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senualothbrok · 3 months

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Mortal pleasures

Summary: Gale has shown you how gods bond in the astral. Now, you show him how good mortal pleasures can be.

Word count: 2.1k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: NSFW. 18+. Smut. Gale x female Tav/reader.

More disclaimers: Oral sex (blow job). Vaginal fingering.

A/N: This fic is long overdue, because I am a Gale-deserves-a-blow-job truther. Dedicated to @practicallydeadinside-blog who I love more than words can describe!

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“And that’s how I got this baby.” Karlach smacks the scar on her right thigh with a grin.

You nod absently. You can barely make out the jests that roar around your companions, their faces illuminated only by the campfire you huddle around on this spring night. Your focus is on him alone.

Gale’s gaze is sharp and hot, his lips curled in a sideways smile. He tilts his head ever so slightly. You do not move your eyes from him. It does not escape you, the dart of his tongue through the briefest parting of his mouth. You bite your lip.

Astarion coughs, slapping his knees as he rises. “And with that revolting tale, I think it’s time for us all to clear off.”

“What?” Karlach whines. “Already? Boooo…”

“Take a hint, darling,” Astarion drawls. “I’ve had enough of whatever this is.” He makes a gesture of distaste towards you and Gale.

You flush. Astarion chortles.

“Enjoy the magic, but please keep it down. We know how…verbose…the two of you can be.”

You shrink at the winks, grumbles and jostling of the rest of your companions as they file away to their respective tents. It was wishful thinking to hope they were not aware of your time with Gale the night before, when your souls bonded in the astral. To think that they could not see how both of you had been transformed by the experience.

There is a chill in the air, but your core flames. There is no embarrassment in Gale’s eyes. Only the raw heat of desire.

“Alone at last,” he breathes.

Tonight, he is unusually quiet. He lets his actions speak. You barely make it to his tent. He wraps his arms around you from behind, unlacing the straps of your bodice with uncanny speed. Your struggle for breath as his deft fingers clutch at your breasts, your shoulders, your hips. You have been waiting all day for this moment. To be with him, to have him all to yourself. To give yourself to him again.

You grind backwards against his thrumming body, aching for more of his touch. He clasps your chin to angle your neck back, as if he is starving to see your face. Your tongues glide against each other, frantic with hunger, a frenzy of moans. He tastes sweet and strong, like aged wine, and you cannot get enough. You can never have enough of him.

“I didn’t lie,” you whisper when you break apart to breathe. “You’re a good kisser.”

He smiles against your lips before he plunges back in, lapping eagerly at your wet warmth. You are drunk from his musk, the sourness of sweat, the smoothness of sandalwood. You are not careful as you whip open his robe, shoving his sleeves down his arms, pushing them desperately down. You need to see him. You need to feel and smell and taste every inch of his quivering flesh.

He lets out a little laugh, surprised, not displeased. Then, with one swift motion, he wrenches your breeches off your quaking legs. You gasp at the force of it, the smouldering in his eyes. His fingers dive behind your panties, already damp with desire. He almost rips them off.

“I want to show you more,” he pants. “Everything you could possibly imagine. Let me show you.”

A crackle of blue thread sizzles between his fingers. A spasm of bliss tears through you like lightning, sending you gasping for breath. You burn for more of it. But you steel yourself.

Since your night together, you have not been able to get the idea out of your mind. You have been ravenous for it. And now is your chance.

You pull back.

“No.”

Gale falters, the blue light of his magic fading into the purple of his glowing chest. You press against him again, licking at his bottom lip, gently sucking it into your mouth. He buckles against you.

“No?”

You smile, teasing but resolute.

“Yesterday, you showed me how to bond the way gods do.”

Your hand trails down his abdomen, following the hairs that meander from his navel to his groin. His breath hitches. He hangs on your every word, your every move. You are not a wizard or a sorcerer, but he is under your spell.

“Today, I want to show you how good mortal pleasures can be.”

His eyes flash. Before he can object, you push him downwards and back, so that he is reclined on his bed roll. Uncertainty blinks across his features as you pull his briefs down to expose the thrust of his cock. You clench your thighs as a string of moisture trickles from your folds.

He stares at you on your knees by his side. You lean forward, taking hold of his shaft, so thick and long in your small hands. Dark pink and purpling, veins drifting down to a wiry nest framed by the muscles of his lean thighs. You wet your lips. His cock pulses in your fingers, a bead spilling from its tip as he exhales sharply.

“Gods,” he heaves.

You bend over. You are acutely aware of the way his body is suspended in the anticipation of pleasure. You can feel it vibrate, chasing after your touch. The tent is awash in his purple flame. You flare with yearning as you flick your tongue into his slit, gathering this first trace of his salty sweetness. He arches his back and groans.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?”

Your tongue traces a slow, winding stripe down the underside of his cock. He trembles. You look up at him, mouth open, eyes wide and expectant.

He swallows. “A long time ago. Once, when I was very young. It was…quick. Clumsy. Messy.”

You suspected this might be the case. There was no way Mystra would have ever lowered herself to give Gale such a human gift, and you cannot imagine Gale asking any lover for such raw, unbridled ecstasy. It makes you even more desperate. You want nothing more than to give this to him now.

“We’ll rectify that.”

You drag your tongue in a smooth circle at the base of his cock. He stifles a whine as his hips roll closer to your mouth. Gale’s longing is so palpable that it throbs wet and hot within you. But when you look up, he is frowning. He reaches towards you.

“My love,” he huffs. “You really don’t need to-”

You anticipated this. Gale prides himself on giving, not receiving. He never asks, for fear of being turned away. He cannot fathom that anyone would get on their knees to show him their adoration. That anyone would ache to give him this most mortal of pleasures.

“I want to, Gale.”

You take his straying hand and run your mouth over his palm. His eyelids flutter as your tongue flickers softly over the pads of his fingers.

“I want to taste you. I want to show you how good this feels. Please let me show you.”

It is not completely selfless. You have been dreaming of doing this to Gale since you shared a moment in the Weave. You enjoy this act much more than he knows. He will find out just how much you enjoy it.

He grasps for a response and fails. For an instant, you savour the sight of Gale rendered speechless by your designs. Then you resume your position, your face tilted upwards beside his growing hardness. You can see him unravelling at the sight of it resting against your cheek, hovering beside the shining plumpness of your lips. His brown eyes are almost black, dilated in a stupor of need.

“Or does this not feel good?”

He lets out a guttural moan as you slide his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around his girth as you roll your tongue around its head. You pump forward and backwards, once, twice, three times. With each stroke, waves of molten heat blaze through your centre, your clit swelling against your folds as you rock. Moisture trails down your chin as you draw back and look up at him.

“Do you like that?”

The sound that escapes his lips is a muffled plea. His face is flushed, helpless, urgent.

You grin. His back bows as you take him back inside you. You take your time, drawing out his pressure points, feeling for the rhythm of his pleasure. The slick sounds of you lapping and sucking at his cock fill the tent as you drive his length deeper and faster into you. Something about these wet, gulping noises makes you suddenly, overwhelmingly voracious.

“By the gods…”

You cannot decipher all the words that start tumbling from Gale now. You glide hungrily down to the hilt of his cock, thrusting it against the back of your mouth. Small bursts of his pleasure trickle down your throat like nectar as he shifts and sighs. Every blast of his yearning pools like lava in your belly. You whimper into his shaft, your hips grinding down into the bedroll, searching frantically for release.

As the storm surges within you, you realise that his groans are growing louder and closer together. You can feel him hardening, stretching your jaw with each tremor of your arousal. He fills you up so completely, there is almost no space for breath. You are famished, gorging yourself on him.

You are abruptly aware of urgent fingers pressing between your thighs, demanding entrance. You sit up, turning to face him.

“Allow me,” he rasps.

You shake your head, trying to push his hand away. He does not budge.

“Please. Can you not tell what your pleasure does to me?” His gaze is ravenous. “Let me. Please.”

It was not your intention to allow it. You were to give and not receive. But you are powerless to resist as his fingers nestle into your gleaming folds. When he finds your throbbing clit, you crumple against him. His groin rises to meet you, his cock twitching at your undoing. You suck him back into your mouth with a needy cry.

You do not need a tadpole to know each other’s feelings now. You can taste the hardness of his desire, as he can feel the wetness of yours.

You shudder against each other as the world becomes a chaos of purple spasms. All you know is the whirling of your tongue around the head of his cock as he traces frenzied circles around the centre of your fire. A hot stream of slick melts between your thighs as he bucks against you. You can no longer distinguish between his moans and yours.

As his fingers flutter in their maddening dance, your mouth quickens to match his speed. You are aware of his muscles tightening as you grind against his hand, rubbing at every coiled nerve until it is ready to snap. Your whines are muffled vibrations against his skin. He lurches and keens as you lap and slide up and down his shaft with increasing fury, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Then the ache within you explodes.

The world shatters into blinding shockwaves of white heat. It is all you can do to keep your mouth wrapped tightly around his swelling cock, your only anchor as you drown in the searing surges of your pleasure. As you writhe through the aftershocks, you feel a convulsion down his chest, snapping through his hips, jolting at the back of your throat.

He shouts out a strangled sound, his toes curling, his free hand clinging to the side of the bedroll. You quiver as the taste of Gale fills your mouth. You swallow each rush of his delight as he rides out the peak of his climax, his features twisting in the beautiful anguish of release.

You remain in that position as your breathing returns to normal. Slowly, your vision clears. His cock is still half hard and glistening as you part from it. You brush away drops of his spend from your lips and chin as you sit up, steadying yourself.

He looks up at you from where he lies panting, his tousled waves a tumble around his head. His face is radiant with passion. His chiselled abdomen heaves with the exhaustion of bliss. The mark on his chest glows a muted violet.

“That was…”

He has no words for the experience. His gaze is bright with awe, gratitude, adoration. Swollen with love. It glints with desire, still pure and unquenched.

You beam. “That’s how mortals do it.”

He pulls you into his arms with a throaty laugh.

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bits-and-babs · 1 year

Note

Your fics are amazing! Would you ever write about König?

𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐃 — 𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆

synopsis : rumours of an elite soldier have the base reeling. murmurings of 'monster' and 'freak'. what happens when you come face to face with the beast, only to find he's nothing like the whispers cautioned?

pairing : könig x f!reader

warnings : 18+ mdni. war, violence, graphic gory imagery, self-conscious könig baby, little bit of hand kink, basic bitch smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, size kink, tight fit, sugar-sweet teeth rotting smut. this feels so basic… but I was struggling. please note, kilgore is a name previously linked to könig. I have used it as a codename 🙂

könig masterlist ୨୧ main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

Warfare training preps for the inevitable—those moments you need to fire a weapon and how to camouflage and navigate enemy territory without detection. These inescapable horrors are 'another day in the office' by the time you enter the field, the prickling chill of fear driven out of your system. Whistling RPGs are not dissimilar to the scream of your Drill Sergeant's commands, the cold, hard ground of a dilapidated building no more uncomfortable than the standard-issue barracks mattress you would ease your wearing bones into after training.

Fear, beaten out of each man and woman that slipped on the uniform, held no commonplace in the military. Weapons, the call to war, brutality and sirens did little to raise the blood pressure.

Whispers held far more weight and struck unease into the hearts of even the most desensitised of fighters.

It was inarguable that each military in every country, at any time, had its own 'boogeyman'. Notorious fighters with absurdly large kill counts consisting of three digits that inevitably earned a bounty for their head, funded by the enemy—elite warriors who acquired a legendary reputation that ultimately became horror stories. The Ghost of Kyiv, The American Sniper Chris Kyle. These military cryptids kept their enemies awake at night, baying for blood and begging for the piles of bodies they left behind to stop growing.

After years in the SAS, you were beginning to think that there was no such thing. Each soldier was prolific, brutally efficient and inarguably the best of the elite forces. It was only upon entering Task Force 141, a genuinely mean feat, that you began to hear the unshunnable, hushed whispers of Kilgore.

“Did you hear about Berlin?”

“Kilgore? Yeah, heard he blew away a whole Al-Qatala cell.”

“Twelve of ‘em. The hostages were traumatised.”

These mumblings had persisted for months, consistently updated with crazy tales of whole garrisons blown to smitheries by this massacre-happy hulking mass of pure military precision. You, like the rest of 141, elected to ignore the gossip. This was a battlefield, filled with elite soldiers, not a school playground.

✰

Austrian mud splatters your camo-clad shins as you sprint through the forest terrain, your heart lurching in your chest as your rain-soaked fingers almost fumble your gun to the sodden ground. It’s freezing cold, the gush of rain edging on a flurry of sleet as lightning cracks above your head. Clothes soaked through, the moisture and icy wind form something of a ‘Pact of Steel’, working together to deep freeze the marrow of your bones.

As you slip in the mud again, heel skidding across the slick soil, you realise how dire the situation truly is. Separated from 141 during the firefight, you’d navigated north. You continued running for the safe house once discovering your coms had been dispatched by a stray bullet— that certainly would have ripped through your heart and dispatched you instantly if not for the layers of plastic settled over it.

Thunder rumbles in the clouds above, the boom reminiscent of a distant air strike. Slurried earth gives way beneath your feet as you push on. Exhaustion gnaws at your joints as you scramble for safety, bested only by the adrenaline that buzzed in your ear like a vicious drill sergeant. “Move it! Do you wanna die?! Well fucking move!”

You can hear their boots in the mud, the advancing Al-Qatala mercenaries chasing after you and shooting blindly at your heels, competing with the distance and dense foliage. You’re like an injured fox, feverish bloodhounds nipping at the end of your tail— what could they do with an SAS hostage? How much leverage would it buy?

Bullets whistle by your feet, the proximity of some enough to set your hair on end. They’re closing in, jowls dripping with slobber as they attempt to close their teeth around you. Just a little mor—

Crack.

Chaos erupts behind you, the thump of a body and a flurry of shouts. Panicked voices overlay each other in different languages, Urzik and Persian. You scramble for cover behind a treetrunk, the bark cutting at your palms as you brace for incoming fire.

