front of him as you go back to the pot that now shimmers, smell of rosemary and thyme waiting through the air.

The warm lights here in the kitchen are always too bright and hurting, so you switch them off and turn on those above the chimney. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he takes a seat at the dining table, uniform discarded at the foot of the chair as he rubs his face.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, turning towards him, hoping to see him smile, yet all you can see is his obstructed face because of the dim lights that don't seem to be on you, but on the flowers at the table.

You could feel the stiffness in the air between you both, something stagnant like water in puddles— not fresh but just pungent enough. His muscles tensed as he stretched his arms and looked at you. “Yeah” he murmurs softly, thanking you as you hand him a glass of water.

There is something different about his gaze this time and once again you're afraid of taking a leap into whatever unending ouboros you both have. The wedding ring is around his neck, on a different chain along with his dogtags.

You close your eyes and remember three weeks ago, when you last saw him. Clean shaven, eyes still dull as he fixed the verandah door, you had asked him if you could call the carpenter; later that day you found him with a tool box at the door hands steadier and not with the same tremble they hold now as he lifts the glass up to his lips to take sips of water.

It has always been like this, this loneliness he builds between you both. Not like you tried to fix anything.

Your eyes don't follow him but you can feel him get up and disappear in the bathroom, the door clicked shut.

It must have been quite a few minutes, he's out of the bathroom, you're serving dinner, his clothes are now in the laundry basket beside the washing machine.

You look up, eyes always following him, coiled muscles now relaxed, a towel around his shoulder as he dries off his hair, even if there isn't any. He sits down, eyes always downcast and looking everywhere but at you, and even if he did, there won't be any emotions in those orbs of his.

“You changed the flowers” he commented at the bunch of daffodils you got from your students a few days before. You find it amusing, “The ones Johnny bought turned bad after a few days,” you grinned, pushing his plate to him and taking a seat in front of him.

He hummed softly as thanking you as he swallowed few spoonfuls of the soup and a few pieces of chicken. You didn't take any bite of anything, stirring your spoon around the bowl as if you wanted to ask something.

And you did.

“How was work?”

He looked up, expression giving up nothing. This was the thing with him— the opaque transparency he wore around you, always, as if allowing you to glimpse at him through tinted windows. Allowing you to stand at the threshold of the house while you try to navigate his voice through the floors and walls of this house.

One thing you learnt about Simon was, he was unreadable.

“Okay” he answered gruffly, paying more attention to the food between his teeth, chewing and swallowing.

It feels like a TV show, you and him. Those kinds where he's an unloving husband with a loving wife, except you are as unloving and ignorant as him. This whole situation life whirlpooled you and him in, putting two stars that never shone just right into each other's path, a damage which couldn't be controlled.

You both were physically close, maybe; but realities apart.

taglist: @skyrigel

lemme know if you all want to be in taglist.

[floralettered]

dressed in sunlight / warmed the cold that lived inside me ꒰ ﾟ ׅ caleb ♡ ﾟ ꒱

summary. “anything,” he says, and that’s everything, isn’t it? you set the tin on the table behind you. wipe the hair from his eyes and trace a path to his jaw. caleb shudders, canting to follow your touch. “god,” he murmurs, “anything."

tags. mc!reader, my belated interpretation of no-return night bday sex, mc's grief over losing caleb is very much present and so is his trauma so there's some minor angst, first times, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv, fluff, love confessions, praise, overuse of "baby", dacryphilia, unsafe sex acknowledged without much care from either party, they want the cookie too bad sorry, caleb pushed my smut vocabulary beyond limits i previously believed i was capable of, etc. this is my first post so support is super appreciated :3

word count. 6.1k

The last minutes of the day stretch midnight blue across the walls, and somehow it feels like if it doesn’t change now it never will. You’ve tiptoed around it a lifetime. You’ve wrapped yourself in him, warm at his hearth, cool at his headstone. You’ve mourned him, watched him slip away and then return to you, not with a moment of his absence where you were anything less than half of him — How many people can say that? How many people can weep in the arms of someone they once weeped over the grave of?

You turn in what should be sleep but can’t be. There’s too much of him and too little, things you thought once not to want for but what is one impossible wish granted above getting him back? It’s hard not to be greedy. The sheets smell like him, and he smells like you: fresh laundry and the shampoo he’s been buying you since high school, stolen back-and-forth in a played out excuse to visit and steal it again. Once-empty shelves are now lined with photos, books, hard-won plushies and badges encased, model planes you built at his table. So little belongs to him anymore, and he’s filled all of it with you.

Still something is missing. It doesn’t feel like absence in the way losing him did, the numb waking and sleeping and seeking answers to make sense of existing without him — and you don’t think you ever would have. This is anticipatory. It’s one of those things, you guess, like your stolen shampoo; you’ll dance around what you both know so that there’s always a reason to come back.

That’s the game. It’s good sportsmanship to lie here and let it play out.

But then is it losing to make the choice in a second, breathless at your own daring, your overwhelming need to grab the tin beside you and march to the door? You hope not. It’s seven minutes to midnight; if you think about it any longer you’ll stop yourself, and it’ll pass with the day. Maybe this is winning, then.

Or maybe he’s waiting for you like he knew you’d come, your necklace dangling in his hand, his fingers twitching over something that isn’t you — and for Caleb, everything else is, foremost, defined by its lack of you. Because he doesn’t stop, shocked, arrested by the sight of you at the foot of the stairs, candy tin dumbly in hand like either of you still believe that’s why you’re here. His lips curl in a way someone else might not notice. Your necklace falls against his chest. It rises with his steady breath, buttons on his blazer undone. That’s the game: you notice everything, and he knows.

“Hey,” you say, voice small, tired. You’re still in your dress. It’s clear you got no more sleep than he did. “I thought you might still be up.”

“Yeah.” And his smile stretches to something full, sunshine in the dark.

“Not ready for the day to end, huh?”

“Mm, not yet. You did good, Pips. Don’t want it to go to waste.”

“Good?” You mimic offense.

“Amazing,” he rectifies teasingly, “Perfect, brilliant, the best—”

“Yeah, yeah. Suck-up.”

“For you.”

He wears it like a badge of honour. Not like his Fleet awards, Colonel cap and insignia, sports trophies and a thousand other achievements (because he is perfect, brilliant, the best). It’s like you said. They’re things defined by their lack of you. There’s nothing he’s prouder of being than yours.

“Want your final gift?” you ask, waving the tin at him.

“Come here,” he says, quietly, and it’s an answer to something else.

You do. Of course you do. In the steps it takes to reach him, you feel weightless, like the sensation of his Evol softly suspending you, pulling you hazily toward him. His power has never made more sense than this moment. He is the gravitational force you orbit — yours no more than you are devastatingly, wholly, infinitely his.

You stand before him, not quite between his legs but too little is in the way of you now not to know you’ll get there. Your fingers, slightly shaky, ring against the tin as you twist it open. He steadies your hand with his, and you know he’s looking at you but your eyes stay fixed on the array of colours, not quite ready for what you’ll find when you meet his. A second. That’s all you need. You pretend to consider the flavours. He’s patient with you, brushes the skin of your fingers and waits.

Caleb is good at waiting for you. Would wait for you forever, take whatever you gave him, follow you anywhere.

You fish a yellow candy from the corner, smile mischievously when you press forward and hold it to his mouth. He opens for you. The look in his eyes is exactly what you thought it would be, and it’s hard to keep your smile as much as it’s hard to stay upright when you press the candy to his tongue and feel it graze your finger.

He winces somewhat, then laughs, slides the lozenge to his cheek to talk. “Lemon flavour? You always give me the sourest ones.”

“You said they’re your favourite like a hundred times!”

“Uh-huh, but you test me by going sourer each time, don’t you? Findin’ excuses to torture me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You let me, you masochist.”

“And now you’re being mean to me on my birthday.”

“Hardly.” You glance at the clock, shudder on a breath you hide in a cough. “Only two minutes left, so it doesn’t count.”

“Yeah? You gonna go back to being mean to me tomorrow?”

“No,” you say without much thought. There’s something about his voice when he gets like this, unfair of him to call you mean when he says it in that tone. He’s mean. Dizzying. “Maybe,” you add quickly, “if you deserve it.”

He hums, glances over when the clock ticks. “You’ve got a minute to decide. Maybe you can be nice to me in the meantime. Make up your mind at midnight.”

“And what could I do in a minute to know?” you ask, but it’s half a sigh. You’re inching between his legs now, spread open, anticipating the moment you fully fill the space. Carefully, you oblige him. His knees bracket your hips but don’t touch. You could be held another way if you wanted, how you imagine it sometimes — too often and for longer than you’d like to admit.

Slowly but surely, a knee brushes your hip. When you only skip a breath but stay, his eyes slip down, and he takes the chance, brushes against the other until you’re snug between his thighs.

“Anything,” he says, and that’s everything, isn’t it?

You set the tin on the table behind you. Wipe the hair from his eyes and trace a path to his jaw. Caleb shudders, canting to follow your touch.

“God,” he murmurs, “anything.”

So you climb into his lap like coming home.

It feels like it: soft and warm and sturdy, his arms coming up to hold you without a second’s pause, and you love him. You kiss him. He welcomes you in.

If midnight strikes, you’re beyond caring the moment his lips are on yours. The days could blur like this, a thousand birthdays in a week, all the years you spent wanting this made up in the time you swear you will have it. Caleb, fortunately, seems to be of a similar mind. One hand lingers at your back as he cradles you closer, the other twining up your waist to the nape of your neck, your jaw, big palm swallowing your cheek with the brush of his thumb. He holds you there. Only lets you squirm if it’s to push forward, and you have no intention of going anywhere else. And he’s loud. God, don’t you know he is; you’ve tried following his workouts before, the one-handed pushups, the military precision, sweat trickling down the neckline of his tank top to territory untreaded. But to feel his sounds against your mouth when you’re only kissing — and fine, sure, your hips are rolling somewhat on instinct — is so intensely foreign that you’d stumble if he wasn’t holding you so tight.

You pull away to breathe. It stings. Pathetically, you literally ache to part from him. But you’d frame the image of him dazedly chasing your lips if you could, and that alone is worth it.

Caleb slumps back against the couch with a half-lidded gaze and cheeks already flushed, shaking his head like he’s not sure you’re real. “Wanted you — needed you like this for —”

“How long?” you whisper, mouth dry.

He laughs. It sounds verged on a sob. “All my life.”

“Oh.” You still, and you hope he knows it’s because your mind has gone too fuzzy to come up with anything better. “Okay, you — you can have me. As long as… Can I have you?”

His head falls back with a broken sigh. “Can you have — You kiddin’ me? Baby, you do. Please.”

You nod, kissing him again, guiding his hand to your shoulder while you copy the way he said baby over again in your head. He traces the ribbon there and pulls back when you loop his fingers through it to tug it free.

“God. Are you sure?”

“Mhm,” you say, and scatter your confirmation in kisses up his neck. He curses, free hand cupping your thigh now, squeezing as if to steady himself. “Want you.”

And then the ribbon is as undone as he is, cascading down your dress with all of its jewels, cool air prickling the skin of your chest when he follows suit on the other side. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, engulfed in an instant by Caleb’s warmth. His mouth traces the new skin available to him. He moans when your hands grip his hair. Spurred on, he kisses lower, as reverent as he is curious, as loving as he is hungry. You can’t help but tug when his tongue grazes your nipple, and he hums in satisfaction, drags you by the hand under your thigh so that you’re straddling him properly, as if you weren’t before. His hard length presses perfectly between your legs.

You grind against him and he stops, keeps you still. “Fuck — not yet. Gotta wait for me, baby.”

“But you’re —”

“I know, I know, no fair. Too much I wanna do with you first, though.”

“Caleb…”

His mouth traces lower as he hoists you up, Evol pressing in now, the pressure colder, but familiar, part of him like everything else, and you want everything. “Let me be greedy? Wanna be good to you. Please.”

You suppose that’s it — everything — offered to you plainly. What are you going to do but take it?

You nod. Small, first, reeling somewhat from the fact that this is happening, then earnest when his eyes tell you it isn’t enough.

“Thank you,” he says. Sighs it into a kiss at your navel as his fingers work their way to the insides of your thighs and dig like he knows to expect your shudder. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. He presses closer, feather-light, just the tips of his fingers now, relenting his grip to his Evol in favour of testing the grounds of your skin, how the goosebumps raise on the round, soft shape of your bare thighs. You’d considered wearing stockings that morning. Dreamed of this moment but not dared believe in it, and abandoned them regardless in the same eager hope you always have for him. Thank god.

“Caleb,” you breathe again, the word dry, sticky when your mouth tries to shape it right. “Let me down — I want — need to feel you.”

He groans, shakes his head with your hands on his cheeks, tilting his face so that your sweetest eyes might make him give in like he always does, but even then he denies you. He has to grit his teeth through it. Can’t linger on your gaze too long before pulling you down just enough to bury his face in your neck but not to feel him firm between your legs again.

His fingers find their way there instead, and you’re jolting over his lap when they graze the juncture of your thigh just as his teeth come down softly on your collar, soothing the sting with his tongue. But even Caleb’s patience wanes. He’s got his spare hand pushing your dress up around your waist, trailing the lace band of your underwear with restraint you’re not sure he would’ve had if you’d done this years ago, when you probably should have. It’s something to think about, rocking as far as you can against the weight of his Evol — Caleb in his college years, with you, swallowed by the size of him in a little dorm bed as he pants above you, his fingers —

His fingers pushing aside the fabric of your panties and finding the wetness there, moaning into your neck at the feeling, the sound you make with him. You gasp, blink open eyes that were blissfully, painfully shut, dream discarded. The reality is better. You claw at his shoulders.

“Caleb, please —”

“Fuck, okay, so pretty like this. Knew you would be.”

It’s too good. He’s too good. All at once, half-suspended, his mouth kissing a necklace on your throat while his fingers curve upward to find your clit. You don’t know where it comes from. Thoughts of him in college? Your Caleb, tall and pretty and ever-so-wanted? You can’t help it.

“How are you… Have you — ah — done this before?” you ask, but it’s strangled, caught in his hair, stuck to your open mouth.

He stops. It’s not even a fair question. What would you tell him if he asked you the same? That despite his best efforts, you’d kissed and been kissed, fumbled around to touch, been touched before retreating, too uncertain even with kind hands on tall pretty bodies, terrified to feel them and think only of him?

“I told you,” he says, and his voice is so breathy now, rasped like it gets on your favourite mornings, “Wanted you all my life. Why would I?”

You nod, feeling dizzy. “Just — just good at it. Guess I could’ve said that better.”

A surprised, satisfied little laugh escapes him. Scowling at his self-congratulation, you shut him up with your lips. So he’s yours, good, conversation over, thank you. But Caleb is smiling so proudly against your silencing kiss, fingers right back to work, and the first delicate circle he draws over your clit has you keening, stuttering into him.

“Too much, honey?”

“Fuck, Caleb —”

“That’s okay. You can do it.” He sounds so sincere. Sugar-spun. Your sweet Caleb, looking up at you with dewy eyes and pink lips. “God, you’re wet. Gotta let me in.”

“Uh-huh,” you exhale, nodding limply into his neck.

“I can?”

“Please.”

“Oh, you’re —” His thumb keeps its place but two fingers trail down, curl at your entrance and you lurch helplessly against his Evol to meet them — “Too good to me, baby.”

His ring finger presses in first. There’s some symbolism lost on you you’ll smile sleepily about later. Not now. Now he slides into you, enveloped without resistance, and you curse. You’d be writhing if you had the movement, squirming to push him deeper. Caleb is muttering something, both of you at the beating pulse of the other’s throat, and it feels like a mantra he’s etching to your skin. It sounds like the sort of patterned speech someone repeats to themselves to wake up from a dream.

“More,” you plead, and with anyone else you’d be embarrassed at the desperation in your voice, but you don’t think it could be anyone else. You don’t think anyone else could be made so broken just by pleasing you.

“More?’ he rasps in awe, like he isn’t obliging you already, finger sliding in to the knuckle. A warm pressure builds steadily inside you. He coils so nicely against it, the friction blinding. Your vision dances.

It’s something beyond instinct to bite down on him harder than he did you. It starts with grazing teeth, and then you’ve never been content just having some of him, have you? So you latch around the skin, summer-gold, fresh from the shower. You can’t help it. You need to. 

“Fuck —” His spare hand scrambles from thigh to hip, grabbing tight, twitching at the shallow indent of your teeth in his neck. His Evol loosens enough for your shoulders to slump, cocooned around his torso. You pant, kiss, almost as wet and messy on his Adam’s apple as you are on his fingers, and he sounds like he’s struggling to hold on.

Good, you think. In the heat haze of your pleasure and his faltering control, your trembling hand reaches down and wraps around his clothed length.

Caleb’s Evol slips completely, second finger barely tipping into you when you sink down on his lap and ease it to the hilt.

It’s something about the evidence of his desire and the way he grips you harder. Something about the sight of his hand buried between your legs, fingers vanished to the knuckles in the warmth of your cunt. The added friction of his thighs under yours, grinding frantically against him while he’s still blinking over some fired circuit in his brain. If it’s all too much for him you don’t notice in any way that matters. The rope grows taut and snaps, and only when you come do your teeth finally unlatch from him, crying into his flushed ear instead.

You’re shaking so hard it’s difficult to process the moment he returns to you. This. Here. Your body spilled over him, panties to the side and thighs spasming over his clenched wrist. But he does. Oh, he does — the focus comes back to your eyes in time to catch his darkening, burning, sweeping down to the mess you’ve made of his lap. It’s hard not to relish the look in his eyes and the twitch of his cock, imagine how good this is for him, memorize the bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. 

Caleb doesn’t want you thinking about how it feels for him. Caleb doesn’t want you thinking at all.

Wordlessly, he flips you over. Tugs your dress up by the ribbons and lays you on the couch all while you’re still panting. It’s you who can’t quite cling to reality enough to play even, keep the control you so narrowly won when you’re still coming down from his fingers. And then the absence of them is suddenly so overwhelming that you’re pushing up on wobbly elbows to catch the moment he’ll surely curl them into you again.

That’s not what you find him doing.

Instead, he’s sliding your panties down legs he wrests open despite their jerking, kissing his way back up from your ankles until his breath is warm against your cunt.

“Said you’d let me be good to you,” he breathes, bitter but without any bite.

“You —” He kisses the inside of your thigh, licks a stripe up the residue of your orgasm — “Oh, you are good to me.”

“Uh-uh, baby. I told you I wanna do more and you’re bein’ greedy. You don’t even know how much I wanna do. Don’t have a damn clue, do you? Can’t make me come yet or I won’t get to do it all.”

You’re swallowing instead of talking, mouth dry, head progressively lighter but apparently not light enough for him because you’re still mustering the urge to argue.

“You’d come from that? Me on your lap?”

You don’t pose the question to embarrass him, and he isn’t.

“I can’t believe I have you,” is what he says, so raw, so suddenly unabashed in the wake of all the shame he carries that you don’t know what to do with it but hold your breath. “Just you is enough. Don’t think you’d have to touch me at all.”

“Oh.” Stupid. You’re stuck on the syllable again.

“But,” he goes on, “You told me you’d be nice.”

And he presses his lips to your clit as if to test your word, a little whine in his throat when you gasp and buck your hips. He forces them back down. No Evol. Just his hands now. Maybe to prove he can.

“That was — ah — think it’s tomorrow now, Caleb.”

“Today, baby. Your head’s all dizzy, huh?”

You nod feebly.

“Poor thing. Gotta let me take care of you then.”

Again. Your head copies the motion without thinking, hips struggling against his hold, his mouth inches from where you need him.

“Ah,” he tuts, “Tell me, please? Tell me I can take care of you.”

You fall back onto a pillow, unsure when he placed it there, but warmth spreads in the place you feel his absence at the knowledge that he did. He’s already taking care of you. Always has. 

“You can take care of me, Caleb — baby, please.”

Maybe the word does to him what it does to you, because he hitches your thighs over his shoulders with a low groan and does. He takes care, tongue laving against you and then in, fingers right back on your clit in case his mouth gets too busy lapping at whatever you’ll give him. And you’re remiss to hold back. As if you had a choice, your body wound in the throes of his touch. He’s making more of a mess of you than he’s cleaning up the last. His moans reverberate against you. At a point, startled from your steady, shallow panting when he slides two fingers back in and presses your clit from both sides, you realize he’s as lost as you are. Consuming you and consumed. You thrash helplessly as the feeling rises again, hands weaving through his hair as you peer down from your heaving chest.

He’s moving. Not just his mouth and the quick joints of his wrist with every curl of his fingers — Caleb is moving somewhere lower, hips desperately grinding against the couch as he eats you out. You fucking mewl. High and wanting, face immediately turning over to bite the pillow he set for you. 

He stops with a jolt. Stiffly, pulls away, a scratchy sound at the back of his throat, movement suspended as your necklace swings beautifully across his chest. You squirm in pathetic display for his mouth to latch onto you again, his name spilling tenfold from your lips. The pillow is damp where it drools out of you.

“Fuck. Stop, stop.”

You try, less effort on your part than his, grip tight on your thighs as his eyes wrench shut.

“W-Why?”

“Almost came. Fuck. Give me a second.”

He did say just you were enough.

Still, it’s a devastating thing to know. Maybe you could come from just him too — hands on your thighs, yes, but nothing of him anywhere else but the inches he’s retreated away from you, mouth glistening, hair mussed from your desperate fingers.

“You can,” you say, babbling somewhat, your voice entirely shot. “Want you to. Come back.”

“Jesus, baby, don’t do that.”

But with his hands on your thighs, yours are free to push through his hair again, stroke the messy strands from his face and brush your trembling thumb over his wet lip. He curses, lets you graze his teeth with glossy eyes before slapping the palm down and away like it’s enough to unravel him. When he pins your hand to the cushions, a new freedom is offered to buck your hips, and the last of his resolve vanishes with the provocation. It’s not on purpose. It’s his fucking fault, really, he’s completely possessed you. That doesn’t seem to matter much to him. 

Caleb burrows into your cunt with something too ruined to be anger but animalistic all the same, Evol seizing you, and you come a second time, fixed against his mouth without an inch for escape.

