in the midst of a makeover !!!

fandom stuffff, FUCK AI she/her, 22, 18+ blog

[lovebugism]

✶ — VIGILANTE-SQUARED !

summary: you and adrian are already on the outs when you venture into an alternate universe to find peacemaker. when you show zero signs of forgiving him, he finds the perfect opportunity to make it up to you. (9k)

pairing: adrian chase / f!reader / adrian chase 2, brief mentions of past rick flag / f!reader

contents: enemies to lovers, enemies in love, grumpy x sunshine, established relationship, brief angst, hurt/comfort, strangers to lovers (w/ adrian 2), based on the events of s2ep6 cw for brief mentions of death, mentions of stalking and toxic behavior (both adrian's are total perverts lol), so much swearing, so much smut, unprotected sex, threesome, double penetration, truly dirty stuff 18+ MDNI!!

“How do you think it happened?” Adrian wonders suddenly from the opposite side of the familiar park bench — which, in this dimension, has your name engraved on a square bronze plaque. He runs a gloved knuckle over the perforated letters on the old wooden slat: In Loving Memory of Dr. Doctor, who loved this park, but hated everybody in it, and will forever be missed.

It’s a dizzying thought, to discover that you’re alive in one world and six feet under in the next. It’s even more agonizing to know that the stupid nickname a drunken Rick Flag gave to you still sticks in every universe. Six PhDs, and all you have to show for them is the dumbest fucking superhero moniker known to man, based on a stupid 1980s song you don’t even like.

“I really don’t wanna talk about that right now…” you answer, half-distracted, as your fingers fly across the bulky computer in your lap.

There’s an old tracker in Peacemaker’s suit that you disabled for him a long time ago. You think that if you can get it running again, and decipher the slightly off coordinates of this upside-down universe, then you can find him and finally get the hell out of here.

Adrian doesn’t seem to share your sentiments, though. He’s convinced that your death in this world must mean you have some kind of immunity here.

“It means you can’t die!” he insisted with a maniacal giggle when he found about your other-dimensional demise. “I mean, that basically goes against, like, every law of physics, honey. Everyone knows that.”

You’re not totally sure if that’s true. (Or if he even knows what the first law of physics is). And you don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.

“Well, look on the bright side!” Adrian shrugs, teal-black suit squeaking quietly as he sits up straighter on the bench. “You’re already dead here, which obviously means you’re immortal in this dimension—”

“No, it doesn’t,” you deadpan.

“—So, I don’t know, maybe we should just stay here forever?”

“We are absolutely not doing that.”

“I mean, everything I like is here already! Eagly, Peacemaker, you guys, another me,” the boy rambles, talking wildly with his gloved hands. “So, if they have crows and manta rays here, honey, I’m basically set for life.”

“Yeah, I just checked, they definitely don’t have crows here.”

“What?” Adrian whines, drawing out the vowel for a second too long, as his bright smile ebbs into a more cartoonish pout. His light eyes dart across your profile when you refuse to meet his gaze. “Wait. How do you know that? …Holy shit— Does your computer track crows, too?”

He tries to shift closer to you. You adjust the laptop on your denim-clad thighs so it’s out of his view, and you never take your eyes off the screen. “Do you seriously think I possess the kind of technology that would allow me to keep track of every single crow on every single universe?” you monotone.

Adrian blinks like an owl, nudging his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. “Yeah?” he shrugs, completely missing your sarcasm.

You sigh. “Well, the faster I figure out how to re-activate this stupid tracker, the faster we can go back home to your stupid fucking crows, alright?”

Adrian tilts his head back to bellow a deep, dramatic groan at the stark blue sky. He’d hoped that, in travelling dimensions, he’d find another version of you that wasn’t so angry at him — or, at the very least, that all the subsequent chaos would make you forget why you were so angry in the first place. But now, all you are is still mad and visibly stressed. An absolutely horrid concoction.

“But what am I supposed to do?” he whines.

“I don’t care what you do— Go for a walk or something!”

“But where am I supposed to go?!”

“Anywhere!”

Adrian huffs with a deep frown creasing his brow. He glances around the near-empty park, which he’s walked with you a thousand times over back in your original dimension. The only difference now is that the fountain is square instead of circular, and the children’s playground is now a dog park.

His eyes catch a familiar treeline in the distance — a towering evergreen with two barren branches that curl into the shape of a wrinkled heart. The setting sun will sparkle right through them if you catch it at the right time of day. And if that’s still west, then his house should be a straight shot through that forest.

“Can I go that way?” Adrian murmurs, pointing vaguely out in front of him.

“Yes,” you huff, borderline pleading, and still not looking in his direction. A series of never-ending neon green code fills the black screen ahead of you — an encrypted file that would take a normal person days, if not weeks, to break. But you don’t have weeks. And, admittedly, you’re not a normal person.

“I don’t care where you go, honestly. I just want you to leave me alone for ten minutes.”

Adrian rises slowly. The wooden bench squeaks under his weight. He towers over your sitting form with his pretty face scrunched into a puppy-like pout. “Aren’t you gonna come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, why not?”

“What part of I’m busy do you not understand?” you snap and finally turn away from your laptop screen, which could very well be considered another appendage the way you’re constantly glued to it.

Your eyes meet Adrian’s for the first time in two days. They hold a sort of fire within them that he can feel in his chest just now. The acknowledgement that the past forty-eight hours have done little to erase your rage.

“You’re still mad at me…?” Adrian wonders softly, digging the toe of his boot into the bright green grass beneath him like a shy child.

“Yes,” you answer, with a bite in your words that makes him flinch.

“…Well, can I make it up to you?”

“Yes! You can make it up to me by helping me find Peacemaker.”

“Okay! Yeah. I can do that,” he says with a quick nod and a pair of hopeful eyes. “I can— I can take you, you know, somewhere safe!”

“Somewhere… safe?” you echo dubiously.

“Yeah! If you’re supposed to be dead and all, you probably shouldn’t be walking around, right?” he laughs. “I mean, what if they think you’re a zombie, and they go all Dick Grimes on your ass?”

“You mean Rick Grimes?”

Adrian grins slowly, tilting his cheek to his shoulder. “Nah, I’m pretty sure his name is Dick…”

“Okay. So, what? You’re gonna take me to your house?” you ask, then scoff when he nods rapidly in response. “Your obsession with finding your other self is getting really weird, you know that?”

“Well, jokes on you, honey,” he says with an unconvincing chuckle. “I never said anything about finding my other self, so… Egg on your face.”

“It has literally been all you have talked about since we got here,” you argue and close your laptop with a quiet thud before rising from the squeaking bench.

You try not to think too hard about the memorial you leave behind as you follow Adrian to his house. You try not to think about what happened to you here — what killed you, who killed you — or what the hell you could’ve done to deserve to be remembered so fondly. You’ve racked up an impressive amount of charges in your own dimension, to be fair. Cyberterrorism and the like. It’d probably take more hours than there are in a day to list them all.

So, instead, you try to focus on the quiet idiosyncrasies of this strange dimension — which is basically just like your own, only everything is shifted slightly to the left. The clouds are whiter and rounder and heavier than usual, like a couple of cotton balls wedged into the sky. The air feels weirdly thinner here, too — every breath you drag in feels foreign in your lungs. And the scent of the trees Adrian leads you through smells of a bitter sort of pine that is no longer familiar to you.

Everything is the same, but just a little bit off. Uncanny, almost. It’s still your home, but one that belongs to a different version of you — to people that look just like you, to people that wear your skin.

“Hey, remember when we talked about you being mad at me and stuff?” Adrian wonders suddenly, voice ringing through the quiet wood, as he lifts a low-hanging branch for you to duck under. “And, like, how you wanted me to make it up to you and everything?”

“Do I remember the conversation we had three minutes ago?” you scoff like it’s obvious, adjusting the brown leather jacket on your shoulder when it starts to slip. Adrian flashes you an expectant look over his broad shoulder, still waiting for your answer ‘cause your sarcasm doesn’t quite compute. “Yes, Adrian. I remember.”

“Well, then, do you remember what we talked about the other day?” he asks with a wide grin that you meet with a confused sort of scowl.

“The one about Chris?”

“No—”

“The one where you were crying in my arms because he left you?”

“I was not crying,” Adrian argues. “I was trying to comfort you, actually.”

He turns around to face you with a crazed sort of look dancing behind his thick lenses as he waves an accusatory arm in your direction. You stop in your tracks just a few short inches ahead of him, with your laptop cradled to your chest.

“Oh, so then you must be talking about the conversation we had after that,” you tell him with an innocent lilt that doesn’t match the fire in your eyes. “You know, after you flirted with that naked woman right in front of me—”

Your last few words are drowned out by Adrian’s dramatic groan. “For the last time, I was not flirting with her!”

“I saw you, Adrian!”

“I was trying to intel about Peacemaker—”

“By staring at her tits?!”

“How was I supposed to know we were stumbling into an orgy?” he argues with all the essence of a stubborn child that makes you roll your eyes.

You know it isn’t totally his fault. See, Peacemaker had a close friend named Zora, who you quickly realized was rather infamous for the elaborate sex parties she threw — many of which Chris had been in attendance. Zora invited both of you over to give you what little intel she had on his sudden disappearance. Zora was very serious about the information she gave you, despite the fact that she was standing stark naked on her back porch. It wasn’t Zora that bothered you, necessarily, but the fact that Adrian couldn’t seem to stop looking at her.

What he called active listening, you called being a total fucking creep. And you haven’t quite been able to get past the jealousy still simmering in the pit of your chest.

You walk past him, knocking into his shoulder as you go. Adrian stumbles over his feet as he tries to fall back in step with you. “Anyway, that’s not the point— I’m talking about the threesome.”

“Threesome?” you scoff. “What threesome?”

“Remember? At Harcourt’s party?” he lilts. “When you said you had a dream about it once and that you wanted to try it out? And I said that if another guy who wasn’t me even thought about touching you, I’d have to blow his fucking brains out?”

You smack your lips against your teeth in a silent recollection. “Right.”

“Well…” Adrian trails off, motioning his hand to the side of you. You follow his gaze through the thin treeline to find a quaint suburban neighborhood standing on the other side of it. His house looms at the edge of the block, sage green with an ornately decorated yard.

Your eyes flit from the home to his glittering gaze. “Yeah, I’m not following.”

“If there’s another me in there, that means we can both get what we want! You can have your threesome, and I don’t have to worry about killing some random motherfucker for touching you!” His crude language doesn’t match the pretty smile on his face, which squints the very edges of his eyes just now. “And then you don’t have to be mad at me anymore! It’s basically a win-win!”

“…You are so fucking perverted, Adrian,” you squint.

“What?” he laughs. “I’m doing this for you! It’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yeah! When all of our friends were missing—”

“Uh, newsflash, honey. Our friends aren’t missing,” he chuckles and motions to the empty woods surrounding you. “They’re here! All of us are somewhere in this dimension, which you’re not dead in anymore, so… We have nothing to worry about!”

His sunshine disposition still has a way of surprising you, even after all this time. You know there’s no point in arguing with him, so you just shake your head and keep on walking. “Oh, my god. Okay. Let’s just go,” you mumble under your breath.

You trek through the empty street and the half-dead yard. Browning grass and fallen leaves crunch under your boots as you go. Adrian giggles all giddy to himself as he shoves his mask back over his wild head, eyes squinting behind the red visor under the weight of his beaming.

He guides you past the threshold of his home, which is as warm and achingly familiar as always. Nothing is overtly out of place — save for the mislabeled Cheeri-ohs on the counter, and the clay dragon in the china cabinet that’s supposed to be a snake, and the fact that his dad isn’t gay anymore.

His secret room is still located down the steps and around the corner, and it still has the bright red “No Admittance” sign taped to the front of it.

You lead the rest of the way there while Adrian lags slightly behind, still musing over the misspelled cereal box that he cradles in his left arm. “Think the locks are still the same?” you wonder from the bottom of the staircase.

Adrian digs into the pocket of his suit with his free hand. “Let’s find out,” he says and tosses you the jingling key ring, which you catch against your chest.

He looms over your shoulder while you make careful work of each lock. The first key slides in with little effort. You twist your wrist to the right until you hear a dull click that makes Adrian giggle like a child just behind you. “No fuckin’ way!” he curses while you move onto the second lock. That one unlatches just as easily as the third, which opens with a heavier clack when the heavy door gives way.

“Unbelievable…” Adrian mumbles under his breath as you push the metal entrance the rest of the way open.

You venture slowly into the top-secret bunker and find very little out of place. It still smells of dust and blood and sweat. Bricks of cocaine are still stacked to the ceiling. Millions of dollars still go untouched on the metal shelves (you make a mental note to pocket a few stacks before you leave). But, further inside, another Adrian sits slouched at a desk against the wall, suited but unmasked.

He’s too distracted to notice the presence of the two strangers standing just behind him — or not strangers, perhaps.

“Knock, knock,” you monotone in lieu of any actual greeting, because you’re not exactly sure how to announce your arrival in this sort of situation.

“What the fuck?!” the other Adrian exclaims as he scrambles on the other side of the room. His metal chair scrapes hard against the floor when he rises, unholstering a gun from his side in a blink, and pointing it ahead of him in practiced motions.

“Who are you, and how are you here?” he interrogates in a stern sort of voice that makes your Adrian laugh loudly to himself.

There is nothing different about the Adrian standing in front of you than the one at your side. Your eyes dart wildly over his form, searching for any singularity that might set him apart, but you find only the man you love. Or, at the very least, a stranger wearing the skin of the man you love.

The other Adrian seems to do the same to you, with his eyes wide and panicked behind his glasses. His studies you carefully, face screwed in a mixture of panic and confusion. How are you here, he asks, because for him, you died a long time ago.

“Oh, dude. Hold on— hold on, dude,” your Adrian rambles, breathless from how hard he’s laughing. He sets the Cheeri-ohs on the table beside him and pulls off his mask with two hands, revealing his reddened face and wild curls. “It’s me!” he beams. “I’m you from another dimension— My keys worked to get in here!”

You lift your right hand to reveal the key ring jangling on your pointer finger, an exact copy of the set sitting safely in Other Adrian’s suit pocket. Somehow, that’s enough to convince him. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” he laughs, holstering his weapon and grinning wide.

“No!” your Adrian chuckles.

“Holy shit!”Other Adrian exclaims, eyes flitting between the two of you as he waves a gloved finger in your direction. “Wait, so you— You’re not from here, right? ‘Cause you’re, like, super dead in this dimension.”

“I heard,” you monotone and quickly change the subject. “Is it okay if I sit down? I have actually important shit to do.”

Other Adrian nods until the words catch up to him. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Go— Go ahead.”

He swallows hard when you walk by him, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Everything about you is exactly how he remembers — your hair, your style, your scowl. The way you look at him like you couldn’t care less if he lives or dies. You even smell the same, too, of a musky raspberry vanilla that hasn’t yet left his head.

You plop down on the beige couch on the opposite side of the room, which he had always dreamed of fucking you on, and it’s like you never died at all.

You open the lid of your laptop and force yourself to focus on the encrypted file before you, rather than the dopplegangers across the room. That’s what you’re here for, anyway — a safe place to hide while you try to locate a friend — no matter what Adrian has to say in the matter.

“So, she was your girlfriend in this dimension, too?!” Your Adrian beams, visibly elated at the thought of having you in every universe.

“Girlfriend?” Other Adrian scoffs. “No. No way— She fucking hated me, dude.”

Your Adrian frowns but is hardly deterred. “No, she didn’t,” he argues with a strange sort of conviction despite never even knowing this other version of you.

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause this one claims to hate me, too, and we’ve been together for four years.”

“No way!” Other Adrian chuckles.

“Yes way!”

They laugh together in the same melodic cadence and fall into step as they saunter towards the couch, long legs moving in sync. You don’t think to look up from your computer until they’re towering over you. By then, your Adrian has already shoved his glasses back on his face, making it impossible to tell which boy you came here with.

Their suits are practically identical — you can’t find a single stitch out of place. They wear their helmet hair the same way, too, chesnut curls sitting in matching wild halos on their heads.