"Kilgore!" Someone shouts, and your blood runs cold, eyes wide as they dart around the foliage for the legendary soldier. The whizzing of high-powered bullets persists, dropping Al-Qatala mercenaries into the mud beneath them. You hear the yelled orders, Urzik fighters urged to retreat.

You're unsure if one fails to hear the directive over the din of warfare, but you hear the advancing feet of the mercenary advancing on your position—the squelch of the mud beneath the rubber sole of his combat boots. You scramble with your weapon, checking the gun's safety and readying for a one-shot shoot-out.

When a bullet shreds through a victim's head, the sound is reminiscent of a watermelon being cracked open. It's a sickening crunch. A wet spray of warm blood cuts through the downpour of rain, splattering across your face. Some of it is solid, brain matter and shards of cranium.

It's not silent by any means. The rain continues to beat against the floor, pattering in the puddles that had formed in sole-shaped prints in the soaked earth. Cracks of thunder sound in the distance, and the droplets drum against the leaves in the forest's canopy. However, the sounds of the firefight cease.

"You can come out," a voice calls to you. Accented; Germanic. You hesitate for a moment, once again strengthening your grip on the gun you'd clung to. Your lungs strain with the sudden intake of breath, ribs crushed beneath your tac-vest. "Ghost sent me."

Easing your head out from behind the tree trunk, you marvel, somewhat horrified, at the gigantic, hulking build of the man who stood in the clearing. Fallen enemy combatants surround him, a blanket of corpses draped across the turbid forest floor. A black veil covers his face, and his equipment litters his tac-vest.

You'd be lying if you said you were unperturbed by the sight. Instead, fear lurches in the pit of your stomach, and you freeze in place. It's only when your eyes catch the crystal white slicing through crimson on the patch sewn into his shoulder that the airy voice, which certainly doesn't match his enormous frame, brings you a sense of safety.

"The safe house is ahead. We could get you warm–– clean you up?"

✰

Staring into the bubbling pan of water settled over the small fire, you relish in the warmth that creeps across your chilled body. Still, you're soaked, the damp clinging to the threads of your clothes. The scent of iron still assaults your nose, the water that you pick off the fire cautiously heated enough to scrub the blood from your face.

Kilgore, who informed you upon entering the safehouse preferred to be called by his name König, had seated himself in the corner of the large, relatively empty room. He looked ridiculous like this, attempting to compact his body into the crevice. You don't doubt it's an attempt to ease the nervous energy bleeding through your pores, your hands trembling as you attempt to dip the rag he had gifted you into the hot water.

"Did..." You swallow thickly, glancing up at the Austrian, "Did you tell the Lieutenant where we are?"

"Mhm-hm," he nods slowly, his jade eyes watching you from beneath the face veil. They're sharp and bright, contrasting so strongly against his uniform's muted and inky shades. "He's planning evac."

You scrub the gore from your face, wincing as you feel the shards of bone scrape across your face. König's eyes bore into you from the other side of the room, watching you struggle to remove what was left of the grime the rain had failed to wash away.

"I've-... Heard a lot about you," you speak to him, attempting to cross the vast space he had consciously put between you. His green eyes gaze at you, unblinking as he watches your expression. König is trying to read you, trying to comprehend how you feel. He's cautious, trying not to push you outside of your comfort zone.

"About Berlin?" He asks, and his voice is so soft that it reminds you of a child attempting to speak after being reprimanded by their parents–– wary of a second bout of raised voices.

"Yes," you mumble, dipping the crimson rag into the water before laying it across your skin again, "About Berlin."

König hums softly, casting his eyes to the aged, wooden floorboards. The woodlice have chewed through them, moss growing in some parts. You can see he appears uncomfortable, his knuckles white from the fists that form in his lap.

"I didn't mean to scare anyone," König admits in a whisper, catching you off guard. His shoulders sag slightly, and you see him pick at loose threads in the knees of his camo trousers.

"N-No... I meant to say how courageous it was," you point out, watching his fidgeting hands still suddenly, "You risked your life for those hostages... saved them singlehandedly. No one else would have done that."

Hesitant silence settles between you both, König considering your words carefully as he stares at his lap. You can't see his face, the veil concealing all but his eyes, though you're almost sure he's stunned by your comment. It takes him a moment to discern his next step, but he finally lifts his body from the wooden chair he'd pulled into the corner. It creaks with the shift in weight distribution, floorboards straining as he walks across the space towards you.

"You also saved me," you point out, watching him kneel before you, "Faced a whole cell..."

König steals your words from your mouth when his huge hand settles around the bloodied rag in your palm. He doesn't speak at; first, silence hanging between you once again as he dips the cloth into the water. Then, he soaks it until it drips, droplets pinging off the surface, and wrings it out. His dorsal muscles ripple beneath the backs of his palm, veins a ballpoint colour and standing out against his pale skin.

"Ghost asked me to," he mumbles, carefully holding the damp fabric and slowly reaching for your face. He gives you time to pull away–– you don't.

"You could have ignored him," you whisper, suddenly breathless with this proximity. He still towers over you, even balanced on his knees, head and shoulders slumped over you. You can see the ocean green of his eyes clearly, the halo of brown flecks that cover the circumference of his pupil. His eyelashes flutter when he blinks, so pretty and oddly feminine.

The pressure of the cloth against your skull is so delicate. König appears to be afraid of hurting you, gently brushing away the flecks of blood in your hairline. He shakes his head gently, considering your kind words. "What kind of man would I be, Leibchen?" his voice is airy, tone flimsy.

Those stunning eyes take a moment to gaze into yours, searching for your answer. Instead, all you manage is a weak shrug.

"Were... Are they afraid of you?" You whisper to him, struggling to find the words to broach a topic that appears to affect König so profoundly. It's his turn to answer wordlessly, offering an equally frail nod.

König takes your chin ever so gently in his hand, his palm almost eclipsing the lower half of your face, and turns your head in search of further blood-spatter. He sweeps the makeshift face-cloth over your skin, focusing on removing the grime altogether.

You'd heard the cruel rumours, the whispers of 'monster' and 'freak'. This König you'd met couldn't possibly be the same they uttered about maliciously. He held a child-like kindness, the brutality of the job seemingly doing little to chip away at his humanity. The same couldn't be said about the others.

"König," you whisper his name softly, watching as he continues to focus on clearing up your skin. His soothing touch smoothes across your temple now, removing some mud speckles. "Don't listen to them."

You can see his eyes soften, once again turning to yours as you reach to fiddle with the edge of his veil. Upon tracing the border between the pads of your thumb and forefinger, you find that it's t-shirt material, the zigzag seam stitching rough against your touch like barbed wire. "They haven't seen you like I have."

Those eyes gleam with amusement, little crows-feet creases forming in the corners. He's smiling, and your heart stutters against your chest.

"That right, Leibchen? I've had a mask on this whole time."

The gentle teasing lilt to his tone makes you lightheaded, urging you forward with your frankly ridiculous plan. You begin to lift the edge of his veil upwards. You take it slowly, his pupils dancing across the bare skin of your face as you reveal the point of his chin. His skin is equally as pale there, barely exposed to sunlight.

König doesn't stop you as you continue to lift the fabric from his face, exposing the curve of his lower lip. The skin there is soft and plush, little creases in the flesh making your heart thud awkwardly against your ribs. Finally, you stop at his cupid's bow, so soft and subtle it's barely there at all.

You can feel his gaze warming your skin as you trace his lips with your eyes. Hesitation holds you still, uncertain about the final step of this stupid plan. König, as ever, doesn't push you. Doesn't even breathe. When you lean forward, the tip of your nose brushing his own that still lay beneath the cloth, you hear a sharp yet gentle inhalation. It triggers goosebumps across your forearms, butterflies battering the pit of your stomach.

Soft. His lips are so soft when you mould your own to their shape. König's veil tickles the skin of your face when you kiss him, and you feel his gigantic hands settle on either side of your neck as he begins to return your affections. They swallow you, and your pulse leaps against his palm.

König smiles, and the kiss turns toothy and a little lopsided. You can't help but giggle nervously, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as he presses gentle pecks to the edge of your mouth. Despite his massive, intimidating frame, each action is deliberate and soft.

"... Are your clothes still wet, Schatz?" He's breathless despite his seemingly put-together appearance, his nose bumping yours as he interrupts your answer for another fragile kiss. "We could get you out of them."

✰

Your standard-issue military t-shirt slips and falls from the cot's mattress as König gently pulls your hips towards the edge. His fingerprints have already bruised into your thighs despite his attempts to be gentle. When he'd begun to panic, you told him not to worry–– he'd already bruised up your neck with his teeth and lips; what was a couple more?

Butterflying your legs out for him, König groans softly as you expose your glistening cunt for him. You're shy, covering your face with your hands as his fingers massage the soft, malleable flesh of the inside of your thighs.

"Schatz," he whispers, and you peer through the gaps of your fingers. König gazes down between your legs, green eyes gleaming as he positions his cock between your folds. "So beautiful."

It's ridiculous, you think, staring down between your legs. König is huge in every sense, the shaft of his cock thick and veiny and drowning out the seam of your sex as König shifts his hips forward to swipe the length of him across your weeping cunt. You can't help your mind running away with itself–– surely he needed a weapons license to carry that thing-?

A weak chuckle sounds above you, and you crane your neck to catch his eye. "I will take it slow, Schatz, I promise you."

You believe him. He had been so delicate with you this whole time, laying you down gently on the bed, careful when removing your gear and your clothes not to let the material snag on your nose or chin.

König's hand disappears beneath the face veil, spitting into his palm before he smoothes it over the head of his cock. He groans, eyelids fluttering beneath the mask as he drags his hand over the length. It's a pretty sight, you think, such a colossal man shuddering in bliss. When he sweeps his cock through your folds again, he carefully taps the tip of his dick against your clit to illicit a whimper.

"Mhmm, gentle. I promise you," he repeats, inching the tip of his cock down until it settles at your entrance. The soles of your feet find purchase on König's hips, and he massages your calves gently as he begins to inch into you at your nod of approval.

Oh, Christ.

König stretches you the moment he sinks inside. There's a delicious burn, one that has you lifting your hips with a whimper as you equally try to escape and dive into it. He's wheezing, eyes glued to where your bodies meet as he watches you flutter around his size.

"Ha-So tight, Schatz," he groans loudly, stopping when you firmly grip the bedsheets. He notes your expression of slight pain, the tears welling in your eyes as your body attempts to accommodate the intrusion. König seemingly can't help the flurry of apologies that fall from his mouth as he leans over you, settling his thumb against your clit in an attempt to ease you open. "Here. I want you to feel good, Engel."

The tremors in your thighs rattle against his hips as he circles your clit slowly. It's blissful, the sticky, warm arousal that blooms through your abdomen as he teases at the sensitive nerves. You arch your back against the mattress, moaning out his name breathlessly as he continues to inch his cock further into you. You barely notice when he finally settles the rest of him inside, wailing softly when it twitches and knocks something earthshattering inside you.

"O-Oh fuck––" you choke on your curse when König shifts his hips forward, jutting into your cervix and winding you suddenly. You probably look ridiculous, eyes rolling back into your skull as you claw at the vast expanse of his chest. You drag pink lines down the pale skin, drawing blood to the surface, but it does little to phase König this far along.

"Good, Liebling?" He murmurs, continuing to assault your clit. You can barely form a coherent sentence in response, drooling around a string of 'yes, yes, yes'. It's all he needs to find comfort in advancing, easing the length of him out of your weeping cunt before driving it back in at an achingly slow pace.

You want to slam your fist against his pectorals and insist he go faster, but you're not sure you're ready for it when he slides into you balls deep. It's as though he's settling among your lungs, filling you so good that you're seeing static in your line of vision.

The sound of a desperate groan from above barely brings you back down to earth, noting how he's staring at your face. His pupils are blown wide, almost devouring the green of his irises. It takes you a moment to realise you're drooling, his slow and steady pace already pushing you to a mindless edge.

"Oh-" you moan, digging your nails into his abs. They ripple beneath your touch with each deliberate thrust, and König hisses at the sharp sting and the crescent moon indents they leave behind. "F-Fuck, König- Too much-!"

"It's too much?" He wheezes, eyes searching your face. You desperately shake your head, terrified he'll pull away from you despite the inching arousal building at the base of your spine. Wrapping your legs around his hips, your heels press into the small of his back and hook him in place despite your protests.

It sparks something feral in the hulking man, his hips surging forwards and jolting you up the mattress. Your breath escapes you in a squeak, arousal soaring and buzzing thickly in your abdomen as König mumbles in German, his soft voice coming out all gritty under the strain of his exertions and bliss.

"Mhmmm- fuck-" you babble, eyes rolling again as you lift your hips to meet his. He sinks impossibly deeper, and your breath stutters as you feel the telltale tug of your orgasm. "Oh God- König, I'm-"

"Tell me," König whispers, rutting up inside you. He doesn't bother to inch out of you now, repeatedly battering so deep inside you that you struggle to inhale as your orgasm approaches fast.

"Hngngg- hah-ah- I'mgonna- c-cum-" you choke with each sudden thrust, his thumb quickening its pace against your arcing clit. Perhaps he shifts his hips slightly or reaches even deeper than before, but he brushes against something utterly debilitating, and you cum with a loud shriek of his name.

It bursts through you with blistering heat, your fingernails sinking deep into the curves of his bicep as you brace against the waves of bliss that crash over you. König keeps fucking into you, your walls squeezing tight around him as his thumb persists in its assault on your throbbing clit. Tears stream down your face, and König can't hold on much longer as you strangle his cock.

"Hah-Shit-" he slurs, his voice barely reaching your ears as he buries himself as deep as you can take him. He cums with a haggard moan, body trembling as his cock spurts inside of you. There's so much of it, too, leaking out of you before he even manages to move.