His ministrations are unfaltering. He isn’t wasteful and he isn’t forgiving — tongue fucking into you even when you stutter in the comedown. You think you’re speaking, begging, aware enough to try to muffle your moans with a bite to the pillow but his Evol takes that from you too. He doesn’t stop. Must have conjured some impossible determination because you make the same noise that almost destroyed him before but it does nothing to cease his pace now.

“Can't,” you whine, “Too much — ah, Cal-uh-uhb —”

His mouth departs from you only for the time it takes to deny you. “Can, honey. So good for me.” 

“Need to hold… something…”

So generous, your Caleb, he relents control of one of your hands. It immediately winds its way back to his hair and pulls. Your chest is still heaving, body twitching with all the movement it has available as his mouth finally salves its assault, licking at the soaked skin of your inner thighs instead. But it gives you a moment. A breath.

He looks up at you, staring in some sacred way while you struggle to keep your eyes open. Even when the pleasure begins to fade to a calm, steady buzz, legs slumped under the caress of his hands, you moan softly at his fingers pulling free. Time seems to still to just this. You lock your heavy-lidded gaze on his, find him, keep him there with sudden urgency. You’ve had him as long as you can remember and yet you’ve spent your whole life looking for him.

“Promise me you’re real,” he breathes, like he’s done nothing but look for you too.

Your eyes go hot. Blurring at the corners until nothing is clear but him. “I thought I lost you.”

“No,” Caleb says quickly, Evol gone again, inching up your torso to wipe your tears before they fall. “No, it’s you and me, Pips — I couldn’t… I would’ve found a way back to you.”

“I looked for you everywhere.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “I know.”

“I never would’ve stopped.”

Your cheek. Hand on the other. “I know.”

“You’re really here?”

“I’m here.” He kisses you. “I love you.”

You nod, smiling, crying, laughing maybe. “I love you too.”

His breath catches in his throat, blinking rapidly. The cool quiet of his apartment is warm in a way it’s never been before. “I dreamed about you. I’d wake up… reachin’ for you. If I didn’t have you like this, it’d be enough; you know that, right?”

It’s your turn, pulling him down, kissing his forehead. “I know.” You wrap your arms around him. “But I’m glad it’s like this.”

He sighs contentedly, squished against you, hands trailing reverently down your waist. And you know he’d sleep like this, still fully dressed, still hard — clean you up a little before you doze off — and that would be more than he’d once allowed himself to want. It’s long past midnight now. You owe him nothing and never have. There’s no transaction here. You just love him. You just want him in all the ways he can be had.

“Can you…” It’s ridiculous to be shy now. You grumble into his neck nonetheless, still putty from the hips down. “I don’t wanna sleep yet, Caleb.”

“You—?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. Are you s—”

“I’m sure, dummy.”

He twitches at your thigh. “How are you so mean to me when you’re bein’ so nice?”

“That doesn’t make any — ah —” His hand wedges between your legs again — “Sense.”

“Mm, you know exactly what I mean.”

“Shut up.”

“Like I said.”

You get to work on his buttons. 

“You love me,” you say as you descend to his navel, skin revealed by the inch.

He isn’t shy to repeat himself. “I love you. More than anything.”

“Forever?”

“Forever. Longer. However long you’ll have me.”

His shirt is shrugged off his shoulders, flexing on instinct at your touch, the muscles tanned and corded. You squeeze and pull him closer. Don’t want anything separating you. Want him to be part of you.

“I love you,” you murmur between kisses, low as he’ll let you go before his abdomen clenches and he’s pushing you back up the cushions and unbuckling his belt.

“I can’t — Need to be inside, baby.”

Point proven: his cock slips free from his briefs, painfully hard, flushed for you. You reach for it, mouth watering. Caleb grabs your wrist and groans in a hoarse, fragmented way when you part your legs instead. His head falls to the crook of your neck.

“Fuck. I don’t have… I didn’t want to assume…”

Oh. Right. Protection. You’ve only been warned a thousand times. “I don’t care.”

You don’t care? Point proven, in a terribly honest way: you cant your hips up and slide filthily slick against him. It would be so easy to guide him where you want him. You shudder under his glorious weight, digging your fingers into his biceps while his clutch white-knuckled at the cushions on either side of your head. There goes that mantra again, more like a prayer now, like begging for you and mercy as if they’re one in the same. But he’s not holding you down anymore and that has to mean something. 

You’re grinding up, a bit hard on your sensitive thighs but you’re no quitter. You’re inviting him in, warm and welcome, and you’ve been home to him too long to stay waiting at the door.

“Okay, okay,” Caleb gasps. He shifts to squeeze your waist and lift your hips nice and snug around his. His other hand wraps around his length, weeping from the tip, wet enough at the apex of your thighs to rub through and lubricate. You keen at the feeling. “I’ll be slow, baby. You okay?”

“Uh-huh. Please.”

“So good,” he praises, not sinking in yet but lined up just right. “Can you — ahh, keep bein’ good so I can get one more from you, honey, please? All I want.”

“Y-yeah.”

He eases the tip in. “Yeah?”

“God, I can’t —”

“Can’t? — Oh, fuck — I know, I know, but y’can’t clench around me like that, baby. Said you could do it so I need you to keep your word.”

“M’trying. Need more.”

“Gimme a… give me one second, pretty. God, you’re so…” 

Warm. Warm, you want to finish. Blistering at how perfectly he sinks in, forehead sticking to yours as you inhale each other’s hot gasps. You want to wrench your eyes shut at the pressure as much as you need to immediately wrest them open again. You can’t look away from him. Then you don’t know which part of him to look at; his eyes are volcanic, more pink than violet in the sunset hue of the lights you strung for him, fluttering as he presses deeper, but — then there’s the point of contact where he does it, lapsing from sight like his fingers did, burrowed steadily inside you.

There’s the initial sting but he’s so sweet, your Caleb, patiently murmuring praises into your mouth: so good, like I dreamed it, please and please and please. It’s more overwhelming than anything else, the need to be as familiar with this part of him as you are the rest, shuddering around the foreign stretch as he slowly pushes to the hilt. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders for purchase and his head falls. Soft, dark hair curtains your vision. It’s less sweet, less patient when he teeths your jaw and mutters, “Mine.”

For a moment you stay like that, testing the air, the feeling of skin, marks of old scars and new, all senses to prove it’s real. You asked him already. He promised he was. And you don’t think you could conjure this — never dreamed him quite right when you did.

Then he moves. Your nails carve moons in his skin you’ll kiss better later.

“You’re — ha —”

“Please,” you sob, reduced to the word, unsure of exactly what you’re even asking.

Caleb’s cock twitches inside you. “You cryin’, baby? It’s okay.”

Are you? You don’t think you care. His thumb is at your cheek to wipe the tears, your old bite mark faded between the fingers, and you whine a soft, “More.”

“Yeah? You want me to keep going?” It’s a strained question, a needy thing, like he’s always tried not to be for you. It’s hard for him to imagine parting now — and you know that because you grab on tighter at the thought — but he would without blinking. Clean you up and carry you to bed, talk it through in the morning, love you no matter how you have him. 

But how many more ways can you tell him you want him? Grind into his hips, flutter around him so his teeth clench on a moan? You are his mirror, comprised of his best and worst parts, and he’s never turned away. You never will either.

“Stay,” you plead, taking his hand. 

With the lights shadowed by the veil of his hair, his eyes are the same soft purple you look for in every sunrise. Tears pearl in them, a gaze that doesn’t shine like this for anything else, and he’s cradling you by the hips, loving you — the best thing his hands have ever done — whispering it in a jagged, barely-there voice as he pulls back and thrusts in again.

“I love you,” at the column of your throat.

“I love you,” between kisses that slope to your chest.

“I love you,” in your open mouth, tasting him, too gone to say it back but he knows.

Caleb holds your trembling thighs open around his waist every time your body tries to squeeze them shut, manoeuvres you to fit him deeper, praises never ceasing even when you can’t muster the energy to rock to meet him anymore. He’ll do the work for you, tell you how good you are, how sweet, his perfect girl. Leave it to him, he says, so eager to please you. And the pressure builds again. Your head is too fuzzy to know what words are spilling from your mouth but his name. 

“You’re gonna give me one more, baby?” he groans, awed like he didn’t swear to bring you there.

You attempt to agree.

“Yeah, you are — fuck, I can feel it. Please.”

And he’s babbling on as the feeling rises to something almost unbearable, the blurry edge of all your senses tangled, fizzling wires all coiled together. The weight of him on you and in you. You’ve never known where you end and Caleb begins, but this is something else. You gasp for comprehension, nowhere to turn, nothing in the world but the shape of him.

The wire snaps. He doesn’t last through it.

His back must be bleeding with the toll your fingers have taken on his skin, squeezing him dry in more ways than one. He spills into your cunt, pulsing, pace quickening like it isn’t enough. You’re blindingly hot underneath him, spasming through it. Your thighs are drenched. You are crying, you must be. The pleasure is undoing, the kindest way you’ve ever been unraveled, thoughts gone to him how he wanted. Your shared release pools between you as his thrusts finally slow. The sound is lewd. Impossibly, you want more. You’d tell him to stay again if you could form the word.

He knows. He’s yours.

“You did so good, honey,” he sighs in your neck, still stuttering gently into you. “Thank you.”

“I know, I know. Don’t…” You swallow. Your mouth is painfully dry. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Caleb laughs breathlessly as he engulfs you in his arms. He presses a kiss to your temple. “Think you need some water, Pips."

You grumble wordlessly against his chest.

“So you are bein' mean again? That’s the official decision?"

“Mhm."

“Huh," he hums with another kiss, grinning at the little shudder you give as his lips trail down your jaw, “How about I get up — yeah, yeah, I know, baby, don’t look at me like that. How about I get you some water and then come back inside?"

"Caleb." You blink, gasping when his tongue sweeps over your breast. “Again?”

“…Pretty please?”

With a glance over his broad shoulders, you debate whether the seconds it’ll take him to get to the kitchen and back are worth it when you’ve already got him nice and warm and wrapped around you. But his eyes gleam luringly with promise, sweaty and messy and pink in the face. 

God, you love him.

“Hurry up.”

He’s never moved faster in his life.

[hamsterdads]

pepsicola fankid nonsense

[apostase]

just btw

[taintandviolent]

sin creeps in ; Nosferatu x Reader

summary: You're plagued by heinous nightmares of a mysterious monster, but you can't help but feel drawn to he who plagues you.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.5K | female reader, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of death, making out, smut, unprotected sex, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering)????.

a/n: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! this is just.... listen, I'm not even going to try to justisfy myself. rack up yet another hear me out moment for me. you either understand or you don't. shorter than I wanted it to be, but I needed to get this out and sate my hunger. banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You awake with a strangled gasp, your hands flying to your throat as your breath gradually returns. The nightmares had roused you, as they had every night, but this time, something lingered. Your room was frigid; the gauzy curtains fluttered in front of the open window like misplaced ghosts, allowing the chill of the night to penetrate your quarters. Everything looks terrifying at night; familiar shapes are transformed into horrible spectres, and your very room feels unknown. Unsafe. 

He is here. For the first time in several nights, you weren’t dreaming – he has come for you.

“I know that you are here with me,” you bravely whisper into the emptiness of your own bedroom. The wind whistled, a familiar sound, but something growled – growled in a language you didn’t speak, but understood. The voice was low, gravelly, and heavily accented. 

Hurriedly, you kick the sheets from your legs. The moonlight pales your skin, washing you in its blanch, bluish tone. Gripping your gown with both hands, you gather it up your thighs, exposing them to the cold. The chill of the wind hits your center, and you hiss through your teeth. Your head drops to your chest, and so does your gaze, watching patiently. At the edge of your bed, a large, slender shadow manifests. Him. 

You dare not look up. The feeling of his presence petrifies you, but also arouses you – letting a slick warmth pool deeply between your legs. 

The shadows continue to creep further up your bed, until they reach your feet, which twitch in response. Up, up, up… along your shins. Your skin prickles, and you shiver, doing your best to remain calm. Though he doesn’t touch you, you feel him. You feel every pass of his large hand as it makes its way up your body. His shadow glides over your hip, to your stomach and finally between your plump breasts, coming to a stop over your beating heart. It thumps away like a rabbit’s heart underneath the blackness of his form, and you hear a ragged, strained groan.

Then, with no warning, it moves down, leaving a cold, lifeless chill in its path like a gust of winter wind. You pant, desperately clinging to what breath you have. All at once, the shadow envelopes the soft, warm mound between your legs and your hands fall to the bed, bracing yourself. You have felt his ghostly touches for countless nights, tasting your body as a lover would, but each time your body climbed the peak, the sensations disappeared.  He comes to you in dreams, always leaving you unsatisfied. Your chest heaves in the night, cold droplets of sweat peppering your decollete and breasts. Your hands claw the sheets while you dream, but never reach euphoria.

Tonight, there are new sensations. The phantom wisp of his middle finger runs along the length of your slit. Grazing it. Somehow, you feel his finger part your wet folds, toying with your most sensitive areas. The nonexistent pads of his fingers sweep back and forth over your swelling clit, bringing a spasmodic twitch from each of your muscles. Wanting. Craving. While the sensation lacks the familiar warmth of a living man, it is bountiful with pleasurable feelings – your body responds embarrassingly; your shoulders shudder violently. 

He inhales, a deeply hollow sound. “You desire this… thine own body craves it….” 

The accent seems to fill his entire mouth, rumbling in his throat as he speaks slowly, drawing out each word like an incantation. You let out a plaintive moan, throwing your head back against the pillows, the down feathers crackling underneath you. As though he’s still pleasuring you, your hips writhe back and forth, practically convulsing with need. The shadow of his hand is gone from your body, replaced by the looming darkness of his physical form. After a moment of trepidation, you finally lift your head, and stare into the dark, terrifying eyes that watch you. 

You swallow hard. “I do.” 

A moment passes before you continue. “Take me as you will, for I am yours.” You consent again, desperate to convey your own insatiable hunger, your unimaginable need. 

Another intake of breath from him – it almost sounds labored, painful. His footsteps are dreadful as he moves around to the side of your bed. He’s tall, his form stretching towards the ceilings and towering over you, consuming your atmosphere as he had in your nightmares. His silhouette is large; enhanced by the countless furs he has on.

Weightlessly, his lithe, ghastly fingers reach for you and make contact with your form. They are cold, and the icy feeling of them penetrate the thin fabric of your nightgown. He moves gradually, but hungrily, feeling the curves of your body beneath the cotton. As he moves southward, his fingers skim over the peak of your breast, a nail catching on the swollen nipple. It hurts, but your chest jerks forward still, craving more of his touch. 

Pulling a breathy moan from deep within your throat, his long, sharp nails rake across the tender flesh of your thigh. It’s bathed in the silvery moonlight, which casts horrible, elongated shadows of his fingers down towards your center. He scrapes downward, his middle finger digging into the flesh enough to leave a reddened streak behind, but not so much to break the skin.

“P-please…” you mewl, looking up into his horrifying visage. The sight of him fills you with dread and disgust, but like a single drop of blood in water, it’s tainted with something else, something else that has been lingering in your system for days. 

He’s above you now, though you don’t remember seeing him move atop of you. Still, he’s there. The bed creaks as you push yourself into the mattress, whimpering underneath him. He lowers himself down onto you, the brush of his mustache tickles your face as he lingers above you. A second passes and his waiting mouth envelops yours. He tastes damp and cold, faintly of ash and earth. His tongue slips out and it too is cold, slipping wetly along your own and along your bottom lip. His kiss is dreadful, but possessive, and he inhales each time you exhale, as though he’s trying to suck the very warmth out of you. No man has kissed you the way Count Orlok kisses you, and the chill of the room disappears, snuffed out by the fire that rages in your lower abdomen. 

Your tongues collide with each other; you tasting his lifelessness, and him tasting your utterly intoxicating, vibrant liveliness. For a moment, the two of you stay intertwined at the mouth until he separates himself, smearing his mouth over the warmth of your neck. He hovers, pausing over your pulse. It thrums under his lips, and his hips urge into yours, indicating his hunger.

There is a shuffle, a rustling of clothing. You try to lift your head up to gaze between your bodies, but his hand holds you fast, pressing you against the pillow. The size of his hand is staggering; his palm underneath your chin, while the fingertips extend past your hairline, into the strands. You shudder again and whisper his name. He inhales as though he plans to speak, but doesn’t. 

The front of your nightgown falls apart, revealing your chest to him. With one hand covetously clutching your breast, his mouth opens between your breasts, the slithery coolness of his tongue gliding down along the length of your sternum. As the teeth puncture your flesh, your hands make fists on either side of your body, pulling the sheets into the confines of your palms. He enters you, in more ways than one, and you feel the steady tug of his mouth as he sucks the blood from your veins. Warmth pools in the cave of your stomach.

The fingers of his other hand crawl up your shoulder, and like a quill in ink, he dips the pads of his fingers into the hollow of your chest, coating them in your crimson essence. He smears the blood along your decollete, along the hem of your nightgown, tugging it harshly over your shoulder. The blood coats you in a flash of warmth, and then chill as it meets the cold air. 

His hips rut against yours as he drinks, the pulse of your blood matching the thrust of his hips. An ache starts in your neck, a slow pulling sensation that has your eyelids fluttering. He moves within you, his length penetrating as deeply as his sharpened teeth have. Your release is found amongst blood and groans and that same language which you understand, but do not speak. His tongue scrubs at your soft skin, lapping up the blood as it comes… as you do. 

The darkness is ever-looming, and as your aching cunt ebbs its throbbing, it settles down upon you. You let yourself fall backwards into the abyss, freely. It takes you, wrapping its arms around your tiny frame which is dwarfed by his stature. His mouth breaks free of your bloodied skin with a slick pop.  Into the softness of your skin, you hear him growl, ‘Mine.’ The feeling vibrates against your neck, and your lids flutter shut.

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 2

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1,

Part 3

The same arms that cradled you last night now carry her. She’s unconscious (apparently because Sylus choked the life out of her and you will be pressing him on that later), and she’s beautiful. So beautiful that you tug on your sleeves a bit to cover more of your skin as you stare. The strange woman is a literal sleeping beauty, so you can’t help but keep your eyes on her.

But those details about her aren’t what make you truly stare. No. Something else entirely makes you stop dead in your tracks as you approach the twins and Sylus at the doors.

Her threads. As in multiple ones. Multiple soulmates and multiple bonds. They flicker in a way you’ve never seen before, and behave like winding paths. They’re each a gateway to a different love, to a different story. And she could choose which one to take.

You don’t know how you know this. But that isn’t new to you. Your power’s always been a mystery to you, seeing the bonds of soulmates even before they themselves have connected and formed. You know someone’s love story before they do. And you know what they’ve lost whenever you see a severed thread like James’. All this you learned through trial and error, since no one else sees what you see.

It got even worse once Evols started showing up and the Deepspace Tunneled opened. Like a puzzle you must assemble without instructions. Or a full picture. While blindfolded.

So, sometimes your ability just tells you things. Like now. It told that this strange girl, Miss Hunter as the twins call her, had multiple possible soulmates. It also told you of her multiple pasts. One of which you know quite intimately.

Sylus. You can’t bare to look at the man in question. From his heart protrudes his string, and on the other end of it is her. Her and not you.

You always knew you’d meet Sylus’ soulmate one day. And when that day came, you knew you’d be happy to see them love one another. But when you imagined that, you imagined he’d be their only love. Not one of many. Not some choice among different slices of pie.

You force yourself to keep walking. Pain creaks through you, like a car slamming on its breaks every few feet. Jagged and raw. Cutting.

”You aren’t her only one,” you want to say. ”You aren’t her only one, and you deserve better than that.”

Why? Why did this girl with so much love have to take from you the one thing you wanted? You want to pluck that stupid string of hers that belongs to Sylus and tie it to your pinky finger. You want to scream at the universe at how unfair this all is.

You don’t do anything of that. Instead, you fall into line with the twins as Sylus takes her to a spare bedroom. Part of you is relieved beyond words he didn’t put her in his own room. You think your heart would’ve given out there and then otherwise.

Once she’s carefully laid down on the bed, Sylus finally speaks.

“Kieran. Luke.”

“Yes boss,” they say in that weird unison thing they’ve always done; you find it strangely endearing.

“Watch her.”

He’s all business, acting as if this was an everyday occurrence. Like he always brought strange girls back to his home.

“Of course, boss,” Kieran replies. He gives you look when he does so. Even with his mask, you could tell what he was trying to say: ”you know what’s going on, right?”

You shake your head at him. His older brother is oblivious to the whole mess, sitting on a chair in the room and kicking his legs back and forth. You envy his silly disposition right now. You couldn’t afford to be nearly as calm.

Sylus and you quickly leave the room, and you guide him to his office rather than his room. Questions burn on the tip of your tongue. They well up inside of you, begging to be released. You can’t bare to let any of them out. So you tame them with persuasion like you’ve done to your clients and opponents in the past.

“He’ll tell you everything,” you think as you walk beside him. ”Just be patient.”

Patience goes out the window the second you two are alone.

“What in the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing, Sylus?”

“Name dropping me again, Gamayun. What have I done to bring forth your wrath this time?”

He casually leans against his desk, smirk on his lips and tension in his shoulders. You try to stand a ways away from his, but he uses his Evol to pull you closer. Your feet momentarily leave the floor when he does. The energy of his power is gentle against your skin, and caresses you in an almost apologetic matter.

You glare at him as he does this. He just leans in close to your face, one hand hovering on your waist and the other near your cheek. You stupidly lean into the touch.

Fuck me and my touch-starved self.

“Being sweet with me won’t change the matter at hand.”

“You think I’m sweet on you?” He leans in even closer. “And if it’s worked in the past why can’t it now? Perhaps I need to be more than just sweet…”

He trails off and brushes his fingers on your ear. Suddenly you feel too much. His breath. His skin. The gaze of his eyes. His coat. Everything.

You place a hand on his chest and lightly push. He immediately backs away, and his expression seems to stiffen a bit. You ignore it.

“No amount of sweetness will change the gravity of your lies. You brought a strange woman into the heart of our operation, and I won’t let it go.”

“Jealous?”

Yes.

“Do not dodge my question, foolish boss of mine.”

“So feisty today.”

Sylus leans back on the desk and beckons you closer. You stand firm with your hands on your hips and eyes on his soulmate thread. Anything to keep your focus on the task at hand.