You try hard to tell the difference in their smiles, ‘cause your Adrian’s is always a little skewed to the lopsided left, and his front two teeth are ever so slightly crooked. But so is Other Adrian’s smile, it seems, which leaves you at a rather dizzying loss.

“Wait, wait, wait—” you blurt suddenly, eyes flickering between the two of them. “Stay on one side, alright? So I know which one of you is which.”

You walked in with your Adrian on your left, so you cross your fingers and hope your Adrian is still standing on the left now.

“What do you mean?” Your Adrian questions, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

“Which one of you is mine, I mean.”

“Well, if the laws of the universe are right, honey—” Your Adrian lilts with a pink grin tugging slowly at his mouth.

“The laws of the universe?” you repeat in a monotone.

“—I think that technically means we’re both yours.”

Something about his words makes your stomach do a blackflip, though your scowl never wavers.

Having two Adrians is as much a dream as it is a total nightmare. You don’t know which one to focus on—

Peacemaker, a cynical voice in the back of your head reminds you. You need to focus on finding Peacemaker and Harcourt before something totally terrible happens and you end up dead in both dimensions.

So, you say nothing as you shake your head and turn back to the computer in your lap. Both Adrians take their spot on the couch on either side of you, effectively sandwiching you between their broad bodies.

You’re enveloped immediately in their innate warmth and their identical musky cologne. You struggle to type with their arms caging you on either side, and with their legs spread like both of them are determined to take up as much space as humanly possible.

You grit your teeth and struggle to focus while they talk over you.

“Wait, so, if we’re talking laws of the universe and everything—” Other Adrian, now seemingly on your right, wonders aloud. “—Does that mean we were technically supposed to be together in this dimension?”

Your Adrian thinks for a moment, light eyes flitted to the ceiling. “I think so,” he concludes with a lazy shrug, basing his answer on approximately zero information.

“Both of you are using the word technically very liberally,” you deadpan.

“I’m just saying! You know, maybe you died before you could tell me you loved me!”

“Oh, dude…” your Adrian grimaces. “That’s sad…”

“I always had a feeling, you know?” Other Adrian shrugs, slouching against the back of the sunken sofa and staring far off at something on the other side of the room. “We ran into each other on a mission once, and I thought she was gonna kill me, but instead she just broke my jaw! And I thought, hey, if that’s not a proclamation of law, then I don’t know what is—”

“No fucking way!” your Adrian chuckles and sits up straighter on the sunken sofa.

“What?”

“That’s how we met!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly between your bodies. “In our dimension!”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“No! That’s how I knew she liked me, too— She holstered her gun just so she could punch me in the face!” your Adrian giggles maniacally. “And I was like, jeez, you might as well just kiss me while you’re at it!”

Other Adrian’s face screws as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Did you actually say that?” he asks.

“Yes,” you answer for him, fingers flying across the keyboard. The neon green numbers start to blur as you fight to stay concentrated. “It was very, very strange.”

“…And did you?”

“Hell no.”

“No, she just kneed me in the balls and left,” your Adrian answers with a whimsical sort of sigh. “But she did leave me her number, though.”

Your head whips in his direction, eyes narrowed in a challenging squint. “I dropped my phone, that hardly counts!”

“Yeah,” your Adrian scoffs. “Because you wanted me to find it!”

“It fell out of my pocket!”

“Tomato, tom-ah-to,” he shrugs.

Other Adrian watches silently while the two of you bicker back and forth. He wonders if this is what he missed out on — a life of petty banter and heated arguments that always seem to lead to make-up sex. It’s like watching one of his wildest dreams play out right in front of him. A lost reality that he’ll spend the rest of his life mourning.

“I knew it…” he huffs.

“Knew what?”

“Every time I tried to talk to her after that, she just called me a stalker and told me to leave her alone— But I knew she was just playing hard to get.”

“No, yeah, you have to promise to leave her alone, and then conspicuously show up wherever she is until she finally decides to talk to you,” your Adrian explains like it’s obvious.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you can’t let up, that’s the important part,” he says, and then elaborates at the confused glance he gets. “‘Cause then you lose all the momentum.”

“Oh…” Other Adrian croons, nodding slowly to himself.

Your eyes widen at the chaotic computer screen ahead of you, now filled with blinking numbers and a blank map dotted with pinging coordinates that don’t match the ones you’re familiar with.

It was easier back home, you think, to hear Adrian say the most bizarre shit like it was all too normal to him — ‘cause you had a team of actually normal people to put him in his place. But now, all you have is an exact mirror version of him, who takes all of his horrible advice like it’s some kind of prophecy.

“I wish I had said something then…” Other Adrian mourns. “You know, before the incident…”

The intentionally vague language makes the Adrian on your left lean further in, taking up what little personal space you have left. “The incident?” he repeats, visibly intrigued.

“Yeah. The Task Force X mission,” Other Adrian nods, pointing to the bulletin board across the room where he’s pinned various documents and blurry photos to the wall. “I tried to find the files, but they’re, like, super redacted, so I guess no one actually knows what happened, but… My guess is something went horribly wrong, and they had to cover it up—”

You squint at the newspaper clippings, classified records, and botched polaroids — all entwined with the kind of red string you only see on true crime television. It’s like a map, almost. Adrian’s map to find you. Or to figure out what had happened to you, at the very least.

“—All I know is, I told her that I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to go, and she was like, How did you get in here? Did you climb in through my window?” Other Adrian rambles. “And I was like, doll, you really need to start locking your windows at night, ‘cause there are some real sickos creeping around.”

Your Adrian nudges you. “I tell her the exact same thing!”

Other Adrian swallows hard. “I just think… What if I had been there, you know? What if I had tried harder to stop her?”

Anger builds like bile in your throat. The grief does, too. The thought of your death is as nagging as the thought of this Adrian mourning you — of him blaming himself for your death, like you weren’t strong enough to die on your own. You fight to swallow it all down, but it comes spilling out anyway, as you groan and tilt your head back against the sofa.

“Oh, my god, can you cool it with the altruism?” you say with an exhausted huff. “I’m sure there was nothing you could’ve done to stop me, alright? I famously don’t listen to people— I’m known for it, actually, so…. I’m not surprised it probably got me killed in this dimension, ‘cause it’s almost killed me a thousand times back in mine. So stop acting like you could’ve been special enough to stop me, because you obviously weren’t.”

You ramble in one breath, then turn away again like it’s nothing, fingers click-clacking on the keyboard with an evident expertise.

Other Adrian finds it hard to look away from you, light eyes going suddenly glassy. He is not fazed by the ire in your words — he’d had ample time to grow used to that — he’s more so taken by the strange sort of comfort in them, ‘cause he’d dreamed of hearing them for so long.

Maybe he can actually get some sleep now, without being plagued by nagging thoughts that your death was his fault — knowing now that you aren’t angry at him for not saving you, for not being there when you took your last breath. His hands ache to reach out and touch you, but he balls them into fists instead.

“Don’t mind her,” your Adrian mutters like he’s telling some kind of secret, like he isn’t sitting right next to you. “She’s, like, totally pissed at me.”

“…What’d you do?”

“Well, to make a long story short,” he starts, which always means he’s about to ramble until his breath gives out. “We came here to look for a friend, my best friend, ‘cause he’s been missing for a few days now. And before we found out he was in another dimension, we were trying to figure out where he went, right? Well, then, I remembered that he has this other friend named Zora—”

Other Adrian notices the way you tense at the mention of the stranger’s name. His eyes flit back to the other version of him, who talks wildly with gloved hands.

“—Who isn’t his best friend, obviously, ‘cause I’m his best friend. But I thought, hey, maybe she knows where he is! Turns out, the place she asked us to meet her at was this crazy orgy, and I was trying to ask her about my friend— but I wasn’t looking at her tits, alright? I swear!” Adrian defends, palms splayed in surrender. “She just had this really cool nipple piercing that had something engraved on it, but the word was way too small to make out—”

“You idiot!” Other Adrian exclaims, rising suddenly from the sofa.

His hurried movements make your computer jolt faintly in your lap. You grip the edges of it and watch as your Adrian cowers when his doppelganger towers over him. Your eyes dart between the two of them, trying to make sense of their sudden argument.

“What?!”

“Why would you do that?!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You committed the ultimate transgression someone can commit in a relationship that isn’t cheating!” Other Adrian insists with a deep scowl that pinches his narrow features. “Staring at another girl’s naked body obviously makes it seem like you’re interested in her!”

“Thank you!” you grumble. “Finally, some understanding here.”

Your Adrian stands with a dramatic huff. “That’s not what it was at all!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly with his gloved palms.

“Doesn’t matter,” Other Adrian says, crossing his strong arms over his chest. “You should’ve turned around. Like a gentleman.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll be sure to make a note of that for the next time I stumble into a random orgy!”

“I’m just saying, you know, be respectful. That’s all.”

“Hey. I’m respectful.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m you!” Your Adrian exclaims.

Other Adrian shrugs. “Then I guess that makes us both idiots, doesn’t it?”

Your Adrian whips his head to face you, waiting for a witty response that never comes. Your attention is now more focused on your laptop, which has just started to beep faintly in your lap. It makes you sit up straighter, eyes wide with a newfound intrigue.

“Okay. Look,” your Adrian starts. “I can appreciate that we’re supposedly the same person and all, but maybe don’t talk about my girlfriend like you know her, alright?”

Other Adrian scoffs in offense. “I know her just as well as you do!”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“I know she likes her eggs scrambled in the morning,” he answers.

“Yeah,” your Adrian nods. “Both literally and figuratively.”

“And I know she’s a morning person,” Other Adrian lists on his gloved fingers. “And I know she likes Martinis with extra olives, especially from her favorite bar—”

“Which is?”

“The Roadhouse.”

“Correct.”

“And I know her favorite stall to take suitors in.”

Your Adrian screws his face while the other version of him grins all smug. “Suitors?” he echoes.

“Oh, yeah— Her and Rick Flag used to get busy in the handicap stall, let me tell ya.”

“Gross,” he grimaces. “…Wait. How do you even know that?”

“The same way I know her greatest sexual fantasy— The walls left very little to the imagination, my friend—”

“A threesome, right?!” Your Adrian laughs.

“Yeah! …Holy shit, have we had one before?”

“No,” he answers instantly. “No way, dude, I can’t let someone else fuck her. I’d have to—”

“Blow his fucking brains out?” Other Adrian finishes for him, strangely solemn. “Yeah, I get it. I’m the same way…”

“But that’s why we came here!” Your Adrian tells him, suddenly aglow. “Well, we came here to find our friend first, but then I realized this is, like, the only opportunity we’ll have to have a threesome— If you’re down, obviously. I can’t just assume your consent ‘cause you’re me.”

“If I’m down?” Other Adrian repeats, like it isn’t even a question. “Of course, I’m down—”

“Fuck, yes!” you exclaim after several long moments of concentrated silence, rising suddenly from the squeaking sofa.

You wear a newfound smile on your face, eyes glowing at the computer screen in your hands — an encrypted code now deciphered, along with the tricky coordinates, which now track Peacemaker’s every move.

Your glimmering gaze turns back to the identical boys ahead of you, who wear matching looks of amused shock. You forgot that you were supposed to keep track of them, too. Now you’re not entirely sure which Adrian you came with and which Adrian you’re about to leave behind.

“Wait, really?” the Adrian on your left wonders. “You want to? I thought you said I was perverted for even thinking it—”

“What?” you interject, face screwed. “What are you talking about?”

He grows suddenly solemn. “What are you talking about?”

“Chris!” you answer and flip the screen around to show him the blinking dot on the neon map. You close the lid of it with a soft click. “I found him! So, we have to go— We have to tell Economos and Lee. Maybe Harcourt’s with him, too—”

Their faces twist in sync, pinching into a grieved pout. “But we just got here…” both Adrians chorus in identical inflections.

“Yeah,” you nod. “And now we’re leaving.”

You storm between the two of them. Or, rather, you try to. The Adrian on your right grabs the wrist of the hand not cradling your laptop. His hold is gentle but stern, and even through the gloves, you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Adrian Chases are human heaters in every dimension, it seems. You falter immediately under his touch, face screwed as you turn to glare at him.

“Well, why?” Adrian protests like a pouting child. “I mean, it’s not like your friends are going anywhere. Let’s just— stay here for a while…”

His boots scuff the floor when he takes a slow step towards you. He towers over your body, swaddling you immediately in his innate warmth and familiar cologne.

You flinch away on instinct, practically stumbling over your feet as you wrench your wrist from his grip. You collide into the chest of the Adrian standing behind you as a result, head-spinning ‘cause you still don’t know if it’s your Adrian.

“No,” you announce with a stubborn shake of your head. “Nope. I’m not doing this— This is freaking me the hell out. I feel like I’m in the fucking Twilight Zone!”

“Why?” the Adrian looming before you scoffs, getting over the idea of infinite dimensions a lot faster than he probably should.

“Because I can’t tell which of you is mine!”

“It’s easy…” he answers with a lazy shrug, pink lips curling into that same lopsided smile you fell in love with so many years ago. He takes another step closer, until you have to crane your neck to keep his gaze. You forget to turn away when he takes your hand. “’Cause we’re both yours. Remember?”

There’s a fleeting moment of heavy silence after that, where you have to remind yourself to breathe. You only vaguely register the way he leans further into you. You’re much more focused on the wild look in his fiery gaze. His eyes are all squishy around the edges with adoration, but glinting with something much more crazed in comparison — a sort of hunger that only comes from losing someone.

It’s the Other Adrian that’s kissing you now.

You know this.

And you let him kiss you, anyway.

His broad nose squishes into the side of yours when he presses his lips to your mouth. There’s nothing unfamiliar about his touch or in the way he tastes, like spearmint and soda and boy. But there’s a foreign sort of gentleness that strikes you deep in the chest — a hesitance, a stillness, a longing.

Your Adrian hasn’t kissed you like this in a long time. He hasn’t ever needed to. Because he never lost you like this one did.

Your heavy sigh fans across his cupid’s bow. You’re moments away from melting into him when your laptop threatens to slip from the crook of your elbow. It jolts you awake again, like one of those dreams that feels suddenly like you’re falling. Your lips click softly when you jerk your head back.

“Okay!” you blurt with an emotionless laugh, eyes wide and a little crazed. “Okay, you had you’re fun. Now we’re leaving—”

“You can kiss him if you want,” your Adrian murmurs, pleads, from just behind you. “I don’t mind.”

Your head whips over your shoulder to look at him. Your face is screwed in a mixture of hesitation and confusion — you don’t know why Adrian wants this so bad; you don’t know why you want it so badly, either. “We’re on a mission!” you shout, voice fragile and breaking in an unconvincing protest.

“They’ll be okay!” Your Adrian assures. “They’re safe here. You’re safe here, so just… Relax.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to do that,” you scoff.

“I can help you,” Other Adrian offers quickly, a little too quickly to be cool. He clears his throat, pushes his glasses up his nose, and tries again. “Relax, I mean...”

You open your mouth but struggle to find the words. “I—” is all you can manage out before your breath gets caught in your throat. Completely and utterly and totally pathetic.

Your Adrian grins, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. He knows you well enough to spot when you really want something. He can practically see the shroud of cynicism giving way to something much softer, quieter. “She likes it best when you kiss her—”

“Let me guess,” Other Adrian interjects, eyes darting wildly over your face beneath his glasses, like he’s studying you. He raises a gloved hand and presses two fingers just over your pulse point. The textured leather meets your delicate skin like fire. You have to remind yourself to breathe. “…Here?” he guesses, though a part of him already knows it’s the right answer.

He’s watched you a thousand times through that tiny, wretched glory hole in the Roadhouse bathroom. He’s watched other men who didn’t deserve you caress your body. He’s analyzed the way they touched you, learned everything you hated and everything that drove you wild.

The sight of Rick Flag fucking you against the dank, graffitied brick is still stained in the back of his head. He still remembers the way the man sank his teeth into your neck, and the face you made when you came a second later.

He already knows everything about you, he thinks. The very most intimate parts of you.

He’s just waiting for your acknowledgement, which comes now in the form of a slow nod, ‘cause you don’t trust your voice not to break.

A gasp catches in your throat when Other Adrian ducks down, parting his rosy mouth to press a wet kiss to your thrumming pulse.