Both of you take a moment, both stunned by the overwhelming ecstasy. König doesn't bother withdrawing from your heat as he slumps beside you, turning you on your side to face him. He offers no words, burying his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tightly.

Your chest heaves as you suck in oxygen, skin prickling with heat as König encases you in his massive arms. You don't need the sheets, his body-heat burning hot beside you as you press your skin to his.

No words need to be said, you think. König had offered his feelings in the form of his reverent touches and delivered his thanks for your kindness in the delicate kisses he'd pressed to your lips as he carried you into the bedroom.

As you lay in the dark, settled into König's side, you trace your fingers over the curved scars, the bulletholes that have healed over against his ribs. They rise and fall beneath your touch, lungs expanding and deflating with each breath. It's a sobering moment, the thrumming of his pulse against your palm reminding you of his humanity despite the whispers at the base that had insisted upon his bestiality.

You realise those who speak cruelly of him and ruin his self-worth don't understand their impact. To them, he's a cryptid–– his very existence called into question. They hadn't seen him with their own eyes, only heard the mind-boggling tales of his startlingly impressive missions and monstrous size.

They hadn't felt his heart, the way it fluttered against your touch when you'd offered compliments. Hadn't experienced the soft plush of his lips pressing into your own in heartbreakingly sweet kisses. He was no monster.

And when Lieutenant Riley came for you the following day, choosing to ignore the marks left on your skin and the way you hesitated before climbing into the helicopter to offer the Austrian a gentle wave and a promise that you would return, you began the mission to rewrite his story. To change hearts and minds.

It didn't take long at all.

"Did you hear about Kilgore?"

"I did! He saved a member of 141. Incredibly brave–– I heard the situation was dire."

"She spoke very highly of him. Said we could count on him."

"I certainly wouldn't mind fighting alongside someone so dependable and courageous."

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lilbagdermole · 3 months

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Toph is often seen very close to Appa and Momo in ATLA. Momo in particular is seen almost exclusively on her shoulder, in her lap or cuddled up close to her after she joins the Gaang. It's such a sweet little inclusion but it means the world to me.

It's nothing extraordinarily big but the thought that Aang's closest link to the Air Nomads are so comfortable and keen on Toph makes me want to sob.

I also headcanon that Aang realizes his feelings for Toph go beyond platonic when he watches his Earthbending Master cuddled up into Appa's paw with Momo in her arms and she looks so beautiful and at peace and he has a moment of realization strike him like lightning.

ALSO LOOK AT AANG'S SMILE IN THIS PIC!!!My man is in love!

#toph beifong #taang #aang x toph #atla aang #toph x aang #aang #atla #avatar the last airbender

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da-birb-writes-sometimes · 8 months

Text

One of Us is Guilty; Chapter 3

Three are now dead, but the killer seems to be caught ... but this night is not over until the room is found.

Characters; Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Azul Ashengrotto, Jade Leech, Silver, Cater Diamond

Content; Unreliable narrators, murder mystery

Content Warning; Death, murder, blood, anxiety, kidnapping, overall dead dove content warnings

Word Count; 1.1 K

Find this content triggering but still want to participate? Link to the Google Form to vote!

As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

The body count had risen to three; Dire Crowley, the Ramshackle Prefect (whose blood still stained the floor, the iron scent permeating the air), and now, Divus Crewel as well, the latest victim. One minute the professor was alive, shaking from anger that one of his students was killed on his watch and that he was the prime suspect of the killings. But now he was sprawled out on the ground, killed in an instant.

The remaining students — Vil, Rook, Azul, Jade, Silver, and Cater — were silent, processing what exactly had just happened. The lights had flickered only for a minute, and in that minute, the killer had struck. But the silence was broken by a deafening clap of thunder, lightning illuminating the windows, and bringing everyone back to the present, to their laughably horrible situation that they had found themselves in by sheer chance and bad luck and timing.

Silver sat down on the staircase, and put his head in between his legs, taking deep breaths. Despite his training, he did not consider that he would be witnessing death so soon. The small part of his brain that had a sliver of hope that his friend had survived their gruesome injury, but he was just lying to himself; no one could survive that.

Vil was pacing, hands clasped behind his back, and he was muttering to himself. He thought he could read people, what with being raised amongst the stars that hid behind too-sweet smiles that belied venomous words. What was there to gain from any of this?

Rook was cracking his knuckles, and then rubbing his eyes, trying to think of why this was happening. While he could appreciate the hunt, this was something entirely different. Yet, it also reminded him of several books; one being a murder mystery, and the other about the deadliest game, of hunting a fellow person.

Azul was shaking and biting his nails, his resolve long gone. Had he made himself the enemy of one of his peers? Was he going to be next? He was supposed to just be perfecting a potion recipe for the next test, yet he found himself way above his head.

Jade looked at Azul, taking in that his house warden and friend was shaking more than the leaves outside in the howling wind. He too was disturbed by the night's events, sick to his stomach even, but he couldn’t show weakness, especially if he wanted to see it through.

And Cater? He was paler than a ghost, a cold sweat glistening on his forehead, and he felt like his heart was going to leap out of his throat. His cheery smile had left long ago, and now panic was fully starting to take control. Why? Why? Whywhywhy? WHY?! Yet he stayed silent.

No one spoke, but they eyed each other with caution. Every time that they had went to the mirror and they voted through it, someone died. Was it the mirror? No… no, that didn’t make sense… None of this made any sense though.

“No more votin-” Silver whispered.

Cater cracked his head around, green eyes judging every move the underclassman made. “And why’s that, Silver?” His voice was shaky, but Cater wasn’t trusting him or anyone for that matter. “Afraid that-”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Vil barked, commanding everyone’s attention, eyes all on him. But he was used to eyes being on him, and he stayed cool, despite how this may damn him into being guilty in their eyes. He didn’t care at the moment though, all he cared about was no one else dying. “Look at what being suspicious of each other has brought us,” his eyes wandered to the dark clotted blood that had now gone cold. He swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat, keeping the calm mask up. “I agree with Silver though; voting through the mirror only ends up with someone… dead.”

“Then how do we proceed, Roi du Poison?” Rook asked, falling to his house warden’s side. His eyes looked over everyone, picking up their behaviours, emotions, and any tells.

Azul’s head snapped up. “The potion-” he started muttering to himself, before clearing his throat and gaining his composure again. “A truth potion, but one that shows the truth about the situation, we can use that to find the killer.”

Cater looked at Silver, and offered him his hand; a peace offering. Silver took it, and brought himself up on wobbly knees. A truce.

Jade placed his hand on Azul’s shoulder, offering him a bit of comfort that not everyone was out to get him. “Was that what you were working on?”

Azul nodded, and he started making his way towards the alchemy lab, where hopefully they could put an end to the killer’s little charade once and for all.

…

Vil helped Azul make the potion, and both students kept a keen eye on the other, but they made it without incident. And to show the others that they hadn’t tampered with it at all, they took it first, with the others shortly following suit.

“What about the room?” Silver asked.

“We can figure that out once we find the killer,” Jade countered.

Everyone looked at each other, taking in any minute details, but everyone was calm; the potion apparently did wonders to calm the nerves… but that in itself was a dangerous effect, since now everyone’s guards were down, making them easy targets.

Vil took in a breath and released it. “Who killed Dire Crowley? Why did you then kill the Prefect, and then Professor Crewel?”

But no one spoke up.

“It isn’t me,” Vil said confidently, hoping that his speaking up prompted the others to follow suit.

Cater was to his left, and he spoke next. “I didn’t do it.”

Then Silver, “Or me… I couldn’t do something like this…”

“I did not do it either,” Jade offered.

Azul’s eyes went wide, and he eyed the next person in line. “The killer isn’t me.”

All eyes fell on the last person left in their little circle; Rook. With all of them but him left, that only left him.

He let out a throaty, quiet, chuckle. “I suppose this game has run its course,” he tipped his hat to them, green eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. “As for why? Hmmm,” he hummed, and the hairs on everyone’s necks stood on end. There was something off about Rook, this wasn’t Rook.

“You’ll find that out when you guess the room.”

What?

Everyone took a step closer to each other, away from Rook, and they whispered amongst each other, voting on what room Crowley’s murder took place in.

“Alchemy lab,” Cater spoke for the group, trying to keep his resolve as Rook seemed to stare into the very contents of his soul, like he was searching for something.

Rook stepped forward, still smiling. “Ah, désolé Monsieur Magicam,” the whites of his eyes started turning black, “but you would be wrong.” The lights flickered again, and in the seconds of darkness, Rook was gone, and so was Cater.

GOOGLE FORM (voting will end Wednesday, October 18th at 9pm EST)

SUSPECTS:

- Silver; the kindhearted knight with a mysterious past, is it just for show? (Plum) - Vil Schoenheit; the actor who is always pigeonholed into the role of a villain (Scarlet) - Divus Crewel; the alchemy teacher with a penchant for fashion, Crowley’s co-worker (Peacock) DECEASED - Rook Hunt; the enigmatic hunter who always has a hunch of what’s happening (Mustard) MURDERER - Azul Ashengrotto; the owner of The Mostro Lounge, a businessman with dubious morals (Green) - Reader; the ‘house-keeper’, a role that was imposed on them by the late Headmage (White) DECEASED - Jade Leech; a student enamored by fungi and seems to have a foreboding presence about him (Orchid) - Cater Diamond; the preppy beau of Heartslabyul, but his smile seems forced (Peach) MISSING

ROOMS:

- Main hall (eliminated in Chapter 2) - Teachers’ lounge - Cafeteria - Kitchens - Lecture theatre - Botanical garden - Alchemy lab (eliminated in Chapter 3) - Library - Crowley’s office (eliminated in Chapter 1)

WEAPON: MAGIC (found in Chapter 2)

…

To be continued

#dove does events #twst #twisted wonderland #twst murder mystery #vil schoenheit #rook hunt #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #twst silver #cater diamond #cw death #cw murder #cw blood #cw kidnapping #dead dove do not eat #oh you though it was going to be over once you found the killer? *evil laugh* oh my sweet readers no no it isn't #aka i remember the deadliest game plus i just watched the exorcist so yeah I'm tying those in #now if you don't mind me i'm going to cram those lessons in twst since i have 25 left until i can continue with the event

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sports-on-sundays · 4 months

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and I can change / CL16 / Part 2

Summary: dad!Charles x French!ex!reader - Charles would do anything to convince you to forgive him. He'd do anything to revive his family.

Warnings: Again, Y/s/n is 'your son's name'. And again, his age is unspecified- you decide what you think. crying (LOTS of crying), mention of drunkenness, mention of sex, mention of cheating, broken relationships, broken family, censored cussing

Requested?: Yeah! Requested by some sweet souls who read part 1! @barcelonaloverf1life @architect-2015 @emz2092 @cilliansgirl @lunamelona @lightdragonrayne @leclercgirl16

Author's Note: You guys asked for it, so I gave it! I hope you enjoy! Same song as inspiration. Also I'm thinking after this part I'll write a part 3, and then after that maybe a little epilogue, to wrap this up. Tell me what you think. Also, this is the link to part 1 / and the link to part 3

"Y/n, people change.

"And I can change, too."

You lay on your bed, engulfed in the darkness of the room surrounding you. The darkness seems to go deeper than just your surroundings- deeper, and into you.

Over and over the scene plays through your mind. Those words that Charles had uttered. The way he had clutched your hand in both of his, as if it were his only lifeline. In that moment, the desperation his eyes had denoted was incredible.

Charles, why? Why couldn't you let go? You're making it all so much more complicated.

But you know what he would say. Why? Why, Y/n? Because this isn't just about myself. Don't you see the brokenness in our son? Don't you see it?

Guilt washes over you, and then rage.

I shouldn't be the one feeling guilt. He should. He's the one who messed up our family. He's the one who's fault it is!

The way he cried, though.

The desperation.

The thing is that he is feeling guilty. Or at least so it seemed.

But does he really deserve a second chance? Do you?

Your phone rings at 12:00 A.M. On the dot. Charles has always been on the dot. Unless he's drunk, that is.

Why is he calling?

Right when I'm thinking about him, too.

Although this really isn't too surprising, when you consider it. For the past week and a half or so, you've stayed up until roughly 2:00 in the morning, staring at the ceiling, thinking, unable to convince yourself into peace and slumber.

And now a call comes.

Charles, why?

It feels terrible as you answer. "Charles. Don't call me."

"Y/n," he says in a calm voice. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" you snap, trying to keep it down. Your son is sleeping (hopefully) in the next room.

"For reacting so emotionally. I'm sorry. For years this has weighed on me, but crying and begging won't get us anywhere."

"We're not going anywhere, whether you cry and beg or not." You hang up.

A month after that call where you rejected Charles for what you hoped would be the last time, there's a knock on the door on a Saturday. You walk to it, and freeze when you look through the peephole.

Why is Charles Leclerc here?

Anxiety hits you. The house is a mess, you've got no food to give him, you look like a mess in your pajamas and unbrushed hair-

How can he just show up at your door like this?

It's obnoxious.

You honestly are about to pretend you aren't home, but then Y/s/n suddenly runs in, squealing, "Mama, who is it?! Is it the mailman?"

You sigh at your son's strange fascination for the mailman. You're not completely sure why he enjoys the young, dry, monotone mailman, and for years just assumed because he was generally a nice bloke, and little kids are weird, until you realized with an ounce of dread that the mailman resembles Charles, in a way. After that, you've never encouraged his enthusiasm for the mailman, just in case that was the reason, whether conscious or not.

"No, no," you sigh, unlocking the door. "It's not the mailman, love."

"Who is it, Mama?"

As you swing the door open, you murmur, "Well, love, none other but your father."

"Daddy!" the little boy, still in his Lightning McQueen pajamas, squeals, running to hug his father. You glance away, staring at the floor.

Charles hugs your son, kissing him, and exclaims, "Aw, there's my little buddy! How are you, man?"

"I'm good, Daddy! Are you coming to live here now, Daddy?!"