He sighs and says your name. You’re inwardly grateful; no Gamayun means no sweetness which means your weak heart won’t make you back out of this conversation.

“She’s a Hunter. One with a unique Evol that I’ll be needing for my plans. That’s all. It’s just business.”

Sylus walks towards you this time.

“Business you couldn’t be fucked to include me in?”

You both wince at your harsh words. You because you’re normally never this openly hostile. With anyone. It’s bad for your line of work. And the only other people you’re normally around are the man you love and his chaotic children henchmen. You’ve no need to be so.. crass.

Sylus winces because… well, you don’t exactly know. His thread gives off some weird feelings you’d rather not dissect. You worry you’ll glimpse into his first meeting with his soulmate, and you’d rather hear about it that experience that yourself.

“There was no need.” Sylus is firm with his words, but his reluctance to make eye contact with you tells a different story. His guilt almost makes you think that he knows how you feel about him, and that he’s sorry for what he’s doing to you.

Fat chance of that.

“Since when is there ever no need for my involvement? You literally drag me anywhere you possibly.”

“Because I fear you becoming a hermit otherwise.”

Your cheeks warm at his words. Stupid Sylus and his need to remind you of your early days working for him.

“Says the man who’s only other companion is his mechanical crow.”

“You don’t say? You know, Gamayun, I’ve seen the way you rant to Mephisto sometimes after certain deals. You’re not too far off to becoming like me.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“Even if I, perchance, do, it’s only because of you. And those “deals” you mention are the ones where you don’t give me much to work on. Like now.”

You two are back to square one. The light-hearted atmosphere is sucked dry in that moment. It’s been replaced by a weight, a fog, of uncertainty and worry. It takes you back to before you meant Sylus, all the way to high school, when something similar happened between you and the first person you fell for.

Those memories eat away at you. Strands upon strands of memories that twine with your nerves to create discomfort in every cell in your body. You only speak in hopes it would rid you of such pain.

“Why can’t you just explain yourself to me like a normal person?”

“Because you have no need to get involved.”

“Morana,” you try using his own tactics against him. “Please just tell me.”

You walk to him this time and cup his cheek with one hand. Sylus leans into the touch, basically nuzzling your hand. You love doing this to him. You love doing this with him. And you’re probably only doing this with him in this moment because you both know somewhere in your hearts you won’t be able to in the future. You doubt his soulmate will appreciate having another woman that loves him touching him like this.

So you’ll savor it.

“What’s the benefit of hiding such a thing from me, your partner?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with useless things.”

“So useless you’ll bring the twins?”

“They were just there for some fun.”

“Fun which you excluded me from? How rude.”

Sylus winces at your dry tone, knowing there was more to the story. Ever since he met you, he knew you had problems feeling left behind or excluded. You always felt like an outsider anywhere you went due to your powers. It got even worse once you realized you had no soulmate.

My relationship to them isn’t your problem.

So many times has those words been uttered to you. So many times have people spat them at you before they walked out your life for good, too in love to notice your broken heart. You wonder if this conversation with Sylus is the beginning of history repeating itself. If right now, the thread of your relationship is unraveling while his new one weaves together.

“Rude? Maybe. But necessary.”

“Why ever would you think that? You need to give me a valid reason.”

“You were sleeping in my arms so peacefully I couldn’t bear to wake you.”

“I said a valid reason, Morana. Not your usual nonsensical reasons.”

“It is a valid reason. I figured letting you sleep would be my way of making it up to you for stressing you yesterday.”

“It doesn’t. Telling me the truth might.”

“You drive such a hard bargain. You do remember I’m your boss, not the other way around? You work for me, sweetheart.”

“I do. But I’m more akin to a partner rather than a subordinate, even if I call you boss. So I’m entitled to the truth about your plans for this new person in our lives. I need to be involved, Morana. Why can’t I?”

“Because maybe I don’t want to get you involved.”

Your thoughts stumble at that. You shrink back from Sylus, dropping your hand and bringing it close to your chest. His eyes widen. You see the panic in them. It’s satisfying, in a sick way.

“Gamayun, that’s not what I—“

You don’t want to hear his excuses.

“You need something from her.”

Something you know you can’t get from me and you know I would stop you from taking.

Moments like these make you wonder if he knows. If he knows how you love him. If he knows you can see the threads of fate. If he knows that you know he’s not your soulmate but hers. If he knows you’re doomed to be alone.

But then you tell that part of yourself to be quiet. Because thinking about the what ifs would only drive you crazy.

“I do. And I will get it from her.”

You hold back a cringe at that. Stupid Sylus. That was no foundation for a relationship of any kind, let alone a soulmate bond.

“Not after such a hostile introduction.”

“Hostile? Me? Whenever have you known meet to be hostile, Gamayun.”

“The day we met,” you make a list of tallies on your hand as you speak. “Last week with that one arms dealer. Last month with the numerous explosions. James.”

His face twists when you mention the man. You roll your eyes.

“You and I both know that I have the best chances of resolving this peacefully.”

“Resolving. Gamayun, I haven’t done anything that needs resolving,” he smirks. “Not yet anyway. I’ll call upon your skills when they’re deemed necessary.”

It hurts a little to hear him say that, but you press on.

“Listen to me. The poor girl’s going through something; why else would an upstanding citizen of Linkon come here by choice? She’s in an unfamiliar environment. She’s been kidnapped twice. Once by you, and another by someone who, according Kieran, was going to kill her for what she had. And then you go and choke her until she fell unconscious. “

You caress his hair as you say this, leaning even closer despite your better judgement. His breath hitches and he gets closer as well.

“She’s not going to trust a word you say. And you and I both know the twins; negotiations and civil conversation isn’t their strong suit.”

The two of you laugh at this, and you vaguely wonder if this is how it feels to be a parent of insane teens. Because that’s what you think your life is sometimes.

“You’ve all made a bad impression on her. I haven’t. She’s in a sensitive spot, and I think the advice of someone with far more tact would do her good.”

“You got all that from just a glimpse? You’re better than even I thought, my sweet Gamayun.”

“Like I said before, being sweet won’t get you anywhere.”

You giggle when Sylus uses his Evol to mess with your hair. His hands hover around your waist.

“Just let me be the contact with her, alright? My relationship to her is far better than yours despite never truly meeting her. Whatever there is between you and her will be dwarfed by her grief.”

Guilt twists in your gut at that lie. Their relationship will never equal any relationship you have to either of them. But that bond doesn’t exist yet. So you’ll cling to those false words and hope they get you through this storm.

You think you have him. You think you’re about to get your answers. Instead, Sylus breaks your heart again. Except this time, it’s in a way you thought he never could.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

And just like that, you’re 16 years old again with your best friends. And then 12 with your friend’s father’s “new friend”. And then 10 with your former friends turned bullies. And then 7 with your first ever close relationship. All the times when someone spouted those same words just before they abandoned you. Just before they broke your heart, threw it the trash, and went home happily to their soulmate.

You can barely hold it together. You briefly register pushing him away, hands shaking and adrenaline practically going to war on your system. It’s different from the last time you pushed him away. So, so different. Your body betrays you in this moment. It’s on guard. It sees Sylus as a threat.

“Oh,” is all you muster.

You don’t need to see Sylus’ expression to know that your mask has slipped. All that practice acting and pretending means nothing now.

“I’ll just… I’ll just go. Yeah. I’ll just go.”

You think you hear Sylus protest. Or maybe you imagine it because you want him to chase after you unlike so many in the past didn’t. It doesn’t matter either way. You leave all the same. You leave and try to pick up the pieces of your heart while Miss Hunter slumbers away, oblivious to the plague of emotions her entire existence has brought you.

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @madam8, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano@toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[gutsby]

Seeing Pink

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel steals more of your innocence every day. Fortunately, you love to give as much as he loves to take.

Warnings: 18+. DD/LG—DON’T LIKE IT, DON’T READ IT. This depicts two consenting adults in a fictional setting! Freeuse & somnophilia with a pre-negotiated safeword. Unprotected p-in-v/a. Soft dom!Joel. Corruption kink (!!) Reading a Regency novel while fucking…for the culture.

Note: ***Spoilers*** for Jane Austen’s Emma. The book has been out for 208 years, but I wanted to give y’all a heads-up.

Word count: 4.4k

You woke with your pants around your ankles.

You don’t remember falling asleep that way.

In fact, you’d always taken great pains to follow the rules: ‘Don’t play while daddy’s away,’ ‘Clothes on if he’s gone.’ So to find yourself sprawled out on the couch, just as you’d been when you dozed off waiting for him to come home—sans bottoms—was unnerving, to say the least. Glancing at your hand, you found your book was still in it. Only the words were harder to read now that your eyes were bleary and the letters were all…jumpy. Jumping?

Bouncing.

As your mind made the slow, steady descent back into your body, you sensed you were rocking back and forth.

Someone was rocking you with the force of his thrusts.

“Daddy!” you gasped, nose half-buried in a cushion.

You were lying face-down on the old, weathered sofa, and you could feel your old, weathered man behind you. Inside you. Stuffing that tight, shiny space between your legs as he straddled your hips from above. His own hips made a soft click, click, click with every piston of his weary bones. He said it’d been that way since the day he’d turned forty. You just might’ve giggled if the sound hadn’t been paired with the chorus of a soft, wet, and sticky-sweet pleasure you knew to be coming from you.

The head of his dick then carved a delectable path to the center of you, like he’d made it himself. You whimpered.

“‘M’sorry to wake ya, bug.”

You could hear his voice was strained.

Daddy never got a head start on playtime unless his day had been particularly rough—unless he really needed it.

Unless he saw pink in your hair, and knew this was okay.

It was your own, secret language, of course. A silly idea brought to fruition by an even sillier admission: when Joel had told you one night that there were times he just wanted to use your body to feel good. When his big one had been at work for hours, and you were so invested in your book and just couldn’t bear looking away, or you’d fallen asleep—would it be alright if daddy put himself inside you for a little while then? I’ll be nice and gentle.

The code was a pink satin bow.

When you tied that ribbon in your hair, Joel knew you were giving him permission to use you as he pleased.

And then there were other ways to make sure he only did what you wanted to do, even in this special ‘scene’; if it ever got to be too much, or you just didn’t want him to be in you or on you anymore, all you had to say was ‘cinnamon’ and your playtime stopped right there. Joel made sure of it every time, and he didn’t make you wait.

When you’d fastened the satin in your hair that night before nestling down to read, you hadn’t expected him to be taking you up on it, really. He’d been so tired lately.

“It’s alright,” you told him, while the air was knocked out of your body through the place he kept pounding you.

“I-I missed you, daddy.” You added, a bit sheepish.

At that—or perhaps just feeling your walls pulse around him—Joel groaned. He placed a broad, callused palm over your spine and held you steady while he fucked you.

“I missed you…more, sweet girl.” And it sounded like a confession. The smallest sliver of an apology: ‘I know I haven’t been here as much as I’d like to be—I’m sorry.’

You’d accept that attempt at making amends, and any other kind Joel would try to proffer, in a position like this. With his hand on your hip and the small of your back, wet member gliding back and forth between your folds, you felt useful to him. His sweet girl. No better thing to be.

Him filling you, and then you, in turn, filling the whole living room with your soft, staccato whines. So nice.

So kind of him to spend his days toiling in the heat to put a roof over your head, a book in your hand, and the silkiest, comfiest pyjamas that money could buy—pooling around your ankles now, but you didn’t mind.

You dropped the novel so you could use your hands. Try to lower your touch to the curve of your cheeks, then spread yourself open for his eyes to drink you in: your tight, dripping hole getting stretched around his cock.

That was what you’d wanted to do, anyway. What Joel liked to see, ostensibly. But the second your fingers lifted from the book, he tightened his grip and shook his head.

“Keep readin’, baby. Looks like you’re close to the end.”

You didn’t know what to say. His observation was correct; you were ten pages shy of completing Emma—but why finish now? Why read when he was right here? If you ever spread your legs while you read it was because you were too engrossed in the plot, and Joel needed release. It was rare he made the suggestion himself.

As if to answer your questions, he wedged his cock even deeper. Confirming his wants with a gentle authority:

“You do like your book, don’t you, sweet pea?”

He’d bought it just weeks ago. You nodded, emphatic.

“I— I do, daddy! I do. I just…” you trailed off, trying to find the right words while his cock made you dizzy with pleasure, “Just…like you better, is all. Wanna feel you.”

You suspected that would work. From the rhythm of his hips, you guessed he’d be likely to assent at any second.

Then he didn’t.

Joel picked the book up and pushed it back to you.

“You can feel me just fine with your eyes on the paper. You did say you wanted to read to be more like a…?”

Uh.

Your brain blanked.

Then you remembered.

“Like a big girl,” you said, in a breath.

Those had been your words. Hardly of note to you now, with your cunt so happily occupied, but ones that Joel wasn’t ready to dispense with yet. Not when you’d been so eager to read these last weeks, to try proving yourself.

You braced your knees against the leather. Tried to shift yourself slightly while Joel kept knocking you back, again and again, with his balls slapping hard against your rear.

Then he slowed, and lowered himself, and came to rest with half his weight blanketing your soft, prone body and his face closer to yours. He kissed the shell of your ear.

“You do wanna get fucked like a big girl, don’t ya, baby?”

And he drove his cock in all the way down to the hilt.

You felt him in your tummy. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the book again and tried to nod your head.

This was a game you liked. An angle Joel loved. A dynamic between you two that turned your insides to syrup and your mind a soft, compliant puddle. He’d shown you what kind of treatment big girls get, and you felt your body wilt with the idea. Joel was laying overtop you now, hips rutting mindlessly against your ass and his arms sliding under you. Grazing the skin and feeling your breasts and telling you again, ‘You can show me, baby. No need to be shy. Daddy’s right here. You’re alright.’

Now it wasn’t so much the command which compelled you but the praise in that sweet Texan drawl. The patience. You could feel him stiff and hard and aching, but he was disciplined enough to wait—let you take your own pace now and show him, in your own special way.

You opened your book to the last page you’d read. Joel stroked your hair, and he kissed the edge of your cheek.

“You’ve made it so far, baby,” he said, admiringly, “Barely been two weeks and you’ve already finished it, nearly.”

You nodded. You let him play with your hair and graze your soft skin with his lips, and when his hips had stilled, you tried not to betray your disappointment. Daddy just wanted to see you could behave—you definitely could.

Even if all you wanted him to do was hold your body to his and fuck you senseless, make you cry and whine and squeeze all down his big, leaking cock while you came for him, you could stay calm. Good girls always did.

Big girls knew how to listen, and when to hold still.

“I like it…like it— a lot,” you told him, and you knew he knew there was more to those words than just the book.

With his hands still underneath you, Joel propped you up to rest more comfortably against a pillow. He slid one hand down your tummy and in between your legs, while the other kept squeezing your breast—tweaking the pebbled nub between forefinger and thumb and feeling you squirm under his touch. You gripped your book tight.

“Keep readin’, sweet pea,” he encouraged, words gentle, “I’d hate to be the one…distractin’ you from all the fun.”

How he could be so calm while talking such nonsense was beyond you. Maybe he’d grinned, too. You didn’t have the strength to peek behind you while his index started rubbing between your folds, and your walls clenched tighter. You wanted to wriggle your hips for friction, but as it was, you knew what you had to do.

You had to try.

At first you read a couple words. A short fragment of a sentence. You yearned to get more, really digest what the passage was attempting to convey—a friend of Emma’s getting engaged, as it was—but prospects were poor. Joel kissed your neck and toyed with your wetness and made you want to whine from all the tension within.

His cock was nestled deep. The smooth, bulbous head had found reprieve near the cusp of your cervix, and with every flick of his finger, it was like you could feel him sinking deeper. Kissing the most intimate parts of you while you had only to breathe. And think. And try to read.

“Learnin’ a lot?” Joel hummed in your ear.

You bit your lip and nodded. He knew you were full of it.

Your legs were now trembling around his hand and your eyes hadn’t moved so much as an inch across the page.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he pressed.

“I— I— yeah. Yeah,” you whimpered.

“What’s been your favorite part to read?”

Not this one, that’s for sure. You swallowed.

“W— When…” Again, your mind was wiped of all memory.

“When…”

His index drew a slick, pretty lemniscate on your clit, and you wanted to cry. But you had to keep trying. For him.

“When— when Frank finally shows up,” you huffed.

“Frank who?”

“Frank Churchill. He’s…Emma’s old governess’s stepson. He visits for a little, and then Mr. Knightley gets jealous.”

You were out of breath. Joel was trying his best not to smile behind your back, but you could feel him now—there, and between your legs, making speech a struggle.

“Who’s he?”

The man sounded like a father with all his sweet and calm curiosity. Like he wasn’t balls deep in your heat.

“Old family friend. But he…he’s got a thing for Emma.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah—” And you had to pause to swallow. Suck in a breath when Joel nosed your cheek and told you softly, ‘Doin’ so good for me’ “—but he doesn’t know it at first.”

You felt encouraged by Joel’s words. Enlivened by the pulse of his cock inside you, and pushed toward release with every circuit of his fingers. He was treating you well, making sure it felt good no matter how much he teased.

And then he reached up, leaving your poor little clit to throb all on its own. Something caught between a moan and a plea—‘Joe-el’—bubbled deep in your throat. But Joel was too focused on the book in your hand; he had a wet, sticky finger flipping the page in a second. He’d turned it back, to a passage you had marked in pink.

The sight of the line you’d highlighted made your cheeks heat instantly. That made you want to wriggle away.

Joel held you closer.

“Why’d you mark this, honey?”

Again with the loving, probing tone. You couldn’t bear the thought of explaining your reasoning here. Not now.

But he urged you to read it. Pulled your body nearer to his and kissed the side of your head, while his body blanketed yours and his words were spoken as gentle as ever. He wanted to know what it meant. Why you’d marked it in pink, no less. No diffidence would do.

You balked. Blinked. Remembered that big girls listened.

‘If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.’

And when you said it, it almost felt like telling him yourself. Your grip loosened from the book as soon as the words came out of your mouth, leaving Joel to hold it

“Knightley said that to Emma, did he?”

His eyes were scanning the page, eyes alight and lips smiling. From between your legs, you felt full, and yet nothing was more hollow or harrowing than presently hearing this man chuckle at the words that had made your heart swell in your chest that night. It felt belittling.

And not in the way you liked. Joel reached for your chin to tilt your face to him, and when you mumbled a short ‘yes’ to his question, he softened his hold. He hummed.

“I’m sorry, baby. ‘M’sorry. Knightley’s sweet, isn’t he?”

He nudged your cheek with his nose.

“Uh-hm,” you said, low. Ignoring the urge to be mature.

“Sweeter’n daddy?”

“Maybe.”

Joel grinned again. He shifted his weight. You were just about to tilt your head more, when he sat up completely. You felt his pelvis prod the flesh of your ass, and he left your book to you. He readjusted his grip on your hip in his hand while he used the other to knead your skin.

You keened at the change of angle—feeling the friction between the coarse grey hairs at the base of his tummy and the swell of your bottom, the brush of his manhood.

“Yeah? He treat Emma like this?”

And, to punctuate the question, Joel withdrew himself to the tip and slammed back in. He groaned with pleasure.

“Daddy,” you hissed, and he started sawing back and forth, gently like before, “He just…I— I— I don’t know.”

“400 pages in and they still haven’t fucked?”

“Daddy!”

“What?”

“They don’t do that. Mr. Knightley is a…a…gentleman.”

His thrusts were shaking you again, and you struggled to hold your book. Joel kept his motions shallow. Teasing.

“Is daddy not a gentleman when he does this to you?”

You could’ve laughed at that question. You did, a little bit.

“Plenty gentleman-ly, daddy,” you giggled, “Plenty.”

“Good,” Joel returned, swift.

Then, without warning or ceremony, he spit in his hand. He slicked his fingers with the stuff and sank his index and middle fingers between your cheeks—right above the hole he was stretching with his cock—and pressed.

You jumped, still getting fucked face-down, but now with the tips of Joel’s fingers circling a tiny ring of muscles.

His favorite to tease you with, of late. He leaned in.

“Even here?”

But before you could respond, and while thoughts of love, betrothals, and Georgian-era decorum were still floating through your mind, you felt one finger breach your hole. As his cock continued to slide messily, greedily inside your cunt, you let out a whine.

“Da-a-ddy.”

He knew what it would do to you. What it always did. Particularly when he was taking you from behind and telling you sweet and dirty things. Making you feel it.

You hardly knew what else to do but hold your book to your chest and purse your lips, sensing a familiar sting.

“Did men like him do this to sweet little girls like you?”

“I— I—”

“Or is that just daddy?” He pushed the finger deeper.

Your tender, yet-empty hole sucked him in like a dream. You almost couldn’t believe how quickly you spread for him, having only gotten touched in that new, precious place with just the tip of his thumb before. It was tight.

And tighter still, with Joel’s cock gliding in and out of your cunt and his finger sinking further in a hole he’d never fucked. You pressed your cheek to the couch.

“Go on,” Joel urged, gentle, “Use your words.”

You tried. You parted your lips and squeezed a nearby pillow for support, and Joel even pushed your book down flat on the sofa in front of you so you could see the words more clearly. Focus on those instead of his finger.

He pushed in to the second knuckle, and you whined.

Your mind was blanking again. You had only to say:

“He’s…like you, daddy. Knightley’s kinda…like you.”

Joel didn’t hamper the path of his index, but he did slow his hips. He let them peter off to only the gentlest of thrusts, while the motions of his finger flowed like a white-hot stream between your legs. Petting that tender little ring while diving in and out, swiftly, and teasing.

He stoked the flames of desire inside you with each new touch. He flattened his one free hand beside your book, anchoring himself a comfortable height above, and while you tried stealing a glance behind you, he peered down. Reading—or appearing to, anyway—as he fucked one hole with a gentle resolve and caressed the other. You’d never felt more full, or fucking insane to feel more of him.

Before you could even venture to beg, though, Joel said:

“How are we alike, honey? Tell me.”

You almost wanted to cry as his finger wiggled deeper. You had to answer, though. Recollect as best you could.

Stammering only the slightest bit: “He’s, uh, o— older.”

“Older?”

You could feel the smile start to stretch again overhead.

“Yeah. Emma’s twenty-one and he’s…a-almost forty.”

Presently, Joel’s smile morphed into a chuckle. Low.