He kisses you there like he’s done it a thousand times before — it feels like he has, anyway, after spending what feels like his whole life dreaming about it. He rakes his teeth over the delicate tendon there, like he already knows it makes your head swim, then runs his warm tongue over the sharp bite to soothe it.

Your heavy head tilts back as you exhale a whispered moan at the ceiling. Through your lidded gaze, you see Adrian grinning over your shoulder. “Told ya you’d like it,” he lilts.

“I fucking hate you…” you sigh in a honeyed moan.

“No, you don’t,” he says with a knowing smile, before ducking down to engulf your mouth with his own.

His kiss lacks all the diffidence of his counterpart. He’s terribly confident in the way he wastes little time licking into your mouth, in the way he kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole.

A pretty noise sounds in the back of your throat when you lift your right hand to fist the curls at the crown of his head. Your free one cradles the back of Other Adrian’s neck to keep him close as he leaves a trail of sloppy kisses up and down the length of your jaw.

As the world sways beneath your feet, you feel his hands working fast with the buttons of your jeans. The boy standing behind you slides the fabric of your heavy jacket down your arms in the meanwhile. The thick fabric pools at your feet with a quiet thud, leaving you in a form-fitting black tank top.

Adrian is on you and all over you, all two of him. A heavy, warm feeling sparkles in the very pit of your stomach accordingly.

Your lips smack in protest when you pull away from your Adrian to sigh. “I’m dreaming…” you conclude with bated breath, talking mostly to yourself. “That’s what this is, right? I’m just dreaming?”

Adrian smiles down at you, lips swollen and shining with your spit. “It’s very real, actually,” he answers, very giddy about the whole thing.

“Doesn’t this feel real to you?” Other Adrian wonders, dragging your hand away from his neck and down his lean body.

The tips of your trembling fingers brush the textured leather of his teal-blue suit until they rest finally over his crotch. His wide, calloused palm cradles the back of your knuckles and urges you to cup his clothed cock, growing harder and harder in the strict confines of his suit.

His free hand slips through the fabric of your unbuttoned jeans and rests over the soft cotton of your underwear. Your breath catches when his fingers brush the warm, wet spot forming slowly there.

“‘Cause it feels real to me…” he murmurs.

“Actually…” your Adrian croons as he wraps his hand around the doppelganger’s wrist. “She likes it best when you touch her… here.”

He brings the boy’s hand an inch or more upward, until his fingers are resting just slightly above your sensitive clit. Not enough to overstimulate you, but enough to make you keen.

Your head tips back to exhale a high-pitched moan at the dim ceiling. “Please fuck me,” you hear yourself say, in a distant voice that sounds nothing like your own.

“Who?” the boys chorus simultaneously.

“I don’t give a shit,” you sigh, hardly patient. “One of you. Both of you.”

There is no Adrian Chase, in any of the infinite dimensions, that has ever denied you of anything, it seems.

You forget to keep track of which boy is which when they unravel you on the ancient sofa across the room. You’re not so sure it matters now, anyway. They both belong to you in the same way you belong to both of them — laws of the universe and all that jazz. It’s all strangely fluid, accordingly, the way they maneuver you onto the couch like they share the same mind — like they know exactly how to take you.

One Adrian lies flat on the cushion below you. The shirt of his suit sits in a forgotten pile on the floor with the rest of your clothes, leaving him only in a white tank top and his unbelted bottoms. His boxers are tucked under his balls, allowing his cock to jut proudly from the leather, weeping and glowing a strawberry red at the tip.

One of his hands rests warmly along the curve of your hips as you straddle his thin waist. His fingertips threaten to dig bruises into the plush skin there. His free one slithers between your bodies to fist his heavy cock, slipping it between the folds of your drooling pussy. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his pale shoulders as you sigh a delicate moan.

You hear a soft click from behind you, then. Over your shoulder, the other Adrian pops the cap to the bottle of lube he always keeps in his desk drawer for special occasions. The translucent blue bottle you’re used to is now a deep purple in this dimension, you find, and it doesn’t look like it’s gotten much use.

He is as undressed as the Adrian beneath you, pants unbuckled and white tank top clinging to his torso. You’d protest about how naked you are compared to the two of them, completely bare save for the plain black bra cradling your breasts, if you could find the words to.

Your heavy eyes flutter shut as you turn away to hang your head. You grit your teeth and anticipate the cold jelly against your ass, yet still shiver when it comes. The Adrian below you rests a soothing palm over your burning jaw while the one behind you works his fingers slowly into you, preparing you for his cock. You sigh at the distant, full feeling.

“I’ll be gentle, doll,” Adrian tells you, trailing his free hand up your spine and over your shoulder. His touch his far too innocent compared to the sinful way he fingers your ass. “I promise…”

You realize, then, that the boy behind you must be the other Adrian. You can tell by his seemingly preferred nickname for you, doll, and in the way his voice tremors with the reassurance — like he’s just barely managing to hold himself together, like he’s never fucked you this way before, like he’s never fucked you at all.

Besides, your Adrian wouldn’t bother with such sympathies. You trust him enough to take care of you. And you hardly ever want him to be gentle.

You swallow down a sob when Other Adrian slips his fingers out of you to put something much thicker in their place. The bulbous head of his cock pushes slowly into your ass. He groans, pressing his face into your back and exhaling panted breaths against your bare skin.

His fingers dig into the plush of your hips as he fights to rein himself in, to ease his length slowly into you despite the hunger begging him to move faster than that — to take you the way he’s always dreamed of taking you.

You keep reminding yourself to relax, and to breathe through your nose, while Other Adrian bottoms out. With his lean hips flush to your ass, the soreness there ebbs slowly into a distant, fuller feeling that makes it hard to gain your breath. He fights to catch his own with his cheek pressed to your shoulder.

Your Adrian brushes his fingers along your warm cheek, pushing the hair out of your face. When your heavy eyes flutter finally open, you find him grinning all lopsided up at you — glasses fogged and sitting crooked on his nose.

“You know what I like most about you, honey?” he coos and doesn’t wait for you to answer. He knows they’ve already fucked you far too stupid for that — and they haven’t even started. “No matter how mean you are… You always get so sweet when I fuck you.”

A whimper sounds in your throat when Adrian shifts beneath you. He takes his stiff cock in his fist, which had been grinding sweetly over your clit, and slides it down to your suckling cunt. “Show him,” your Adrian tells you, half-distracted, as he lines himself up there. “Show him how sweet you get for me.”

He slides his thick length inside you with surprisingly little effort, considering the way your pussy drools for him. It’s a fleeting ache that blossoms into a warmer, more pleasurable, and achingly fuller feeling when he’s sheathed inside your pulsing cunt.

Caged between both their bodies, you quickly realize that there’s nowhere to go — nowhere to run from the overwhelming pleasure that seeks to suffocate you entirely. All you can do now is take it.

Your Adrian groans, dropping the crown of his wild head back against the arm of the couch. “Fuck…” he grumbles through gritted teeth. “God, you’re so fucking tight— Always so tight for me. Holy shit.”

The other Adrian moans between the sloppy kisses he presses between your shoulder blades. “I always dreamt about this, you know?” he pants into your blazing skin. “Watched a hundred guys fuck you, knowing they didn’t deserve you— Knowing that I could fuck you better… Do you have any idea how hard that is?”

You don’t notice the dirty confession in his words because he’s thrusting his lean hips further against your ass, pushing his twitching cock deeper into your suffocating confines.

A scream wells in your throat at the feeling. Your Adrian seems to sense it and lifts his hand to clamp his palm over your mouth before it can escape your mouth. His round eyes go wide, begging you to keep quiet, ‘cause his parents are still upstairs after all.

He doesn’t want to have to explain this impromptu threesome, or why you’re suddenly alive, or why there are suddenly two of their son.

Your whine rumbles against his palm instead.

Everything between your legs throbs and aches when the two of them begin to move in tandem. Your Adrian keeps a bruising grip on your waist while the other gropes sloppily at your chest, tugging down your bra until your breasts spill from the top of it.

His thumb smooths over your pebbled nipples. You tense, achingly sensitive under his touch. Your pussy clenches around your Adrian’s cock, which makes his hips jerk upwards — a foreign feeling the Other Adrian can feel between your thin walls. He buries his groan into your shoulder, grasping at you with all the stern tenderness of someone scared to let you go.

“O—Oh, f…uck,” he whimpers a broken moan against your skin. “It’s too much— It’s too…. shit… You’re gonna make me cum, doll— Fuck!”

His hips stutter. His cock jerks in your strangling hole. Heat fills your ass no more than a second later — a distant blooming in the deepest parts of you. Adrian digs his teeth into your shoulder while he forces himself to fuck you through the rest of his high, whining when his sensitivity grows.

“Thank you…” he murmurs, pressing tender kisses over the bite marks on your skin, as his strong arms slither around your stomach in a loose embrace. “Thank you, baby—”

You whimper when Other Adrian slips out of you, face screwed at the feeling of being so suddenly empty. The couch squeaks slightly when he slouches on the other side of it, still close enough to touch you. He never takes his hand off of your body as he smooths his palm over the plush of your ass, caressing and squeezing and tapping you there.

You feel his cum trickling out of you a moment later. Something warm and slick drools from your ass towards your pussy, where your Adrian continues to fuck you — with a lot less restraint than the other version of him.

He plants his feet, one on the sofa and the other on the floor, and digs his blunt fingernails into your ass as he punches up into you.

“Adrian…” you whimper, voice breaking under the weight of your pleasure. You fight to keep your heavy eyes open, ‘cause you want to memorize the way he looks just now — lying below you, curls wild, cheeks flushed pink, eyes closed tight beneath his crooked glasses.

“I know,” he gasps, sucking air through his teeth when his cock starts to jerk within your pulsing cunt. “I know, honey. C’mon. Cum for me.”

His hazel eyes, dark with lust, snap open to reveal a twisted and warped sort of love in his gaze that makes your stomach do a backflip. The coil tightening in the pit of your belly snaps in that instance. A bright white and distant heat that rushes out of you like honey.

A pained whine gets caught in your throat.

“Yeah… There you go…” he praises, chuckling breathlessly at the pitiful look on your face. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulders as your orgasm racks through your body in merciless waves. He revels in the ache. “There you go, honey— Fuck.”

He tenses suddenly beneath you, cock jerking. He tries and fails to swallow down his groan. It escapes in a low rumble through his gritted teeth as he spits several ropes of warm cum inside of you. His hips jerk on their own accord every time your velvety cunt squeezes around him, milking him for everything he’s worth.

The pleasure ebbs slowly. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air. Panted breaths fill the subsequent silence.

Adrian is slow to relax beneath you. He pushes his half-fogged glasses up his nose as his eyes dart wildly across your face. “Are you still mad at me?” he murmurs through labored breaths, blinking rapidly through the haze.

You try to laugh, but it sounds more like a scoff as you try to catch your breath. You smooth your palms over his jaw as you lean down over him, pressing a too-sweet kiss to his waiting mouth. The tip of your nose brushes the bridge of his with every word from your lips.

“Adrian… You brought me here, to a whole different dimension, so I can fuck another version of you— just because I told you once, when I was drunk, that I had a wet dream about a threesome one time,” you answer with a love drunk smile. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s way more than any guy has ever done for me, ever.”

Adrian struggles to read between the lines. “…So you’re not mad?” he presses.

You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No, baby. I’m not mad.”

He’s left grinning all over again. “Cool,” he chuckles.

You’re slow to dismount from his cock. You try to anticipate the cold feeling of emptiness when you rise off of him, though the bitter numbness still finds you anyway. A little sore and full of bliss, you adjust your bra and slouch back against the couch, resting your body weight on the other Adrian’s shoulder.

It takes him very fleetingly by surprise, breath catching for a second, ‘cause he has to remind himself that he’s not dreaming. He raises a strong arm and wraps it around the front of you, pressing you further into his clothed chest. You rest your feet in your Adrian’s lap while he tucks his softening cock back into his pants.

He huffs quietly and sits up straighter on the arm of the sofa. A proud grin pulls slowly at his lips in sync with the Adrian sitting across from him. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“Up top,” he says and raises his arm for a high-five, to which the Other Adrian meets with a boyish enthusiasm.

“Dream work makes the teamwork,” the boy grins.

“It’s definitely teamwork makes the dream work, by the way,” you laugh breathlessly.

The Other Adrian thinks for a moment, then smacks his lips against his teeth. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s dream work makes the teamwork, doll,” he lilts, almost sympathetically so.

It reminds you all too much of the boy you fell in love with, who massages gently at your calves just now from the other side of the couch. You find it hard to believe that there could be another version of you that isn’t totally in love with every version of him. Maybe he’s right, you think. Maybe I died before I got the chance to spend a life with him here.

The notion pierces you somewhere deep in the chest.

You shift on the sofa and grimace at the way the cotton sticks uncomfortably to your ass, dampened by the mixture of cum seeping slowly out of you. You curl your hands around the muscular forearm on your chest and tilt your head to squint up at him.

“I’m sorry…” you hear yourself say.

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Only that you feel like you should.

“About the couch?” Adrian scoffs. “I already told you, I don’t care about the stupid couch— This shit’s older than I am.”

“I’m not talking about the couch…” you whisper and feel him tense behind you.

“Oh…” he sighs, like you’ve knocked the breath from his lungs.

“I’m sorry for wasting so much time acting like I hated you… Both of you.” You glance down your near-naked body at the Adrian on the other end — the Adrian you’ve spent four years with; the Adrian you get to spend the rest of your whole life with. “‘Cause I do kinda love you… Even if I don’t say it much.”

You scrunch your nose and kick gently at his clothed chest when he grins all smug back at you.

“Trust me, honey,” Adrian coos, squeezing gently at your leg. “I know… I always know. Even when you think I don't.”

[goldenhoneyedwine]

Thinking about touch starved Daeron Targaryen...

content tags are nsfw, potentially unhealthy relationship and codependency, daeron being himself, a teeny bit of angst thank you for reading <3

Touch starved Daeron hovers near you like a moth to a flame. If someone from his family touches him, it’s usually his father dragging him by the ear or a younger sibling clinging to his pants leg. Romantic affection can be bought with the few gold dragons to be hastily scooped up as he buttons his pants.

Touch starved Daeron was first touched by you when he was drunk, so he hardly registered it was happening. You grabbed his arm to steady him and he felt the gravitational pull to fall into your side. Luckily, he hadn’t knocked you over because he was a lot heavier than he looked. You managed to transfer him to the King’s Guard, and they took him the rest of the way to his bed chambers. The first time you touched him sober, you had only moved some hair out of his face. He flinched at first when your fingers grazed his forehead. But after you only gently fixed the hair in place, no harm or malice behind the action, he never shied away again.

Touch starved Daeron holds your sleeve or a corner of your gown as he walks next to you, or stands behind you. Even gripping the corner of the fabric is enough to anchor him. On one of those nights when he seems hell-bent on drinking himself into a stupor, your touches might not be as soft as usual. A fistful of sandy hair to bring his face to meet yours, a shove to his chest when he utters a snarky comment to you. He still welcomes these touches with a boyish smile plastered on his face.

Touch starved Daeron is greedy when he gets acclimated to your touch. If you walk across the bedchamber to extinguish a candle or to fetch your fur slippers, he reaches out and drags you back against him, like reeling in a fish on a line. The action is not rushed or sudden, but you definitely couldn’t resist it. There is an immense force behind his pull - the hunger of someone that was so touch starved, they gorge themselves to feel satisfied.

[eternlmoonshine]

The reader is part of the BAU team and gets caught alone during a tense case involving a stalker/abductor unsub. Though the reader is mostly unharmed, Luke arrives moments after the incident and is visibly shaken, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He’s angry—not at the reader, but at himself for not being there sooner. Protective Luke

the second before ⊹ luke alvez

summary: a quiet lead. a cabin in the woods. you told yourself it would be ten minutes, tops. but when silence stretches too long and luke arrives seconds too late, the only thing louder than the forest is the fear of almost losing you. pairing: luke alvez x reader warnings: hurt/comfort, reader in peril, stalking & abduction themes, protective!luke alvez, mutual pining realized via mortal danger wc: 1.6k a/n: i am SO sorry it took me so long to answer this ask but hey here it is <3 masterlist.