"Ugh- Not quite..." He picks up your son, and looks to you, immediately saying, "Sorry it's such short notice."

You grit your teeth, murmuring, "You mean no notice?"

"Right," he nods with a quick exhale.

While the presence of your son is a burden for you, preventing you from showing your true feelings, it may be an advantage for Charles, to get across what he needs to get across. Whatever that may be.

Because this is all just a game. Everyone with their own different motives. Y/s/n wants Mama and Daddy to love each other because he wants one place to live. Charles' motives are unknown, but probably are just manipulative and selfish- about making himself feel better. And your motive? You don't want to relive the past, so will avoid Charles at all costs.

Charles' and Y/s/n's motives align more with each other than your's.

You look at your son. Who you love so much. He looks at you with hope. Charles looks at you with... a very similar expression.

These two.

How can you love one and hate the other?

They're both family, as much as you hate to admit it. Because one of them, you wish you could erase.

No. But you don't. Because if you'd never met Charles, Y/s/n would never have been born. And you can't even begin to imagine your life without him.

You hold the door open, and gesture to the couch. "Sit down, Charles. I'm going to get dressed, and then put the kettle on." You say all this through gritted teeth.

How can he just walk in as if he owns the place?

He nods. "Thank you, Y/n." You watch in the doorway to the hall as Charles sits down on the couch with his son on his lap. You watch as he says softly, picking up a toy car from off the rug, "This car is awesome, Y/s/n. Where'd you get it?"

"Mama got it for me! For my birthday!" Y/s/n takes it from his father's hand with much pride, and starts driving it across Charles' chest, up onto his neck, and eventually onto his cheeks. The whole time, Charles laughs, his hand on his son's back to keep him from tipping off his lap.

"That's a super cool car. Does it have a name?"

"Uhhh," Y/s/n frowns. "Zoom! Because he goes zooooom!"

"Oh, it's a he?"

"Of course," Y/s/n says, as if this fact should be obvious. Then he giggles, "Because girls smell."

"They smell?! No way. Girls don't smell."

"Yeah, they do," he crosses his arms, frowning at his father. "You don't know any girls. You only know... Uh, Cah-los."

Charles laughs out loud. "The only person I know is 'Cah-los'?"

"Yep! And Uncle Arthur and Uncle Lorenzo, but that's it!" your son claims in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Their conversation continues, but you finally turn to leave and get yourself fixed up. You quickly shower, brush your teeth and hair, put on moisturizing cream, perfume, and deodorant, and put on a beige hoodie, grey sweatpants, and slides, before going to make tea. The whole time, you mind swirls.

Why is he here? Why is he here on a Saturday? Why is he here, without even asking to come? It's so... obnoxious.

You finish making two cups of tea, finding with awe as you make them that you remember exactly the way Charles likes his tea, and you're doing it automatically.

Because I used to do this so much.

You walk back in with the tea and see the two boys sitting on the rug now. Charles is tickling Y/s/n's tummy, and both of them are laughing- Charles with more of a chuckle and Y/s/n with more of a squealing giggle. When Charles sees you, he slowly stops, saying with a little sigh, "Alright, bud. Mama's back with my tea, and I mean to drink it."

"But Daddyyy!"

"Nope!" he grins, standing up, ruffling his son's messy hair. He then walks to you, and you hand him his tea. He lights up when he tastes the tea and looks at you, muttering softly, "My God, you remembered how I like my tea...?"

"Don't jump to sh*t, Charles," you murmur, soft enough for Y/s/n not to hear.

"Right," he sighs, sitting down again on the couch.

You set your tea down, walking to your son. "Alright, love. I want you to go in your room now, okay? Remember the Lego plane you were building? Why don't you work on that? I want to see it once it's finished, okay? And if you need anything, call, okay? Don't come in here. Just call, and one of us will come."

He looks questioningly. "Why, Mama?"

"Me and your father have important things to talk about. And if you don't listen, there will be consequences."

He blinks, pouting.

"I'll turn on your storybook audio for you. Come on." You bring him to his room and get him set up, until you're sure he's completely distracted with the Legos and the storybook. Only then do you come back to the living room and sit down awkwardly next to Charles.

He's still wearing his red windbreaker from when he was outside, and a black scarf hangs loose around his neck. His hair is a bit messed up, but he looks perfect, like always.

Too perfect.

"Let me take your scarf and jacket. And your shoes."

"Right," he says with a swift nod, handing you his scarf, coat, and sleek black boots. You put them by the door, and sit down, viewing the cozy grey sweater adorning his frame. You have a passing thought, considering how much unnecessary money he might have spent on such a garment.

"So?" you ask in a tense voice. "What is this all about, Charles?"

"There are some things we need to work out. You're right- one of the many things I've done wrong to you is always being a f*cking coward. You're right. I didn't say what was on my mind, and I faked it, and I kept quiet, because I didn't want to upset you. But now I see that the only thing I can do now is speak up, be honest, and be a man. You rightfully left me because I wasn't being a proper man. I wasn't being your proper man. I was being a terrible husband and a terrible father. But now we need to uncover what's true- we both have different views, both of which are likely exaggerated or incorrect in different ways."

"I don't care, Charles," you say quickly, flat out trying to ignore his admittance to wrong. Perhaps because you don't want it to be true. Because if he's sorry, that means you have to forgive him.

"So you're telling me you'd rather believe lies, just because it makes you feel better? What kind of thinking is that?"

You hate to admit that he's right. So you say nothing.

There's silence. But then he says, "So tell me what happened."

"You know what happen-"

"Tell me, Y/n." His voice isn't rude, but definitely firm.

You swallow, shaking your head. You don't want to work this out. You want to forget Charles. But clearly, that's impossible. "You were irresponsible. You'd get drunk, never be home, never help me. I'd be all on my own... You... You'd use me for your own pleasure but never show true, selfless love... Then you came home drunk saying stuff about a pretty woman and sex and getting pregnant... So you cheated... And I divorced you because I couldn't take it any more." You can't believe it, but you're trying not to choke up as you whisper, "Charles, what we had seemed perfect. Until you messed it up." Your mouth tastes like poison.

Charles stares down, his eyes swirling with everything but empty, at the same time. "Y/n," he whispers. "I was terrible. You're right. I was never around because I was immature and scared. I didn't understand. To get away from it, I drank and had fun with friends."

Your lip curls. "You're not the victim."

"And I never said I was! I was scared of being a father. I was scared of messing up. I wasn't ready and I let everything happen too quickly. I was a coward and I left you. Even though you divorced me, I was the one who left you. That's what happened. I was stupid. I was a terrible person. It's all my fault."

"Why would you be any different now? There's no way for you to prove that. Before the marriage you were fine. It was when we married that you went downhill. It was like... you couldn't stand me."

He looks torn apart. "I loved you. I... I... I still do. I knew I wasn't being a good husband or father and to forget about it, I drank."

"And why wouldn't you still do it now?!"

"Because I don't. I feel more guilt now than I did then! I feel more responsibility now than I did then! And that was my greatest fear! Responsibility! But now I don't drink excessively! Now I don't avoid reality! Because I need you... Our son needs us. Together. Don't you need me?"

"Not the you I know."

"You don't know me anymore. I'm not the same person I was." His voice is so uncommonly firm, it slightly shocks you.

You stare into each other's eyes.

He goes on, "That night, I didn't cheat. I was intoxicated. A young woman was trying to seduce me, but I refused because I had you. You, my beautiful wife, both inside and out. I wanted to convey to you that I said no because you were my wife. However, I failed to communicate this properly, and the next morning, I had completely forgotten the conversation. I chose not to tell you because I thought it would be better if you didn't know. I was afraid you would be angrier with me for being in that situation. I was a coward, and I didn't want you to be upset with me. I didn't realize for years that you believed I had cheated. If I had known, I would have assured you that I didn't cheat, just like I am doing now, and that I never would. Because I didn't. Despite all the mistakes I made, cheating on you is something I would never, ever do. I have always loved you, and only you, far too much for that."

Your hands tremble in your lap as you stare at him, listening.

Now you're the one getting emotional.

Charles leans in close to you- too close for comfort- and whispers, "I've changed... Please. I just want a second chance... To right my wrongs and give you and our son the lives you deserve. I need to give my all to you... I need to make it up to you... It's... It's crushing me."

"Why do you need a second chance?" Your voice, for once, isn't aggressive. It's gentle. Softer. Your voice cracks as you say, "You should have done it right the first time."

You see him swallow. "And you know what? I didn't. I f*cked up. I f*cked up everything. I f*cked up your life and I know it. I'm sorry. I wish I could go back in time and fix it and make it all better. I was stupid, Y/n. I was terrible. I hurt the most beautiful woman and her baby in the world. I'm the least." He takes your hand again in both his, but this time it's a gentler grasp.

"But you're not. You're famous. You have so many fans."

"Do you know how many times I've thought I don't deserve all this? If only I could share it all with you."

"Charles," your voice cracks again, and an unexpected, terrible longing fills you. "I want to believe you, but I can't. I'm broken, Charles, because of you. I can't afford to let you break me again..."

A tear rolls down your cheeks, and immediately he reaches up with his thumb, gently wiping your cheek, "No, Y/n, please don't cry... I don't want you to cry because of me any longer... Please..."

"Charles, I can't do this..." more tears fall.

There's hurt and confusion, but mostly longing and guilt in his eyes. "Please... If you'd only trust me, then we could make this right. I could make this right, after all I did wrong."

You can hardly believe yourself as you let your broken, silently crying self fall into Charles. You allow yourself to rest your head on his shoulder, and you allow his arms to wrap around you, giving you his warmth. "Charles..."

"Yes...?" There's a painful hope in his voice.

"I don't know if I can do this..." you cry into his shoulder now.

He whispers right in your ear, "Just give me a chance. Let me be there for you... Let me prove to you... Let me..."

You can't give him a yes or a no. Two sides war inside you- the mask and the face. You feel him stroke your hair as you cry, at the same time as remembering stroking his hair when he was drunk and needed comfort.

This is some sort of paradox, isn't it?

"Charles," you murmur, leaning away after you've gained control of yourself. "The answer is 'I don't know' right now, okay... Consider it... better than hating your guts with an adamant 'no.'"

As he gazes into your eyes, he leans closer. Softly, he places a tender kiss on your cheek and whispers, "I'll be ready whenever you are. And I'll never, ever stop waiting for you."

Weeks pass, and Charles can't understand why, after all that happened that day, still you insist on avoiding him like the plague.

Well, the reason is just that- avoidance. You're avoiding Charles because you don't want to face the possible truth. You're avoiding him because you don't want to make big decisions. You don't want to try again. You don't want to...

Well, you don't want to fall in love again.

And on that day, the way he treated you...

It reminded you of the man you married, and not the man you divorced.

And that scares you. Because you'll never forget the man you divorced.

So you're stubborn and resistent, and you're avoiding him.

So you sit, staring at the screen of your cell phone. Rereading the text on it. Over and over.

Charles Leclerc: I'm sorry for such a long text Y/n but you probably won't read it anyway, so what does it matter? I need to talk with you and you're doing exactly what I've done, what I'm apologizing for. For years I avoided this stuff and one of the reasons we split was that i couldn't stand up and address and tell you my problems. I was being a f*cking coward. And I've said sorry more times than I can count. I thought you might be on the road to forgiveness, to giving me a second chance. I know you felt the same way as me when you leaned into me and let me hold you when you cried- there's something more here, and I don't want you to ignore this. Can't we just try this? Please Y/n? I'm finally willing to step up, be a man, work through all this sh*t with you. Talk about it. I'm finally willing to be brave, and as soon as I am, you're doing the same thing you've yelled at me for years for doing- staying silent.

Charles Leclerc: I love you, Y/n, and this is a problem I desperately want to fix, but the truth of the matter is that you're being a f*cking hypocrite.

Me: How does it feel to be in the position you put me in for years?

You feel mean for typing that, and you're not sure how much you mean it. Maybe you meant to be kinder.

But the anger took over and your thumbs did the talking.

Charles leaves that message on read.

You sit in the cold metal chair, surrounded by pudgy, middle-aged parents and their gross kids all around you as a lone young mother sitting by herself. You're only here to see your son, and none of the other aspects of this situation bring you an ounce of joy.

All of a sudden, a shiver runs down your spine as a firm hand gently lands on your shoulder. Your head snaps up, meeting the gaze of Charles Leclerc. A look of disdain crosses your face, causing your heart to ache as you bluntly ask, "Why are you here?"

Charles takes a seat beside you in the vacant chair and casually remarks, "I've come to attend my son's school concert. And you?" A glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes.

Your jaw tightens in pure irritation, and you manage through gritted teeth in a tense, quiet tone, "Why did you choose to sit next to me?"

Charles hesitates, his expression softening, as he makes an effort to hold your gaze. "Well... Because I..." He swallows and says, "I'm not going to give up on you. That's why. So I figured I'd sit down next to you to watch my- our- son's concert. So..." Abruptly, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The veins in his hand are visible as he clasps yours tightly.

Your muscles tense, yet for some reason, you don't pull your hand away.

So throughout the whole school concert, Charles sits, gripping your hand, and seems to refuse to let it go.

And the moment the teacher is done on stage after the little production, thanking people for helping and the kids for doing such a great job and other stuff you don't listen to, Charles turns to you and says, "So, we have some minutes to spare."

Your eyebrows scrunch together. "Come again?"

He chuckles, but it doesn't feel called for. "You weren't listening to her? She said the students can be picked up from their classrooms by their parents in fifteen minutes."

Your jaw clenches again. "Charles, why?"

"Because I know you want it," he says incredibly earnestly. The inside of your heart melts as the outside hardens.

"But I don't think I do."

"But I know you do. Now come on." Your ex-husband stand up, pulling you up with him.

"Where are we going?" you ask. "And please let go of my hand. You've been holding it so long, it's starting to get sweaty."