“Almost forty? That must make me a fuckin’ fossil, then.”

“No!” you squeaked. And just when you had, Joel’s finger breached your hole straight down to the last knuckle. He let it rest while you squirmed, then dragged it out a little.

“I only—” You quickly tried resuming, but your brain was fried. Your body was limp, and all you could feel, or think, was the slow, sweet, and wet sensation tingling between your cheeks as Joel pushed his thick finger in and out, “—only meant he’s a bit more…experienced…than her. Knows her better than just about anyone, and he— he—”

Made you think of Joel. Made you dream of your own fifty-something lover situated amidst a world more than two centuries old, rousing the most romantic notions. You felt silly. You wanted to bury your face in your hands, were it not for the fear that your cheeks might sear them.

It didn’t matter, at length. Your sweet old man ensured it.

“‘S’okay, little bug. It’s alright. Makes me glad to think you’re thinkin’ of me while you read,” he told you, calm.

He stroked your hair. He stalled his hips, momentarily. And just when you thought you might’ve mustered the courage to speak to him yourself, you heard him again.

Except it wasn’t a word you heard—just a wet noise.

A glob of spit hitting the small of your back and sliding down, crawling slow between your cheeks for Joel’s warm, waiting finger. He withdrew the digit, and then he smeared his saliva all over the place he’d pried you open. Likely knowing you’d be too stunned to talk, he went on.

He worked his finger back in, now coated with a sheen of spit: “Always readin’…feelin’ new things, ain’t ya, baby?”

You nodded, and you scarcely even knew it.

“Only natural it happens like that,” Joel assured you, soft, “Daddy teaches, and you learn…and learn…like a big girl.”

With each new word he wanted to drive home, he pushed his finger in. Dragged it out. Curled it gently, as though beckoning you to him, then watched you rut your hips at the feeling of needing more. He sucked a breath through his teeth when he felt you ooze more, warm.

Nectar trickled down his length while your lips above were drooling, too. Your face was smushed to the cushion below, and your hips were tilted up, desperate.

“Daddypleasejustfuckit—fuck—now,” you cried out.

In all the time you’d been together, Joel had never heard you beg like that. The sound was gratifying to his ears, and his cock grew even stiffer inside you. Just barely checking himself, he moved his other hand to your hip.

Squeezing.

Trying to chide your lack of manners, your swearing.

“That ain’t how you ask daddy nicely, little lady—”

“Just make it full like my pussy, daddy, please.”

Though it was clear you knew better than to interrupt the man mid-sentence, you had used your ‘please,’ at least. Joel was strong, unyielding, in just about every place but the one between your thighs—and with words like those, he had only a moment before his primal drive kicked in and he wouldn’t be able to say no after that, for anything.

He would try to sound stern. Gruff, even. Mumbling something or other about how you had to be sweet to get this dick where you needed it, but the truth was that Joel couldn’t wait much longer for you, either. He caved.

He withdrew his finger, quick. Grabbed your hips. Spit.

Spit again. Smeared again. Felt perfectly depraved making this mess, but you seemed to like it all the same.

“Need daddy to teach you that, too?” he asked, hasty.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” you answered, helpless.

“Yeah? Teach you how to take it up the ass?”

“Please, daddy.”

“Dirty fuckin’ girl.”

He smacked your ass, just before poising his tip where his finger had been. He would’ve liked to drag it out. But as it was, the old man was probably four pumps shy of blowing his load; you were all but melted on the sofa.

Joel couldn’t deny it drove him out of his fucking mind to see you like that. Legs spread, slit wet, eyes glossy and listless and so wholly bereft of any other idea in the world but the need for him. It made him sick. He loved you so much. And he’d show you, in ways that any mentor worth his weight in salt was apt to do: he let you feel it.

Slowly, at first. Just the tip made you flinch, and your teeth grit together. Joel found your hand and held it.

“Nice and slow—you’re doin’ so good,” he said.

Even if you didn’t feel like you were in the moment, he always made sure to let you know how much he liked it. How nice you felt stretched for him, how good you took it, and how he had no doubts his girl was made for this.

“Made for me,” he added gently, feeding you some more.

And when he surmised from your soft, strangled sounds that this change was a lot, breaths fast, he knew better than to press again. He pulled out and turned you over.

He had your legs over his shoulders in no time at all and, afforded this new view, was delighted to find a trace of a smile still on your lips. He kissed them. Then he tried to make it fit again. He felt you tremble and held you closer.

“That’s it—that’s my girl—almost there.”

“C’mon baby, just a little bit more to go.”

When you keened at the stretch over halfway through, he brushed the hair from your face and kissed your forehead

“I know. I know. Keep goin’, little one. I know.”

Like he knew what to say to get you the wettest you could be. Your eyes winced, and your cunt dripped a dizzying amount—leaking liquid heat down your slit to coat Joel’s tummy, his overgrowth of hair, and your aching hole, of course. The whole thing was taking you out of yourself with every thrust, and your fingers were laced tight in his. Letting him shower you with kisses.

“Daddy’s so mean for doin’ this, isn’t he?”

He was teasing again, nipping at the hinge of your jaw and pressing kiss after kiss while he stuffed you full. Your eyes were ablaze and fucked-out of their mind, as it was, but still, you managed to smile when he spoke it so soft.

“Not— not mean at all, daddy.”

“You sure?”

Joel wedged himself in to the hilt and grinned back.

You might’ve whined, but you felt too full. Euphoric.

“Uh-huh,” you breathed, head reeling, “I like it.”

“How much?”

Your gut clenched with the punch of his thrusts. Lids fluttered as Joel trailed his tongue up your cheek—another mindless, feral tendency he had close to climax. He held your face and fucked you tender as ever, and when the feeling in your tummy grew and grew and almost bloomed, he slipped his tongue in your mouth. Groaning when your teeth met the muscle and bit it.

“I love it, Joel,” you corrected, panting against him.

He could’ve spanked you for saying his name—breaking character was your favorite way to get punished—but, at present, the man didn’t have the strength to do a thing. He just nodded, and grinned, and licked into your mouth and drove his dick so far up your body that he could’ve sworn he’d grazed your lungs. You kissed him again.

“I love you—” he groaned.

“I know, daddy,” you smiled.

“—so much.”

“I love you more.”

He spilled his warm, thick seed inside. You came undone. Your bodies melded and rutted together in a few last shuddering bursts, and with Joel pinning you down, kissing you more, guiding your lips against his own in a wanton tumult, you felt it—contentment. Full pleasure.

Another soft, dizzying, cum-drenched lesson with daddy.

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing when Joel reached for you next, expression all smug and beaming.

Licking the sweat off your cheek like the freak he was.

“Did I ever tell you pink is my favorite fucking color?”

anyway this was my irl reaction to reading That Line for the first time:

#needthat

[catcze]

#MULTI — The excuse he uses to hold your hand wc: 0.7 fluff, teasing, established relationship, hand holding !! — How's he gonna get out of this one?

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

It catches you by surprise— where you had both just been walking along, enjoying the atmosphere, the touch of his fingers weaving between yours is something you hadn't been expecting.

It wasn't unwelcome, though. Far from it.

The tangent you had been rambling on about trails away like leaves in the wind as you blink down at the hand that gasps yours securely. Beside you, he carries on as if there were no such change, even having the gall to raise his eyebrow when he notices you falling silent.

"You were saying?" he asks, as if to prompt you back into your ramble, but you practically bulldoze over his faux nonchalance by squeezing his hand and waving it between you two.

"Oh, look at you, being so forward," you tease, swinging your hands back and forth. "I'm not at all complaining, but, well, I didn't think you'd be so bold."

He huffs at you a bit, eyes narrowed in an expression that you'd dare say is petulant. Maybe even flustered. The first thing out of his mouth is—

"It looked like you wanted to hold hands. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking." He says, gaze not meeting your own, but hand still firmly holding yours. You have to fight back an amused smile.

When you teasingly try to let your hand slip out from his, relaxing your grip, his own immediately tightens. His narrowed, accusatory gaze snaps to yours so fast that for a second you worry he might injure his neck.

"Uh huh, you keep telling yourself that," you tease, sidling up close enough that you can nudge him with your shoulder.

It's cute, you think, how he immediately leans closer to you when you come near. Like he's not even aware he does it, like his body just wants to be closer to you. When he realizes what happened, there's a moment where his eyes widen— then his gaze is trained on the path in front, decidedly not making eye contact. Cute, you think again.

"i like holding hands with you, you know" you tell him tenderly, quietly— a sweet secret just between the two of you. You squeeze his hand and, unhesitatingly, he squeezes back. "I wouldn't mind doing it more often."

And oh, he hopes you don't notice the heat to his cheeks, and the darkening of the tips to his ears. Hopes you don't notice the quirk to the edges of his lips that he just. can't. keep. down. Hopes you don't make out how damn pleased he sounds when he says, "If that's what you want," knowing that it's exactly what he wants, too.

— Scaramouche / Wanderer, Xiao, Cyno, Boothill, Dr. Ratio, Alhaitham

"Why? Am I not allowed to?" Comes his teasing response, making you roll your eyes.

"You know that's not what I meant," you grumble, playfully punching his arm, knowing that you did little to no actual damage. Still, he pretends to wince and rub the area you hit, grimacing.

"No need to get violent," he says, "You're hurting my feelings, love."

"You're awful," you tell him.

"And yet you've still yet to let go of my hand," he reminds you all-too-happily, raising said hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

At the gesture, a tingle runs up your spine and butterflies come to life in your stomach— you wonder if he can hear the frantic pulse in your wrist, if he can see the way you cover up how damn flustered you are with a scowl.

You hate hate hate the way he's turned the tables on you— how he's managed to turn what was supposed to be you teasing him into him turning you into a gooey mess yet again. And yet...

"Oh shut up and keep walking," you say in defeat, not able to look him in the eye. You might just combust on the spot if you do.

He sounds all too pleased as he lets your hands drop between you two, fingers still weaved together, swinging your joint hands easily to the breeze.

There's a smile to his voice when he says— "Whatever you say, beloved."

— Wriothesley, Jing Yuan, Argenti, Childe, Ayato, Kazuha, Lyney

[thetrasha]

His Love Is…

STRAW HAT EDITION

LUFFY

...freeing.

Luffy lives wholly in the moment and seeks adventure, often attracting trouble wherever he goes. He is so unapologetically, authentically himself that nobody can help themselves – their true colours come forth around him; he brings out the best and the worst in people, depending on their personal moral compass. He is a beacon of hope, so bright and warm, so lively and wild. Anyone would believe in happiness and a purpose when travelling with him, but his forever allegiance lies with you because you complement him. You nurture his freedom-driven explorations because you believe in him, you believe in your friends and Luffy sparked that same assuredness in yourself, too. You were pulled into his world as soon as you met him, but neither of you expected you to merge your visions for a happy world. He made you feel hopeful, softer, kinder… you don’t have to pretend anymore. He knows that you’ve been so strong for too long. He’s seen it, that’s why he recruited you. That magnetic pull towards you was magical and it made him want to pursue a world where you wouldn’t have to hide to save face anymore. He wanted you to peer into his eyes and see you in them.

You deserve to be free.

ZORO

…thorough.

Zoro is a fiercely independent man who chases his dream and does everything he can to ensure that his end goal won’t be up to fate – his success, due to his efforts, can’t be measured in probabilities, they’re certainties. One of his core beliefs is that he’s the architect of his own future, that he can carve out his own path and mould the world to his liking if he just tries hard enough. He doesn’t care how arduous his chosen path is, he’ll gladly face every challenge and shoulder every bit of pain… since he’s confident enough that he won’t break under pressure. You’ve been an unmovable force, a damn thorn in his side, for quite some time now, you’re so stubborn in your care for him that he couldn’t help but perceive you – truly perceive you. He admired your spirit, acknowledged your quiet strength and continuos efforts. He sees himself mirrored in your soul because you’ve been with him so consistently. He’d adopted your habits without him noticing. Your presence makes him want to be a man you can be proud of. He’d promise to take better care of himself and try his best to be open about his emotions with you. He made you feel confident, whole and equal. He’ll take on your demons if you, as his equal, help him confront his.

You deserve to be protected.

USOPP

…kind.

People say that absence makes the heart grow fonder and you don’t quite understand that sentiment until Usopp isn’t around for you to lean on one day. Maybe he’s been assigned to stay back and watch the ship, maybe he’s looking at cute little trinkets near the harbour… whatever it is, you suddenly realise that Usopp is the glue that keeps this crew together. He is so open-minded and funny that everyone feels welcome in his presence; he turns your friend group into a community and he makes you feel included in every aspect of his life, shares every conversation with you and trusts you blind. He is devoted to your comfort because you look behind the carefully-constructed mask he wears, you take over when his social battery has run dry and you reassure him that both of his parents would be proud of the person he’s become. He feels a connection to you that goes beyond usual conventions. Most often, he cannot even put it into words how lucky he thinks he is. He is loyal to you and wants you to view him as part of your family. He dreams of watching you achieve your dreams with him as your forever home and save haven.

You deserve to be seen.

SANJI

…gentle.

Sanji loves to make people feel special and strives to do better. If he can put a smile on someone’s face, he’s done his deed and he lawfully approaches every day with the same quaint attitude. He knows that life can be hard – it can be so, so hard. That’s exactly why he cannot stand anyone piling onto someone else’s plight. Maybe that’s why he’s taken such a liking to you. You’re just like him, eager to make yourself useful and help your friends whenever you can… at the same time, just like him, you don’t see your own worth. A happy relationship grows out of an ironically selfish desire to make you see yourself for who you are. He naively thought that helping you would help him, but all it did was reveal your innermost thoughts and feelings and he found himself so in tune with you that he, as a hopeless romantic, finally felt like he’s found his match. Sanji can be intense and he knows it, you are great at communicating your likes and dislikes and he treasures your honestly. Knowing that he’s your safe place has him seeing stars whenever you’re near, you’re that important to him. Also, your sweetness only fuels his desire for a happy world, and he’ll be by your side for as long as you’ll have him.

You deserve to be cared for.

FRANKY

…exciting.

Franky knows that he’s unconventional. His life’s work literally breathed life into him and gave him a second chance at the game. His mind is so vast and feeds on his own curiosity and his longing for spectacular experiences. He is the heart of any party and entertains every joke, every conversation and loves seeing just how diverse people can be in personality and looks alike. It makes him feel less like an anomaly and more like an appreciator of surprises. He knows that he’s bold, passionate and confident, but you cared enough to explore all parts of his personality like it was second nature. You stuck around, watched him tinkering away well into the deep night when the mood turns sombre, and you never seemed to mind. No, when he went quiet, you started talking his ear off… just to cheer him up. That sold him on the idea of a relationship. He thinks so highly of you, thinks that your energy works super well with his natural charm and he adores bouncing off of different topics with your much appreciated input. You complete him in ways he didn’t think were possible. Your creativity and ideas for silly project make the gears in his head turn and before you know it, you’re both drafting up a blueprint for a gimmick nobody but you two would ever appreciate.

You deserve to smile.

BROOK

…deep.

Brook inspires people effortlessly. He encourages everyone to chase their dreams and stroll about the path of life at their own pace and on their own terms. He’s known hardships and he wishes to shield others from those feelings of melancholy and sorrow, even if he knows that working through every bit of pain gives one the tools to walk through life with a little more resilience. Still, he wishes to influence people with his music and give them a break from their everyday troubles, make them forget… it makes him feel useful, like he’s a part of something that makes being somewhat alive truly worth it. You saw right through that… immediately, too. You two were in complete harmony, you understood him wordlessly and the way you carried your own baggage with pride, shockingly, inspired him. You made him feel like his entire existence amounted to something. He longs for a soul-binding connection and a strong, secure relationship. Brook may need some time to trust and let go, but once he’s in, you’ve found a partner for life. He just wishes you’d look at yourself with the same innocent wonder you grace him with, laugh at your own jokes the way you laugh at his – you’re his muse, his everything. Life isn’t quite as scary when you’re with him, he knows that you can rely on each other as he slowly copes with his decades old loneliness with you by his side.

You deserve to trust.

JINBE

...easy.

Jinbe was so wise, so admirable, so… him. It was impossible to not feel secure in his presence. He’d always been naturally observant and thus, caring for others is second nature to him. Expressing his emotions isn’t a matter of pride for him, he’s just so easy-going and calm that he may seem cold to those who don’t know him, but his heart is always set aflame from passion alone. He feels and thinks deeply about others, engages in soul-searching conversation and never shies away from giving a good piece of advice to those who might want it. Without even thinking about it, he started taking care of you and remembered the little things that mattered – he wasn’t just available, he was there. Jinbe made you feel like your problems didn’t matter so much, he’s seen you through your highest highs and lowest lows, and it didn’t matter once. He only saw your heart, your soul, your mind… and he adored it all, no matter what you thought about it. You were a part of his crew, his friends, his family… knowing that you were just as fond of him as he was of you was a blessing. His love is mature, deeply respectful, and binds your souls together. You feel as though you are one.

You deserve to heal.

[thisisnotthenerd]

finished my mighty nein speedrun. four weeks. all 141 episodes. no talks because i don't have the time to go looking for it. i feel like i've been on a bender.

but i've noted a few things about them that powered my hyperfixation:

they're so conversant with each other. every person talks to every other person either in one on one or in group conversation and they do so with regularity. for a group that was very hesitant to share their backstories at first they really read as close friends in a trusted circle.

how strategic they are. sometimes they're chucklefucks, as all adventuring parties tend to be, but they try to hit the ground running. sometimes it takes some talking through, but they make complex and unexpected decisions that change the course of encounters in seconds.

their even distribution of skills. they have good INT (caleb, beau, veth), good WIS (caduceus, jester, caleb, beau), good CHA (fjord, caduceus, caleb), good STR (yasha, jester), good DEX (beau, veth, molly), and good CON (fjord, yasha, jester, beau). they cover all of their bases and specialize where they need to in order to get the most out of their checks (caduceus with perception, caleb, beau and veth on investigation, fjord on persuasion/deception, yasha and jester for athletics, so on and so forth).

the strong motivations that drive them. each one of them has individual goals that they're pursuing that drive them both to conflict and to forward trajectory. fjord, finding out about his patron and choosing between the paths offered to him. jester, sowing chaos in the name of her god as she explores the world. caleb, fleeing from his past until he turns to seek justice in the name of his homeland. veth, seeking her family and her body back. yasha, seeking redemption and an end to the violence that defined her life. molly/kingsley, living life to the fullest and making something of the fragments he was left with. caduceus, serving his god to save his home and family. beau, finding direction in seeking the truth. even when they're pursuing a goal that only pertains to one of them particularly, they all are still present and progressing through their own goals, i.e. travelercon

there's more but i'm tired and can't process more right now.

[sunshine-jesse]

The Painful Realities of Andy and Leyley

Decay gave me a lot to chew on. While there was very little that caught me by surprise, per se (insofar as there’s a difference between shock and surprise), I didn't expect Nemlei to Go There with regards to some of the themes she covered in the newest update. I had a hunch, sure, but it was so (seemingly) out of place compared to the tone of the rest of the game that I didn't explore it as well as I could've. Most writers who cover the things Decay did don't play it dreadfully straight or treat it with so much respect. And even when they do, it often comes off as fetishized, which isn't bad per se, but so little of the rest of the game came off as The Author's Poorly Disguised Fetish that it was hard to take the prospect as seriously as I could've.

Effectively, Nemlei outplayed my media analysis skills by being an even better writer than I anticipated.

And so, I will respond in turn.

...or at least, I can try to.

I don't think I can type an analysis that is purely analytical anymore. Episode 3 hit me so much harder than anything that came before it that it's very difficult to write what I do with any sense of detachment. I can't pretend it didn't get personal. I love these characters. I love this story. I love the themes it covers. And I relate to many of them.

That's why seeing TCAL playing everything so dreadfully straight hurt so much.

(This essay is going to be somewhat narrativized to reflect my playing experience of Decay. This is a writing exercise as much as it is character analysis. But I also didn't have the patience to proofread this, so please be gentle.)

Part 1: The Games We Play With Ourselves

My first route was the Cliffhanger route. I want to pretend that I picked it because I knew it’d be the best outcome due to my unparalleled (insert ashley smug face here) understanding of the characters but I actually wasn’t expecting that one moment to be the big decision that caused the paths to diverge. It was just the only save file I had for Decay because it was the most hopeful outcome to me at the time. Because of that, when playing through Decay, everything felt so… business as usual. Things didn’t even feel as tense as they did in episode 2 when the paths diverged. This is, as a matter of fact, how I reacted for most of my first playthrough of the game. I didn’t see it as weird. It made sense. Nobody was really wrong here or making particularly bad decisions.

The only thing that caught me by surprise for the first half of it was when Andrew slapped Ashley, but I didn’t even feel like it was that shocking of a moment. Ashley has a chronic problem with taking things seriously, so I don’t think Andrew showing her what it means to take a threat of violence seriously is a particularly out of pocket response. However, it’s also not the only way to assert his identity as Andrew, because Burial showed us a better way for him to do the same: quiet dismissal with a confident assertion that ‘Andy’ is dead. Slapping her wasn’t the only way to get the point across, but it was -a- way, and I think it was important for Ashley to internalize it even though the slap was a simultaneous sign of strength AND weakness on Andrew’s end.

He didn’t need to play her game, but he did, and he managed to make it mean something.

The episode in general went through great lengths to show how unseriously Ashley takes her own actions. Which is a mood (she’s literally me, chat), for sure, but we’ve already seen that offhanded remarks by Ashley are enough to deeply sting Andrew.

This whole scene was an example of her not taking her own words seriously, by highlighting a dynamic we took for granted in prior episodes. Their endless back and forth is perceived as a harmless game by her. A lot of people perceived this dynamic as toxic back in prior chapters but it’s fairly common in long-term relationships. As someone who has a tendency of doing that myself- at least with friends- it makes social situations easier to navigate when I know that both of us are aware that the other person isn’t actually trying to hurt the other in a way that sticks. 

(I’m obviously not saying that their dynamic isn’t toxic, just that this one aspect of it is fairly normal and often taken uncharitably)

There are dozens upon dozens more examples than this but I assume that if I need to list them off to you then you haven’t actually played the game. I’m just listing this one because it’s useful for highlighting the way she views their dynamic.