The forest was a mouth. Open, gaping, waiting.

The trees curved like crooked teeth against the night sky, their bare branches twitching in the wind, rustling like whispers too soft to catch. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once—brief, hollow, alone. The clouds hung low, gravid with rain, and the air held that electric stillness that comes before something breaks.

It was a foolish thing to do—going in alone. You knew that.

You’d told yourself it would be a sweep. Quick. Clean. Just a check on a report that hadn’t even been flagged as urgent. A cabin in the woods, a disgruntled neighbor, a history of noise complaints, and a thin thread that might connect it to a string of missing women. Thin enough to ignore. Thin enough to file. But something about the report itched. You’d followed that itch.

Maybe that was your mistake. Maybe that was your curse.

You’d learned early in this job—and in life—that the quietest things were often the deadliest. The moments you second-guessed yourself. The doors you opened too fast. The questions you didn’t ask in time.

The cabin was crouched like a wounded animal at the edge of the treeline—half-swallowed by moss and shadow, windowpanes like dead eyes staring out at nothing. There were no lights. No obvious movement. But the hairs on your neck stood up the moment you stepped out of the SUV.

You’d told the team you were taking a detour. You’d promised you’d be ten minutes, tops. But the silence here felt… intentional.

Inside, it was worse.

The house breathed. Not literally, but the boards underfoot shifted and groaned, the wind slithered under cracks, and the air was dense, thick with the scent of mildew and rot. You stepped cautiously across the floorboards, one hand on your holster, the other brushing the earpiece in your ear. Static. Odd.

You checked the signal. Still green. Still strong. But when you whispered Luke’s name into the comm, the only reply was silence.

A pulse throbbed behind your ribs—deep, ancient, lizard-brain panic.

You moved slower, room by room. Shadows carving strange shapes in the walls. A mug half-full of something congealed on the counter. A newspaper from last week splayed open on the floor like a corpse. You noted the strange juxtaposition—normality and horror touching fingers. The signs of life too recent. Too staged.

You found the basement door open. That was your first real sign.

That yawning blackness. A pit.

You knew better than to go down. You did. Years of training. FBI protocol. Muscle memory. But your feet moved anyway.

The descent was slow. Each creak of wood beneath your boots echoed like gunfire. You flicked your flashlight on. The beam caught on dust motes. Concrete. An old mattress in the corner. Chains. Something metallic. Something dark.

And then—he stepped out of the shadows.

He wasn’t tall. Not imposing, physically. But his stillness was what did it. That unnatural calm. That predator’s patience. He stood like a man who waited. Like he knew you would come. Like he had rehearsed this moment.

You drew your weapon instantly. "FBI. Hands where I can see them."

He smiled. Not a grin. Not even a smirk. Just that slow, thin-lipped twitch that made your skin crawl. A knowing smile.

"You're early," he said. The sound of his voice was worse than silence.

You tried to step back. Called in—"Alvez, I’ve got something here, I need backup now"—but the words fizzled in your ear. The comm still showed green. But nothing came through.

And that’s when he lunged.

You moved, instinct firing like lightning. You dodged the knife, deflected the weight of his charge, struck back. A blur of limbs and breath and panic. You could feel the hate in his hands. Not rage. Not frenzy. But calculation. Like he knew exactly how much damage he wanted to do and where to place it.

The knife slashed across your cheek. Shallow, but bloody. Meant to rattle you. To disorient.

You fought harder. Concrete scraped your palms. Your shoulder smashed into a pipe. You wrestled control of your weapon, lost it, regained it, lost it again. Every second felt stolen. Every move pulled from some hidden reserve of training and desperation.

He had you by the throat when the door crashed open above.

Luke.

His name didn’t come from your mouth. It ripped from your chest.

The thunder of boots on stairs. A blur of tactical black. And then—he was there.

Luke’s voice was a gunshot. Sharp, commanding. "FBI! Get your hands off her!"

The unsub turned, blade raised.

Luke fired. Not to kill. To disarm.

The blade spun out of the man’s hand with a metallic clang, and in seconds Luke was on him, bringing him down with force that rattled the basement. Fists collided. Cuffs snapped shut.

You slumped against the wall, pulse screaming in your ears.

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until Luke dropped to his knees in front of you and said your name—broken, soft, like it cost him something to speak it aloud.

"I'm okay," you whispered. A lie. A shield.

His hands hovered. Then landed—gently, reverently—on your arms, your face.

"You're bleeding," he said, as if saying it made it less unbearable.

"It’s not bad." He didn't reply. Just looked at you.

And in that look—God. You saw everything.

All the seconds he thought he was too late. All the horrors that played behind his eyes as he drove here. All the versions of this moment where he found you broken. Dead. Gone.

"I should’ve been here," he rasped. "You should’ve waited for me."

“I thought I had time.”

His hands were trembling. Just barely. But you noticed.

“I didn’t want to risk someone else walking into a trap,” you continued. “I was trying to—”

"Don’t," he cut in sharply. “Don’t you dare justify it.”

Silence. Then he looked away. One hand clenched into a fist against the floor.

“I walked in and saw you on the ground. Do you have any idea—” His voice cracked.

You touched his forearm. Slowly. Carefully. His eyes flicked back to yours.

"I'm here," you said.

But he shook his head. “You almost weren’t.”

And there it was. The real wound.

Luke Alvez wasn’t scared of much. But he was terrified of loss. Not abstract loss—you. The person whose laugh he memorized. Whose coffee order he knew by heart. Whose presence was quiet gravity in his life.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t break. But you saw the grief anyway—hovering behind his eyes like smoke from a fire still burning.

He reached up and brushed blood from your cheek. His thumb lingered.

“This job doesn’t work,” he said finally, “if I have to keep wondering if I’m going to lose you every time we split up.”

“I know.”

“You don’t act like you do.”

You winced. Not from the wound. From the truth.

Luke exhaled, steadying himself. Then, voice low: “I can’t protect you from everything. I know that. But you can’t keep acting like you don’t matter.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

The silence thickened.

“I don’t know how to be someone people worry about,” you confessed.

“I do,” he said, without hesitation. “Because I worry about you all the damn time.”

You looked away. Swallowed hard. Luke shifted closer, his hand on your knee now. Warm. Grounding.

“I care about you,” he said. Quiet, plain, and no pretense, making your breath catch.

“I care so much it scares me,” he added. “I didn’t even know it could feel like that—until the second before I saw you.”

You turned back to him. “What do you mean?”

“The second before I saw you alive… I thought you were gone.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And then he wrapped his arms around you—slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to break what was left. You sank into him, finally letting your body collapse into the safety of his warmth, his strength, his heartbeat pulsing steady against your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured into his chest. He just held you tighter.

“I don’t need you to apologize,” he said. “I need you safe.”

And so you sat there—two people breathing through the aftermath. One who almost lost, and one who almost disappeared. And somewhere far above, the rain began to fall.

Later, in the quiet of his SUV, wrapped in a blanket, patched up and exhausted, you sat beside him with your legs drawn up on the seat. He hadn’t let go of your hand since the medics cleared you.

“You didn’t have to ride back with me,” you said softly.

“I did.”

You glanced at him. He was watching the road, but his knuckles were pale from the grip on the steering wheel. His jaw was tight.

“You okay?” you asked.

He gave a half-laugh. “You ask me that?”

“I mean it.”

He was silent for a long time. Then, “No.”

You nodded. "Me neither."

“I think I need to tell you something,” he said, voice lower now. “And I’m not saying it because of what happened. I’m saying it because it was almost too late.”

You looked at him.

“I love you.”

The words didn’t crash. They landed. Soft, inevitable, final. You felt them settle inside you like the first deep breath after being underwater.

“I think I’ve loved you since that first case,” he continued, still watching the road, “but I didn’t let myself know it until today.”

You reached for his hand again. And held on. Hard.

“I’m not used to being loved,” you whispered.

“I’ll teach you.”

And for the first time in hours, you smiled.

[lo-vearchive]

A (k)night in Ashford

Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x Runaway! Female Reader

Word Count: 9.5K (trust me, its worth it)

Summary: You steal from a knight in Ashford on one starry night. You think you are surely dead, but then one small lie spares your life. You are sure he wants you just as much as you want him. Yet, he holds himself back. Love comes for all, so why do lovers seldom get a happy ending?

Content: Slow burn, Angst, Yearning, Theft, Hunger, Alcohol Consumption, Medieval Sexism, Mentions of Blood and Death, Non-Explicit violence, Explicit Language, Spanking, Brat-taming (slight), Fingering, Tit-sucking, Sex (P in V), Orgasms, Virginity loss, Creampie, Aftercare (attempted, he doesn't know what he's doing), Mention of Reader being tall enough to pick apples. Please let me know if I missed anything.

Author's note: I told you I could not hold back anymore! I am writing this five hours before I need to wake up. I poured my whole soul into this. Integrate dialogue from the show to make this feel authentic as well. Enjoy <3

You knew that life on the road would be difficult when you climbed into a caravan cart heading to Ashford in the dead of night. You just didn’t think you’d find a knight’s blade at your throat.

The journey was hard, but nothing could have prepared you for the hunger you had to endure. You thought the smallfolk would have been too enamoured with the tourney to notice their salt beef missing, but that was increasingly proving to be difficult. By the time you saw the faint light emitting from a campfire deep in the meadows, you were desperate. You pulled the hood of your cloak tightly over your head and crossed the distance with shaky steps. The scene was simple with two plain brown tents dug into a barren patch of land. Under the warm firelight, they glowed gold, and the sight made you tired. You couldn’t remember the last time away from the starry sky.

You shook your head, recalling the purpose of your intrusion. You had to scavenge fast before the folks sleeping there returned. You smelled the meat before you saw it. It sat untouched on a large leaf right next to the trunk of a thick oak tree. You dove at it and swallowed without tasting. You were three bites in when you felt the steel of a sword press against the side of your neck. “Stop stealing, man,” a voice called out.

You kept chewing. You at least deserved to be killed with a full belly. When you had scarfed out the last piece, you gingerly stood up with your hands raised. You turned around to meet the owner of the blade and pushed your hood back. “I’m not a man, sir,” you said.

In front of you stood a tall, broad man with the brightest blue eyes you had ever seen. With the way he was dressed, he appeared not be faring much better than you. Yet, his sheer size left you in awe. You had never seen a man so big.

“Sir?” a voice called out.

You whipped your head to the tent from which a small, bald child emerged. “I heard a noise,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

The man didn’t tear his gaze away from you to look at the boy, and did not move the steel away from your skin either. “I did not mean to steal from you, sir,” you explained, gulping. “I was just so hungry.”

His eyes bore in your own, and in that moment, you recognized that he knew hunger as well. He sighed and lowered his blade. “Why did you come here?” he asked.

You licked your lips, uneasy. “I have nowhere else to go,” you answered, truthfully, “but I shall leave here at once if you choose to spare my life.”

His eyes widened at your words. “Oh, no, no,” he sputtered, holding his free hand out. “You do not have to worry about that. I was simply taken by surprise.”

He let his sword drop to the ground, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. In your time on the road, you had learned that the beast you should be careful of the most was man. “Thank you for your mercy,” you said, bowing. “Please excuse me, kind sir.”

You had taken a few steps away from them when he called out. “It is not safe for you to be out here alone, miss.”

“I will be all right,” you replied, hurrying ahead.

A small hand grabbed you at the elbow. You glanced down to see the boy holding your cloak. “Cousin?” he asked.

A look of confusion passed over your face. The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he mouthed the words: follow along.

You blinked quickly. “Oh,” you stuttered. “I didn’t recognize you in the dark. What are you, um, doing here, cousin?”

“I am a squire for my Ser, Duncan the Tall,” he answered. “He will be competing at the tourney this year.”

“Is this your kin, Egg?” the knight inquired, walking to you.

“Oh, yes,” the boy answered, quickly. “This is my cousin who ran away from home a fortnight ago to be a tailor in Kingslanding. She has a real passion for mending clothes, Ser.”

Your eye twitched as you struggled to keep your expression neutral. You had never sewn a day in your life. “Yes,” you deadpanned. “I yearn to sew.”

“And?” the boy urged, elbowing you.

“And . . . ,” you faltered, “preparing salt beef.”

“You have a passion for making salt beef?” Duncan asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Aye,” you said in a small voice.

“I do love salt beef,” the tall man whispered.

The boy held on to you tighter. “So can she stay, Ser?”

“It is not appropriate for a lady to be alone with us, Egg,” the knight scratched his head.

“But she is my sister.”

“Sister,” you echoed, nodding.

He sighed, dropping his head down. “I-I don’t know.”

You were reaching the end of your wits, and the heat emitting from the campfire felt too good to depart from. “Just for tonight,” you pleaded, interlocking your fingers together. “I promise to be gone by the morning, Ser.”

His blue eyes looked up, and you could almost see the cogs turning in his brain. When he spoke next, he said. “One night.”

That night, you dreamt of Ser Duncan the Tall.

You were in a dimly lit room at a small inn, and he sat on the bed with his legs ajar. He patted the thin mattress between his thick thighs, and you found your feet carrying you to him.

You stopped in the space between his limbs and looked down to see your face reflected in his clear eyes. You noticed your dishevelled hair and the swelling on your lips. You looked like a woman who had been kissed thoroughly. His large hand grazed up your skirt, leaving heat in its wake. He stopped right under the curve of your ass to grip you tight. “You’re not supposed to like this, dove.”

You jolted awake when the sky was still dark, covered in sweat. You turned over to see your newly found cousin sleeping soundly next to you like a prince. You wondered why Egg had chosen to help you.

Maybe he saw that you were in need, or maybe he just wanted a friend. Whatever the reason was, you were thankful nonetheless. You peeled the blanket you were sharing off yourself and made your way out of the tent.

You heard Duncan snore as you walked past his tent and deeper into the meadows to look for breakfast. You found berries and apples in the trees, which you picked carefully and placed into the pockets of your cloak.

When you returned to the campsite, Duncan was awake. “Good morning, sir,” you greeted.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and grunted. The way his hair stuck out in places made you smile. Then the memory of last night’s dream returned and brought with it the heat to your cheeks. You cleared your throat. “Apple?”

You tried not to focus on the size of his hands as they took the fruit from your small hands. He took a big bite out of the apple. “You picked these yourself?”

You nodded. “I am tall enough to reach into the trees,” you shrugged. “Some might say too tall.”

“You’re not too tall,” he spoke as he chewed. “You’re just right for—”

He paused mid-sentence, and his face turned the colour of the apple he was eating. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “We are, um, going to the market. Would you like to join?”

“Of course, Ser.”

You discovered that Egg loved the market.

He skipped ahead while you and Duncan followed behind quietly. You did not know what to say to the knight. You just hoped that he wouldn’t ask for you to leave just yet. Duncan broke the silence first. “What are you called, miss?”

You offered him your name as you struggled to match his pace. You did not understand why men had to walk so fast. “So,” he started, scratching his head, “you left home to be a tailor?”

The truth was that you had to leave your home because the summer sickness had claimed all your kin, but you did not wish to hear words of sympathy anymore. People never knew what to say when they learned you were an orphan. “I left because I had no coin, no home, and no way to earn,” you said instead. “I just wish I had planned it out better.”

You both stopped at a shop where Egg was trying to haggle down the price of three goose eggs and a loaf of bread. “I am very thankful for last night,” you continued. “You have done me a great kindness, Ser.”

“The Maiden charges me to protect all women,” he replied. “I simply fulfilled the duty of a knight of the realm.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Right.”

Egg brought Duncan two goose eggs that he carried carefully.

The three of you walked through the market with the sun beginning to set behind the horizon, watching Egg stop at every vendor on the way. “What made you come to Ashford, Ser?”

“For the same reasons as you,” he shared. “My Lord, Ser Arlan of Pennytree, just passed, and I needed to devout myself to a cause. So I decided to enlist in the tourney. By the end of the joust, I hope to have impressed a Lord enough to be taken into his service.”

“That is very honourable,” you remarked. “But what if you get hurt in the joust, Ser?”