He clicks his tongue and doesn't respond to either of these, then guides you down various hallways until you reach the school's exit. Finally, he sits down with you on a bench outside the school, and releases your hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Let's just hang out here for the next ten minutes, okay? We should talk," he says awkwardly, facing you.

"I don't get it. Charles, there's nothing you can do to-"

Charles interrupts, holding your face gently, gazing into your eyes. "Please, don't. Don't say that," he pleads, his thumb brushing your cheek. "There's something we can do. We can make this work... Please..."

His desperation, his begging, makes you want to cry. "Please just let it go... Let me go..."

"No, I don't want you to be trapped... Don't you see you'll be more free with me? You won't have to work as hard.. I'll take care of you and our son... I'll take half the work in the house you have to deal with... I'll... We'll... I just want you to believe that we'll be happier... I'm not saying we need to jump to anything today. I'm just saying, let's be kind to each other... Let's go out to eat sometimes, or go to our son's events together. Let's act just a little bit more like a family, even if we aren't yet. I just want to- I need to- I- I- I..." He trails off. His hands fall off your cheeks, and his shoulders slack. His head goes down.

It's like just the hard look in your eyes alone crushed him.

Like that alone is the huge weight he's bearing.

"F*** me, Y/n... F*** me," he whispers, his hands in his lap trembling. "I don't deserve you. I hurt you. Doesn't matter how much I changed. I still have to live through the consequences of my actions, don't I?" He seems to be talking more to himself, but you have no idea at this point. "Just f*** me." He exhales shakily, before suddenly standing up. He stares you right in your eyes, and your heart breaks when you see the hurt, the destroyed desperation. "It's fine, Y/n." He's trying to keep a level face. But his voice cracks. "I'll leave you alone. I'll let you go. I can see all this is just hurting you more. I never meant to hurt you more. I never meant to bring up the past to hurt you. I wanted to help you... I wanted to help you heal..." He drags a hand over his face. "But clearly I f***ing didn't. Clearly I messed it up again. I f***ing messed up again." He swallows. His eyes glimmer with wetness as he practically whispers, "The last thing I want is to hurt you. So I'll drop it. I'm just being selfish again, aren't I? I think this would be better, but you don't. And that's hurting you. And I never wanted to..." He swallows, his nose crunching up. Suddenly he yells, "I never wanted to hurt you ever again, because I love you, for f***'s sake! I love you, but I did hurt you, because, in the end, no matter what, I'm going to f*** it up anyway! So bye, Y/n!" Suddenly he turns on his feet. Like he doesn't want you to see him cry again. But you can hear the tears in his voice when the last thing he calls back is, "It will go back to normal, and we can pretend none of this ever happened! Pretend I'm a stranger! It's the best for you, anyway, apparently, and all I wanted was the best for you!"

You stare in shock as you watch him get in his car and drive away. You remain seated, gaze straight ahead. Tears well up in your eyes, and your body quivers, yet you manage to compose yourself, rise on unsteady legs, and compel yourself to return to the school to pick up your son.

But that just wasn't right.

I should have stopped him. I should have called him back. I should've.

How far can revenge go before it's gone too far?

For days, the guilt, the hurt, the rue- they weigh on you. Every moment of your days, it consumes your thoughts. Regret and confusion and anger fill you in every step, engulfing your every move. And if you thought you weren't getting any sleep before, now it's even worse.

You long to fix it, but you are unsure of how. Despite everything... You can't see how Charles isn't being honest. You want to have faith in him. A small part of you may even want to love him, just a little bit.

You're also fearful. Fearful of reaching out to him, because you don't know what you'd do. You have no idea.

But now you're dropping your son off at Charles's house. You swallow, and suddenly, on a whim, when you see Charles walking outside, waiting for Y/s/n, you get out of the car, too.

"Mama?" your son asks with a confused expression, still maintaining a little smile on his face.

You smile back down at him and say, "I'm walking you up to your daddy's house today, is all."

He shrug and nods, apparently accepting this.

He's such a good kid.

As you approach Charles, your smile twitches while you study him, but you say softly, "Hey, um... I... We..." Your tone sounds weak.

"Yes?" Charles asks, looking up. He looks perfect. As always.

Your eyes lock.

Please, Charles. I don't know how to say this. Please just understand.

His eyes remain blank. You let out a sigh.

And suddenly, you hug him.

Charles seems taken aback for only a moment, before he immediately hugs you back and says softly, "Hey... Want to come inside with me and Y/s/n?"

You nod. "Yes... Yes, please."

So Charles leads the two of you up to his flat. You sit down together on the couch, once again.

Last time you did this was the moment Charles cried out to you.

"Y/n, people change."

You swallow at the memory.

Is this another paradox? This time, will I be the one crying out to him?

Y/s/n is about to hop on the couch between you, but suddenly Charles scoops him up and says, "Hey, hey! I didn't get my hug from you yet, did I?!"

Your son giggles, getting comfortable on his father's lap, before giving him a big hug. "I scored a goal, Daddy..."

"You scored a goal?!" he grins. "Seriously?"

"Yeah! Mama cheered me on! I scored a goal when I played football!"

Charles looks so bright. Happy with his son. So proud. He doesn't get to see him as often as you do. "No way. You've got to be joking. Was it the winning goal?"

"Yep!" your son says proudly.

You find yourself smiling.

"Oh yeah, what was the score?"

Your son shrugs. "Dunno! But we won!"

You smile and mutter softly, "I think it was 4-1." Y/s/n plays in the little league team affiliated with his school.

"Yeah, but my goal made it 2-1, so I won it," he brags to his father.

Charles grins. "Oh, I'm sure it did. You know, I don't know where you got that talent for football from. Do you think Mama is good at football?"

Your son just shrugs with a grin, enjoying the affirmation from his father. "Dunno! But Mama is good at cuddling and playing with me."

Charles laughs. "Yeah, your mama takes good care of you." He glances at you with sparkling eyes, before looking back down at his son.

The two continue babbling on about sports and football and what not, until Charles finally ruffles his son's hair and says, "Well, buddy, I reckon it's time for me and Mama to have some alone time."

Y/s/n frowns. "Aw, why?"

"Because I want to talk with Mama about things that you won't care about. Boring grown-up stuff. Doesn't sound very fun, does it?"

Y/s/n shrugs, still looking uncertain.

"Hey, don't look so down. How about this? I'll go put on Cars for you. How's that sound?"

Your son grins at this, immediately jumping up, his demeanor changing abruptly. "Yeah, yeah!" he squeals, and you watch as Charles leaves with him to go set him up with that in another room.

But soon Charles is back. He gently shuts the door behind him as he enters the room, and immediately sits down next to you, facing you once more. "Hey, Y/n..." he says in a tentative but gentle tone.

You swallow. "Hey, Charles..." You feel yourself getting nervous again. "You're so... You're so good with Y/s/n."

He smiles. "You are, too."

There's no, And I'm sure we'd be even better with him together.

Charles meant it when he said he'd give up on it.

But you move closer to him. You take his hands. "This is a lot for me, Charles. I'm scared. I'm having issues with trust."

He nods slowly. "I know... I know..."

You swallow, and hug him again.

He holds you, hugging you back. He kisses your cheek. He whispers, "I understand if you're afraid. I understand if you're scared, or if you're having issues with trust. I'm so deeply sorry I've broken you like that."

Y/n, people change. And I can change.

The words come crashing into your mind like a ton of bricks, emerging from the depths of your memory.

"Charles-" you break in, your voice cracking. "Those words have haunted me."

"What words...?" he mutters softly.

You swallow. Breathe slowly. And you whisper, "You said to me 'Y/n, people change. And I can change.'"

"I have changed," he whispers.

"But," your voice cracks. "You said a lot of other s***, too. I remember, during our honeymoon..." A tear rolls down your face as Charles continues to hold you. "You said I'm yours and you're mine. You said we'd be forever. You said you'd do anything for me. You said we'd have three kids together, and you'd never stop loving me, and we would be a happy family. You said we'd grow old together, Charles. That's what you said. But all those promises- they were broken... They were broken."

"You didn't want them to be," he whispers calmly. "But don't you realize? Perhaps those promises were not broken, but rather, they have just not yet been fulfilled."

You look up at him, blinking. More tears roll down your cheeks. Charles gently wipes them away.

"I want to be able to fix what I did wrong. I want to be able to fulfill those promises I made to you. That's what I want, Y/n."

"Charles..." you breathe.

He looks so perfect.

"Yes?" he asks gently.

Your lip quivers, and you lean into his shoulder, and you sob.

And he lets you.

For however long, he holds you there, rubbing your back, letting you weep. Finally, you get a hold of yourself, and slowly pull away. You wipe your wet eyes with the backs of your hands, before sighing. "Charles, if we were to do this... If I were to give in..." You sniff. Your voice cracks again as you utter, "Please, don't hurt me again. I can't survive it again. I can't let you put me through that again..."

He pulls you to him again and whispers in your ear, "I won't. I won't. I won't let you down this time. Please don't be afraid of me... I want to love you... Let me love you... If you'll just let me, we can fix this... We have have a relationship in which we communicate more. Oh, Y/n..." he sighs. "Don't you realize how much I care? I- I would give my life for you."

You blink, staring at him.

Everything looks so promising. That's why you're scared.

It almost looks too promising.

"You say you would give your life for me. But would you really? Maybe you would you give your life for me if it meant losing it. But would you give your life to me while you're still alive? Would you clean the dishes? Would you help me when I'm sick? Would you grab an extra ingredient from the store if I needed it? Would you drive Y/s/n to school when you could? Would you really? You're gone half the year, as it is."

His jaw clenches, then un-clenches. "I would do anything and everything I could do for you. I want to share my life for you. Until death. And I'm one hundred percent sure on that. I've had years of thinking about this." There's hope in his lovely eyes.

So much hope.

You sigh, staring down at your lap.

"Y/n. I'm sorry. Please. Not only do I need your forgiveness. But your son does, too." He hesitates. "And I hope you know no matter what happens, the guilt of what I've done to you will weigh on me my whole life. That's why I want to fix it."

You gently slip your hand in his and whisper, "Please don't hurt me."

He wraps his fingers around your hand, holding it. "I won't."

You nod slowly, another tear rolls down your cheek, and it feels like all the molecules in your body are being ripped apart as you barely whisper, "Okay, Charles. We can try this again."

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daze4all · 3 months

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Jealous! Jing Yuan in Penacony "It's Me You and Lightning Wielding Thunder Clapping Spirit Squashing Lord" Yandere!Jing Yuan x Soft!Reader

"Jing Yuan are you jealous?" Incredulous and teasing in his darlings tone. Jing Yuan was the premier bachelor on the loufu hands down but here on Penacony with so many men competing for his darling's attention…

“so, what if I’m how will you make it up to me?" his voice coaxed as he eased his darling into submission trapping them against the lush couches of the bedroom.

"Already? "his new spouse teased as his darling played with the locks of his white hair teasingly.

"I deserve it being a good boy while in the span of checking in, you flirted with four men." pointed out jealous Yandere! Jing Yuan sourly

"I want nobody but you. I choose you always and forever" murmured his spouse playing with his tie and slipping it off and straddling him her arms around linked behind his neck.

"Be glad I have such endless patience as I wanted to introduce them to lighting lord," he growled playfully as he squeezed his darling settled secure in his arms.

"Oh and how will you smash them with lightning Wielding Thunder Clapping Spirit Squashing Lord ?" amusement coloring his spouse's tone with a light laugh at the ridiculous name.

"Until nothing is left but me to choose" Yandere! Jing Yuan's voice said going lower undeterred though his cheeks colored at the mention of the childish name given to his most impressive weapon.

"Fool like I would choose anyone else. That’s not necessary and you know it." softly eyes crinkled in a sweet smile as she tipped her head to kiss him their face brushed by the long white locks of their husband.

"They might think otherwise they were looking at you hungrily they barely concealed how they wanted you"

Honey you might be projecting and only you have me. giggled his darling as she kissed his nose playfully to calm him down only to be pulled in claiming kiss with bruising lips.

"Dear, you signed up for this so suffer the consequences…. I have endless patience to undo you all night long my dear as punishment" hhis golden eyes lit up as he licked his lip wolfishly with a smirk at their blushing face. Jing Yuan picked them up and threw them on the bed before descending on his darling.

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A/N A snippet from the Honeymone in Penacony Mini series. so it was supposed to be a serious scene but this joke made it in... and then it was sorta sexy soft and sweet before the smut. Probably write about penacony guys flirting beforehand with the reader lol leave open-ended who you choose smut mayyybee.

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Side Series Idea

AU! Penacony Murder Mansion Mystery Story Synopsis:

A newlywed wife and her husband to be General JingYuan are set for their honeymoon to penocony. But it descends into a murder mystery when the rising star Robin of Charmony festival is found dead in her dressing room and the bride to be finds herself the prime suspect.

If reader was judge of ten commissions there are many reasons to have reason to be involved in penacony…

Surrounded by sordid tales of past affairs that crops up along with past lovers at the Penacony Marigold Hotel.

Reader could also be blade or Dan Heng/feng technically it’d fit in AU they stayed tried to help clean up abundance wars mess and married Jing Yuan.

Summary: Her husband, Jing Yuan is left to prove her innocence by traversing her memories in dreamscape but will he question her fidelity in learning her sordid tales of past affairs. Her dealings with underbelly of penacony the prison color?

The unsavory dealing with the IPC for the xianzhous sake?

Her possible involvement with The current order mystery at hand?

Also with past lovers who are popping out of nowhere who wish to help free her from her murder accusations. Can the heart be swayed or will it stand firm?

Will the murder at hand be solved in the hotel mansion mystery in pencacony?

Featuring:

Scooby Doo sleuths! Trailblazer Team- Helpful but newbies who may help crakc the case.

Dr. Ratio- Detective Sherlock Holmes. skilled and knowing

Aventurine -IPC Businessman - Watson. who has dealings in penacony and previous business associate with reader who renewed trade agreements with over the xianzhou and helped with aurum alley

robin- the charmony concert singer set to debut but found dead in he dressing room the victim of the case. A friend of readers.