Either way, Andrew isn’t having it this time, because he’s focusing harder on something he wanted from Ashley all along:

Respect.

Respect is a huge running theme in this episode, and the decision to accept being called Andrew or Andy is the make or break point for the route, and by proxy, their relationship. If Andrew decides to demand self-respect by asserting his identity as Andrew, then Ashley takes his request to not roast the camper seriously. But if he doesn’t demand to be called Andrew, then she does roast the camper. The implications of this decision are huge, but if you choose to be called Andy, he’s too much of a doormat at this point to show why it’s so important.

Accepting being called Andy gives Ashley permission to double down on all the worst aspects of their dynamic. There’s a lot to say about how Andrew reacts to this, but most of it is retreading old ground, because he’s made his issues with this and what it means to him abundantly clear already. What’s more interesting- to me- is how Ashley reacts. When Andrew reacts to “Why do you think it’s okay to hurt me?”, Ashley responds with… confusion.

"(It's) fine to stomp over every boundary I've ever set, isn't it?"

"I- uh...... wouldn't know."

She doesn’t get it. She genuinely doesn’t get it. She does not understand boundaries, flat-out. She has very few of her own, and therefore doesn’t see them in other people. Even when Andrew expressed boundaries to her in his past- the few times it actually happened- he quickly lowered them, never teaching her what they actually mean. While we don’t know for absolute certain because of how few flashbacks we’ve seen from her perspective, it seems like she’s never been held to account for transgressing a boundary.

Even when she’s slapped in the face, she doesn’t quite understand that it’s Andrew setting a boundary and showing self-respect. We see this later on with the argument she has with Andrew later in the episode:

"...............I stopped calling you Andy."

"Ooooh! Hallelujah! She hasn't called me by the wrong name for a few days! Mercy me, do I stand corrected! This must be love! And not just any love, but true love of the highest caliber!"

She thinks it’s just doing him a favor. She’s not respecting his boundaries at all. It’s something she’s GIVING to him.

With Ashley’s general inability to take things seriously in mind, and her lack of understanding of boundaries, I think there’s one more piece of the puzzle I need to explore before I can explain why I think things I really went to shit:

HOT

SIBLING

BREEDING!!!

Coffin is, still, even with Decay in mind, not making a statement on whether or not incest is good or bad. I can say that with full confidence. It's going further than that: it's using their incestuous relationship to highlight the ways in which the siblings interface with sexuality. Their more romantic, intimate moments are still portrayed as cute, and something that makes both of them happy. Physical affection stabilizes their relationship, and is something the two of them need to feel like things are okay. It doesn't hurt them.

...to a point.

Because she sure as fuck isn’t showing that it’s good, either.

In the Shoot/Dead End route (I'll be referring to this route as 3B from here on, and the cliffhanger route as 3A), their incestuous tendencies are unambiguously portrayed as a negative thing. Everything they do together makes one or both of them uncomfortable, unlike almost every other instance we see in every other route. But why? What's the difference between 3A and 3B?

Let's compare the scenes of intimacy between 3A and 3B:

In 3A, Andrew was slow, patient, and gentle, resulting in something that both Ashley and him enjoyed. They cracked a laugh, hugged each other, very cute, wholesome, and not at all weird if you don't look at the shared genetics behind the curtain.

But in 3B, he was sudden and forceful, resulting in something Ashley didn't enjoy. She tries to reciprocate but he pulls away shortly after, supposedly because she's not good at kissing, and also because he still feels gross about actually enjoying a sexual encounter with his little sister. Her reaction to this was visible confusion.

I want to establish my takes on these scenes now because I’m going to draw attention to them later on.

So, let’s recap:

Ashley doesn’t take things seriously enough. She doesn’t understand personal boundaries. She attempts to reciprocate affections and act with visible confusion when it’s rejected. What does this mean? I want everyone to hear me out on this before they respond with ‘well, no fucking shit Sherlock’, because this little fact about Ashley’s character goes far deeper and is more wide-reaching than many might think, at least given the kinds of analysis I see on this game:

Ashley treats life like a game. 

And I don’t mean that as a heavy-handed metaphor for her thinking everyone needs to be played and manipulated and that she has very little personal investment in anything that goes on. I mean she actually, literally, treats life like a game. Let me highlight something from the Q&A so I can explain just how important this really is:

“She doesn’t want to grow up”

“her fantasy of Andy and Leyley.”

When she calls Andrew Andy as a teenager:

"It's supposed to be endearing!! It's our secret game! I thought you liked that kind of thing."

You see where I’m going with this? Her whole dynamic with Andrew is part of that ‘secret game’ to her. It’s something she takes seriously, unlike everything else in life. Every deviation from it is merely doing him a favor. She’s allowing him to break the rules, if only temporarily. She doesn’t take many things seriously because she can’t emotionally grasp the significance of it. In her mind, she’s still a child. And for much of the story, no matter the route, she’s still playing that game with Andrew, no matter what’s at stake.

Ribbing at each other? Part of the game.

Their mutual displays of affection? Part of the game.

But boundaries? Those weren’t part of the rules.

This is why Ashley is so confused and distressed when none of ‘her’ games work on Andrew anymore.

The rules have changed. And she doesn’t understand them anymore.

Here lies the core differences between the routes in Decay. In 3A, Andrew is still willing to play that game with her. 

Just like in real life,

Just like with his peers, with his mom, with Julia,

Andrew knows how to pretend to play Ashley’s game.

He’s not quite aware it’s a game in the same ways as her, but he does know the sets of behaviors he can use to calm Ashley down. And as shown with the Entity, he’s extremely good at negotiating rules even when he’s not aware there’s a game at play. But he still doesn’t understand it as a game, and that’s where many of his frustrations come from (not to say Ashley is fully aware it’s a game either, but he’s even less aware than she is). Ashley doesn’t listen to him as often as he’d like because he’s not fully aware of the rules she expects them to operate under. Or perhaps, more accurately, not aware of what he has to do to change the rules rather than just create exceptions.

I don’t exactly know either, but I think it has something to do with how much gifts mean to Ashley. Keep in mind that all it takes is a wedding ring to avert the double suicide ending.

I think this proclivity for engaging with life as if it was a game might be why Ashley is said to be in-tune with the Demon Realm and enjoy their puzzles so much: everything has clear rules and conditions for winning or losing. Agreements are ironclad, and a deal is a deal. It’s a series of easy and somewhat predictable input->output mechanisms, as long as she’s precise with her desires. While the Entity is clearly manipulating her in some way, it’s yet to do so through lies, and she has been shown no reason to believe that it ever lies, outside of when it tells her highly emotionally inconvenient information.

(If your eyebrow rose when reading that, mine rose while typing it too, but I’m not here to diagnose anyone because that makes analysis less interesting and I literally wrote the essay on why people shouldn’t do that)

One detail I want to point out before tying this all back together is that games are something Ashley has appreciated from the absolute youngest we’ve ever seen her, before either of them did anything wrong: The flashback where they visited the grandparents. Andrew turning his pursuit of Ashley into a game was shown to instantly get her to behave better, as it’s given her clear and obvious rules to adhere to, and conditions to get something she wants, no strings attached. I wanted to point this out so I could establish that this is how she’s always been and not a pattern she fell into, because I need to emphasize just how pervasive games are to how Ashley interfaces with the world.

With Andrew, her ‘secret game’ becomes something different. 

Tying back into my first essay, the ‘games’ she plays are the framework with which she uses to feel in control of Andrew. They’re what her entire sense of safety is predicated on, and without the rules and reciprocal ‘play’ that comes with games, she loses any sense of emotional stability and becomes extremely volatile, confrontational, and sometimes violent. She’s not one who can function without an understanding of what’s going on, which is precisely why she lacks foresight and operates on intuition.

It’s not like she’s not trying, right? I’d like to present the scene where Andrew calls Julia with Ashley on the line.

At first, Ashley loses her shit and just barely manages to keep herself together. It really seems like an act of wanton cruelty on Andrew’s part, but it’s important to note that you get a star for this scene. You don’t get stars for scenes where their relationship deteriorates. So why do you get a star? She initially appeared upset, but the moment Andrew reframed it, her expression flipped, and she immediately became happy.

"So she can behave. Somewhat."

"Hmph! You dared to doubt me? Shame on you! Despite your underhanded bullshit, I emerge victorious!"

Andrew had to stop Ashley from yelling, and from hanging up, but Ashley managed to quiet down and stabilize herself enough to not loudly explode and get violent and uncontrollable.

And outside of where they were forced to be separated either to solve a puzzle or at the whims of the Entity, Andrew led her through every challenge they faced and she didn’t spend the whole time questioning his ability.

Why do you think we play as Andrew for the vast majority of the episode, even when they’re together?

She trusts his judgement more, even if she can’t quite understand (or at least vocalize) why. There’s a reason she roasts the camper in every route where this one interaction isn’t possible: Her desire to gain strength from eating people supersedes her trust in Andrew’s ability to handle difficult situations. She has to gain enough power for the both of them, or they’re fucked. But if Andrew has the strength to assert his identity as Andrew, maybe she doesn’t need to do all the heavy lifting.

(This is why I believe the star scenes are what they are. They’re not required to improve their relationship, but they ARE required for the necessary context to show why “the future” (as stated by the Entity in the Vision Room when he mentions them) is what it is.)

For a large part of the rest of the episode, we see a lot of smaller moments like this, where Ashley is at least trying to reach some kind of mutual understanding with Andrew and Andrew is trying to convey his actual feelings to Ashley, but the two of them keep speaking past each other because they simply do not understand the language that the other speaks. But what’s important is that their relationship manages to not deteriorate, and despite the vicious fighting, they still express a desire to understand the other when left to their own devices. By this point, I was feeling vindicated, as a lot of my initial analyses that were incredibly charitable to both siblings seemed to be at least somewhat correct and that I was right to give them the benefit of the d-....

Part 2: The Lies We Tell Ourselves

...-id Andrew just kill a fucking child in cold blood?!

I want to draw attention to the wording I used to describe how Ashley treats life as a game. I said she treats it as a game, not necessarily inexorably understands it as such. This is not a tendency she had no choice but to manifest; outside of being part of the way she manifests the Andy and Leyley fantasy, it’s also an emotional regulation tool that simplifies her interactions with the world. I want to specify this because I feel like, if I don’t, it might paint a picture of her being a helpless victim in a world that treats her poorly. Nor that growing up would solve her problems, and that she has no agency because she had no choice but to be this way. While I would never deny her nor Andrew victimhood of each other and the world around them, I also don’t want to confuse people into thinking that I don’t think they could’ve done better, and that I shouldn’t expect them to. Because the more I played through the game- and after finishing it, the more I thought about it- it became clearer and clearer that they could, because Andrew…

Holy shit, Andrew. Talk about dropping the pretense.

When the parents were sacrificed, Andrew- and his life- could never be normal again. The man realized that too, because nothing Ashley suggested registered as objectionable anymore. He offered so little resistance to killing the campers that it didn’t even sink in what kind of action that was. He was never much of a moral conscience to begin with, but from that point on, he stopped trying.

"Aaah, you know I can't say no to a family value pack."

Oh, Andrew, you wretched little shit. I get it now.

The thing about Andrew that I didn’t quite get last time is just how loose his grasp on the idea of normalcy actually was. It seemed like a central facet of his character and something he desperately wanted to hold on to at all costs, but now it looks much, much different. It wasn’t something he wanted to convince himself was true much past his teenage years, but the moment hormones started setting in, he made almost no effort to come to terms with his sexual desires. He made no attempt to distance himself from Ashley, to not project his fantasy on to Julia, or even to not peep at his sister in the shower.

‘Normal’ wasn’t something he wanted to be. It was a role he wanted to play.

At every chance he got, he fed into his darkest desires like an addict, and projected those fantasies on to Julia. He didn’t even bother trying to make space between him and Ashley; no, she had to do it for him, because she was mad at him. And the best part is, it wasn’t even good for him. 

As much as he tried to lie to himself, what he really wanted is to lie to others. Not once did he try to change himself in accordance with the person he wanted to be, and especially what others wanted him to be. Not once did he self-reflect about what he really wanted, or what would be best for him, or even Ashley, for that matter. He just wanted other people to shut up. Andrew was not a victim of his own impulses and desires. I really feel the need to emphasize just how messed up this man is; Without Ashley taking an active role in his life, he didn’t get better. He filled in the gaps in his heart by choosing to be worse.

Nemlei took subtext, turned it into text, and then turned that text into a baseball bat that she used to crack our skulls over and over again. He was never the ‘good person’ in their relationship, and never once tried to be.

And the worst part is that I fully understand and empathize with why.

There’s a funny thing that sometimes happens when you have impossible standards piled on to you and enforced through abuse and you’re denied a chance to ever be your own person: You fail to develop a coherent sense of identity. You latch on to anything that ‘seems’ right and predicate your whole sense of self on it. You need this sense of identity to navigate the world, so anything that threatens it is a threat to everything you know, and you respond to it in turn. Everything you do outside of that one core idea (or several ideas) becomes an act, a puppet show you play to placate others and serve your own ends. You can’t afford empathy or understanding to ‘threats’, because you’re too busy trying to protect what you ‘know’ you are. A threat to your world is a threat to your life, and so you respond by desperately doing whatever it takes to remove that threat. Sometimes lies, sometimes violence, of varying degrees of intensity depending on the threat.

Sometimes you learn to shut your feelings off.

Sometimes you learn to react too strongly.

Sometimes you learn that nobody else matters, because everyone else will just hurt you anyway.

You devalue people. You overvalue people. 

Anything to feel safe, anything to feel like the outside world is less of a threat. Anything to remove that threat, manage that threat, or protect the only thing in the world that matters to you, whether that thing is yourself, or someone else.

And for Andrew? It’s said to us in the beginning of episode 3:

Andy’s Leyley

Leyley’s Andy

Yeah, Nemlei. I get it. You understand. 

There’s another side to this coin, but I’ll get to that.

Not that this happens to everyone, but it absolutely happened to Andrew. The ‘role’ he was had forced upon him was that of Leyley’s _____. Her protector, teacher, parent, general caretaker. Her emotional regulator. Her brother.

Her everything.

It was all he could be. All he was allowed to be. Because the moment he diverged, he was punished greatly by Renee, and at some point, Ashley herself. He predicated his entire value system on being her ‘Andy’, to the point where every action he took that wasn’t part of the act he put on to attempt to interface with the world normally became for her.

It was all for her, because he was her _____. Anything to keep her under control, anything to keep her safe. 

One of the most notable examples of this is shown when Lord Unknown was attempting to give him therapy. When he started hearing how people spread rumors about how he slept with Ashley, and Douchebag told him that the people in Ashley’s class said that she spread them, he just glossed over this fact. So little attention is drawn to it that I actually missed it on my first playthrough. Instead, the first thing Andrew expressed internally was concern over whether or not she was being bullied; it didn’t even register in his mind that she was responsible for smearing his reputation. 

To him, she was never responsible for anything. She was his responsibility above all else. The incestuous rumors hardly mattered to him, and he kept finding holes in the story and pointing them out, such as how she didn’t have time to spread them early (since we saw them enter school together) in the day because she stood Douchebag up on a Friday, and how there was no way to catch them behind the auditorium ‘yesterday’ given it was a Monday. The presence of those holes is why I’m skeptical of whether or not she actually spread them, but it’s not like it’s something she wouldn’t do. More on that later.

Above all else, Andrew wasn’t concerned about how people saw him; he hardly even cared. He was upset mostly about people thinking that he’d take advantage of Ashley in that way. There was nothing weird to him about how clingy they were to each other, how affectionate they were, how protective he was.

Of course he was all that. Andrew was her brother. It was his job to be all that. It was his job to be her _____.

I’d like to present an alternate theory to the idea that Andrew dated Julia to appear normal. The theory isn’t mutually compatible with that, but it feels woefully incomplete.  Given the focus on bullying, the anger had over the idea that he’d ever hurt her, and the fact that sexual feelings started creeping in his mind thanks to the magical curse of teenage hormones, I believe the primary reason he dated Julia was so that he could prove to others- and himself- that he would never hurt his precious Ashley. Not in that way, not at all. It was everything he predicated his sense of identity on. It was what he had to be, above all else.

So in order to protect his ‘role’, his identity, he chose something he, deep down, knew would hurt her, because nobody could ever be led to believe that he’d take advantage of her like that.

Especially himself.

Appearing normal to others was a pleasant side-effect of this, and if he could convince himself he loved Julia, he’d never have to add ‘boyfriend’ to the list of things he had to be for Ashley.

Hahahaha, whoops. 

Surprise! It was the thing he actually wanted to be for her the most! 

Teenage hormones are an awful thing, aren’t they? In realizing that he had sexual feelings for Ashley, he finally found something he’d actually enjoy being for her! 

And it was something he could never be, lest it risk everything else he thought of himself as being for her!

Oh, the wretched irony of sexual desire. I could never.

Which way, western man? Everything you think you should be, or the one thing you actually want to be?

Andrew tries to have it both ways, but, y’know how that went. No attempt to rein in these desires, projecting his sister on his girlfriend, etc etc. Already been over that. But now I can highlight why I believe he got worse and kept feeding into his desires; the closest thing to a moral conscience he had- his identity as Leyley’s _____- takes a step out of his life for reasons I’ll cover when I cover how much of a fuck up she actually is. 

What, you thought I’d skip over her just because I was- and still am- her number one defender? Oh no no. Now that I know better than to give these losers (that I love very dearly and desire nothing but happiness for) so much charitability, I have a lot to say about her too. But back to Andrew.

Without that sense of personal identity- without his proximity to Ashley- he sees no reason not to give into his desires, watch her while she dresses, and project all of his most sexual fantasies on to Julia. His interactions with Ashley were, as fucked up as it is, grounding to him. They stabilize him, give him a reason to act right that isn’t just a facade. With that, he has nothing. Nothing except his facade of normalcy.

I think the year-long gap between his interactions with Ashley are precisely the reason why ‘normalcy’ became so important to him. It became a second sense of identity that conflicted with what he predicated his identity on before. He could finally emulate being a somewhat normal person, with a somewhat normal attachment to a somewhat normal person. Horray! But the prior identity still existed. It never went away. Ashley was where his heart was, and trying to give it to someone else only hollowed out what was there before.

This one CG speaks louder than any words the man has ever spoken, up to this point.

These are not the eyes of someone who is merely depressed. These are the eyes of someone who is confronting the idea of living a life without the only thing that ever gave him meaning.

He can’t even make eye contact with himself, because there’s nothing there.

Andrew, without Ashley, is a hollow husk of a man who starts to crumble the more he tries to convince himself he could be anything other than her everything.

She is the light of his life. The nightmarish, toxic, corrosive light of his life.

(cont. in next post)

[say-al0e]

Electric Touch

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!

Summary: Following your marriage to Prince Aemond, you did not imagine there would be a bedding ceremony. Nor did you imagine yourself falling so quickly for the one-eyed prince. But you quickly learned he was more than met the eye. | Ft. Anon request for "“What part of I want you and only you do you not understand?” + “Love makes you weak but, god, I’d rather be weak with you by my side than face a life without you.” Warnings: Bedding ceremony, PinV, guarded Aemond, Aegon is an asshole (briefly, then he's gone), one mention of death in childbirth (not graphic, very brief), allusion to Aemond's brothel trip. Anything I missed, let me know and I'll tag it. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader (wife!Reader) Word Count: 5.1k Requests are Open | HotD Taglist

The fire blazing in Aemond’s eye was not what you expected. It was not fueled by desire, a lust for his new bride or the exciting conquest of claiming your maidenhead as you’d long been warned. It was not bright or joyous, a fire befitting the occasion of your wedding night. Instead, it was dark - angry, a wild blaze threatening to torch everything in its path with little regard for the consequences.

Though your new husband had been nothing but kind to you, polite and even occasionally charming, for the first time since stepping foot into King’s Landing, you finally understood why so many tended to avert their gaze lest they face Aemond’s ire. 

Before you stood Aemond One-Eye, a fierce dragon rider whose presence commanded attention, and you struggled to keep from withering beneath his gaze as you held his dark look with an even one of your own.

Around you, his apartments teemed with life. Drunken revelers laughed as they surged into the room and circled the pair of you, some of them shouting tawdry jokes while others lamented the loss of the right to the first night. Regardless of their mood, it seemed as if every man in the realm fought to be at your side in a room that once felt so spacious but now left you struggling to catch your breath as they began tugging at pieces of your clothing.

As many hands clumsily tugged at well-tied laces and the heavy fabric of your gown, a few highborn ladies - friends you’d made in the short time you’d been at Court - dutifully removed Aemond’s clothes with much less vigor than their husbands or brothers or cousins.

Aegon led the charge, grin on his lips and breath reeking of wine as he leaned in close. Aemond’s gaze faltered for only a moment, turning to his brother and flashing a warning even the drunkest of men could read very clearly, before it returned to you as Aegon pointedly ignored him. Your drunken good-brother chose, instead, to tip your chin with fingers sticky with wine and draw your gaze away from your husband.

“Do not worry, good-sister,” he began, voice loud, despite his performative attempt at a whisper. He spared Aemond a look, eyes glinting with a mirth that bordered on malice - before he returned his gaze to you. “I made sure my brother was well-educated in the art of pleasure but should you find yourself wanting, you need only say the word.”

By design, you were not given the chance to respond. The last of your garments was removed from your body and Aegon released his grip on your chin to grab your waist. 

The sea of revelers parted. Amidst a cacophony of cheers and jeers, a few murmurs as to how it was a shame your father had agreed to wed you to a man they saw as less than whole, Aegon and one of his friends carried you through the crowd and deposited you into Aemond’s bed.

It was only when you were settled amongst the furs and linens that they were all finally ushered out of the room.

If you were honest, it surprised you that Aemond allowed the bedding ceremony in the first place. The idea was put forth by his brother, a suggestion he’d barely blinked an eye at, but it was plain to see just how adversely the entire spectacle affected him as he approached the bed.

Aemond Targaryen, the very image of his house’s beauty and fire, stood before you with his face a mask of composure you had yet to see fully slip. There were cracks, glimpses into the churning abyss that lingered just beneath the calm surface, and you could see them beginning to spread as a jeer from the crowd echoed just beyond the steel and wood of the door.