He froze, like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I suppose that would be bad.”

A voice yelled. “Half-man! Half-man!”

You turned around to see a man running in your direction. Duncan let out a sigh. “Do I look like a Half-man to you, Raymun?”

“Aye,” he grinned. “Half man and half giant.”

You bit back a laugh as the man apologized.

“Will you and your cousin ride in the tourney?” Egg inquired, biting into the loaf in his hands.

“He will,” Raymun frowned. “I would if I could, but I am only a squire like you.”

A mist settled over Duncan’s eyes. You wondered what he was thinking about. “You fight well for a squire,” he noted.

The man’s smile grew wider. “And you have the look of a challenger,” he said. “You will do great things, Ser.”

Your eyes trailed over the knight’s body. You found yourself in agreement, but the thought of him getting hurt in the joust made your stomach uneasy. It was a strange thing to feel since you decided, after all, you barely know the man.

“Are you and your lady friend hungry?” the man inquired, eyeing you.

Your stomach rumbled right on cue. “Always,” you replied.

Raymun grinned. “Tell your squire to go put the food away and follow me.”

You didn’t have the heart to turn Egg away, so while Duncan stayed behind with Raymun, you decided to walk with him back to the campsite. That journey would prove to be a long one since the boy seemed not have had his fill of the market for the day. It was like he had never been allowed to roam freely before.

You waited for him at a fruit stall as he tasted every type of grape before settling on one. A man stepped close to you, and you evaded his touch masterfully. Chalking it up as an accident, you called out, “Are you nearly done?”

“Almost!”

You huffed and tapped your foot impatiently on the grass. “Is that boy your son?” the man asked.

You sized him up from the corner of your eyes. “Cousin,” you corrected. “You have a husband, miss?” the man asked.

A shiver ran up your spine. You moved forward to get to Egg, but the man grabbed your wrist harshly. “What the rush?” he demanded. “I just asked you a question.”

You yanked your hand out of his grip, stumbling back. “Do not touch me.”

The man smirked. “I barely did.”

You opened your mouth to call him a bastard, but paused when a shadow loomed over you. You looked up to see a scowling night towering behind you. “I believe the woman asked you to leave her be,” Duncan spoke, nostrils flared.

The man squinted up at him. “How big are you, ya’ giant cunt?”

“Big enough to take you on,” he glowered, curtly. “Would you like to test yer’ fate?”

The man watched him for a moment and then spat on the ground before walking away. You turned to face Duncan when the bastard was out of sight. He stood in front of you straight with tension. “Thank you.”

He nodded, absentmindedly, still staring ahead at the direction the man had taken. “I should not have left you alone.”

“It may not look like it,” you smiled, “but these hands can do more than just sew. Believe me.” “I do not doubt that,” Duncan’s shoulders dropped.

“I do,” Egg interjected, closing the distance to you with a bunch of grapes in hand. “I think you should take her to the pavilion immediately, Ser.”

“No,” you insisted, shaking your head. “I am capable of walking you back.”

“Go, cousin,” Egg stated. “I will be fine.”

The irony of a child being able to walk safely after dark over a grown woman was not lost on you. You exhaled, hoping to calm the budding irritation in your chest. “Very well then.”

You knew you were in the presence of the highborn the moment you stepped inside the pavilion.

You took a seat next to Duncan at a table, watching the people crowd every inch of space in the massive tent. They laughed and sang, and some had even brought out their swords for a friendly duel. You had never seen such a sight before; smallfolk never had the luxury to slow down enough to enjoy life. “I have never seen so much food in one place before,” you said.

“Me neither,” Duncan shared. “I grew up in Fleabottom and then on the road with Ser Arlan. I have seen people fight to the death for food, you know?”

You nodded. You had seen people die for less.

Raymun poured some wine into your cup from over your shoulder. “Lyonel Baratheon,” he said, gesturing at the man wearing a stag crown at the front. “The Laughing Storm they call him.”

You took a bitter sip from your cup. “I thought he would be bigger.”

He laughed and walked away. You watched the Lord’s mouth move to speak, but could not hear him over the noise. He slapped his hands on his thigh and tried again, “I HAVE HAD A PROFOUND THOUGHT!” The drums cut off immediately.

“Four thousand years ago,” he began, “our ancestors gathered in that big field outside to blood each other with sticks and to have a little bit of fun. And they say it was this land’s first ever joust. Well, I say . . . uh, what the fuck was I going to say?”

Duncan’s hand reached to pour some more wine, and the sound of the liquid trickle echoed through the pavilion. You elbowed him and whispered, “Stop that.”

He gave you a sheepish look and set the jar down. “Ah,” Lyonel remembered, “Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it?”

Duncan reached for his cup and began gulping loudly. You ran a hand over your face to hide from the looks people gave you two. His size already made you two stick out like a sore thumb, and his actions were not helping either.

“Who was it?” the Lord repeated, curling his hands up. “Hm?” No one answered. “Ah, fuck it,” he decided. “A hundred gold coins to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best!”

He threw a heavy purse of coins on the table closest to him, and the crowd broke out in cheer. You swallowed a few more sips and spoke to Duncan with a grin. “You are two of those already, Ser.”

He rolled his eyes, but his lips were stretched wide. You liked it when he smiled; it made his teeth poke out. You wanted to run your tongue over them.

“Now eat your birds so we can dance!” Lyonel cried out, and the drums picked back up again.

Duncan reached for a large turkey leg and tore a chunk off the meat. You eyed the table in front of you, unsure where to begin. You wanted to eat everything at once, but also nothing at all. Duncan saw you sit there, clutching the cup with eyes scanning the food. He held out the meat on the stick to your face. You held his gaze as your teeth made a small bite next to his. The turkey was cold, but it was the best thing you had ever tasted. “Good girl,” he remarked.

You felt his words deep in your belly. He stood up suddenly and took your hand. He pulled you to the dessert table and picked up two pastries. “We shall eat till our belly is full,” he said, smiling down at you.

You nodded and took another bite out of his hands. You finally understood why the highborn hired folks to hand-feed them grapes. It felt good. Or maybe it was the fact that it was Duncan’s hand feeding you that you were enjoying. You tried not to dwell on it too much. This was your last night with the hedge knight and his squire, and you didn’t want to spend it reminiscing.

Something over your head caught Duncan’s attention. You whipped around to see one of Baratheon’s men gesturing him over. He stopped chewing and crossed the space to meet them at the table, and you followed dutifully behind.

As soon as you reached, Lyonel asked, “Have you been punched in the face before?”

Duncan’s jaw fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

“Big men get punched more than little men,” he explained. “Did you know that?”

“No,” Duncan let out an awkward laugh, “but I believe it.”

“Is that why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”

He blinked with furrowed brows. “I don’t know, Ser. Where I grew up, you do it to go unnoticed.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. It had been the same for you growing up.

Lyonel pulled out his blade, and your heart dropped to your stomach. “The Seven above gave you tallness,” he stated. “So be tall. Or I will name you a heretic and burn you. Or drown you. Or whatever it is they do these days to heretics.”

You had become a professional at begging for mercy over the past few days and quickly intervened. “We meant no disrespect, my Lord. We were just here for . . . supper.”

Lynoel broke into a laugh. “All right. Yeah, well, that actually makes sense. What is your name, man?”

“D-Dunk,” he stuttered. “Ser Duncan the Tall. And this is m-my squire’s cousin.”

You promptly curtsied.

“That’s ridiculous on both counts,” he remarked, leaning forward. “So, do you both like dancing?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” you asked, confused.

The wine was hitting your head in waves.

You and Duncan shared a look as you danced in the circle at the centre of the pavilion. You both knew you had to put on a show for Lyonel, lest he grow bored and decide that an execution would be fitting entertainment for the occasion instead.

You couldn’t help but giggle. You had never seen a man so large appear to be so uncomfortable. You decided to help him out and interlocked your arm around his large bicep to spin around. You grew more dizzy with each round, and your laughing grew louder.

Lyonel was hooting as he danced around the space, throwing his arms up. You let go of Duncan, and he bumped straight into the man. The knight watched with wide-eyes as the Lord stepped closer to him. Before he could react, Lyonel stomped on his foot.

Duncan jerked and let out a groan. When he tried again, Duncan moved out of the way. They danced like that for a moment as you moved into position behind the Lord. You remembered the coin he had promised. Duncan was an honourable man, but you were not above cheating.

A full coin purse would keep his belly full once you were gone, and perhaps he would think back at you fondly. The thought made you sad, and then Lynoel walked close enough for you to shove him forward, and you forgot all about it. As he stumbled, Duncan took the opportunity to bring his own big foot down on the man’s booted one. He let out a shout, and the people cheered.

All colour drained from Duncan’s face as the Lord stood in front of him, trembling. His breath grew heavier as he waited for his reaction. The crowd’s clapping matched the beat of your racing heart. Then the Baratheon craned his head up and let out a hearty laugh.

Relief flooded your senses.

Duncan’s lips stretched into a grin, and he pushed the man away to dance. His large hand found your waist immediately, and he guided you in a circle around the people. He spun you in his arms, and you crashed into his chest with a laugh. The hands trapped between your chests felt the solid planes of his torso.

His eyes shone brightly under the candlelight. His blown pupils had almost drowned out the blue of his irises. He licked his lips, and his breath fanned your face gently when he spoke, “Stay for one more night.”

Sunlight slipped through a gap in the tent folds, waking you.

You groaned and tried to move, but something heavy held you down. You blinked rapidly, adjusting to the brightness and saw you were in Duncan’s tent. His heavy arm was draped over your waist, and he slept soundly beside you.

You had no memory of how you ended up here, but you did not mind. Your clothes were still on, so you guessed you must not have missed out on much last night. You gently removed his arm from you with both hands and slipped out of the tent quietly.

You made your way to a stream nearby to quench your thirst. You bent down at the bank and cupped water in your palms to drink. Once you had fill, you became aware of the layer of sweat and dirt on your body.

You stood up and scanned the area for watching eyes. When you didn’t find any, you quickly stripped out of your clothes and slipped into the river.

You thought about the events that transpired over the last few days. A week ago, you were fighting rats for scraps of food, and last night you had danced with a knight and a lord. You wondered what would tomorrow hold. Would you stay with Duncan and Egg for one more night? Maybe even until the end of the tourney? Maybe Duncan would win a joust, and you could stay even longer to nurse him back? Or maybe you could leave tonight and make your way to Kingslanding as you had originally set out do before you met that tall distraction. You don’t know how long you stayed in the water, but once you felt clean, you brought your head to the surface.

You changed back into your clothes, and they clung to you like a second skin. You leisurely made your way back, enjoying the way the sun felt on your face. Duncan was pacing back and forth at the campsite.

When he saw you approach, he paused. “Where have you been?” he asked with a tight jaw.

“Bathing,” you replied, running a finger through your wet hair. His lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t wander off without telling me.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your place. You didn’t do anything wrong, but the disapproval in his voice didn’t sit well with you. “Why?”

He turned around and reached into his knapsack. “What are you doing, Ser?”

“Sowing a patch,” he answered curtly.

“Is that not my job?”

He sat down on the grass, ignoring your words. He licked a threat straight in his mouth and passed it through the eye of a needle.

“Ser,” you tried again, “are you upset with me?”

He passed the needle through the fabric in silence.

“Do you wish me to leave?”

He sighed and let his head drop. When he didn’t say anything more, you understood. You knew it was about time anyway. Three days without fearing for your safety or where your next meal came from was more than what most got. All good things must eventually come to an end.

“Okay,” you said.

You moved towards Egg’s tent to retrieve your stuff. “Never mind that,” he called out.

You stopped and turned to look at him. He put the fabric aside and pushed himself off the ground. He walked to you and spoke without looking at you. “I would like for you to stay, miss.”

Warmth spread through your belly. “I want to stay too.”

He shuffled closer until your chest almost grazed yours. He gulped at the sight of your nipples poking through the wet dress. “But as you are a maiden,” he murmured, “so it is not appropriate for you to travel with me alone.”

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “You make me feel safe, and I think life with you would be better than one alone on the road. Besides, I truly do enjoy spending my time with you.”

He craned his head down to let his forehead touch yours. “I-I as well.” “I can be of help to you,” you insisted, gnawing at your lips. “Just tell me what I can do.”

He shut his eyes tightly with furrowed brows. When he opened that a moment later, he croaked, “Maybe . . . maybe you can stay on as Egg’s chaperone? He’s young and needs a firm hand, and then you’ll be in my charge too.”

The idea of a squire with a chaperone made no sense, yet a small smile played on your lips. “Aye.”

“We can never be seen in the market together again,” he continued, “or else people will talk. I will not have them question your virtue.”

You wanted to tell him that you never cared much for what other people thought, but you decided on a simple, “Yes, Ser.”

“Dunk,” he said. “Please call me Dunk.”

Just as you had promised, you stayed ten paces behind them.

Every now and then, Duncan would pause and look back to see if you were following. You always were. It was not difficult; your feet seemed to carry you wherever he went. When he and Egg paused to grab a drink at an ale garden, you found a table nearby. You took small sips of your cider and watched a tug-of-war game play out in front of you.

You saw a familiar man saunter to Dunk and Egg. “Yes, Hedge Knight! You!”

Lyonel pulled the cup out of Duncan’s hand and threw it on the ground. “What is this?” he demanded. “Piss froth? Get up, I need your muscle.”

Duncan shot you a confused look. Lyonel grabbed the back of his thick neck and brought his face to him. “Will you heed my call to war?”

Before the knight could respond, the Lord exclaimed, “Aha! Good. Get up!”

Your jaw dropped in awe as Egg tied a thick rope around Duncan’s torso and took his place at the front. You edged closer to get a better view. The game and Lyonel yelled, “Fucking pull!”

You watched as the men yelled and struggled at either side. Suddenly, the Lord let go of the rope and stated, “I’m thirsty.”

You saw Duncan’s jaw clench as he struggled to dig his feet into the wet mud, and Egg was lifted clear off the ground. What an arse, you thought. You sprang forward to take his place and began pulling at the rope with all your might. Lyonel demanded that everyone haul but made no attempts to join.

You heard Duncan let out a loud groan behind you and heave back the rope. Slowly, your party moved more of the rope to your side and, with a final tug, dragged the other squad down in the mud.

You let the rope slip from your hands and flung your hands up to cheer. Duncan wrapped an arm around you just as Egg rushed towards you. He hoisted you in one arm and Egg in the other and threw you in the air. Lyonel screamed in amusement as you were flung up and down in the air. You were laughing so hard that you thought you’d knock the air out of your lungs.

You met his eyes and held his face in your hand. One second, your lips were pressed against his cheek and the second, you were dropped flat into the mud.

If Duncan he felt sorry for dropping you, he did not voice it.

He did buy some more food and a new set of clothing for you on the way to an inn with the coin you two won last night. “You should fall into mud every day, cousin,” Egg remarked, skipping next to you. “We will get to sleep in a warm room every night then.”

You were fuming with anger. You could not understand the change in Duncan’s behaviour. You thought that you had shared a moment with him back at the moment, yet now Duncan wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You huffed and reached into the basket of food you were carrying for the meat wrapped in paper. You plucked it out and chucked it in a pigpen as you passed by.

No stupid salt beef, you thought, for the stupid hedge knight.

When you checked into the inn, the innkeeper demanded how many rooms your party needed. “Two,” he replied. “One for me and one for my sister and her son.”

You shot him a look that questioned if he had lost his mind. Sister. Sister?

The innkeeper’s eyes bounced from your face to his, noticing the lack of familial resemblance. She rolled her eyes and fetched two keys from under the desk. You snatched the key from her hand and left without looking back.

It took you an hour to scrub the mud off your body.

You had just changed into the fresh set of clothes when your room door was pried open. Duncan stormed inside with heavy footsteps. “What do you want, Dunk?”

“It’s Ser to you.”

Your nostrils flared. “I forgot my place, Ser. What can I do for you?”

“The beef has gone missing,” he glowered.

“Oh, has it?” you mocked. “I wonder if it grew legs and walked away.” He exhaled sharply, and a tremor ran through his torso. “I know it was you.”

“And I would do it again,” you sneered. “A thousand times over.”