Sunday- Brother and organizer of the concert and hotel manager who sought help from reader as a consultant…for the hotel or the jail?

Gallagher- Bloodhound leader of hotel security-local police for the case not to happy outside interference who also has tie with reader who served as consutaltant for security with reader having been a judge of prisons at ten commisons

Reader: cleaner version of darkest secret . he/she was judge of prison and helped setup penacony new hotel image and dealt with the family officlay as fellow wardens of prisons. She also dealt with pic for xianshou trade for goods since they travel and do not have planet of resource they trade their and possibly from abundance wars.

Dirty version

Reader - debt to IPC helping recover xianzhou during abundance wars. former prostitute hidden sold service beauty as redeeming feature at the hotel with Sunday acting as a pimp went to hotel rooms and serviced men secretly on the condition no one from Xianshou would know. (Secret vendetta assumed so killed his pure sister to kill as revenge although they were friends)

#honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #male yandere x reader #yandere imagines #hsr jing yuan #yandere x darling #yandere jing yuan #yandere honkai star rail #yandere x reader #hsr penacony #penacony

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littlebabyyd0ll · 8 months

Text

KINKTOBER DAY FOUR, TRICK OR TREAT

[i changed the plot after naming this fic, so it actually has nothing to do with trick or treating xoxo]

Your daddy takes you to a halloween party!

Daddy!Bucky x Little!Reader

Warnings: DDLG themes, lovesick Bucky, slight mention of troubled pasts.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. Enjoy!

Main Masterlist ! Kinktober 2023

On days like today, you feel like the most spoiled little girl ever. Days where you wake up in fresh sheets and next to the person that loves you the very most in the world. He treats you all day, kisses you awake and gets you dressed. Bucky’s a good man, a great man. Never once has he made you feel guilty or inadequate for all that he does for you, both as a boyfriend and as a caregiver. His heart is as big as the compound that you live in, and he reminds you every day that it is for you and you only.

Your tortured pasts brought the two of you together, brought out his need to be relied on, to have someone to take care of, and brought out your need to feel tiny and helpless, to have someone to take care of you.

You beam at him now, and he beams right back down at you. His hands are caressing your arms, slowly pulling down the sleeves of your princess costume into place. It’s pretty and pink, a shade like ballet slippers and decorated in the smallest, most minute of sparkles. He’s dressed you happily for halloween, a dress he picked out himself. Steve’s party was already in full swing, but he couldn’t help taking the extra time to make you look party-ready.

He’s dressed up too, as a shining knight.

His costume is far more tacky and cheap, but he looks as handsome as ever. You squeal on the inside — you wish that you could convey the way that you feel when you’re in this headspace, when you feel this little.

“Do you remember our rules, princess?” Your daddy asks, slowly spinning you around to lace up the back of your pretty pink dress.

“We don’t talk to people we don’t know.” You recite, playing with your fingers slowly and idly. Bucky had spent the time painting them shimmering pink, even stooped your squirming so that they turned out perfectly. “Stay close to daddy the whole time. Ask daddy if I need anything.”

He’s pleased, you can hear it in his tone. “And? One more, baby.”

You wrack your brain for a moment, wriggling your toes in your frilly little socks. Then, it hits you like lightning, “oh! Gotta say thank you to Steve for having us.”

“Good job.” Bucky muses, turning you back to face him. His hands can’t help but reach for your cheeks and squish them together, your puffy lips jutting out. “My best girl, huh? You’re such a good listener, baby, m’so proud of you.”

You’re practically glowing. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“You ready, sweet girl? Think you’ll be okay with Daddy and his friends?”

You nod brightly and raise out a small hand. Your finger protrudes outwards and beacons Bucky’s to meet it. He does, of course, linking your fingers with a great smile. Your hand looks so small compared to his bionic one, and it’s so warm, warmer than you’d think. He’s all human, and all heart.

He holds your hand as you enter Steve’s home, even keeps them connected when the blonde haired man brings him in for a hug. Your hands do lose their hold on one another when Steve’s arms swallow you whole, and when he holds you tight and lifts you up the ground. Steve’s love for you extends just as much as his love for Bucky — you saved his best friend, made his life all the more better. How could he not love you?

Steve loves you in any way that you come, and when he sees the way that you grip tightly to your boyfriend and that wide-eyed look you hold, he knows that today is the smallest form of you that comes, and he couldn't be happier. The hug that he gives you is warm and all-encompassing. “My girl!” He sings out with a laugh, swaying you in his burly arms. The raven haired man watches you both with a smile on his face. “How’ve you been, huh? You been good for your daddy?”

“Uh huh!”

“She’s always good.” Bucky insists as he takes you out of Steve's arms and plants you back onto the floor, where you instantly curl into his side. His warmth is brilliant compared to the late-october air. “My best girl, aren’t you, baby?”

“You want juice, honey, or some pop?” Your attention is stolen by Natasha, who opens her arms for a big hug. You tae her up on the offer, looking up for permission form your daddy to go and see the selection with Nat. Bucky gives you a nod and a kiss on the forehead, watching you go with a familiar look on his face.

One of the upmost love, and upmost adoration.

The blond haired man watches the ordeal with a smile of his own. He chuckles, shaking his head, “She’s real good for you, man.”

“I know.” Bucky hums, watching you blush as Natasha compliments your princess costume and straightens up your tiara. He can just about make out you complimenting her kitty cat outfit over the music and chatter. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

You don’t manage to thank Steve that night.

Bucky carries you out of Steve’s home with his arm pushed under your butt and your tired arms loose around his neck. You’d been so good all night, obeyed by all your rules. You had stayed close to Bucky and his friends, answered all questions politely and even played board games with friends of friends. Your soul lights up the room, your giggle infectious and, just the same as every day, Bucky finds himself wondering how on earth he got to be so lucky. He’s lucky as your feet dangle around his hips and your drool dampens his shoulder. The play tiara is now sloped and wonky on your head, close to falling off. You look a bit of a mess, but the prettiest mess he’s ever seen.

Bucky lifts your sleeping form out of the car with a grunt, and sighs when he gets through the front door. He might regret it in the morning, but he lays you in bed still dressed up in your little costume, but for now, he gets to stare down at you lovingly, in your purest form, and he gets to hear your beating heart.

And for him, that is more than he could ever ask for.

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unseededtoast · 3 months

Text

Thin Air | Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Summary: In which you realize how much you lost when you accepted a new job, and that you may be destined to only share fleeting moments with the one who has your heart.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted

wc: 6.6k

"Spencer, please." You beg through your moans.

"Be patient, baby."

Five years ago

The door slams shut behind you as your coat gets taken off and discarded somewhere in the apartment. Your senses are a blur, the only thing you can bother to concentrate on is exploring every inch of Spencer.

His lips connect with yours sloppily, a heated exchange that you've waited for since the day you started working at the BAU.

His lithe fingers unbutton your shirt with ease as you tangle your fingers in his hair. You gently tug, eliciting a breathy moan from him; it's music to your ears and you can't get enough.

The two of you stumble through his apartment clumsily, neither of you able to stay apart from the other long enough to normally walk to the bedroom. You follow his lead blindly until the back of your legs hit the edge of his bed. Without thinking twice, you lay back, quickly followed by Spencer who is determined to kiss every square inch of your body.

The room is filled with the sounds of breathy moans from the both of you, Spencer's lips on your neck finding your sweet spot. Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers begin undoing his shirt, the two of you are still fully clothed and you're doing your best to rectify that immediately.

You feel Spencer smirk as you unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers and he shrugs it off quickly and makes quick work of your own. Your heated skin melds with his and the closer contact makes your jaw fall slack. You're convinced that if you can't feel all of him soon that you might combust.

"Spencer, please." You beg through your moans as he takes his time working his way down your body. His fingers trace every curve of you, as if he's making a detailed mental map of your body. He grabs the soft skin of your hips and tugs your pants off as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

"Shh be patient, baby." He answers, licking his lips before placing sloppy kisses on your thighs. Your fingers find their way back into his wavy hair, and his find the plumpness of your hips and pulls you closer to him.

All coherent thoughts leave your mind as you sink further and further into a bliss-filled oblivion, and all you care about is the man kneeling in front of you.

Your only regret is not acting on your feelings sooner, leaving you with only this one night with him.

-----

Spencer walks into work the next day feeling conflicted and anxious. You hadn't been beside him when he woke up this morning like he expected. Of course, he's trying to tell himself you probably just went home to get ready for work, surely you didn't want to come in wearing yesterday's clothes.

But as the hours tick by without any sign of you, his stomach starts twisting itself in knots. He checks his phone for any message from you just to find an empty lock screen. Trying to ease his nerves he sends you a quick message, asking if you're okay. And he checks his phone compulsively for any notification for the next hour.

After he sends the message he tries his best to casually ask around about if anyone has heard from you today. The others all say no, and they don't seem too concerned, they chalk it up to a hangover from last night. But you didn't have that much to drink. Spencer's mind races with worst-case scenarios but tries to stay calm. Maybe you had ditched work because you didn't want to see him, or maybe something bad happened to you.

His foot taps against the floor at lightning speed as he checks his phone one more time. No response. Something within him is telling him something is wrong. And so he moves without thinking and heads to Hotch's office. The worry must've been obvious on his face as Hotch motions for him to take a seat.

"I assume you're here because she didn't show up today." Hotch guesses correctly, and Spencer nods in confirmation. Hotch grabs a piece of paper off his desk and reads over the words once before handing the letter to Spencer. His eyes quickly read the words in seconds and by the time he's read it four times over his stomach drops.

You weren't coming back to the BAU. And you don't say why.

Spencer hurriedly pushes the paper back into Hotch's hands before excusing himself. He tugs at the collar of his shirt as he rushes to get some fresh air. His mind is spinning for answers, and for the first time in a long time, he cannot find one.

-----

Present Day

You squint your eyes against the sun as you watch the front door of the house you had been tasked to stake out with your partner. Today is the deadline your supervisor had given you, and so far you had no results to show for your month-long surveillance mission. You had a sneaking suspicion the target had figured out he was being tailed and moved locations, but of course, you had nothing to back that up.

"I don't think we're going to see him in the next five minutes." Your partner sighs beside you, checking his watch. Angrily, you chew on the inside of your cheek, frustrated to have no results.

"I know he's gone somewhere else." You eventually say, turning the key to start the car so the two of you can go back and report to your supervisor.

"Yeah I know, I think so too. But we have no way of knowing where. I can't believe how slippery this guy is!" Your partner exclaims in disbelief as you begin driving back to headquarters. You huff,

"There's gotta be something there in his behavior that we just aren't seeing." You say, gripping the steering wheel tight. After all your years at the BAU you're unable to correctly profile the target. It's embarrassing and you've become all too frustrated with yourself.

The rest of the drive goes by in silence, the two of you are too wrapped up in the failure to say anything. And once you reach headquarters, the both of you take your time getting to the office, knowing that your supervisor is waiting for answers that you simply don't have.

But eventually you make your way up there. Your supervisor is waiting with crossed arms and a stern expression on her face. Your partner speaks first, admitting your shortcomings as a team. Your supervisor looks thoroughly annoyed with the results, and you know exactly what you have to do next. You just hope it doesn't come back to bite you.

"We should call in my old team. They're the best of the best, world-class profilers. I guarantee they'll be able to help us out." Your voice is confident, masking the nerves that twist your stomach.

"And you're sure of this?" Your supervisor asks with a cocked eyebrow. Nodding your head, you confirm

"I know they will." You say with finality. With a sigh, your supervisor agrees to contact them.

As you turn and walk away from your supervisor's office, you hope that you didn't just make a mistake. You had up and left your team out of nowhere, for all you know they could resent you for what you did. But, you know there's no better team on this planet than them, and this target needs to be caught before more people are killed.

-----

"Pack your bags everyone, we've been called in by the CIA to assist in one of their cases. We will be briefed on the plane, it'll be a short trip." Hotch announces as everyone gathered around the table. There's a stoic look on his face that tells Spencer the case they've been called to help on is of a serious nature.

Given thirty minutes to prepare, Spencer takes his time and makes a cup of coffee for the trip before collecting his go-bag. He always keep a bag for short trips and a bag for long trips in case something like this springs up. He learned the hard way that being underprepared is a recipe for disaster in the field.

Once the team settles in their usual spots on the plane, Hotch begins briefing everyone on the case.

"We've been called to assist in locating James Barnes, wanted for several counts of murder in five different countries. It seems he's evaded CIA efforts to tail him, they need our help in decoding his behaviors to determine where he's likely to go next. This is a top secret mission, nobody outside of this team and the CIA will know what's going on." Hotch's explanation is short and sweet. The gravity of the mission weighs heavily on Spencer as he usually works on geographic profiles. But he knows that as a team they're likely to succeed.

The trip to the CIA headquarters doesn't take long at all, and before Spencer's finished his cup of coffee, they're unloading from the plane. Somebody will take their belongings to the hotel while they immediately start on the case. Spencer's glad he made this cup of coffee, as he thinks this is bound to be an exhausting case.

He follows Derek into the briefing room they've been ushered into and takes a seat at the table, setting his cup on the sleek glass before taking a seat. And as he settles in he looks to the CIA team in charge of the mission, his eyes landing right on you.

Spencer feels like the world has stopped spinning and the blood in his veins has turned to ice. After years of not knowing where you were, here you stand in front of him alongside some of the most renowned CIA agents.

-----

You've got about fifteen minutes before the team's plane lands but you're not sure your heart will survive that long with the way it's pounding in your chest. You pace around your office to try and work off some anxiety but it doesn't seem to be working.

Nausea creeps in behind the anxiety and your stomach feels like it's been tied into a knot. A part of you thinks you might be having some sort of medical emergency. But you know it's just because you're scared.