There was a flash of hurt, a glimpse so brief you felt certain you’d imagined it, before he swallowed and his jaw tensed. He steeled himself, his resolve, and you could see the mask slip back into place.

“My prince,” you began, voice far quieter than you intended as you sat upright to meet his gaze. “I do not-“

A hum escaped your new husband as he stepped closer, pressing a knee into the soft surface beneath you and shaking his head slightly. “We will speak when there is no crowd standing guard just outside, waiting for evidence our marriage has been consummated. For now, we must fulfill our duty as husband and wife.”

There was an edge of finality in his tone, no room left for argument as he reached for you. Though his touch was not harsh, not as insistent or eager as the men who’d taken great joy in stripping you bare, it was firmer than you’d expected. In the weeks of your courtship, he’d lended an arm as you descended the steps in the garden or offered a hand as you climbed them - each touch soft, almost tentative, and as brief as could be considered proper. 

It was wistful, possibly even naive, to believe the softness of his touch was affection or that it would continue as he pressed you back into the pillows. Aemond was not an outwardly affectionate man, that much you knew to be true, nor was he used to being treated so tenderly. His life had been one lived in a gilded cage, acquiescing to everything expected of him with little argument and even less connection. Love would not come easy to him, nor would affection.

Only time would bring him comfort, trust in you and the ability to be vulnerable, so you made no argument as he settled himself over you. 

The dim candlelight made it difficult to see much - and you wondered how Aemond might react if you allowed yourself to savor the sight of him - but you took the brief chance you were offered to study him. Tall, lithe, muscular; he looked every bit the fearsome dragon rider and well-trained swordsman. Pale hair cascaded over his shoulders, a curtain that cast shadows over the sharp features of his face, but you could clearly see the intrigue in his eye as you lifted your hand to gently cradle his jaw.

Had you not been studying him so closely, so desperate to see some glimpse of warmth beneath the cool surface of your new husband, you might’ve missed his sharp inhale or the way his eye narrowed. Had you not been so enthralled by his appearance, you might’ve missed the way he swallowed or the split second he allowed himself to lean into your careful touch before the impassive mask returned.

Friends, some long married with babes while others had just wed, whispered and giggled when they shared what you could expect. Most of your friends lamented the act itself, thankful only that it often seemed to be over quickly,  as many of their husbands were older lords in need of young wives to produce heirs. It seemed that few cared much at all about their wives’ pleasure and you’d wondered throughout your courtship if Aemond - though young, a man of your own age - might prove similar.

Now that the time had come to find out, you still felt wholly uncertain.

For a long moment, Aemond simply studied you. The deep lilac of his eye traced your face, shadowed by his hair and framed by your own locks - now free from the style your handmaids worked so hard to perfect - and his lips parted. He seemed poised to speak, though before he could, the sound of fists pounding the wood of the door broke whatever spell existed in the solace of the room.

Loud jeers from a drunken crowd reminded you both of your purpose, the reason you had been stripped bare for half the kingdom to see, and Aemond was the first to act.

Though you hoped for little and expected even less, Aemond wanted nothing more than to prove everyone wrong. He wanted to prove that he could be a husband, an adequate lover, a man who had everything and more. You had no way of knowing his motivation, not then, but you could see the flame in his eye as his hand fell to your hip.

With the hand still cradling his jaw, you managed to hold him in place as you leaned up and pressed your mouth to his. Since speaking your vows earlier in the night, you’d managed to steal two chaste kisses from your new husband - one just after the ceremony, in the few seconds you had alone before the feast began; the other, tucked in a corner before you were whisked away for the bedding. He responded well to both, stepping just an inch closer and allowing his lips to linger for a long moment, and you were pleased to find that he responded just as well to this kiss.

The ladies at court often lamented their husbands’ lack of skill or desire to share a kiss. They all sighed and confessed that the men found no use for it, no fun in it. It made you wonder if Aemond was humoring you, allowing you the kiss that seemed almost tender in nature, in return for your maidenhead - for your hand, your house’s newly pledged loyalty - but you knew well enough that your new husband was not one to indulge in anything he did not want to.

Hope bloomed, then, just beneath your ribcage that he might, someday, even grow to enjoy it as much as you suddenly found that you did.

Calloused hands began to explore your skin, touch light for a fleeting moment - almost reverent, almost tentative - before it grew steadier, more certain. The tips of his fingers left a path of fire in their wake, his skin always running hotter than anyone you’d ever met, and you nearly expected to find a visible path seared over the expanse of your torso as his hands dipped to your thighs.

As of yet there had been little outward sign of affection from your husband - everything felt like a courtesy, the actions of a well-educated prince, chivalrous out of duty only - and you knew that it might be wishful thinking to believe the slow drag of your husband’s hand up your inner thigh was anything more than slight trepidation. But you swore you could see the anger that burned so bright only moments ago morph into something closer to lust, desire, need.

Aemond’s fingers pressed firm into the plush of your thighs as he parted them and you bit the inside of your cheek to smother your gasp as his sharp gaze finally raked over your bare skin.

For all the wandering eyes, the lustful gazes that burned into your skin as so many lords of the realm crowded into the small room, it struck you in that moment that Aemond waited until you were alone to truly look. He waited until you were pliant beneath him, until you’d sated your own curiosity about him, to allow himself a glance at anything other than your face.

And despite the insistent jeers of the crowd beyond the door, he seemed determined to take you as he wished.

“They are expecting to hear us,” he reminded you as his fingers drew closer to your center. “Do not deprive us all of your charming voice.”

A handful of compliments had been levied at you from your new husband - more in regard to your intelligence than your most beautiful gowns, though one had ended with him calling you beautiful - but you still felt your cheeks heat as his fingers grazed your slit.

The swipe of his fingers was almost clumsy, less self-assured than he always seemed to be, but the thought gave you some comfort. Neither of you could disappoint the other if you were on somewhat equal footing.

Aemond’s touch grew more insistent, more assured, from the moment his fingers grazed the small bundle of nerves that wrenched a gasp from your throat and had your nails pressing into the muscle of his shoulders. He focused there, thumb circling the now aching pearl, as his fingers gathered the increasing slick. The deep lilac of his eye had almost vanished, replaced nearly entirely by lust-blown black, but it remained on your face - watching intently with every noise that spilled from your lips.

As desperately as you wanted to close your eyes, to hide from the intensity in his gaze, you found yourself unable to look away from his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the barely there flush that set high upon his cheeks; he was beautiful, regal, and you couldn’t help yourself.

“Gevi,” you breathed, hoping the word sounded as effortless falling from your own lips as it did from his. Your thumb brushed his cheek, just beneath his scar, and you could see the flash of an emotion you could not recognize in his eye.

For a moment, he remained silent, fingers slowing to a barely there press, before he tipped his head. Your hand slipped, fell to his jaw, and you realized it was calculated - purposeful - even as his gaze softened. “My clever wife,” he hummed, matter-of-factly, as the corner of his mouth lifted in something akin to a smile. “Full of surprises.”

A response formed on the tip of your tongue, nowhere near as witty as you hoped for, but the press of Aemond’s fingers into your core stole your breath and all coherent thought. The sensation was odd, unlike any you’d ever experienced, and you could feel your brows furrow as your body attempted to make sense of what was happening. It was not as unpleasant as you expected, nor as pleasurable as you hoped for, but you imagined that both would come in time.

Despite his appearance, his brusque manner, Aemond was not harsh. His touch was no longer soft, no longer tentative, and you could still feel the weight of his hands on your thighs despite his touch having moved, but he seemed to take note of the way you winced when his fingers began to press a little too quickly - a little too hard - and adjusted accordingly.

Soon enough, you found a delicate rhythm - an insistent press of his fingers, an exploration unlike any you’d ever felt, as you used the grip on his jaw to pull him into another kiss.

This kiss was different, heavier. It was hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue and noses that made the backs of your eyes sting. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, a bite harsh enough to draw blood, and you inhaled sharply as he lapped at the copper staining your lips. 

The copper tang seemed to spur Aemond on, remind him of his duty and the audience waiting for it to be done. He moved with a renewed vigor, with a confidence you’d quickly come to associate with him. His fingers pressed deeper, searching, and he only seemed content when you broke the kiss to fill the room with a breathless moan of his name. 

Warmth spread over your skin, a combination of his body heat surrounding you and your own pleasure coursing through your veins. Every swipe of his fingers, every circle of his thumb over the aching bundle of nerves, made the edges of your vision white and the air harder to obtain.

It was then, as your stomach tied itself into knots and your nails sank into the toned skin of his back - his shoulders, his chest, his arms; wherever you could reach, desperate for some tether to reality - that he replaced his fingers with the filling warmth of his cock.

With every noise that fell from your lips, the noise outside the door grew louder. It felt as if the whole of the realm waited just beyond the wood, ears pressed to the door, and Aemond seemed acutely aware of your audience. Gone were the tentative touches, the firm but still careful brushes of his hands. After a few careful initial presses of his hips to yours, he began to sink into you in earnest.

A cry of his name rang through the room, fanning the flames of the fire outside, and your body seemed trapped in the path of the blaze.

Every word of gossip you’d heard from friends seemed true, impossibly, all at once. There was an ache between your thighs, a stinging pain that replaced the pleasant ache of desire, and a dull pinch at your hip as Aemond’s fingers pressed into your skin. The entire room was too hot, almost stifling, and the noise rang in your ears. The tawdry jokes and laughter in the hall, the rustle of linen, the lewd sound of Aemond’s cock pressing into your center, the keening of your moans, the huff of his breath; it was almost too much.

Each sensation that washed over you was distinct but beginning to muddle together.

Despite yourself, your best efforts to take the affection given to you by your husband and appreciate them, you found yourself hoping for something softer, something easier, something better. 

Aemond was lost in that moment, stuck somewhere in the back of his own mind, and you could only whisper his name in hopes that he might allow you a moment to catch your breath.

“Aemond, I - please.” The whispered plea, gasped into the night air and barely audible over the cheers still echoing in the hall, seemed to break his reverie. It returned him to the moment at hand - the pinch of your brows as the ache between your thighs plagued you, the curve of your mouth as you fought to keep your composure, the sting of your nails biting into his shoulder - and gave him pause. 

The snap of his hips faltered, slowed from the near manic thrusts to something more even, and you eased the grip on his shoulder as you inhaled eagerly.

That deep purple gaze swept across your face, searching for something you could not readily provide, before he squeezed your hip in what you chose to interpret as an apology. You accepted it, easily, and offered him a tentative smile as he continued pressing forward - still firm, still deep, only slower now.

Giggles from the past, old whispers that there was real pleasure to be found in bed, began to return to the forefront of your mind as Aemond’s new pace began to replace the pinch and ache between your thighs with that devastating warmth you’d only just experienced. Everything felt too hot, too bright, too much, and the thought must have been clearly written across your face as Aemond hummed.

“Take your pleasure,” he encouraged, voice low in your ear as he leaned in close. “Then, I shall have mine.”

Warmth continued to flood your veins. Fire lapped at your skin, consuming you entirely, and you took no notice of the noise that escaped your parted lips as you allowed Aemond to continue pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The end was as beautiful as you’d heard, as blissful, and you could feel yourself melting into the plush of the bed as goosebumps erupted across your skin and your heart thundered in your chest. All that mattered in that moment was Aemond; the weight of him atop you, the warmth of his skin as he pressed himself impossibly closer, the low rasp of his voice as he all but whispered expletives. 

That pleasure was only heightened by the warmth that flooded you as Aemond stilled atop you, a curse on his lips and head thrown back.

It was a beautiful sight - something worthy of committing to memory, something so beautiful you only hoped to see it again and again. And you only hoped your new husband felt the same as he tipped his head to study you once more.

Aemond lingered only for a moment, his gaze softer than you’d seen directed at you, before he pulled away. Another squeeze to your waist was the only affection he spared before he stood and pulled the white line from his bed. He shifted you carefully - almost tenderly - to remove the fabric then strode across the expanse of the room to the door.

Without ceremony, he wrenched it open and tossed the stained fabric into the crowd.

A loud cheer echoed through the halls, drunken revelers delighting in the evidence of your consummation, but was quickly cut off with the slam of the heavy door.

The crowd grew quieter, noise drifting back in the direction of the hall still filled with older revelers - opting to spend their time discussing matters best saved for an in-person meeting - and you took the brief moment to catch your breath as Aemond did the same.

For just a moment, he lingered near the small table that held a pitcher and glasses, before filling them with wine and bringing them to bed. He handed you one, nodded his acknowledgement to your thanks, and settled back onto the plush fabric at your side.

Silence fell over the room then, a welcome but almost overwhelming lack of sound after hours surrounded by a cacophony of noise. For the first time since you woke that morning, you found that you could hear yourself think.

Every thought centered upon your new husband.

Aemond Targaryen was a mystery. Rumors about him swirled through the realm and whispers abounded at court. None seemed to be in agreement, however.

Some thought him to be fierce, a fearsome warrior who would make a fine knight should he find himself so inclined. Others insisted that Vhagar was his only asset and that he was nothing more than a loyal hound devoted to his family. Others still insisted that the only person Aemond could ever be loyal to was himself and his own interests.

There were whispers that he was cold, unfeeling. There were rumors that he had no interest in anything other than books, that living people meant little to him. But you were beginning to see the truth.

Try as he might to hide it, the nature of his soul that he buried so deeply, you were beginning to see him for who he truly was.

Aemond wanted the things he’d never been given. He sought reassurance, comfort, love. He wanted to be wanted - truly wanted, desired; not needed because he possessed the largest, oldest dragon. And though your match began as a political alliance, you hoped to prove that he was worthy of his desires as you shifted closer and reached for his hand.

“Aemond,” you began, voice quiet as you hoped desperately he would not push you away, even as he tensed. To your relief - and surprise - he did not. Instead, he simply glanced at your linked hands before turning his full attention to your face. “Believe what you wish, but I am glad that it is you I married. I do not want Aegon or any of the other lords lingering about the castle. I did not accept this betrothal without thought and I hope that you will believe me when I say there is no other I could want.”

Though it was slight, you could see the raise of his eyebrow. So, with a sigh, you placed your cup onto the table and grasped his hand with both of your own.

“When my father made it known that he intended to offer you my hand, I was given more attention at court than I ever wanted. I never cared much for it all, but suddenly, it seemed as if everyone wanted me to join them.” With a weary sigh, you began to trace nonsensical patterns over the back of his hand. “Everyone had a tale of Prince Aemond they wished to share. Some heard word from a brother or cousin, others whispered tales from their own trips to the Red Keep. I heard so many whispers about you that I began to lose track of who whispered what. I have always held whispers in little regard but it grew so frequent that I nearly worried I might meet a monster.”

The moment you paused, Aemond hummed thoughtfully. “Targaryen’s are said to be closer to gods than men. Perhaps monsters are included.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed, pausing your tracing to glance up at him from beneath your lashes. The deep lilac of his eye met yours and you felt your cheeks heat. “But you are no monster. You are just a man. I was given the chance to reject our union. One word, and I would’ve been spirited away to some lesser lord. But I chose to stay.”

“Why?”

It was a genuine question, accompanied by a look you recognized as being tinged with skepticism. In response, you smiled at him.

“Despite your flaws, real or imagined or embellished, I find myself drawn to you. You have the beauty and fire of your house. You are proud, but not a braggart, quiet but not without charm. You are a noted swordsman and a dragon rider, yet you take no pleasure in tourneys. You are young and capable, intelligent and thoughtful. Of all the qualities one could want in a husband, you possess most."

This earnest admission was met with yet another hum of acknowledgement from your husband, a thoughtful rumination as he allowed the compliment to linger for a moment. Only then, after seeming to savor your words, did he ask, “Which qualities do I lack, wife?”

Had you not grown so accustomed to studying every twitch of his brows, every curve of his mouth, you might’ve missed the hint of a smile he wore. It was a question asked in jest, teasing, and you allowed yourself a laugh.

“Time shall tell,” you assured him, returning his barely-there smile with a soft one of your own. “Though, I would never dare call you perfect, lest your head swell to the size of Vhagar’s.” Aemond allowed you a glimpse of a true smile then, fleeting, but you savored the sight just the same. It brought a strange warmth to your chest, wound the hope that bloomed beneath your ribcage into a tendril that squeezed your heart, and you offered his hand a gentle squeeze. “I understand why we were wed. But I have hope that even if we do not find love in one another, we shall find friendship at the least.”

“You would not ask for more?”

“Men’s battles are fought in fields, at sea, on dragon back,” you answered, carefully turning his hand in yours to trace his palm. “A woman’s battle is fought abed. If I were to die there, my only hope is that it would be for someone I cared for, someone who cared for me.”

That lilac eye studied your face once more, more intently, and you could see the weight of your words settling on his shoulders as he realized that he was no longer alone, nor did you have any misunderstandings as to what this life meant for you both. Though he was the spare, pushed down in the line of succession by his brother’s children, he was expected to have a family and in return for giving him heirs, all you asked of him was companionship.

“I believe you shall be a fierce warrior,” he declared, gaze dipping to your fingers gently sweeping across his heated skin.

“And I believe you are all I could have hoped for in a husband,” you confessed, hoping he might agree - that he might declare you to be all he could’ve hoped for in a wife.

And though he seemed unopposed to you, he instead asked, “Do you believe that truly?”

“I do,” you confirmed, pausing your tracing to meet his eye. “I’ve long been afraid of marriage, of becoming trapped with someone who cared little for me, but I am more afraid that growing to love you will be easier than I ever imagined.”

“Love makes you weak,” he all but whispered, though the words held little conviction and even less weight. They were the words of someone afraid, someone unused to love and affection, and you met them with a gentle smile.

“Perhaps it is a good thing we are married, then. I believe love makes you stronger. My father loved my mother and he fought like hell to return to her each and every battle he waged. Love provides motivation,” you offered, only to be met with another thoughtful hum. Rather than pressing, you shifted the conversation after a moment of silence. “Why did you allow the bedding ceremony?”

Aemond paused for a moment and seemed to consider his answer. “I had every intention of forgoing it,” he confessed, free hand tracing the lip of his glass. “Then, we met and it was selfish, I suppose. I have something most men in King’s Landing will covet - a comely wife from a noble house who has made me the sole object of her affection. Allowing the ceremony provided an opportunity to boast, to show that while they may look, you are mine. No other will know the pleasure of your company.”

The reasoning behind his allowance was understandable, even more so when you considered that he was the second son of a man who scarcely remembered his sons in the first place. It was not often he was given something others desired, not often he could be envied, and you could not begrudge him the opportunity he’d taken.

“I am yours,” you agreed, lifting his hand to place it over your heart. “While I believe love will make us stronger, I would not mind being seen as weak, just so long as you are by my side. Others may whisper or believe what they wish but know, lord husband, that I want you and you alone. I look forward to the future and hope the gods bless us with a long and happy marriage.”

“I shall leave faith to you,” he declared, though the words were softer than you believed he intended. “But I have little doubt that you will be left wanting.” Aemond turned, then, and removed the eyepatch covering his eye. The sapphire glimmered in the dim candlelight and you squeezed his hand to keep yourself from reaching out for him.

“Gevi,” you repeated, smiling upon the full face of your new husband.

Aemond’s mouth curved once more, a touch more noticeable, before he sighed and shifted to lie amongst the pillows. “Sleep, dear wife,” he encouraged, pulling you into the pillows at his side.

With the morning sun, your new life would begin. As tentative as you’d once been, you no longer felt any fear. There was far to travel, much to be gained in the way of your new husband’s trust, but you imagined he was right; neither of you would be left wanting, so long as you had the other.

_________________________________________________

Author's Note: It's my first time writing for Aemond (or anything GoT/HotD related) so I hope it's alright. I didn't want to go too soft but I also didn't want to go too mean/cold? I dunno. Let me know what you think! :)

[ozarkthedog]

𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧

summary: joel secretly watches you shower.

warnings: 18+ mdni. older!joel miller x afab!reader. dubcon -> reader has no idea. reader has a bush but no other physical descriptors. male masturbation. joel is a conflicted, dirty old man but we love him so. w.c: 1.3k

author's note: the title is way too sweet for this. thank you @ghotifishreads for looking this over!

Part 2 — heavenly bound

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Joel is a bad man. 

A very, very bad man. 

Still, he couldn't think of a reason to stop as he gripped the base of his cock and began to stroke while he watched you dance like a sprite under the flowing stream.

It was a miracle the two of you stumbled upon a YMCA this far from the city. Joel figured it'd be swarming with people or worse, but it was oddly barren aside from crawling vines and small critters living in the alcoves. 

It was even rarer that the water would still be working, but after you begged him with those big doe eyes, Joel checked it out. 

You wait anxiously on a pathway in the center of a large washroom, shifting back and forth on your feet between the shower stalls while Joel stands in one of the less scary cubicles. The room was a mess. Mud cakes the floor and walls; once pearly white tiles are now smeared with dirt. Various tiles and mirrors are splintered and broken. 

"'ere goes nothin'." Joel turns the knob, and the pipes behind the wall make a slew of thuds and loud creaking noises before a rush of water flows from the tap like a waterfall spilling over the edge of a cliff. 

"No, shit." Joel curses in shock and tests the water's temp. "S'ice cold." he hisses before stepping out of the tiny stall. 

You squeal elatedly. Uncaring about the cold, you move closer and cup your hands under the stream. You let out a soft moan at the frigid temperature. The unruly summer days were doing a number on you both.

Joel swallows hard at the sound and shifts his eyes to the floor before spying a few bars of soap a few feet away. He grabs two and tosses you one. "I don't know about you, but I'm taking a shower now," you announce, dropping your bag into the path between the stalls.

"Guess I should, too," Joel says, looking at the other, relatively clean stall across from yours. 

"You definitely should." You quip and playfully wrinkle your nose as you shuck off your shoes.

"Shut up." Joel bites back with a sly grin. He takes a few short steps and turns the shower knob. Sure enough, crystal clear water streams freely from the head.

"See ya when we're clean." you send him a smile before tugging your curtain closed. 

Joel shifts on his feet in the small space as he watches you pile your clothes on top of your bag from behind the curtain. He should keep guard and give you some privacy, but all coherent thought evaporates when he sees and hears you step under the stream.

Sunlight pours down into your stall from a window above, creating a tempting silhouette as you shimmy in the water and let loose an unrestrained moan. The sweet sound echoes off the washroom walls and slithers into Joel's brain. It races down his spinal column, and reaches home in his groin. His cock fills with blood instantly, forcing him to bite his cheek and mute his own moan.