He paced around the room, pinching his temples. “Do you have any idea how much coin it costs to buy meat?”

“Oh, I’m sure you still have much more left from that purse we won!” “I would have had a lot more if I did not have to spend it on new clothes,” he raised his voice to match yours.

“There would not have been any need for new clothes if you had not thrown me in the mud!” “I was taken by surprise!” Duncan cried out, throwing his hands up. “You must have taken leave of your senses to k-kiss me like that in front of everyone.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing the air in and out through your nostrils. “You are a petulant child,” he stated. “Your little cousin has more sense than you.”

“And you are a coward,” you retorted. “Your horses are more brave.”

He licked his lips and smiled ruefully. “Raymun’s cousin thinks I ought to spank you for this.”

“Huh,” you scoffed. “You would not dare.”

Duncan ran a hand over his face and watched you for a long moment. You could almost see his brain behind his eyes working to come to a decision. Without saying another word, he made his way to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress with his legs ajar.

You had seen this scene before. Maybe in a dream.

He tapped the space between his legs, demanding you to come to him. “Absolutely not,” you spat.

“I will not force you,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. “You will come willingly.”

“Duncan,” you scowled, “not in a million years—”

“You agreed to be in my charge,” he reminded, “and now this is the punishment I am dealing for your misbehaviour.”

You knew then that you had made a mistake, for he was not the kind to resort to violence. It was one of the things you liked the most about him. Even with all the strength in the world, he chose kindness every time. Yet your pride would not let you apologize.

You ran a hand through your hair. “I am not sorry.” He nodded sharply. “You will be.”

You swallowed and slowly crossed the room to him. You still did not believe he would truly do it. This was a mere display of strength. When you came with range, he yanked you down. You landed right over his knees with an oof.

You held your breath for what felt like an eternity, and then just as you exhaled, his hand came down to your ass over your skirt.

You jolted at the contact as the sound of the slap echoed through the room. Your astonishment overpowered any pain his strike would have caused, and you wondered if it had happened at all.

Then he brought down his hand again, and your cunt clenched around nothing between your thighs. Your hands shot up to grab the faded sheet on the mattress to brace yourself. He was doing it, he was truly doing it.

His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke. “Food costs money, yes?

Spank. “Aye!”

You forced in a shaky breath. “It is bad to taste completely edible food, yes?”

Spank. “Aye!”

You bit down on your tongue hard to keep quiet. “Even when one is angry, yes?”

Spank. “Aye!”

A moan escaped your throat. “You are sorry for what you have done, yes?”

Spank. “Aye!”

You covered your mouth with your free hand. “You will never do it again, yes?”

Spank. “Aye!”

The next time he touched you, it was soft. His large hand ran gently over the buttocks. “D-does it hurt?”

“No,” you croaked.

Duncan had made you feel the complete opposite of pain. “Let me see,” he said, grabbing the hem of your skirt.

You shook your head, still hiding your face in your arm, holding the fabric down.

“Please,” he insisted. “I need to check how badly I have hurt you.”

Feeling utterly spent, you let your hand drop. He pushed your skirt up all the way and exposed your bare ass to the cold air. You were not wearing any underwear for he had forgotten to purchase any.

You felt a shaking hand graze your ass cheek. “Y-you are,” he stuttered, “wet.”

You wished the ground would open and swallow you whole. You made an attempt to pull the fabric down, but his other hand grabbed your wrist. “Let me see,” he whispered.

You let your hand fall back at your side. His fingertips moved to gently massage the globes of your ass. You put down on your lip as the movement exposed your cunt to the cold air. “Ser,” you called out.

He hushed you, swiping a finger over your wetness. “We are past that,” he stated, rubbing your juices over his digits.

“Dunk,” you called again, and shifted.

The move made him slip dangerously close to the opening of your cunt. He breathed out your name. “You were not supposed to be enjoying this,” he said. “This was meant to be a punishment.”

You wanted to tell him that it was for your desires had been laid out in the open.

He pulled his hand away from you and turned you to face him. His pupils were blown wild. “I pushed you away earlier because I did not want it to jeopardize your virtue,” he scoffed, “and now look at me. I’m doing the very same thing. I should have just let you kiss me thoroughly.”

You did not care about your virtue if he was the one compromising it.

Tears brimmed in your eyes. You reached your hand up to cup his face.

“I like it when you touch me,” you tell him earnestly. “I only ever want you to touch me.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “D-Don’t say things like that.”

Your lips stretched into a smile. His eyes fluttered open and met yours. Without tearing them away, he trailed his fingertips up the length of your legs and dipped between them.

You took in a sharp breath when his finger breached your tight hole. It was way thicker than anything else you had experienced before. “I have never done this before,” he admitted. “Any of it. I want to make you feel good now. Tell me what to do to make it better.”

“Play with me,” you gasped. “You'll see what feels good on my face.”

His eyebrows furrowed at your words. He licked his lips and drove his finger further. You arched on his lap in response. “Like that?”

It was your turn to stutter. “J-Just like that.”

He brought his digit out and drove it back in a few more times experimentally. You searched for something to hold on and your hands found his shoulder. “Fuck!” you cursed, withering. “Faster!”

He curled his free arm around your torso and crushed you into his chest. His pace quickened, and your head tipped back to let out a loud moan. He curled his finger inside your wet cunt, and your toes went numb. Your grip around him tightened. “That’s the spot! Right there!”

He pressed his mouth in the crook of your neck and hit the same spot again and again and again. Just one of his fingers was enough to make you see stars.

You walked hand in hand with Duncan later that night under the starry sky.

He had a stupid smile on his face that reflected your own. A fortnight ago, you were shivering in the back of a caravan heading to Ashford; today, you were being kept warm by a man who generated heat. You had never felt something like this before. Life was good, and you guessed that if every day was like today, then you could live happily for a very long time.

“Ser Duncan! Ser Dunacn!” you heard Egg scream as he rushed to him. “He’s hurting them!”

Duncan let go of your hand and took off before you could ask Egg what he meant. You tried to keep up with them, but the knight was just too fast.

By the time you entered the puppeteer's tent, four knights belonging to the Kingsguard had already wrestled him to the ground. Above him stood the pale, bloodied Targaryen prince you had seen before at the tourney. You recalled him to be cruel and dishonourable.

Egg pushed past you and skidded to a stop. “Don’t hurt him!”

“You stupid boy!” Duncan cried out, thrashing in the guard’s grip. “Hold your tongue, or they’ll hurt you.”

“No, they won’t,” he replied, swiftly. “If they do, they will have to answer to my father. Let go of him. Do as I say. Now!”

They followed his command immediately. The prince frowned at the squire. “You impudent little rat,” he frowned. “What has happened to your hair?”

“I cut it off, brother. I didn’t want to look like you.”

Time seemed to slow down. Duncan stared at Egg with his jaw slack.

The ruse was up. For both of you. You called out his name as the guards pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the tent. When your eyes met, all you saw was the pain of your betrayal glistening in his.

You waited with Raymun in the marketplace until a guard came to fetch you.

Your body was numb, but your heart hurt anyway. I was going to tell him, you say to yourself, I promise I was going to tell him! You had made a mistake. You had thought you had all the time in the world.

The guard’s horse trotted to a spot, and you barely heard the man’s voice when he spoke. “Prince Aegon wants a word with you.”

Raymun helped hoist you on the horse. “Come to the Fossoway pavilion once you are done. I will wait for you”

The horse took off into the night. You held on tightly to the guard’s shoulder, and if he heard you cry, he did not care to comment on it. You arrived at the Ashford Manor within minutes. Egg— Prince Aegon awaited you inside. Your legs shook as you lowered yourself in a curtsy. “My prince,” you greeted, too afraid to meet his eye.

“No, cousin,” he shook his head. “There is no need to do that. Come with me. Ser Duncan is being kept in the dungeons.”

You followed behind Aegon as he lit the dark hallways with a flaming torch. In the light, you could see his fair hair sprouting. How could you not have noticed? Were you really such an idiot?

Duncan sat on the floor in the dark with his head hanging between his legs. “I have brought her for you, Ser,” Aegon announced. “Perhaps you will speak now.”

He fit the torch into the holder on the brick wall and left you two alone. The pouring rain outside drowned the sounds of your rapid breaths. “I must beg your forgiveness for deceiving you, Ser,” your voice cracked, inching closer.

“Are you a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms?” he demanded, stopping you in your tracks.

“No,” you answered, truthfully. “I am simply a runaway. I did not mean to lie to you about it.”

He craned his head up to look at you, and the redness in his eyes made your legs almost give out. “But you did,” he stated, coldly. “About everything. Did you even give me your real name?”

“Yes,” you nodded earnestly.

You dropped down to your knees in front of him. “Why did you do it?” he asked, turning his face away from you. “Was it some jape? Make a fool of the stupid hedge knight?”

“No,” you whispered, trying to meet his gaze. “I thought the campsite had been abandoned, and I only meant to take some scraps of food and leave. I never thought I would run into you.”

“Then why did he lie for you?”

“B-Because he is a good boy,” you said, tears pouring down your face. “He was just looking out for me. Just like you do.”

Duncan scoffed. “I-I,” you stuttered, “I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.”

“Of course you did,” he spat, finally looking at you. “That’s why you lied.”

You doubled over, crying into your hands. You wanted him to understand that it was not a crime to want to live, but you could not find the words. Your problems seemed so small in front of what he was going through. Raymun had told you that Aerion Targeryan had accused him of treason, and tomorrow morning, Duncan would most likely be killed for it. What pained you the most was that you could not defend him. You could not keep him safe. Now the last memory of you in his mind will be soured by your lie.

“Dry your eyes,” you heard him say.

“I just wanted to be a part of someone’s family,” you sobbed. “I never meant to hurt you. I am sorry, Ser. I truly am,”

You felt his hand caress your hair. “It’s just a bit of bad luck we found each other at this time, huh? In another life, we could have been a real family.”

Aegon entered the dungeon cell. “My uncle wants to see you, Ser.”

You stayed kneeling on the ground long until after Duncan had stood up and left. “What will they do to him, Egg?”

The boy sighed, and for the first time, you noticed the toll everything had taken on him. He may be a prince, but he was a child first. “I don’t know, miss.”

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and stood up. “If they let him out tonight, send him to Fossoway Pavilion,” you sniffled. “You come with, and we shall at once leave this damned place together.”

You were on your third cup of ale when Duncan entered the pavilion, soaking wet.

You sprang to your feet and rushed at him. When you hugged him tightly, he did not push you away. He simply crushed you closer into his chest. You inhaled his scent, letting it flood your senses. Duncan the Tall was alive and in your arms.

After a long moment, Raymun cleared his throat, and you two let go. “What is happening with you, Ser?”

“I am to have a Trial of Seven,” the knight answered, letting you lead him to a bench.

“That’s fucking mad!” Raymun exclaimed.

“Why?” you demanded, urgently. “What’s wrong with it?”

“That means battleaxes,” he explained, “morningstars, and lances of war, miss.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “You are scaring her,” Duncan chided, reaching for your cup.

Raymun’s cousin, Steffon, who had been a pain to be around, spoke. “This is knightly combat, boy. She should be afraid.”

Duncan reached for your hand under the table as he continued. “I saw what Aerion did to that girl and her troupe. It was a rotten thing to do. All knights vow to protect the innocent, and you did exactly that. I am for you, Duncan.”

“Thank you, Ser.”

Steffon inquired, “Who else fights with us?”

“I know no one else,” Duncan answered, shaking his head.

He was an orphan, just like you. There was no kin for him to turn to, just like you. “I would fight for you,” you tell him. “I will fight for you.”

“Women can not be knights,” Steffon remarked, utterly confused. “And they do not fight in tourneys.”

“I know that you assh—”

Duncan squeezed your hand tight. “You are an honourable man, so naturally tragedy must follow you,” Raymun said, breaking the tension. “I am sure we can find five four men who wish singers to make them immortal.”

“I have some friends,” Steffon agreed, standing up. “I shall wake them at once.”

“Will they heed your call,” Duncan inquired, “and put their lives on the line for a man they do not know?”

“All men must die sometime,” he reminded him. “Tomorrow is a good day as any.”

Duncan would not let you out of his sight.

You did not want to leave it either. Knowing that tomorrow the Stranger may come for him made your heart weep. You wanted to spend every waking second with him. You wanted him to consume you whole so that when he departed, he would take all of you with him.

When you both made your way back to the inn and the room door was firmly shut, you melted into each other. You had spun around to reach him, and he was already in your arms.

His mouth crashed down on you in the dark. You gasped, mouth parting just enough for his tongue to slip inside. You licked his teeth just like you always wanted to as he backed you into a cold brick wall nearby. Your hands slid up his torso to hold his face. His large hands grabbed a handful of your ass through your skirt, and you bit down hard on his lip.

Duncan jerked back with a groan. He looked at you, confused. “You will not die tomorrow,” you told him, sternly. “Do you hear me?” His face softened. “Aye.”

He bent down to kiss your neck, and you craned your head back on your tiptoes. You finally understood when people said that with the right person, experiences like this are addictive. You never wished to be apart from his mouth. His hand stopped palming your ass to tug the front of your blouse down. He kissed the tops of your breasts, making you beg, “Take it off, please.”

Duncan tore away from you and took a few steps back. He wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“Do not take this moment to fret about my virtue,” you said, sternly. “Do you not see how I ache for you?”

His head dropped low. “I may die tomorrow.”

You opened your mouth to object, but he hushed you. “What am I even leaving for you behind?”

“Do not speak to me as if I am your widow,” you spat, stalking up to him. “There will never be anyone else for me. You are it. Do you understand, Duncan? You are not doing anyone a favour by not fucking me right this moment.”

Blood rushed to his face. You shoved him down on the mattress, and the bed creaked under his weight. You pulled your skirt off first and then your blouse over your head before climbing onto his lap. He gulped, hands frozen mid-air. You let out an impatient grunt. “You stupid hedge knight.”

You grabbed fistfuls of his hair and kissed him hard. He resolve melted when your tongue danced with his. One moment you were in control, and the next you were under him. His mouth trailed wet kisses down your throat and to your pebbled nipples. He sucked one harshly into his mouth, eliciting a loud moan.

His hand found the other one to roll between the pads of his fingers. You reached blindly for the hem of his shirt. He parted from your flesh only when the fabric had forced its way up. He did not protest when you tugged his trousers down to free his hard cock.

The way it slapped against made you shudder. He pushed you into the mattress and balanced his weight on one hand. His eyes shone brightly in the dark.

“I have never done this before,” he confessed, blinking, “with anyone.”

“Good,” you smiled. “You never will either.”

He bent forward to rub his forehead against yours. “There will never be anyone else for me, too.”

He pressed a chaste kiss against your lips and pulled back with furrowed eyebrows. “I am too big,” he said. “I am afraid that it will hurt for you, and I do not know how to make it not so.”

Your smile grew wider. “It will not because it is you.”

“I’ll go slow,” Duncan promised, reaching for his leaking cock. “You will tell me if I displease you, miss?”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows to watch and nodded. Your breath quickened as his leaky head pressed firmly against your opening. The intrusion burned, but you welcomed it for it was a salve for the fire spreading through your bones. He searched your face closely for any signs of discomfort. When he didn’t find any, he pushed all the way in. You collapsed back onto the thin mattress as he slowly stretched you open on his cock.

He was filling you to the brim soon. It was a perfect fit, almost like he was always meant to be in there. He did not move, but you felt the mattress dip around your head. His head popped into your line of blurry vision. “Hello?”

“Hey,” you responded, meekly.

“How does it feel?” he asked, licking his lips nervously.

Duncan had stretched you so wide that almost impossible to clench around him. “You were right,” you breathed, hands limp at your side. “You are huge. F-Feels like you’re still in my throat, Dunk.”

His cheeks redden at your words. “If you say things like that,” he bit his lower lip, “I won’t last long.”

You laughed weakly. “I don’t want you to,” you told him, exhaling. “I want you to fuck me into the mattress and then cum inside.”

He groaned in defeat and dropped his head on your sternum. You jerked the movement shifted his cook, feeding it even further into you. “Shit!”