You're scared of seeing your old team again, possibly with your replacement. You don't know if they hate you, if they think you're dead, or anything else they may have presumed from your absence. It's the not knowing that's driving you up the wall. But fifteen minutes comes and goes and before you're prepared, you're walking to the conference room.

Your partner and supervisor are already there, waiting for the team when you walk in. You take a seat next to your partner and straighten your clothes, wanting to look your best and not as disheveled as you feel.

"So you really have that much faith in these guys?" Your partner asks, snapping you out of your trance. You blink a few times, processing what he's said until you find an answer.

"I do." Short, simple, and not at all good at masking your nerves. You hear several footsteps coming down the hall and know the time has come.

Hotch is the first to walk in, followed closely by Emily, JJ, Penelope, Derek, and then Spencer. The sight of him alone is enough to send you spiraling. Your lungs burn for oxygen and your eyes beg you to blink but all you can focus on is the tall man who you've never fallen out of love with.

You watch as he takes a seat and situates himself next to Derek. And then, after he sets his coffee down, his eyes scan the room. And then they land on you.

It's as if the air has been forcefully sucked from your body, like you had just been kicked in the chest. For a brief moment it sounds like you're underwater and the edges of your vision make it seem like you're in a tunnel.

But thankfully the sound of your supervisor speaking breaks his gaze from you. You bite down hard on the skin inside your cheek, begging yourself to stay seated and composed. You're keenly aware by now that every single one of your old teammates is staring you down like they've just seen a ghost. And in a way they have, you were supposed to disappear without a trace, yet here you sit.

Your supervisor introduces the team to you and you to the team, as if you were all complete strangers. A pit in your stomach tells you that this is going to be the most complicated case you've ever worked, and a voice in the back of your mind wonders if calling the BAU was a mistake after all.

But deep down you know that it doesn't matter in the end. After all, you're going to vanish from them once again when they return home. It's the design of the job. A heartbreaking, but effective, design. One that you almost regret signing up for.

-----

After your supervisor has introduced the BAU to the case, Hotch is given permission to split up the team into their most effective specialties. Emily and JJ are tasked to stay with your partner and assist him with his leads, Penelope is assigned to work her magic with the computer, which leaves you to be assigned with Derek and Spencer.

Hotch had to have done this on purpose. But he doesn't stick around long to watch the fallout of his decision. Instead, he follows your supervisor out of the room, leaving you alone with Derek and Spencer.

The room is full of tension, one that weighs heavily on you. It's difficult for you to even look at them, much less assist them in the investigation. Why wouldn't Hotch have assigned Emily and JJ to stay with you? That surely would've worked out a lot better for everyone. But perhaps this is your bad karma catching up to you for what you did to them.

Swallowing your pride, you decide you can no longer ignore their presence. You lift your eyes from the floor and look at Derek first, not having it within you to look at Spencer. Derek looks back with an intense gaze, one that you're not sure is welcoming.

"So this is where you've been?" He questions, looking around the briefing room. You nod your head,

"Yeah, I've been here, working this mission." You tell him the truth. He hums in response, leaving the room to fall back into an uncomfortable silence.

But you can only take it for so long. Eventually, you break the silence and decide to just give them work to do and hopefully that takes up everyone's time and attention. You put a map up on a board, one that you had already been working on and you explain the markings. The suspect's theorized hiding spots, where his associates live, and where he was most recently spotted until he was lost.

Both Spencer and Derek study the map while you step to the back of the room. A part of you hopes their fresh perspective is enough to crack the case in a day. At least that way you could disappear once more and never have to face their judgmental looks again.

However, as you stand behind them, you can't help but to miss your BAU days. There were several cases where the three of you worked alongside one another just like this. Back when you were head over heels for Spencer, but kept it a secret. You miss those days, the ones you thought were inconsequential and boring, and you realize that you took it all for granted.

At the BAU you had friends who cared about you, and you for them. You had a team of the most supportive people on this Earth. And you threw it all to the side when the CIA offered you a position. You had been starstruck by being recruited that you failed to see what you truly had to give up before it was too late. Sure, you got paid more and got to work on higher profile cases, but these people here don't care about you like the BAU does. No, the people here chase their own accolades and couldn't care less about anyone else but themselves.

And perhaps, in a way, you had become that selfish as well. After all, you had only acted on your feelings for Spencer once you knew you had secured the job. You wanted to experience him before you left, and you didn't once regard his feelings about the situation. It was entirely selfish, and something you had come to deeply regret. If you could turn back time, you know you either would have acted on your feelings sooner, or not have said anything at all. Either of those outcomes would have been better than what you did to him.

-----

Hours later you find yourself in the break room for a snack. Having the BAU here meant that your regular hours had been thrown out the window, and while they're here working, you're here working as well. They have not been given permission to work this case unsupervised. And one thing you know for certain about your old team is that they work tirelessly until they find an answer.

The harsh light from the fridge burns your dry eyes, but the sound of approaching footsteps forces you to choose something. You land on an apple that had been in there for a few days, you figure it's good enough. The footsteps enter the room and you see Penelope walking in, looking like she's ready to sleep for the next three weeks straight.

She sees you and gives a polite smile, which makes your heart sink. Usually you and Penelope went on and on about anything and everything under the sun. She must have felt burned by your abrupt exit from the team as well. And you can't blame her, if the roles were reversed you know you'd feel at least a little bitter. But you can't stand the coldness from her, it makes you want to repair the relationships that were damaged. And so before you can even think things through, you speak up.

"I am sorry, I hope you know that. I wasn't allowed to tell anyone where I was going." Your voice is hoarse from working long hours. Penelope stops in her tracks and looks over to you, a softness in her eyes.

"I looked for you everywhere and I couldn't find you. I thought something had happened. I never stopped looking." She says, her voice breaking which causes your heart to feel like it's been shredded into a million little pieces.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am to have done this to you and the team. Trust me, if I could go back and do things differently, I would. But I'm glad you all are here now." You say, telling her the truth. You are glad they're here, and you figure this might be your last chance to patch things up with your old team.

"I'm glad we came too. At least we know now that you're okay." She says and picks up a granola bar. You can tell from the way she moves to the door that she doesn't want to talk much, and so you let her go.

It must be a lot for them to process, and you try to give them some space to process their feelings about everything. And before you leave for the night, you promise yourself that you're going to apologize to every single person. Whether they accept it or not isn't in your control, but you know you have to extend your sorrows, so that they know you regret how you left them.

-----

The next few days go by uneventfully. You met the team here and Derek and Spencer worked together, leaving you out of most of their conversations. Of course, you still listened in, you just weren't treated as an active participant, even though this is technically your mission. However, you can't find it within yourself to protest much.

The BAU had come up with some interesting developments, and you know you likely only have two more days at most with them. You're not sure whether you want time to speed up or slow down. As they talk about another theory, you find yourself looking at Spencer and remembering how good things between the two of you had been.

You and Spencer had bonded relatively quickly when you first started at the BAU. The two of you were the newest on the team, and everything felt seamless with him. Both of you shared an affinity for learning, and there were many times you'd drive the rest of the team crazy by talking nonstop on the flight. And of course, over the years you had formed quite the crush on Spencer. For years you kept it to yourself, up until the night before you were scheduled to leave.

But here he is now, right in front of you after all these years. He's just as tall as you remember, but he's filled out some, and his hair is longer now too. You admire the way it curls around the nape of his neck and appreciate the veins in his hands as he points to a spot on the map. His shirt sleeves have been pushed to his elbows, and you cannot deny how good he looks.

Derek breaks you out of your trance of admiration as he tells Spencer his coffee order. Neither of them ask for yours, and so you let Spencer leave without saying a word, leaving just you and Derek alone.

Derek had also been a close friend, and you know he always took things to heart. You can't imagine how badly you had hurt him by vanishing. He sits at the table, and leans back in his seat to stretch. Running a hand over your face, you know your time has come to finally talk to him. And so like Penelope, you start off with an apology.

"I hope you know I never meant to hurt you all by leaving. They wouldn't let me tell anyone." You offer, trying to minimize the damage, though you know there's nothing you can say that will truly make it all better. Derek looks over to you with an unreadable expression.

"We didn't know what happened. You just left a letter and disappeared." You hear a tinge of anger in his voice.

"I know. And I am sorry, I really am. I love all of you, and I'm sorry that I've caused so much pain." You tell him from the bottom of your heart. Derek looks away and sighs, opening and closing his mouth a few times before deciding what he wants to say.

"We're glad that you're okay, all of us were worried about you, and we couldn't find you. You should've seen Spencer, I've never seen him so upset before. But, I understand why you did it." He says, finally looking back over to you, meeting your eyes.

"Thank you for understanding." You say, thankful that at least one of them has at least a hint of forgiveness for you.

"And you know, if you ever get tired of this CIA thing, we're always here for you. Might have to convince Hotch you're not a flight risk though." He cracks a smile.

"Yeah, I wish I could come back. I was young and dumb and naive when I took this offer. Got caught up in the name and the secrecy of it all, I didn't know what I had right in front of me." You tell him, wanting to get some of your regrets off your chest. He shrugs,

"It's not a bad gig, they chose one of the best to recruit, I'll give them that." He says as the door opens and Spencer returns with the coffees.

Spencer ignores you, and the two of them pick up where they left off. And they work and work until they finally come to a consensus. They believe they know where the suspect is.

The entire team is reconvened back into the briefing room, and you're sat next to your partner, trying to avoid looking directly at anyone. You still have a lot of apologies to make, and so little time to do it. They had solved this quicker than you thought, and your heart races as you realize you may not be able to extend amends to the rest of the team in time.

Hotch delivers the profile and findings, and soon, a tactical team is sent out to retrieve the suspect. You and the rest of the BAU stay behind and watch the situation from the control room. Your heart thumps in your chest as you watch the agents break down the front door. Gunfire is exchanged and you grip the edge of the desk as you watch with wide eyes, worried about those on the front line.

But soon enough, they've got the suspect in cuffs and walk him out of the home. A sound of celebration fills the room, and you stare at the screen with a slack jaw, watching the subject you tried to track tirelessly being shoved into an armored car. Someone claps you on the back and makes you look away from the screen. Your partner smiles widely and holds his arms out for a celebratory hug.

He picks you up and spins you around before he puts you back on the ground. You smile at him as the two of you celebrate this win. After all, you two had been partnered together for a while now, and you don't know if you'll continue working with him as this mission moves into its next phase. As you turn back to watch the screen, you see Spencer leaving the room. Your smile falters and you debate whether or not you should follow him. But before you can even make a decision, Derek steps into your line of vision.

"Come out with us tonight, one last time." He smirks, and you're taken aback by the invitation. You figured the others would still be too angry with you to even want you there, but by the subtle hint of a smirk on Hotch's face, you begin to think that maybe they're not as angry as you think.

"Yeah, I'll be there." You smile, excited to spend one last night with your team.

-----

Hours later you find yourself in a crowded bar with your old team. You've elected to take a seat beside Derek, seeing as he's been the most forgiving. Penelope sits across from you, leaving one empty seat beside you. You can still feel some tension from them, but they seem to have loosened up a little.

The first round of drinks come and you start jumping into conversations here and there, and thankfully, nobody seems to mind. It almost feels like you never left, and this is just another night out after a win. However, there's one person missing that would make this night complete. But, he probably didn't want to come after finding out you were going to be here, and you don't blame him. It does make your heart sink a little though.

Round one turns to round two and three quickly, and you start feeling the effects of just a little too much tequila. While some of the others wander away for a bit, you scoot closer to JJ and Emily, taking this as your time to offer them amends. You get their attention and clear your throat, trying to put your words together in a coherent sentence.

"Before you all go, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what I did. I miss you all more than you know, but I'm glad I got to see you again." The liquor makes your emotions feel like they're amplified, and you feel the burning of tears in your lower lash line. Emily and JJ both give you a sympathetic smile.

"We know, better than anyone here, how the CIA operates. We understand." Emily speaks for the both of them, and JJ agrees with her. Unable to keep yourself together, you envelope the two of them in a hug, knowing you're going to grieve the loss of them all over again in the morning.

After you let them go, you take a few steps backward, but run into someone.

"I am so sor-" Your words get caught in your throat as you look up and meet familiar hazel eyes. Spencer towers over you, his hand on your elbow to keep you from falling.

You don't know if it's your imagination, the liquor, or if it's real, the way he looks into your eyes. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he misses you too. But you know that surely can't be the case considering how you left him. He releases the grip he's got on your elbow and clears his throat.

"It's okay." He says, offering a flat-lined smile that seems to adorn his face quite often. And in that moment, it's almost like the rest of the bar disappears, that it's only the two of you in this room. You've got tunnel vision, only being able to focus on Spencer.

Taking in his appearance, he looks a lot better up close than he did across the room. You can see all the shades of green in his eyes, the different honey tones in his hair. You can even see the shadow of stubble that decorates his jawline. He looks just like your Spencer, just a little more grown up. Your heartrate increases and you know that if you don't take this opportunity, that you might never get it again. And so, without putting much thought into your words, you go for it.

"Spencer, can we um, can we go talk somewhere?" You ask, worried that he's going to turn you down. He licks his lips and looks around the bar and for a moment you truly think he's going to reject your offer.

"Sure." He answers instead and you nod your head in surprise.

You lead him outside of the bar, where the crisp wind cuts into you, leaving you feeling more breathless. You and Spencer walk a few feet away from the entrance and stop underneath a flickering street lamp. His features are illuminated beautifully in the soft amber glow. Unable to look at him directly as you speak, you stare at the sidewalk underneath your feet as you offer him the apology he deserves.

"Spencer, I can't even begin to tell you how much I regret what I did to you. It wasn't right, and you didn't deserve to be treated that way." Your voice cracks in the middle of your sentence. When he doesn't answer right away, you lift your gaze from the concrete to look at him, seeing him staring intensely at you, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrow.

"I was worried sick about you. I thought you left because of me up until a few days ago." He said and you can hear the anger that lies just beneath his words.