"Ah, what the hell," he mumbles, setting his pack next to yours and closing the curtain to his stall. He's out of his clothes quicker than he remembers moving, chucking them carelessly on the other side of the curtain. His cock stands hard and raging, but he ignores it, choosing to step under the freezing stream with the hope it'll curb his arousal. 

"Fuck." Joel groans when the cold rains down on his sweltering body.  

"Told you." he hears you tease.

Joel shakes his head with a smile. It was by chance that your paths crossed. He wasn't looking for anyone to share in this new way of life, especially after Tommy left, but as luck would have it, you stumbled into his world at the right time, and now he's not quite sure he wants to live without you in it.  

He'd kept his distance over the last few months. He was too old to get caught up in sappy feelings and didn't need the distraction when life was on the line. However, that raw, gnawing need never went away. It took him a while to relax and feel secure enough to get off, but when he did, he was able to let go and succumb to the urges he remembered enjoying so much before the outbreak. 

He scrubs his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, across his broad, hairy chest, expelling dirt and grime from his skin as it swirls down the drain. His erection still hasn't faded; if anything, it's even harder now as your airy singing fills the room. 

He teethes his bottom lip as he succumbs to the urge once more and curls a soapy hand around his twitching length, circling the girthy base with a tight grip. Blood pulses in the crown— a desert sunset red, throbbing and weeping.

Joel knows it's wrong, but he's past the point of caring. With his left hand, he eases the curtain to catch another glimpse of your inviting silhouette but gets more than he imagined.

A breeze from the open window above your stall must have pushed the curtain open without you realizing. It was no bigger than a small gap, but it exposed enough of your body to Joel's prying eyes.

His jaw clenches tight as his deviant gaze travels along the wet, soapy expanse of your body. Water drips from your hairline, over your clavicle, between your breasts, and trickles down your soft belly. A mess of droplets and soapy suds cling to the patch of curls that covers your mound. Joel's cock throbs at the sight of your bush; he always loved the taste of a sweaty, hairy pussy.

You wash yourself, utterly unaware of his stare. The knot in Joel's abdomen twists, an unyielding cramp cinching ever tighter. He swirls his large, slick palm over his drooling tip, expertly moving with the right touch, trying his quickest to get off before the floor opens up and swallows him whole.

His sac tightens, drawing up as an intense wave burns through his gut. He watches with shameless infatuation as you run your soapy hands around your breasts and between your legs before rinsing away the filth. He roughly thrusts into his grip, imagining it's your cunt as it hugs and swirls around him while he greedily fucks into your warmth. He wants nothing more than to feel you under him, writhing from his illicit and soothing touch. 

His spine curves as he hunches over and leans one hand on the wall for support as he comes with a mess of deep, broken grunts. Fingers scratch the tile, body quivering with searing pleasure as thick white ropes splash against the dingy tile; he pictures you gasping for him while he fills you to the brim.

Shame creeps in, swarming hot and fast like the midday sun after a summer rainstorm. He yanks his hand from his cock like he's been burnt when you suddenly appear on the other side of the curtain.

"Are you almost done?" your voice cutting through the white noise of the shower stream. Joel peers around the side of the curtain, eyes piercing yet sorrowful. "Yeah, gimme a minute."

For now, Joel shakes off his shame. He cleans himself up and haphazardly splashes the wall with water, washing away any evidence of his perverted seclusion.

"Here," he hears you say as you hand him his clothes. He opens the curtain a bit and notices your eyes are cast downward. Joel instantly feels the sharp fangs of regret sink into his flesh; you must've heard him. 

"Thanks," Joel mutters. His fingers brush yours as he grabs his clothes, making your big eyes snap to his before they curiously travel down over his bouldering, sun-kissed shoulders. He watches your jaw drop with a silent gasp, and your knees slightly buckle at the dewy sight of him.

"Be right out," he smirks when you forget to let go of his clothes, forcing you to mumble a mortified apology before he closes the curtain.

Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe he's not as bad as he thinks, and just maybe he might have a chance with you.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[witch-hazels-musings]

seeing you get hit

Genre: angst/comfort NEUVILLETTE x GN reader  |  Anthology warning: the reader is punched in the face, kicked (2xs), mention of pain and discomfort / Mesulines are treated unkindly and spoken too derogatorily / Neuvillette obliterates a guy (oh also you wake up in his bed -- fufu) Synopsis: *character* becomes progressively worried about you not returning - as the hours tick by, they notice a commotion has started and find you in distress as they check it out. Quickly they head to where you were and, well, their reaction to seeing you being accosted by someone in the middle of the city, let’s just say they took matters into their own hands

"Sir, please calm down," you said, raising your hands to appease the irate man waving about. You moved to position yourself between him and the Melusine and could feel her trembling as she latched onto your clothes.

"How dare you raise your voice to me!" he shouted, swatting at your hands, forcing you to shuffle backward toward the canal. With how tightly the Melusine stood beside you, it became increasingly difficult to not trip over her.

"I can see you're angry -"

"I'm not angry, I'm annoyed. I want an apology from that - that thing, now!" He jutted his hand toward the Melusine and she hid further behind your leg. Rage billowed off him like salty wind on the high seas, every transgression equalling small cuts that made you wince. You knew there were those who dislike the Melusines, but you never had the disgusting privilege of meeting one - until now.

"I did say I was sorry, sir," she mumbled, to terrified to speak louder than a gentle caress of water over shallow rocks.

"There, will that satisfy you?" you asked, hand against his chest to keep him from moving closer. He locked eyes with you, shoulders heaving, face flush and red. His stare darted between you and her, back and forth, increasing in frustration. You moved until he couldn't see her at all. "Leave."

His lips curled into a feral sneer. "You think you're bravely protecting it, huh? If it's so important, let it face me-"

"Her."

"What?"

"I'm protecting her."

Rage swept over him and, without thinking, you shoved the Mesuline to the side and took the full force of his blow.

---

Neuvillette made his way through the crowd, chin lifted as he carefully took in the people. Some smiled at him, others bowed their heads in dutiful respect. He minded neither, but returned their gestures with a kind nod.

He rarely had intentions when he wandered through the city. It was typical for him to meander like a slow moving river carving a lazy path to nowhere in particular but today he felt a strong desire to happen upon someone. You. One who had grown rather close to him over the last several months, one who, at times, would come by to, 'check in on him,' while he worked, one who found a habit of leaving bottles of mineral-rich water on his desk when he was away. He found your company, pleasing.

Though, so far, his unassuming searching had come up empty. Did you make mention of leaving Fontaine today? He couldn't remember.

Near the canal, frustrated voices billowed on the wind. A crowd had formed in a rather unusual way. He stared, unable to see through the bunched people when something tugged on his leg.

Neuvillette pushed through the crowd. They jumped out of the way and tripped over themselves to allow him through while he looked ahead at the sight beyond their breach and felt the blackness of the sea consume him.

"Monsieur Neuvillette!" the Mesuline shouted, her eyes filled with worry.

---

"Are you okay?" The Mesuline asked, her face inches from yours as you coughed and blinked through the white. A high-pitched ring clogged your ears so you opened your mouth to clear the noise only to gasp at the pain it caused.

"You stupid -- so desperate to go down with those fucking things? Fine!" The man shouted. You looked his way just in time to see his leg fly toward your stomach. It sent you careening into the stone pathway and knocked the Mesuline halfway into the water. You tried to grab her, but she slipped from your grip when you landed on your arm, it bent unnaturally in your tumble. You cried out but that didn't stop him from slamming his foot into your chest.

Gasping, you rolled onto your back and stared at the blinding sky. It hurt to breathe, hurt to think. The Mesuline rushed toward you and you lifted a shaking arm to block them from the man's wrath.

People screamed and rushed forward to grab the man as his foot came down toward you but all you saw was radiant blue rising toward the sky, and from its shimmer came the rain.

A massive wave rose from the canal and covered the land in a shallow, unmoving layer of crystal-clear water. You could make out the bodies of onlookers but they seemed frozen, more like mirages, glistening in quiet stasis. The buildings of Fontaine reflected in the mirror-like water, making your stomach flip, but the hovering figure in the eerie blue turned your skin cold.

"What is - what's happening?" the man asked, panic seeping from him as he searched for familiar ground. He looked at his feet only to shout and stumble onto his backside. "Monsters! I told you! Those things are monsters!" He pointed to the Mesuline who was now securely tucked against your chest. She trembled, buried her face against you and held on so tightly it made you wince.

"You are mistaken," a voice said and the water fluttered, every droplet alight with energy it couldn't bear. "I am the monster you seek."

Through bleary, rain-blinded eyes, you watched the figure descend before the man and, when it was close enough, you recognized its face.

Neuvillette.

Beads of water lept from the basin to reach him like hands pawing to touch even a thread of their so-called God. You could sense the energy in the shallow pool, feel it in every drop of rain that cascaded across your face but none of it touched Neuvillette. He remained - unaffected.

"Iudex ..." the man said, his voice barely audible even in the strange quiet. Senses returning to him, he scrambled to a low, deep bow and splayed his hands beneath Neuvillette's hovering feet. "Monsieur, please, this is all just a terrible mistake."

"Have the rules of Order been unclear to you?"

"I - I don't understand."

"Your crime has been witnessed by many and yet, you stand before me, denying all accusations?"

"P-Please, Monsieur. T-they attacked me, I was just defending myself."

"It appears communication with the accused is going poorly. I shall afford you one final chance before I render judgment."

"Judgement? What-you can't!" The man stood and came up to Neuvillette's hips. "You may be the Iudex, but you can't sentence me! I deserve to be tried. You'll see - you'll see then it was all a mistake."

Neuvillette glanced your way, his eyes narrowing. When he looked back at the man, all the color drained from his face. "By order of -"

"No, wait! Please!" The man raised his hands and Neuvillette did the same.

"I render you, guilty." Power boiled below the surface and set the world rumbling. "Bow your head, and be sanctified," Neuvillette said and with his judgment, a pillar of water burst from below and consumed the man until there was nothing left.

When the waters receded, Neuvillette made his way to you. Each step steady, measured, undisturbing of the waters beneath him. He knelt at your side, laid one hand on your forehead and another on the trembling Melusine who hid further against your body.

"Neu --" you said, pain taking your voice.

"I am here," he hummed and you fell away like the tide.

---

When you awoke, you found yourself surrounded by lapping silk. Cool fabric warmed by your body heat. It hurt to lift yourself up, but only slightly. It seemed your mind remembered the pain of the day before while your body didn't. You touched your chin but it felt normal.

"I see you are awake," a voice echoed in the room but you couldn't see them. Giant rods on each corner of the bed held up a royal curtain that obscured your vision.

You were tempted to slip free from the sheets when the pitter-patter of feet held you in place and from the nothing several Melusines rushed to greet you. Each was more excited than the last. They swarmed you with thanks and laughter, sweeping you up in their joyous voices.

Another being appeared near the edge of the bed, except his presence made you go still. He moved gracefully to sit beside you and instinctually you moved so he had more room. He noticed.

Neuvillette frowned. "I have frightened you," he said, sorrowful as dropped his gaze.

"What? No, I'm not -" You reached for him then pulled back at the last minute. He noticed. "I'm not afraid of you. I swear."

He contemplated your reply for what felt like forever before nodding in acceptance. "I hope you do not mind the accommodations. I had little place else to take you."

You tried to not think about it too much. It was almost certain this was - as you now suspected - his room. "It's fine," you replied and hoped the shadows didn't betray the heat rising in your cheeks.

"I am pleased to hear." Neuvillette smiled and let his eyes drift to the Mesulines surrounding you. "I believe thanks are in order."

"You're the one who saved me though."

"That may be true, yet it was you who protected the Mesulines, was it not?"

Your palm went flush against one of their backs. You didn't think much at the time, it was just - "It was the only thing to do."

"Indeed," he said, his eyes soft, kind, and fixed on your own. You dropped them under the pressure only for your heart to stop when his hand cupped your chin so he could look at you again. "I am grateful."

You looked at him, tried to breathe, tried to force words - any words - through your throat but all you could manage were several shallow nods to which he responded by running his finger across your cheek - leaving you drowning.

[megalony]

Can't You Be Mine

As promised, this is my newest Evan Buckley imagine and I have a follow up planned if anyone is interested.

Let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @stefansalvatoresgf @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra8484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @shelbygeek @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana

@shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @ml572 @jessie-lynn28 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits

Evan Buckley Masterlist

Part 2

You're Mine Now (Spin-off)

Summary: Evan has a great relationship with (Y/n)'s little girl, Minnie. So good, in fact, that at preschool, she starts telling everyone that her dad is a firefighter.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A grin spread across Evan's features when he pulled up outside the preschool. He unclipped his belt and tilted his head to the right, looking across at his little 'passenger princess' as he had come to call her recently.

Minnie had a cheesy smile on her face that glistened in the sunlight, illuminating the streaks of syrup covering her lips and chin and most likely her hands too.

Her hair was tied up in a bobble with a dark red bow in the centre of her head which always acted as a beacon. Evan could always spot her when he was dropping her off or picking her up due to the bows and clips she liked to have in her hair.

"Alright, let's clean up quick."

He leaned across to fish out the pack of wipes he had in the glove box while his heart gave out an extra beat when he noticed what Minnie was doing. She had her arms pinned to her chest but her hands held out in front of her, waiting very patiently and doing her best not to touch anything. She didn't want to get syrup all over the car, especially not when Evan told her the pancakes they got on the way to school were a secret.

Of course, (Y/n) knew they would pick something up on their way, they always did. (Y/n) knew one of them would end up letting slip what they had got on their way to school and work and half the time it was Evan who let slip what they had.

He swiped the sticky golden splotches from Minnie's hands and dabbed at her mouth before he kissed her nose.

Evan loved bringing her to school but he loved to pick her up even more because then he got to see her run out into the playground and make a beeline for him. He adored seeing Minnie run over to him with her arms out and a bright smile on her face, it made his day ten times better.

"Okay," He murmured to himself, cleaning himself up too before he grabbed the rubbish and climbed out the jeep, tossing everything in the bin on his way. "Ready?"

He unclipped Minnie's belt and scooped her out of the car seat, easing her down to her feet and helping her slide her backpack over her shoulders.

He loved that he didn't even have to say anything and she would automatically reach up and take his much larger hand in her own. Her fingers squeezed into his palm and she started to sway their hands back and forth as Evan guided them across the path towards the gates.

"You picking me up today?" The four year old tilted her head back and squinted in the bright sun to look up at Evan.

Her toothy grin melted his heart and had him beaming a smile back down at her. He wished he was picking her up, he would pick her up every day from school if he could, but he was going to work in ten minutes and he would be on a double shift. He wouldn't be finished until tomorrow morning so he wasn't going to see Minnie until tomorrow afternoon when she came home from school.

"Not today, mouse. Your mum's gonna pick you up, but I'll pick you up tomorrow if you want."

The nickname rolled off the tongue without Evan needing to think about it. He had come accustomed to calling her mouse, after Minnie Mouse, and he knew if he ever called her by her name, she thought she was in trouble because she was so used to petnames from Evan.

The four year old had attached herself to Evan from the moment they met and he couldn't of been happier.

Evan had been a little bit apprehensive going into a relationship with (Y/n) because all the other girls he'd dated had never had kids. He loved kids, he was a natural at looking after kids, but this was new territory for Evan. He had been worried that Minnie wouldn't want him around.

With (Y/n) being a single mum, Minnie wasn't used to her mum having a boyfriend or having a father figure around and Evan worried that she wouldn't want him being that father figure in her life.

She took them both by surprise. If Evan didn't pick her up from school she would pout and wobble her lower lip. If he wasn't round to have tea with them or if he couldn't put her to bed, she would stomp her foot and have a tantrum. If she thought (Y/n) was getting more attention she would get grumpy and if (Y/n) got a kiss, Minnie would pout and wait until Evan kissed her too.

And she had easily wormed her way into Evan's heart. He was forever telling the team about her and had dozens of photos of both his girls on his phone.

His favourite was the one of Minnie trying to wear his uniform. She had found his uniform when she and (Y/n) came over for dinner at the loft. Safe to say, Evan found her wearing his boots and his shirt that drowned her frame and he had to take a picture.

"Okay," Minnie leaned her head against Evan's leg, itching her temple against the scratchy material of his starched trousers.

Evan slowed down when they approached the gates, but he knew their routine by now. He didn't necessarily have to walk Minnie through the gates, her classroom was ten feet in front of the gates next to the playground. He could stand at the gates and see her safely into class.

But that never happened. Every time he dropped her off, Minnie would walk him through the gates like she was the adult safely escorting him to school. Only when they were right near the classroom door would she let go of his hand and say goodbye.

He let her drag him through the gates, smiling happily as the little girl led him towards the playground. They were a few minutes early today and her class was out in the play area, all milling about and burning off energy until the teacher would call them inside.

"Okay now I won't see you until tomorrow. Try not to miss me too much," He crouched down in front of her, letting go of her hand so he could hold her sides instead.

The whine she let out made his smile dampen but at least she didn't cry. She pushed forward and looped her arms around his neck, leaning against his chest for a hug.

"Bye bye." She broke off in a fit of giggles when Evan started to press sloppy kisses against her cheek to brighten her up.

"Bye girlie," He pressed a lasting kiss to her temple before he pushed up and headed back out the gates. He looked back over his shoulder, as always, and found Minnie waving at him with a toothy grin and creased eyes.

Minnie's shoulders sagged and her head lolled to one side as she looked around the playground.

She liked school, but she wasn't the most interactive or social child in the room. It worried (Y/n) that Minnie would rather sit on a table by herself and colour or do games on her own than with the other kids. The four year old started to panic when the teachers tried to get her to join in with everyone else. She was better with one on one where she interacted with one friend at a time otherwise she seemed to become overwhelmed and recluse herself.

She stayed watching through the fence as Evan hopped in the jeep, giving her one last wave before he pulled away. When he was gone, her lips pressed into a big pout and she turned around.

Her beady eyes landed on Amber, one of the girls in her class who she felt more comfortable sitting and talking to.

She headed over towards Amber and flopped down on her bum next to her as Amber was doodling on the pavement with chalk. There was another boy from their class, Miles, sat chalking the floor and Tina was stood kicking at the stones, waiting to head inside.

For a few moments, Minnie sat quiet as the mouse she was named after and listened to the conversations floating around. Her hands tapped against her thighs and her head tilted to one side as she tried to keep up.

"My daddy builds things, like big buildings. He goes in big crane machines." Amber didn't look away from whatever creation she was doodling, but she moved her hands out at her sides to emphasise how big the machines were that her dad operated.

"My dad fixes things, like trains." Miles dropped the blue chalk he was holding, now bored of doing this. He wanted to go inside.

"What does your dad do?"

Minnie's lips formed another pout and she began bashing her hands against her legs to give herself something to do.

She didn't know.

She didn't have one. Minnie always found it strange when she started school that the other kids talked about their dads and said their dads lived with them and took them out or told them off or picked them up. It was strange because she didn't have one. All Minnie had was her mum and Evan, who (Y/n) always said was her boyfriend.

But surely, if he was her mum's boyfriend, that meant he was Minnie's dad, didn't it?

Couldn't Evan be her dad? He brought her to school and picked her up, just like Amber's dad. He took her out to the zoo with her new 'cousin Chris'. He stayed over a lot of nights and he stayed in her mum's room. He cooked and played games with Minnie, he helped her get dressed and tucked her into bed. Sometimes he would tell her off like Miles's dad, though not often because Minnie prided herself on being good.

Evan did all the things the other dads did, so that had to make him Minnie's dad. Plus, they were going to live together soon. (Y/n) and Evan had already sat Minnie down and said they were all going to live in a house together soon and they were all packing their things up, ready for when they moved next month.

"My daddy's a fireman." Minnie kept her eyes on the chalk on the floor as her tummy fluttered and her legs began to jitter.

Well, that was what Evan did and he seemed to be her dad, for all intents and purposes. And that was what Minnie wanted. She wasn't sure if her friends chose their mums or their dads or if that was how this was supposed to work, but Minnie chose Evan.

"Does he drive the big trucks?"

Her words seemed to spark Miles's interest and he stopped fidgeting to pay attention to her.

"Yeah. Daddy had the truck fall on his leg."

"No he didn't."

A deep frown set in Minnie's features. Her nose scrunched up and her brows furrowed until she could barely see and her lips curled into the biggest pout she'd ever made. Her little hands planted down on her thighs as she huffed.

"Did too! I've seen the scar, he had pins and bolts in his leg." She wasn't fibbing. She had seen Evan's legs whenever he wore shorts when he stayed with them or when he took her swimming.

On the back of his left leg, he had a massive scar going from the back of his knee right down to his foot. It was a streaky white colour and as wide as Minnie's thumb that could trace the indent it caused in his skin like the formations of a crack in the road.

She was enamoured by the small lines that streaked horizontally across his scar from the stitches and she had seen the little circular scars where he'd had pins inserted into the bone to keep it in tact. Minnie didn't quite understand why he still had his leg considering such a big truck had landed on it, but she was satisfied when Evan just told her he was very lucky.

"Wow." Miles seemed satisfied by her answer and Minnie managed to smile, her frown washing away just as the bell rang and Miss Harvey came over to usher them all inside.

***

"Are you ready?" (Y/n) let her eyes scan around the group of children all piling off the minibus, but her sight kept falling back to her daughter stood at her side.

She felt Minnie take hold of her hand and tuck herself up against her mum's leg like she wanted to blend in and hide herself away.

(Y/n) was glad she had signed up for this little fieldtrip. She dreaded to think what Minnie would be like if she wasn't here. The preschool seemed to take the kids on lots of different outings and activities and parents were encouraged to sign up as chaperones and (Y/n) was more than happy to do that. Especially since Minnie was struggling with including herself and wanting to join in.

If she wasn't here, (Y/n) had a feeling Minnie would of thrown a tantrum about going on this trip or she might have attached to one of the other mums here and not left their side.

Their group- consisting of fifteen children, three parents including (Y/n), and two teachers- all walked down the path until they were in front of the large brick building with bright red shutters and signs attached.

"And this is the fire station we're visiting today." Miss Harvey beckoned all the kids to stand close together with the parents hovering them towards the wall and away from the road.