He experimentally moved again, and your arms flew to hold onto his wide shoulders. Your nails dug crescents into his skin as he tentatively began to rock into you. Your soft groans echoed through the room in sync with his rolls.

You moved your legs to hang over his ass, and he snapped his hips forward, impaling you in the mattress. You cried out his name, and his lips found a spot to suck on your throat. “I have desired this for so long,” he gasped in your hair. “I cannot believe I’m finally inside you.”

Your eyes clenched shut as the tears began pouring. Hearing him want you as much as you wanted him made your heart sing.

“Every night when you slept away from me,” he continued, voice muffled, “every time we walked next to each other in the market, all I could think about was dragging you deep into the meadows. Did you know that? Did you know that I was dying to be inside you?”

He lifted his head up to see you sobbing. “Dunk!”

“When the lights fade from my vision for the final time tomorrow,” he grunted, thrusting into you, “I will think back to this moment. I will think of you.”

Your soul hurt hearing him speak like that. Duncan’s hands reached for the back of your knee and folded you like a straw at the hips. The sounds of your skin slapping together grew louder as he found a rhythm that, although thought to be impossible, did make you clench around him.

He adjusted himself, finding the spongy deep inside you. “Right there,” he groaned. “Gonna’ get you right there, dove.”

You groaned, legs wringing. “You look so beautiful like this,” he told you. “If I had known, I would have done this sooner. I could watch you forever. I will leave you my horses.”

Your back arced at a painful angle, but you pushed through the ache. Duncan had started to ramble; it was hurling you into the light quickly. “Yer squeezing me so tight,” he said to himself. “I could live inside you.”

You took hold of the light strands at the base of his neck. “Don’t stop! Do not stop!”

His lips stretched into a grin. If someone had told you on your first night at Ashford that you would have found yourself a knight buried deep in your cunt on the fortnight, you would have laughed in their face. If they had told you that you would fall in love with a stupid hedge knight, you would have laughed even harder. But there Duncan was, inching you closer to bliss by the second.

You did not notice when his thumb had slipped between you both to rub your clit. “Dunk,” you wheezed as he began to rut. “I’m—”

Your vision went white. Your cunt pulsed around him as waves of pleasure erupted from the base of your spine and out to your extremities. You cried out, shaking underneath him, as your vision blurred. The pinnacle wiped your head clean.

Duncan did not stop, cock still working into you. Your pussy grew sensitive as his rhythm grew sloppier. Grunts began pouring from his mouth as his arms tightened around you to thrust quickly and shallow. Your stomach tightened at the sight of him losing himself inside you. You wished to engrave the image of his heavy-lidded eyes and slack jaw into your mind forever. The knight was about to come undone.

Duncan let out a groan, heavy balls tightening against your ass, and flooded your cunt with warmth. He rocked into gently, riding out his orgasm. You felt impossible full as his cum leaked out of your cunt and dripped down the crevice between your ass cheeks.

He did not pull out. He cupped the back of your head and kissed you, messily. You melted into his mouth, limbs still tingling.

You kissed blissfully for a long time until he manoeuvred you around so that you lay on top of him.

His hands smoothed down your spine, and his lips pressed on top of your shoulders. “W-Was it just as good for you too?” he asked, breathless.

Your cunt still pulsed around him as aftershocks of your pleasure worked their way through you. You nodded against his chest, rubbing your cheek against the soft hair on his chest.

He hooked a finger under your chin to lift your face up to him. “I love you.” Tears brimmed in your eyes once again. “I love you too.”

He brushed his lip against yours and closed his eyes. You both stayed like that, joined together at the hip, until sleep took over. When you stirred up hours later, daylight was just breaking over the horizon through your window.

Duncan lay blissfully asleep and alive under you. You would keep him that way forever. Even if it cost the dragon house to burn itself.

[07x1x4x1]

Knocked Up | 1

— pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader 

— warnings/info: 18+ only | Accidental Pregnancy AU; (unprotected) sex/smut; premature ejaculation; hurt/comfort; angst; humor; jealousy; teammates to lovers; cussing; pregnancy; (most probably) military and medical inaccuracies

Pining for your friend leads to a boozy night and a terribly life-changing consequence.

ᥫ᭡ masterlist

ʜᴇʟʟᴏ, ʟᴏᴠᴇʟɪᴇꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜɴᴇ 𝟤𝟦ᴛʜ, 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨.

You're not surprised by the crowd at the nightclub. It's Saturday night—civvies and soldiers alike looking to unwind, catch someone's eye, maybe just have a few drinks and not think for a while.

You'd counted yourself firmly in the just drinks category after getting back from an op today, unlike your dear friend and fellow Sergeant, who's currently got his stupid head tilted down so some curly-haired beauty can talk right into his ear, wearing that cheeky smile of his like there's no tomorrow—and no you, either—which has your fingers tightening around your glass while your heart squeezes painfully in your chest.

Should've just stayed at the barracks.

The urge to lob your drink at them swells to a near-unbearable pitch, so you take another long sip instead, trading the mean tightness of jealousy choking your throat for the familiar burn of liquor, and turn back to the table with a sharp huff through your nostrils.

Look anywhere but at him. Anywhere.

To your left, Jade senses your agitation and untucks herself from Kyle's neck for what seems like the first time since he stepped foot on the tarmac, only to fix you with narrowed green eyes. The message behind them couldn't be clearer: Girl, stop. Either forget about him or make a fucking move, but stop moping.

You clench your jaw and give her a small, defeated nod, shoulders slouching with it.

She reaches over, perfectly manicured fingers curling around your biceps for a reassuring squeeze and a tight-lipped smile, before she turns back to Kyle. He's watching the crowd with that easy calm of his, one firm arm slung around his fiancée's waist, occasionally dipping his head to kiss her forehead—each one lingering longer than the last until she practically melts into him.

It makes your own sorry, single arse pine even harder. Sometimes you do find yourself envying what they have—this real, unhurried kind of love amid a dating culture built on speed and selfishness—though the pride that it was you who brought them together usually papers over that ugly feeling.

Eventually Jade tugs Kyle towards the dancefloor, beaming, and you end up alone at the table—which is precisely when you catch another glance of Johnny and his target for the night, now grinding on him in her little black dress to Lollipop by Lil Wayne.

"Fuckin' hell," you growl under your breath, clutching the edge of the table while your cheeks burn with anger and hurt. You'd turned around so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

A shot glass slams down in front of you.

Clear liquor sloshes over the thin rim and spills across scarred, pale knuckles. Your lashes flutter—confused—and your gaze flickers upward until you make eye contact with an all too familiar, borderline furious set of dark tawny irises.

You'd forgotten he was even here.

Simon leans in until his gravelly voice rumbles right next to your ear, muffled slightly by his trademark balaclava. "Drink up, Sergeant. That's a bloody order."

When he pulls back and straightens to his full height, eyes still trained on you, you end up feeling even more pathetic—thrown back to your rookie days when you'd first joined the task force and the Lieutenant shadowed you like some incredibly lethal mother hen, always there to either catch your mistake before it happened or reprimand you for how it shouldn't have happened to someone with your skillset.

Then he brings his other hand up, holding a second shot glass, and you almost crack a smile at how comically tiny it looks in his mammoth grip.

He holds it out to you, nodding his chin at the one on the table, and you straighten up yourself, rolling your shoulders before picking it up.

"Can't really be caught disobeying an order at the club, can I?" you joke, half-hearted, and Simon shakes his head, lips pressed tight as he rucks his mask up over his nose. "Alright, then." You sigh, clinking your glass against his. "Cheers, Lt."

God, you hate tequila—not for the taste itself, but for the flashbacks of every terrible hangover that came with it, and it shows on your face as you swallow the mouthful with a tight grimace.

Simon's only reaction is a slight tick of muscle in his bruised jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. Your eyes follow the line of his cheeks, covered in dark blond stubble, before lingering on the purplish bruising that deepens along his jawline from the punch he'd taken to the face today—the one that had been meant for you.

In the dimmed lights, your gaze trails down the exposed stretch of his neck and catches on the thin, jagged scar circling his throat. You wonder, for the umpteenth time, if the Ghost survived having it slit.

You freeze when he leans in again. Caught like a mouse, your fingers flex around the empty shot glass until his voice rumbles in your ear once more.

"Another."

Not a question. You nod anyway and get an involuntary whiff of him at this distance—warm liquor on his breath, that military-issue body wash lingering on his skin (is he the only one on base who actually uses it?), mixed with his own musk clinging to his black hoodie and a faint trace of something woodsy. Cologne. The fact that someone like him owns something as mundane as cologne is enough to throw you.

And for a painful moment, you wonder if Johnny put on a spritz of the cologne you gifted him for his last birthday, if the girl he's with even appreciates his scent the way you would, if she gets to bury her face in his neck tonight, if—

"I'll get us drinks. You stay 'ere." His voice is practically inside your ear canal at this point, chapped lips brushing over your earlobe in a way that sends a sudden rush of warmth pooling low in your gut. You pin it on the fact that you're ovulating—your feelings and emotions have been all over the place since yesterday as it is.

"O-Okay."

You're almost disappointed when he pulls back, blinking rapidly and trying to gather your bearings as you watch his broad-shouldered, intimidating mass cut through the crowd towards the bar. People part around him like the Red Sea.

While he's gone, you try your best not to turn around and look for Johnny, even though the nape of your neck prickles with the certainty that his tongue must be halfway down her throat by now.

Strong hands wandering her generous curves over the soft fabric of her dress, muttering filth in that Scottish brogue into her ear while she giggles and goes for his neck with bruising kisses, leaving lipstick on his golden skin—

A sharp pang lances through your chest, makes you gasp and your eyes squeeze shut as you press your hand to your sternum. Your knees wobble and you tremble on the spot, frozen, while heartbreak and jealousy threaten to crack you open from the inside out.

Then a warm weight presses against the small of your back, making you jolt. Your eyes fly open and you meet Simon's gaze again—molten dark chocolate spread thick over something sweet.

He's placed another drink in front of you. A Whiskey Sour, one of your favourites. His large hand stays splayed against your back while he sets his own drink down, pushes his balaclava up again, and leans in with even less hesitation this time.

"You okay?"

You watch condensation drip down the tumbler and onto the sticky table while goosebumps pebble across your skin where his breath ghosts over your sweaty neck. You give a tight nod. Your spine stiffens when his thumb starts tracing slow circles on your back, above the hem of your top.

"Ya don't seem okay, lass," he gruffs into your ear. "Wanna talk about it? The last op?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. You debate telling him—no, it's not work, it's a deeply personal and humiliating struggle involving romantic feelings for a certain teammate—but your inhibitions might be lowered and your brain still remembers who he is, namely your superior, first and foremost. So you pick up the glass he brought you and force a smile.

"Nah, 'm fine." You hope the look in your eyes does the work your mouth won't—please don't ask again—and Simon hesitates for a tense beat, nostrils flaring with a small huff before he nods.

"Olright, then."

The clink of glasses is swallowed by the noise of the crowd and the bass hammering from the speakers. You take a generous gulp of your cocktail, welcome the tartness and the gentle burn that warms your body in the right places—while the droplet of whiskey spilling from the corner of Simon's mouth distracts you from everything else entirely.

Almost without thinking, you reach up and swipe your thumb across his chin to wipe it away. You feel his fingers flex against your lower back—almost like he's fighting the urge to pull you closer.

If you didn't know any better.

The strange tension breaks when Jade and Kyle return, lips swollen and slightly breathless, giggling at each other as Kyle sets a tray of shot glasses filled with some neon-bright liquor on the table, flashing a toothy grin.

"Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!" Jade announces, banging her fists on the table.

"Ah, I don't know, I think I'm gon—" but the objection dies in your throat when Johnny appears at the table with the curly beauty nearly hanging off his arm, smiling shyly as he introduces her to his friends.

You can't even hear her name. There's a ringing in your ears, sharp and white, as your heart drops so hard to the floor it feels like every person in the club is stomping on it simultaneously—and not a single one of them gives a shit.

His bright blue eyes meet yours across the table, and you hate how his face drops along with his smile, like you're the reason his mood turns sour.

Feeling the sting building in your eyes, you avert your gaze and snatch a shot off the tray—nearly knock the whole thing over—and down the liquor in one swift gulp before the tears can form.

You taste your own bitterness above all else.

Time blurs as you drink away your sorrows, keeping your eyes strictly averted from Johnny and whatever-her-name-is, using Simon's bulk to block your line of sight and sticking close to him while he matches your sudden thirst for alcohol. Every time you reach for a drink, he reaches for one. Every shot you take, he takes one too—quiet, steady, in what can only be described as solidarity.

And when your limbs start feeling like they're made of something boneless and your mind spins a bit too fast for comfort while you lean sideways to giggle shamelessly into black fabric that smells too strongly of military-issue laundry detergent—clutching a massive biceps that visibly flexes beneath your fingers—you know, somewhere deep in the back of your foggy mind, that you've had one too many.

You're blissfully and dangerously unaware of your surroundings.

And you love it.

Your cheeks hurt from smiling so wide for what feels like the first time in forever, your body buzzing and thrumming with your inhibitions shot, and your mind is too fogged over to even remember why you were so miserable in the first place.

It's only when something warm and heavy drapes over your shoulders, a rush of cool night air hits your flushed face, and you're being ushered into the back of a cab that you become vaguely aware of what's going on.

"Jade?" you slur, patting down the space next to you until your palm connects not with soft leather but with a firm, denim-clad thigh.

"The doc's with Gaz. It's jus' me." A deep voice, a calloused hand catching the back of yours before it can roam. A large figure leans over you to buckle your seatbelt while you watch through blurry eyes and a crooked smile.

"Lieutenant?"

"Aye, 's me, sweet'eart."

You try and fail to sit up straighter while Simon gives the driver the base address, and you let your head loll to the side, still smiling dumbly.

"Did—Did I ever tell you that I—that I hate your stupid mask?" You hiccup between slurred words, reaching over to point at his face. "Covers up the—the handsome face of yours, 'nd I hate—ugh—hate that a lot. So… s'much, actually."

Simon snorts. Amusement or disgust—you can't tell and don't care.

"Tha' right?"

You nod eagerly until your head spins harder, and you bury your face in your hands with a groan.

A warm hand settles on the back of your neck, thick fingers kneading your nape. "Ya feel sick, sweet'eart?"

You shake your head slowly this time, letting out a breath through your nose. "Nu-uh." A small sigh escapes you. "Keep going, please. Feels s'good."

And Simon keeps massaging the nape of your neck, digging his fingers into the taut muscles of your neck and the curve of your shoulders until the cab rolls to a stop, and you whine in protest when he pulls his hand away to fish out his wallet.

"C'mon, pet. We're home."

You're not sure how it starts—it was probably your doing—but you don't question it when his lips pressing against yours and his strong, warm hands pawing at your body feels so bloody good.

Simon has you pinned against the wall of an alley between the barracks, his mass pressing you into the cold concrete while your jelly legs wrap around his hips. You can feel his cock growing rapidly against your clothed cunt, the seam of his jeans grinding against yours, creating a friction against your already throbbing clit that makes your breath stutter.

You reach up and cup his bruised jaw until his lips part with a low, pained groan, and you slip your tongue into his mouth. The groan dissolves into a moan that sends your drunken mind into a frenzy, and you take the lead—carding your fingers through his short, already dishevelled hair while he follows, somewhat clumsy.

"Fuck, you taste good, Lt.," you mutter against his lips while he pants into your mouth. "Fuckin' needed this—"

"Simon." He hisses it roughly, cutting you off as he adjusts his grip on the backs of your thighs, squeezing and groping the plump flesh through your jeans. "Call me Simon."

"Simon," you repeat, low and honeyed, with a nip to his bottom lip. His hips press harder into you with a quiet growl.

"Yes, sweet'eart… Fuck, yes."

Neither his hands nor yours leave each other's bodies for more than a few seconds as you eventually stumble into the quiet barracks and through his door. He ushers you towards the bedroom and disappears for a moment while you fumble with your clothes, undressing in a clumsy haste.

When he returns, he freezes in the doorway.

He's holding a large glass of water, and his dark eyes zero in on you writhing and lounging across his mattress—naked, shameless, giggling coyly like what you're doing isn't utterly obscene as well as utterly against regs.