"I'm sorry." Is all you can say. Though you know it's insufficient, it's the only thing you can think of to say.

"And I tried to contact you so many times. You have no idea how much I've missed you." His anger turns to sadness, and you see the tip of his nose turn rosy pink, which causes your throat to constrict.

"They wouldn't let me tell anyone where I was going or when. I didn't know how restrictive this mission would be when I signed up. If I knew, I don't think I could've taken it." You admit to him.

Silence lingers between the two of you for a beat, both of you looking into the other's eyes, searching for the person they knew all those years ago. Searching for the familiarity and the comfort you had become so accustomed to, something that feels so distant and foreign now.

"But you did, and now you're gone." His voice is barely above a whisper, and you can't deny anything he's said.

"I know, and I'm sorry." You wipe your nose as you apologize again and shiver from the cold wind. Spencer's eyes look you over from head to toe before he sighs,

"Come with me." He offers his arm for you to take, which you happily do. You intertwine your arm with his, and walk down the street to wherever he's taking you.

The walk is silent and short. It's not long before the two of you walk into the hotel lobby, the one where they're staying you assume. It's a nice hotel, just a few blocks away from the bar. Spencer leads you to his room on the fifth floor and lets you into his room.

His suitcase sits on the foot of the bed, an extra pair of shoes by the door. The door clicks shut behind him and your stomach twists with nerves. Luckily the tequila helps a little with your anxiety, and you watch as Spencer takes off his shoes and moves his suitcase.

"Come over here." He invites you to sit next to him on the bed. You leave a respectful amount of space between the two of you. You're not sure why he brought you here, but you're happy he did. You've missed him so much, and you clench a hand into a fist to keep from reaching out to him.

He pushes a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs as he looks you over. Once again it makes your heart pound and your skin grow warm.

"I just need to know you didn't actually leave because of what we did. If you regret it, that's fine. I just, I need to know." He says with some desperation and you can tell he still blames himself for you leaving the team. You shake your head,

"No, Spencer. God, no. I've missed you every single day that I've been gone." You tell him, no longer able to keep yourself from reaching out. Your hand lands on his thigh, and he places his over yours and squeezes.

"Will you ever come back?" He asks, eyes wide and round, pleading. Your chest tightens, your heartstrings feel as if they're snapping. What you wouldn't give to just go back with him.

"The mission isn't over yet. I don't know when it will be, catching Barnes was only one step." You tell him, violating the terms of your clearance level. He nods, disappointed with your answer.

"It is the CIA after all, I don't know what I expected." He laughs bitterly, and in that moment you regret taking the job wholeheartedly.

"Please trust me when I say that when I can return to you, I will. I promise you, Spencer, I will find you again." You fight the tears that threaten to spill, and he raises his hand to wipe one away from the corner of your eye.

"I believe you." He whispers, and you nod, happy to know that he understands you don't want to go again.

You move your hand from his thigh up to his face, stroking his cheekbone with your thumb. He leans into your touch, as if he'd been craving it since the day you left. His eyes flutter shut as he enjoys the feeling of your skin on his.

His hand moves across the covers of the bed and lands on your thigh, where his thumb strokes small circles. Spencer's touch is warm and comforting. You move closer to him, so that your legs are touching and there's not but a few inches of space between the two of you. He opens his eyes lazily and blinks a few times, his long, dark lashes complimenting his features well.

Your heart rate speeds up as his touch on you becomes firmer. You lick your lips and before you can talk yourself out of it, you pull him to you by the collar of his shirt. Your lips meet one another with a soft intensity. He cups your face and holds you close as you hang onto his shirt.

It's only when your lungs start burning do you pull away from each other. Lips glistening and swollen, everything seems to happen at once. Spencer pulls you into his lap, where his lips connect with your jaw, your head thrown back in pleasure. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his travels lower, planting kisses on your neck.

With a gentle touch, he lays you back on the bed where he runs his hands alongside your body, feeling every curve. You feel your face flush and mouth fall open as he tightly grips the soft skin of your hips. It's like he's a starved man and you're the oasis in the middle of a desert.

You pull him back to your face and connect your lips with his once more, not wanting to rush things, not this time. You savor the way he tastes and the way he caresses your body.

Your hands eventually run down his chest where they undo the buttons of his shirt, and he's quick to return the favor. His fingers undo the buttons of yours, but he seems to slow down and take his time. And once there's nothing between the two of you, he stares in awe, like you're a statue carved of marble.

"Spencer, please." You say, not being able to handle not having his hands on your body. He smiles, showing off his perfect teeth.

"Shh, be patient baby. You look so beautiful." He says before kneeling on the floor.

He kisses your ankle up to your knee, from your knee to your thigh, thigh to collarbone, before planting a passionate kiss on your lips. His hands travel to where you need him the most, and he works slowly but with care.

You're breathless under his touch and you try to commit to memory the way he feels, for you don't know if you'll ever be afforded this luxury again.

The two of you treat each other as if you're made of porcelain; gentle with your touches and kisses. You both savor each other's tender touches as you become one, looking into each other's eyes and communicating what you cannot with words.

You move in tandem with one another, as if you were made for each other. You swallow every moan that escapes his lips, wrapping your legs around him to bring him impossibly closer. In the soft light Spencer looks ethereal and you appreciate his beauty. Your hands cup his face and you know that you will never be able to find a beauty such as him. Everything about Spencer Reid is other-worldly, nothing of this Earth could even begin to compare. No light will ever shine as bright as the ones in his eyes, and no song could ever sound as good as the breathy moans he lets out in your ear. Nothing could ever feel as good as his hands on you, or the way he moves within you.

Nobody can ever compare to Spencer.

And as you spend the night with him, limbs tangled with one another's, you know nobody could possibly have your heart like he does.

But as the sun rises on the horizon, you know your time with him has come to a bitter end. With tears running down your cheeks, you kiss him on the forehead and push a piece of hair away from his face, wanting to see him just one more time.

As the first bird of the morning begins singing its song, you turn the handle of the door, sparing one last glance to Spencer, who looks ever so peaceful in bed. And only after you've committed the image to memory do you turn away and walk out of the room, vanishing into thin air once more.

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anchoeritic · 1 year

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-ˋˏ 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 + 𝐚𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐰 ˎˊ

— characters: jake sully, tsu’tey, tonowari

— warnings: eighteen plus only content, minors do not interact. link is included with the scenarios, viewers discretion is advised.

jake sully:

throat training: “tap my thigh twice if you need to take a breath, baby.” he presses a final kiss to your lips before replacing it with his cock, slapping the tip against your cheeks. “there you go, such a good fuckin’ girl.” it takes you quite a bit to get used to the stretch of his cock in your throat, the burn becoming more and more comfortable with every thrust.

submitting: “not yet, baby,” he felt his cock slide through your folds, not your pussy quite yet. his eyes roll back at the feeling of the friction, crying out your name. “please, fuck.. i need you so bad, give it to me.”

pussy eating: “missed this pussy s’much..” laying right between your legs, his breath was fanning over your sopping cunt, waiting to devour you entirely. your thighs are already trembling around his head, ready for him. “you don’t even know how much i miss your taste.”

tonowari:

restraints: with your hands tied up, you’re incapable of touching your boyfriend, barely could see him too. “see me yet, sweetheart?” the only way you would catch a glimpse was from the small mirror in front of you but tonowari almost always had you cheek pressed up to the counter, fucking you raw ‘til you had tears rolling down your dainty cheeks.

pussy stretching: with the help of your good friend tonowari, you learn how to endure the pain of taking big cocks, by fucking the one and only. “look at me, sweet girl,” he’s trying to divert your attention back to him but you’re too mesmerized by the way his cock’s stretching out your tight pussy. “c’mon, look at daddy, baby.”

thigh suffocation: this happens when he’s feeling a bit meaner with you, treating you much rougher. don’t break his rules and he won’t punish you, that was his deal. “shut your fucking mouth,” he snarled, shoving his cock deeper down your throat. you were gagging and blowing bubbles of saliva with every breath you tried to take, only suffocating yourself even more.

tsu’tey:

back breaking: “stay still,” his voice was raspy as he mumbled under his breath. “stay fucking still.” his strokes stayed persistent, thrusting his cock into you at a steady rhythm, and making you moan with each harsh thrust. “tey, mm!” your whimper was interrupted by his hand clamping over your mouth, silencing you. “shut up, you’re gonna get us caught.”

good morning: waking up is never fun, there’s no doubt in that. but tsu’tey makes you think differently when he decides to awake you with a surprise of his own. “hmph, hm..” the ache between your thighs start to grow, feeling warm. “s’just me, petal.. relax.” slowly but surely, you felt the burn of a stretch too, tsu’tey’s finger sliding into your pussy without a second though.

frustration fuck: “always making me mad,” he snarls, tightening his grip on your throat. his cock slid in and out of you at lightning speed, watching as tears of pleasure continued to roll down your cheeks. “bad girls get what they deserve, don’t they, petal?” he hissed at you.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @bungalowbear @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond

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penvisions · 1 month

Text

weather permitting {by the grit of sandpaper}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Summary: A summer storm catches you off guard.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: canon typical language, pining, requited unrequited feelings, joel is so soft in this, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, confessions, lots of feelings, reader is afraid of thunder, reader has astraphobia, extreme weather, teasing banter, SET BEFORE THE FIRST CHAPTER

A/N: reposting @jessthebaker and their emoji request for the final chapter celebration in a separate post, lovely reading to y'all until the chapter comes out!

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

“This pressure in the air is…” You trailed off as you gazed up at the darkened sky. The deep, moody gray having crawled across the sky to blanket the sun. Lightning burst to life on the horizon, making you freeze atop Lowry. The sweet horse so attuned to you that she paused in her slow, meandering steps.

Thunder boomed, echoing across the open plains, startling you even as you waited for the sound with held breath.

“We should head back, storm’s comin’ in fast.” Joel regarded you atop his own horse, Kiana. She whinnied, not liking the direction he was turning her toward with gentle motions of the reigns. The hush of rain on the horizon was loud as it moved toward you both. Wetting the plains with fat droplets that did nothing to quell the humidity that had made the air dense and hard to breath. Intensifying the heat of the mid-summer day.

“Yeah, good call.” Following his lead, you steered Lowry to turn around. It had been too slow a realization on both your parts, clothing soaked and sticking to your skin and weighing down your hair as you closed the distance back toward the settlement. With a piercing whistle just as you crested a slippery hill, Joel let the guards on duty know that you were back.

Laughter bubbled up from them underneath their makeshift protection against the rain atop the tall, foreboding wall that protected your town. You couldn’t help but share in their good moods despite the sudden shift in weather when you and Joel finally found yourselves underneath the eaves of the stables.

His graying curls were soaked, one of them so affected it looked like a ringlet as it fell over his forehead and flopped with his every move. Heat bloomed in your chest when he tossed you a mild glare, but the sparkle in his dark eyes told you he didn’t mind it so much.

“Alright, I get it, I look like a drowned rat.” He shoved at you lightly as you dismounted and began to tend to Lowery. She knickered before she shook out the water from her fur without warning. Kiana imitated her, pelting you both.

“Alright, enough.” His quiet command had the two horses baring their teeth in a true flehmen response.

“That the worst weather you been caught in?” You removed your wide brimmed hat, grateful for the little shield it had made over your hair and face. Until the horses had decided to mess around, picking up on the easy going mood despite the rain.

“Nah, worst would be a snowstorm back in Boston. QZ hadn’t been prepared for it, we lost what little power we had for nearly two weeks.” He easily spoke as he began to tend to his own horse, rich velvet voice soothing with the backdrop of the hard rain. “Before that it had been…fix or six years ago when I was out on a run. Nearly got picked up by a tornado as I sought out shelter where I could.”

“Oh geez, that’s intense.” You hung up the saddle just outside of Lowrey’s nook, closing the tall door behind you and ensuring the lock latched shut.

“What about you?” You turned from where you had offered the appaloosa a handful of hay. The tickle of her soft, velvety muzzle bringing a smile to your face. Joel was hanging up his own saddle, detaching the supplies he had fastened to it. His shot gun still secured across his broad shoulders.

“Hands down the ice storm that hit my city before the year before the Outbreak. Entire thing shut down because ice was built up about three inches thick on every roadway and street. Then it hailed and snowed for a week straight. Took forever for it to thaw out with the temps below freezing for so long. It was a bad winter, that’s for sure. But we never lost power, thankfully.” Walking side by side, you stoon just inside the stables with the man. Both of you staring out at the sheet of steady rain coming down from the even darker sky. It looked like dusk, even though the day had been new and the sun had just risen a few hours ago.

“Chicago?” He looked over at you, eyes roving over your profile. He noticed how your long lashes stuck together, the way your clothing stuck to your skin. Stepping away he rummaged around the collection of items stored around the doorway. With a grunt of appreciation at his stroke of good luck, he presented you with a worn umbrella.

“Yeah, born and raised.” Your eyes held long felt emotions as you shook your head at his offering. With a tug, you secured your leather hat back atop your head. Fingers tipping the brim, you dismissed him. “Got my hat, you need it more.”

“Why don’t we share, sweetheart?”

“Joel Miller’s gonna walk me home in the rain.” The teasing tone of your voice may have been lost in the way your voice lilted but he didn’t seem to show if he noticed.

“Someone’s gotta protect you from the thunder.” A raised eyebrow, a challenge from the handsome man had you feeling weak in the knees. He was teasing you, he was actually being friendly with you and your stomach flipped. It had been so long since anyone outside of your extremely small circle had felt comfortable enough around you to do so.

“Y-yeah, I’m not the biggest fa-fan of loud noises.” One of your hands rubbed at the back of your neck, heat filling your cheeks as you realized he had noticed your twitch of every boom as you made your way back to the settlement.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha. But once the ice forms, you’re on your own.” His lips quirked up in a grin as he opened the umbrella and sidled back up beside you. With a small brush of your shoulders against his in silent retaliation, you both stepped out from under the safety of the stables and into the rain.

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