(Y/n) looked down when she felt Minnie give a small tug on her hand, although the four year old had her eyes set on the station like it was a beacon coming out of the darkness.

"Station, like where Buck works?"

"Yep." She squeezed Minnie's hand with an encouraging smile. She had chosen not to tell Minnie where they were going or which station, when they talked this morning. It seemed safer not to in case Minnie got too overexcited or in case this trip didn't go ahead for some reason.

And (Y/n) hadn't told Evan either so it would be a surprise for both of them when they walked in.

She kept Minnie tucked into her side and also kept an eye on the other two girls who were staying close by, Amber and Tina. They seemed to want to talk and interact with Minnie, but Minnie wasn't so keen. She just wanted to stay with (Y/n) and only talk to her mum.

They all followed Miss Harvey inside and (Y/n) took a moment to look around, almost in wonder as much as the kids. She had never been in a fire station before. Despite being with Evan for a year now, she had yet to turn up here. That didn't mean she hadn't met his friends, or his 'work family' as he called them, (Y/n) had met just about everyone who was important to Evan, but actually being here made all his stories come alive.

They were all guided to a large space between two fire trucks and all the kids were kindly told to sit down on the floor in the middle of the trucks.

"Okay kids, this is Captain Nash. He's in charge here and he's going to talk to you about what they do here."

Once Miss Harvey moved to the left and motioned towards Bobby, (Y/n) moved her hands and motioned for Minnie and Amber to sit down in the third row.

A gasp tumbled past Minnie's lips and she suddenly tugged on (Y/n)'s hand before she tried to rush to the side. (Y/n) followed her line of sight while she wrapped both arms around her daughter and reeled her back into her chest to stop her from running off.

"Baby, come on we need to sit down-"

"Buck! It's Buck." She wriggled from left to right, doing her best to get out of her mother's arms but it didn't work. (Y/n) sat her down and knelt behind her, keeping hold of her like they were just having a cuddle when really, she was preventing her daughter from running around the station like the Tazmanian Devil.

"You can see him after the Captain's talked to everyone," (Y/n) hushed in her ear, wincing when Minnie all but huffed and crossed her arms.

But she stayed seated on the floor, pressing her chin into her chest while she tried to focus on what the Captain was saying. It was hard. Minnie couldn't concentrate despite his soft voice and his warm smile. She wanted to go and see Buck.

Evan tossed the cleaning rag over his shoulder and stepped away from the ambulance when he heard the ruckus. That meant the kids were here.

It wasn't often that they got schools coming by to visit the station, it was normally them turning up at schools to give safety talks and lectures. He figured this was better for the kids. Out of their usual environment, somewhere new to look around and explore and this way, they got to see the trucks and the ambulance and see what it looked like inside a real station.

He crossed one leg over the other and leant against a pillar next to Eddie who was stood with his hands in his pockets and a soft smile on his face.

Once Eddie turned and noticed who it was behind him, he grinned and lightly jabbed his elbow into Evan's chest before pointing towards the group of kids all sat on the floor.

"You never said it was Minnie's class coming in today."

"What?" Evan pushed up off the pillar, standing back on his feet properly as his shoulders straightened and his back clicked into place.

Minnie's class? She was here? (Y/n) never mentioned it. She never said Minnie was going on a trip today, or that it would be a trip to his very own station. Come to think of it, Minnie hadn't said anything either and if Evan knew her like he thought he did, he knew that she would of been screaming in his ear that she was going to come and visit him today. He would of been waiting by the door if he knew.

His eyes scoured the three rows of preschool kids all sat quietly, barely any of them moving, all enamoured by Bobby's speech and how he was beginning to point and describe the anatomy of the trucks.

Sure enough, Evan's beady eyes landed on not only Minnie but (Y/n) as well. They were knelt in the back row on the end and Minnie was leaning back into (Y/n) like she was desperate to wriggle out of her mum's hold and run around the station.

"I didn't know," Evan whispered softly, barely turning his head in Eddie's direction because he couldn't look away from his girls.

The moment Minnie looked in his direction and realised he was looking at her, her whole face lit up. She smiled and her eyes shone like stars and she started to wriggle again. She sat up straight and squared her shoulders, moving to wave frantically in his direction until a grin broke out on Evan's face and he silently waved back.

Evan's original plan had been to hang somewhere out the way and then come down when Bobby had finished his speech. He had it in mind that he would come down and interact with the kids for a bit and then see them off. But now he knew Minnie was here, he couldn't find it in himself to disappear.

He stood next to Eddie, both of them only half listening to Bobby. Evan began to tap his foot, suddenly impatient for Bobby to finish so he could go over and talk to his girls.

Bobby couldn't have finished a moment too soon but he waved Hen over to have a quick chat to the group since she was a medic as well as a firefighter.

(Y/n) took that as her moment. She leaned forward and kissed Minnie's cheek, whispering in her ear quietly. "Let me go talk to Buck, then when Hen's finished, he's all yours. Okay?"

Minnie bubbled up excitedly and nodded, but she wouldn't look away from Hen just yet. Now she was interested just before the speeches were going to end.

Moving her hands to her knees, (Y/n) slowly pushed up from the floor that had turned her legs to jelly and made her knees harden like stone. She could feel her back clicking into place once she was up and she took a glance around the group before she moved towards Evan. Miss Harvey was stood near Bobby and the other two parents were stood off to one side, murmuring and smiling with Chimney. It would be fine for (Y/n) to talk to Evan, she would still be within close range of the kids in case they needed her.

(Y/n) ran her hand through her hair and moved over towards Evan who took a few steps away from Eddie to meet her at the side of the truck.

She noticed his eyes do a quick sweep around the station, making sure no one else - or the kids- were watching before he looped his arms around her waist and reeled her into his chest.

He ducked his head down and stole a kiss from her lips before she had chance to panic and look around as if they were teens trying not to get caught in school. His lips tasted like cherry cola and his fingers felt heavenly, squeezing into her hips while his chest leaned down into hers like he was trying to tilt (Y/n) backwards or lay her down on the floor.

She brought her hands up to cup the sides of his neck, smoothing her thumbs up and down behind his ears until he was shivering.

Their temples pressed together when they parted and the grin that lit up his face made Evan look like one of the school kids. A quiet "Hi," whispered from his lips into hers and he nudged the end of his nose along hers until (Y/n) was smiling and shaking her head.

"You didn't tell me you were coming here."

"It was a surprise."

"Well colour me surprised… I bet you didn't tell Minnie either, did you?" The hint of a smirk pulled at his lips while he let go of her hips so he could loop his arms fully around her waist and tug her closer until every ridge of her body was pressed up against him.

"Course I didn't, she'd of been screaming your name all day if I told her." As much as (Y/n) loved her daughter's enthusiasm, she didn't think everyone would appreciate Minnie's hyperness if she knew they were coming to see Evan.

The four year old would have been bouncing off the walls, telling everyone and proudly shouting Evan's name until they got here. At least this way both she and Evan got a lovely surprise and it stopped Minnie from getting worked up like a sugar rush.

"Well, I'm glad you're all at our station. I'll show you round in a bit." He leaned forward and pecked her temple, smiling to himself when (Y/n) buried her head beneath his chin and kissed his neck causing a shiver to roll down his spine.

He kept her burrowed away into his chest for a few more seconds, savouring the moment until he noticed Hen had finished her talk and the kids were starting to get up.

He knew Minnie would be heading their way any second now and then Evan would happily show her and a few of the kids around and answer any of their strange questions. He let his arms loosen around (Y/n) just enough for her to spin around in his hold so her back was snuggled into his chest and both of them were looking at the kids.

Minnie was stood with two other kids while the rest of them split up into groups and followed after Hen or Bobby.

Her hands began to itch at her sides and she couldn't stop herself from smiling when she looked over towards her mum and Evan. He was here. This was where he worked. This was the fire truck he drove and maybe the one that landed on his leg too. This was his other home that he was always telling her about.

"Is that your dad, the fireman?" Amber kept her chin tilted down and feebly pointed towards Evan. She had seen him with Minnie at school a few times, and Minnie did tell them last week that her dad was a fireman.

A beaming smile lit up Minnie's face as a rush of adrenaline flooded her stomach and she began to fidget from foot to foot. She nodded and pointed over at Evan which caught his attention and made him smile in her direction. And he watched as Minnie trotted towards him, both Amber and Miles in tow behind her.

"Yeah. That's my daddy."

Evan couldn't breathe.

All the air in his lungs suddenly evaporated; his lungs turned into balloons which popped and shrivelled up in his chest. His jaw hung open and his lips became dryer than the desert, but he couldn't find anything to say.

Minnie had never called him that before. When they first met, she used to call him Mister quite a lot, then when they became closer, she started calling him Buck. Even though she heard (Y/n) call him Evan, she never tried to call him that, it had always been Buck so far. She had never called him dad before or pointed him out and named him her dad to other people.

But what else could he be? What else could she call him when she saw him almost every day? He took her to school, he picked her up when she fell over, he tucked her in bed and took her out and went to the doctors with her and (Y/n). He introduced her to everyone as his 'little mouse' or 'my girl'.

And just a few weeks ago after Minnie commented that he was always telling (Y/n) that he loved her, he started to tell Minnie he loved her too. He never wanted to say that before in case it upset her or made her feel uneasy but just seeing her face light up when he told her, meant the whole world to Evan.

"My turn." Minnie held her arms out towards Evan, suddenly breaking him out of his trance.

He realised he was shaking when he unravelled his arms from (Y/n) who looked like she was on the verge of tears. Her hand moved to his shoulder while he leaned down and scooped Minnie up so he could cuddle her into his chest.

Her arms looped around his neck and Evan breathlessly kissed her cheek while he did his best to ward off the burning sensation behind his eyes that were threatening to spill tears. God, he hoped Minnie wasn't just saying this because her friends were nearby. He hoped that when he got home from work tonight, she would still call him that.

He hoped tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after, that Minnie was still going to call him her dad. He hoped she would introduce him to everyone as her dad. He could just see himself telling people he had a little girl, he could imagine showing the guys her picture and proudly saying that was his daughter.

"Hi, are you being good, little mouse?" He kissed her cheek again when she wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled in close to him as she nodded and hummed.

His eyes darted from Minnie to (Y/n) when he suddenly realised that maybe, (Y/n) might not be happy about this sudden revelation.

Evan remembered the conversation they had not long after they started dating. He remembered every word of that chilling conversation where (Y/n) told him about Minnie's biological dad. Minnie had never met him, he didn't even know she existed.

Minnie had been the reason (Y/n) got out of her abusive relationship with her ex. She managed to get away from him and moved in with her sister until she found a place of her own. And Evan remembered everything (Y/n) told him about what her ex had done. There was no way (Y/n) could stay with him if she had Minnie and to protect Minnie, (Y/n) hadn't named anyone in the father's section on her birth certificate.

It suddenly occurred to Evan that maybe (Y/n) wouldn't be happy about this. Maybe she wouldn't want Minnie to have a dad or call someone her dad. But Minnie had never known her dad, she had grown up thinking she just didn't have one and that had been fine until Evan walked into their lives and changed their perspectives.

But the way (Y/n) smiled and the single tear that rolled down her face told Evan she wasn't displeased at all. She was thrilled.

She stood close to Amber and Miles in case they had any questions or wanted to go and take a look around. But Miles took a step forward towards Evan and gingerly tugged on his trouser leg to gain his attention.

"Did a truck really land on your leg?"

Surprise flooded Evan's eyes and his jaw hung loose again while he tried to think how to respond to that. But all that came to mind was the fact that clearly, Minnie had been talking about him. She had been telling her friends what Evan did for a living and about his accident. Clearly she loved him enough to want to brag about him and talk about him to her class. and that thought melted Evan's heart.

Evan looked between Minnie who had her cheek pressed into his shoulder, and the young boy who was staring at both his legs intently. He looked like he wanted to pull on Evan's trousers and peek beneath them at his legs. And Evan would bet that the young boy thought Evan might have some kind of prosthetic.

"Uh, yeah, yeah it did." He nodded and leaned backwards a little so Minnie could rest better against his chest.

"Wow. So- so you're like superman?"

"Well, not qui-"

"Yeah he is! Show him your leg, daddy." Minnie wriggled around in his arms, shimmying down his chest a little until she could grab at the waistband of his trousers.

For a dreaded second, Evan thought she was going to undo his belt and try to pull his pants down to show his scar. But she only tugged on his pant leg to get him to take the hint. She wanted him to pull the pant leg up so he could show Miles his scars.

Evan rolled his lips together to supress a smile and juggled Minnie in his right arm so that he could scrunch his trouser leg up in his other hand. He pulled it up towards his knee, showing just enough of his tattered, scarred leg to make Miles gasp and grin like he'd seen one of the seven wonders of the world.

The young boy simply stared at Evan's leg, unable to look away even when Evan rolled down his trouser leg again.

He carefully leaned forward and planted Minnie back down on her feet, but when she clutched his hand and held it to her chest, he smiled. He stayed slightly stooped over so she could keep hold of him while (Y/n) looked between Miles and Amber.

"Alright, who wants to look round the fire trucks?"

When the pair of them nodded, (Y/n) guided them over towards Miss Harvey and Bobby who were with five other kids looking round the first fire truck. She noticed Hen guide the other half of the class towards the ambulance to let them take a look around and show them what each appliance and equipment piece was.

Once the pair of them were back with the group, following Bobby's lead like he had put them all under a trance, (Y/n) slowly headed back over to Evan and Minnie. Her hands moved up and down her sides to try and remain calm, but she didn't know what to do with herself.

Minnie had never asked about her dad before, and (Y/n) had always been grateful. She was always relieved her daughter never wondered why she didn't seem to have a father figure or why she didn't have a dad to come and visit her and take her out like other kids. She seemed content just to have (Y/n).

And she had been so happy that Minnie took to Evan so easily and attached herself to him. But somehow, (Y/n) still didn't think that Minnie would want to call Evan her dad, not yet anyway.

She smiled as she approached them and crouched down in front of Minnie who was still clinging to Evan's hand that she seemed to have confiscated and pinned to her chest.

Her hands reached out to hold Minnie's waist and tug her closer while Evan shimmied his hand out of her hold so he could rest his hand on her back instead.

"So… you, you've got a new name for Buck?" When Minnie didn't answer, Evan crouched down beside her so they were all level.

"You've never called me that before, mouse."

The way she looked down at her shoes made Evan's heart flip. She looked so sweet, so innocent and worried as if she thought she might have done something wrong by calling him her dad. It would never be something bad in their eyes, but both (Y/n) and Evan would have thought they would of gotten some warning first. Which made them wonder why Minnie had suddenly come out with it today of all days.

"Everyone was talking about their dads, so… so can't you be mine?" Minnie shifted a little so she could go back to holding Evan's hand and she started to sway it back and forth between them like their hands were some kind of swing or a toy to be entertained.

For a few seconds, Evan focused on controlling his breathing so he didn't go into a fluttering panic. And he looked to the left, locking his eyes on (Y/n) so he could gauge her face for a reaction.

This wasn't his question to answer, it was hers. He couldn't overstep the mark or set the boundaries, it had to be (Y/n)'s choice no matter how thrilled Evan was that Minnie clearly wanted this.

When (Y/n) nodded, Evan felt like his heart had exploded in his chest and a tingling sensation shot through his arms right down to his fingertips. He let a soft grin overtake his features and he reached out for Minnie, unhooking their hands so he could hold her sides and gently twist her in his direction.

"I'd love to."

He braced his knees and levelled his weight out in his boots when Minnie slammed into his chest and deadlocked her arms around his neck.

The sweetest smile (Y/n)had ever seen fluttered across Evan's lips and she couldn't help but lean forward to kiss that smile and see if it was as sweet and sugary as it looked. She smoothed her hand up and down his shoulder before she glanced over to the left when she heard Miss Harvey switching the groups around. They wouldn't be here for much longer before they all would be getting ready to leave.

"Let's go take a look at the trucks then, baby, let dad get back to work." It felt strange to say but somehow, it rolled off the tongue like magic.

"Off you go, I'll see you when I finish work tonight, okay?" Evan pecked her cheek when she finally untangled herself from him and he couldn't help but kiss her temple too as he pushed up to stand tall once again. He murmured a soft "See you soon," in (Y/n)'s ear, dancing his fingertips along her hip while he kissed her quick.

"Bye daddy," Minnie cast a quick look over her shoulder, one hand tangled with (Y/n)'s and her other hand waving across to Evan as if he couldn't spot her in the small crowd.

His smile brightened and his breaths came out shaky as he waved back at her, his other hand tucked into his pocket while he leaned back against the pillar.

Their fire house had been taken off all calls for two hours, dispatch was redirecting all calls to the nearby stations so no calls came through and disrupted the school fieldtrip. That meant Evan still had a while to mill about the station and tidy up or get a drink and amuse himself until the kids left and they were allowed to take calls again.

And it felt like a good thing that they weren't going out on any calls at the moment because Evan was running on a high. Adrenaline was fueling his system and he felt like he had taken an overdose with how lightheaded he was. It felt like he was walking on cloud nine and he didn't ever want to come down from this feeling.

The smile wouldn't leave his lips and his head tilted to one side while he watched both girls head back over to the group and follow Bobby who was showing them all the different compartments and aspects of the truck.

"What's got you smiling?" Chimney brought his cup of coffee to his lips and raised a brow when he looked up at Evan. There was an unusually happy smile on his face, even for him, and it had Chimney looking round the station to try and find out what was so funny.

But he wasn't prepared for the answer as Evan slouched down against the pillar, dipping his chin towards his chest as a blush started to taint his cheeks.

"My daughter."

[radio-fmm]

Heart´s Duty pt. 2

Prince!Sanji x Knight!reader

or... Ok but Prince!Sanji not aware that his knight is in fact a woman?

@crabdictarorship @secretlife028 @i-trash-about-things

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Trough out your life as a knight you had never wavered, or even feared any situation you had to face… until now

After accidentally revealing your biggest secret to the prince, you feel like the ground you stand on shakes, not a single feeling or thought being processed behind your worried eyes. What was to become of you? Dismissed?, Killed? Or worse A MAID?

As you try and catch your breath, you decide to make a run to your quarters to scape the inevitable at least until morning.

Prince!Sanji on the other hand, after finally coming to terms with what he had just witnessed, finds himself feeling a little disappointed when he opens the terrace door to find you gone.

That night he doesn’t sleep a blink, tossing and turning as he finds a window to the why of your behavior and character, he feels like he just opened his eyes to a whole new world. Your muteness, your monthly absences, why you were so damn short; but most importantly, the care and warmth you bestowed upon him.

All the men Sanji had been surrounded with his whole life had been nothing far from cruel and unforgiving of who he was, the only ones that had showed him kindness and acceptance were women, because of that he had developed an admiration and genuine devotion for the ones that he found on his lonely path as a prince; from his sister, his late queen, even the maids and the magnificent cooks on the royal kitchen that always taught him whatever piked his interest, opening a world of opportunities for him.

And you, the person that not only genuinely actively cared about him but went the extra mile to fight for him every single day, shielding him in situations he could not. Your unspoken understanding, soft care and charm that made his days go form tolerable to enjoyable. You the most beautiful woman he could’ve dreamed of, because you were way above his dream girl; you were real

The last time he felt this giddy he was merely a little boy on his birthday morning

You were restless too, but in fear as you dreaded the morning approaching

So imagine the prince’s distress when he didn’t see you outside his room the next morning, or at breakfast… or at his morning stroll, not even at tea

“I am the prince, I shouldn’t we fighting to know where someone of my court is” Sanji asked the assigned royal guard that so happened to be the infamous and very stubborn Zoro Roronoa, the marshal of the royal army who was as disgusted by the situation as much as the prince was, he had a million tasks to get to but here he was, diminished to such a trivial task

“With the outmost respect your highness, I do not know who are you referring to”

Now the prince finds himself facing yet another conundrum, Sanji didn’t knew your name

Not even the fake one… because you were mute

“The knight that is always assigned to me! Gods how aren’t you aware of where your own soldiers are!” He screams throwing his hands in the air, almost looking like a child who was denied a cookie after dinner

Marshal Zoro can only sigh, jaw tightening “I am not in charge of assigning roles around here… If he’s so important to you why don’t you know his name anyway-”

Sanji glares daggers back

-“S-sir”

“Sh-… He is mute”

A silence falls, desperate from the prince side but eye opening from the army’s marshal

“OOoh you mean pebble?”

More silence

“Pebble?”

“Yea, because he’s so short… and never takes the helmet off so he looks like a little pebble” a hearty laugh escaped the green haired marshal “Yeah saw him this morning, I believe he called in sick or something”

After much back and forth fighting, Sanji was able to convive marshal Zoro to take him down to your quarters to check on you

So there he was

The Prince of The North Region walking down the army’s quarters, marshal Zoro in tow. To say every soldier was expecting something really bad to go down at your quarters was an understatement

Finally he arrives to your door, but finds himself glued to the ground as an strange feeling forms in the pit of his stomach, suddenly it dawns on him what he was about to do

What in the world was he even going to say to you? He had a million questions, an itch to get to actually know more of you, the you you had to hide underneath an armor; and he would never dare to overwhelm you or appear like a a freak

Zoro clicked his tongue, already on his last straw before walking forward and unlocking your door cursing under his breath

“Wait!! What are you do-“

The prince’s worries would only multiply when the door open to reveal an emptied out room

You were gone.

He rushes in to a room that did not looked lived in as it was supposed to, more importantly not you in sight; you ran away

“The hell” Zoro mumbles sharing Sanji’s disbelief, what could possibly could be happening? and oh boy rumors do fly around the castle, especially with all the soldiers standing outside the scene

Is in moments like these that the prince realizes the walls of the castle are too high, finding himself acting selfishly. Sanji had never stopped to consider the actual enormity of the situation, what felt like a gift from the gods to him… to you could’ve felt like doomsday

“FUCK” Sanji cursed as he kicked the door breaking it in half, the possibility of having lost you forever shaking him to his core

The Marshall stood silently in pure confusion and shock between the prince and the crowd, what could’ve ever happened between you and the prince to deserve such a reaction

“Your majesty we need to retrieve”

Oh yes he needed to leave immediately, to look for you as fast as possible

Masterlist

Omg I have a plan for a pt3 you tell me how you like it guys