"Fuck… me," he mutters under his breath, white-knuckling the glass while his cock twitches obscenely, still trapped in his jeans.

The glass nearly tips over when he slams it down on his wardrobe and approaches the bed with slow, heavy steps, eyes drinking in the sight of you—bare skin barely lit by moonlight bleeding through a crack in his black curtains—in a way that would have you squirming if you weren't this drunk.

Your breath hitches when he stops at the edge of the mattress and pulls his hoodie off. Another black shirt follows, discarded onto the floor with a dull thud.

He blinks slowly, gazing down at you while you play mindlessly with your own peaked nipples, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Then you prop yourself up on your elbows with a cheeky grin and a cocked brow.

"Need help with that?" you ask casually, nodding at his jeans. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. "Come on. Let me help."

"Fuck, it's—it's—" You don't think you've ever heard him stutter before, but he's practically trembling as you shift to kneel at the edge of the mattress and reach for his belt, unbuckling it with slightly less deft fingers than usual.

"It's okay," you giggle. "I don't mind helping you out."

You lean in and lick a wet stripe along his dark happy trail while pulling his jeans and briefs down, and the moan that tears out of him is so rough and loud that you pull back with parted lips, staring up at him in awe.

"That feel good, baby? Yeah?" Simon nods slowly, chest heaving with deep, deliberate breaths, and his molten gaze drops straight to your dripping cunt like he's already touching it the way he worked your neck in the cab.

"Fuck. I can make it feel even better."

It takes more coaxing than you're used to in your past encounters before you feel the solid weight of him on top of you—fully naked, nestled between your parted thighs. He's hard, leaking a steady dribble of pre onto your lower belly while his fat cock presses between your bodies.

"You okay, Si?" you murmur between the sweet little kisses you pepper along his jaw and up towards the corner of his lips. "Sure you don't want my mouth first?"

He exhales sharply. His throat clicks when he swallows.

"Affirm. 'm sure." His head lolls forward with another muttered curse, eyes fluttering shut before he rests his forehead gently against yours. "You sure 'bout this, aye?"

You chuckle softly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and brushing your palms over scarred skin, raking short nails across his back muscles and feeling them ripple and shudder beneath your touch. His head drops into the crook of your neck with a muffled groan as he slowly melts into you.

"Ye'r killin' me, sweet'eart."

You turn your face to the side and start sucking a lovebite into his neck while his pulse throbs beneath your tongue.

"Want me to beg, Lt.?" you purr into his ear, voice mellow as silk, before nipping at his earlobe. It wouldn't be the first time you've begged someone. His hips start grinding experimentally, dragging his throbbing cock across your lower belly, hot puffs of breath warming your neck.

"Please… please fuck me, Simon."

He groans and it vibrates deep in his chest. "Fuckin' 'ell, you—you don't have to beg me. I jus'—" He's trembling with restraint, panting so hard against your neck you can practically taste the alcohol on his breath.

"I want you." Another nip to his neck, adding to the small bruise already blooming on his pale skin. "I need this, baby… please."

Yes, you need the burning want inside you sated, and you need a certain mohawk-having Scottish bastard wiped from your mind for bloody good.

A pause.

Then he shifts between your legs. Adjusts his stance. Keeps himself propped on one elbow beside you while he reaches down and grasps the base of his cock.

"I need yer help," he murmurs, blunt and bare, finally meeting your eyes with a look so intense and pupils so blown it makes your breath catch. Your head spins, but not from the alcohol anymore.

"Tell me if it 'urts."

You bite your bottom lip and nod, canting your hips up for him. So bloody serious, even now—but you somehow manage to keep that thought behind your teeth as he starts rubbing the fat tip of his cock through your slick folds, catching on your swollen clit and pulling a needy sound from your throat.

When he finally pushes inside, you moan in unison—the sound filling the quiet of his room in a way neither of you could have braced for.

You watch him through a daze, half-lidded, while the girth of his shaft splits you open agonisingly slow. His face is scrunched in a way you haven't seen before—like he's terribly focused or in pain—and when he lets out another low groan, your walls clench around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper like your greedy body demands it.

"Need to stop doin' tha', love." He grunts it through visibly clenched teeth. "Gonna—ah—'m not gonna last like tha'."

You choke on a whimper when he bottoms out with a sudden snap of his hips. Your legs fall open wider and you're sure he's in your guts at this angle, his tip pressed snug against your cervix and your G-spot simultaneously.

"Oh, f-fuck, Si—" Your hiccupped words dissolve into a moan when he swallows them with a messy kiss—lips crashing uncoordinatedly while his hips stutter and roll and he starts fucking into you with slow, shallow thrusts.

It's not enough and the exact opposite of what you expected from him, but his cock fills you so perfectly that you don't mind. You keen into his mouth, grinding your hips to coax him deeper, faster—anything to soothe the ache building inside you.

"Harder," you whimper against his lips. "Faster… please—"

"Ngh—fuck!" He's panting sharply, fisting the sheets beside your head while your breaths tangle. He pulls back just enough for his dark eyes to lock with yours, flickering as he drinks in the sight of you splayed out beneath him—so utterly willing and shamelessly wanting—while your fingers keep roaming his back and threading through the short strands of his hair.

Your lips part on a shuddering breath, shiny with your combined spit, and his eyes chase the movement of your tongue across your bottom lip.

Simon lets out a soft groan before he catches your mouth in another kiss. Deeper this time. More deliberate. His tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like something he's been starving for.

Then he pulls his hips back, drags his cock out halfway, and drives back in—once—harder and faster, just like you begged, and you keen against his lips, eyes rolling, toes curling as his thick shaft drags against your walls just right.

"Fuck, yes, baby. Just like that." You lock your legs around his hips, bracing yourself for the pounding of your life while his head drops against your shoulder with a rough groan.

And Simon gives you two and a half more perfect thrusts before his entire body seizes with relief—his cock throbbing and spilling inside you, thick and hot, painting your walls while he keeps his face buried in the crook of your neck, muffling guttural moans and ragged whimpers against your skin.

It takes a moment. Staring at his blank ceiling in shock and something close to awe, your fingers twitching and drumming an absentminded beat against his back while your brain catches up to what just happened.

Your voice is hoarse and quiet. "Did… Did you just—"

A grunt against your tingling skin. "Mhm. 'm sorry." You can feel it leaking out of your cunt, warm and sticky, while his cock stays hard inside you. "Fuck—" He rolls his hips tentatively, hissing through his teeth. "I can go again."

He sounds desperate and utterly wrecked at the same time, still shuddering with the aftershocks while your cunt flutters with a satisfied sort of pride—knowing she did that, made him finish that fast, for the first time in your life.

"Christ—" Your breath hitches as he slowly bottoms out once more, and you slip a hand between your bodies, rubbing lazy figure eights over your neglected clit.

"You better."

[07x1x4x1]

antidote

You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.

— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader

— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+

author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.

"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.

He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

And down the hall, a kettle clicks on.

[dewypout]

𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ───── 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 ;; what if the kin of a believed-to-be long extinct house resurfaces, in ashford meadow of all places, and with a hedge knight, nonetheless? for whatever happens, may the stars be on her side, because if discovered, the targaryen's won't be, and neither will those loyal to them. 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ;; ser duncan x female!reader 𝒄𝒘 ;; mentions of past encounters with misogyny 𝒂𝒏 ;; did i end my break just to write a story about akotsk? yes. yes i did.

‎ꫂ᭪݁ the lace dividers are by ︵ @uzmacchiato

THE STORY BEGINS WITH PHEONIXES, the three representing many that graced the mountains of Dorne, and the sword wedged between them and “sin of sight” represents the end those magnificent beasts faced when humans discovered them. Every sinner faces their ruin; the same way that the bird was hunted to extinction, so did the world turn to hunting down your kin a century ago. What for? That you’ve yet to learn, no— you must learn. In the end, it all came around like one big circle; the hunter became the prey. Though this prey got tired of hiding.

House Ladybright is the phoenix — magnificent and hunted down to the grave. At least that is what the scarce descendants wanted the world to believe. But what happens when one flees hideout—, curses those who chained her down for her safety with bittersweetness, and faces those who made her need those chains in the first place with vengeance? Will the road ahead break her? Will the rediscovery of her house be her doom? Apparently, she'll get stuck with a shittyarse hedge knight, and his shite just so happens to smell like doom.

“What kind of man takes a dump near his deceased master’s resting place?” You turn opposite the man, whom you grown to know as Dunk, as he relieves himself behind a tree. Hours prior, you’d think yourself mad for feeding him like a starving dog that he looks like, but with a statue like his, he could be of use — hopefully, or you just witnessed his enormous buttocks for nothing. Thoughts of home, what little you had before running away, flow through your mind — mother, father, do you worry? Keep each other safe— another sound of the large man’s intestines pushing out the very meal you gave him, interrupt your sadness, and as disgusting as it was, it stops the self-pity from resurfacing.

“What kind of lady watches?” His answer grinds your gear just slightly, but what better would it do to argue? None. Dunk informed you that he was headed towards Ashford Meadow, apparently a tourney was held there — not that you knew much about those, but you have held an arrow ever since you stopped weaning, which may come in useful now. Behind you, the man grunts as he fastens his clothes back into place, before letting out a relieved sigh — is he happy that he finished his dump? Men.

“You’d better have washed.” You inquire, finally turning to face the giant of a man. Your nose scrunches as his stench tells you the exact opposite. No matter, you grew up with three younger brothers; nothing’s worse than those little hellions. He isn’t your brothers, and you’re not home anymore. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. The man in front of you spoke of honor and knighthood, but shits in bushes. You seek to be seen, to show that House Ladybright is strong, and here— still standing in this godforsaken realm that tried to diminish it — will you too end up like him?

“There is no stream near—” he tries to contradict, accent thick, but still tinged with that boyish foolishness.

“Leaves do exist, are you aware?” The remark earns a chuckle from the knight as he passes by you. Dunk nudges his head to the side, pointing you to one of the stallions he brought along. Three is how many this poor fella had, so not that poor, after all, was he? With a tired exhale, you mount the animal. You watch him put your own belongings, which you’ve brought in two sacks, onto the third horse. The way to Ashford was a long one, and with weary bodies and tired eyes, the two of you went to an inn to eat supper. You stared, to say the least, as Dunk devoured a duck and some lamb from the plate in front of him. Of course, big man, big appertiete.

“Are you going to eat that? Ow!” The sting of wood against skin rings through the tavern as you slap him with your bow when he tries to grab some of your food. It’s almost laughable, the look he gives you, like a big overgrown pupper, you were practically his owner now. With a grumble and “Gluttony’s a sin, you do well to remember that,” you give him your leftovers. A day. A whole day spent travelling with the…strangest man you’ve ever met. Not that you knew many at all, being a lady, you were taught fairly strict rules about engaging with men, and now you were traveling with one— then again, the winds always change course, you just pray you chose the right man to trust.

“You— I dreamed of you…” A startled screech leaves your lungs, body fleeing under Dunk’s in the spur of the moment. Dunk grabs you securely, pulling out his sword from the rope of a belt he wore. The pair of you look at the drunken man, who, without another word, stands up and leaves up the nearby steps. What in seven’s name was that? You gape at the now-empty seat, which the strange man had occupied before you and the hedge knight even arrived. Why would someone make a statement like that only to up and leave? And that coin…a shiver runs down your spine as the three-headed dragon engraved on it shimmers in the dim candlelight, before the working lady snatches and pockets it.

Warmth, muscle, and…the smell that should repulse, but didn’t because it was his— Dunk’s, enflunged you… His chivalry makes your cheeks feel warm, and makes an unknown feeling start to bloom in your chest. He rushed, practically leaped above the table, to hurl you against him and protect you like a true knight, and as if you mattered to him. Your fist curls against the poor fabrics of his clothes, the ones he had only ever known, which looked so strange clashing with the luxurious layers of your own dress. Maybe…just maybe, he will succeed in gaining the glory he so dearly sought.

“Uh…I apologize—” his voice brings you back, and you notice how he looks down at you, eyes flickering to yours, then lower to your lips, your heart skips a beat, or three, that you’re sure of. But it shouldn’t. It cannot. Not now — when you are so unsure of everything else, and real life, away from hiding like a wounded phoenix, is overwhelming you. With a few awkward coughs and charged glances, you move apart, sitting in your respective seats once more.

The rest of the day was spent with you two going around the tourney grounds asking houses if they knew Ser Arlan of Pennytree, because Duncan needed approval to join the joust. Which you thought was absolutely ridiculous— it’s scary enough that the hedge knight is doing this freely, but someone needs to approve participation in such a deathwish of a game? Mad people. Traveling really wasn’t for the weak; your feet ached in your heels, and you wanted nothing more than to get a good night’s rest. At least the two of you enjoyed a small puppet show.

“Halfman! Halfman!” strange — you and Dunk look around; it sounded almost as if someone had been calling out to him— calling him such unpleasantry— It’s then that one of the knight’s strong, warm arms grabs a hold of your wrist, but not to shield you from anything, like hours prior, but to make a stop of pace. As the two of you turn around, you see a familiar face, but from where had you seen it again? — He is the man who was sparing with his familiar while you and the hedge knight were walking around the grounds earlier this day, of course! You look up at your fellow travel companion, you notice the tight set of his jaw, and can practically hear his teeth grind at the name the other man gave him.

“Do I look like a halfman to you?”

“Aye.” Dear heavens— you had to bite back a smile at that. You didn’t know what was more laughable. Duncan’s offended look— or the other man’s quick confirmation of the question. The man then turns to you, a faint flush suffuses his features, he greets you with a small bow and “my lady”, which you curtsy at in return. With a clearing of his throat and one last, awkward smile, he turns his attention back to Dunk.

You walk a bit behind the men, not wanting to intrude on their conversation, it isn’t a lady’s business to need know what men discuss— is what your father taught you. Your hand tightens on the quiver attached to the upper half of your body where your arrows were stored, then moves against the bow’s string next to it, letting the fine string irritate your fingertips just slightly. An uncomfortable memory resurfaces of your father belittling you when you wanted to be a part of one of his council meetings, since you were his oldest child, you thought you should attend, but you thought wrong. Whatever hope you had of joining the table that day was diminished when your father reminded you that you were just a woman and women didn’t participate in council meetings.

Your flinch, snapping back into reality at the feeling of Dunk’s hand on your cheek. You meet his gaze, filled with worry. This was…so emberassing, to need comforting in a bustling event like this one, you wanted to brush his hand away, but he lowered it before you had a chance to, and instead guided your hand to loop around his own, bringing you between him and the man whose name is Raymun Fossoway, as he revealed it — and the man he trained with prior was his senior cousin Steffon. But your gaze…it didn’t leave Dunk’s side profile, not even when you tripped on something ahead, it couldn’t. This man— he didn’t allow for you to be left out, and that meant a great deal to you, more than he probably realized.

Was that for the better or worse? Being left out sounded a tad bit more enjoyable than the situation you got yourself in. It certainly was awkward standing in front of a man with antlers on his head. House Baratheon, you’ve learned of it, as much as the sept allowed you, that is. But nothing could’ve prepared you for a meeting with Ser Lyonel “the laughing storm” Baratheon. Even Duncan was having trouble communicating with him.

“Is that why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?” The hedge knight just gave an awkward ‘I don’t slouch,’ not that the norbleman listened very well. The two of you practically froze when the Baratheon asked what you’ve brought him— brought him? As in a favor? We just came here because Dunk has four stomach compartments like a bloody cow!

“Ser, I— beggin’ your pardons. I didn’t realize.” With a deep breath, you begin to speak your own mind before the stag in front has a chance to continue his own.

“Curry your favor?” You shot Dunk an uneasy look before returning your gaze to the other man. To save a friend the embarrassment of not knowing noble mannerisms, you threw yourself into the unsettling attentions of the Baratheon. You reached for the coin pouch attached to your dress and pushed two of your house’s gold coins to him. Lyonel looked at the coin in his hand before covering it as a man near him tried to catch a glimpse of the sigils with a ‘sod off, cunt’. The look on his face was that of confusion, and he met your eyes a few more times, as if to ask whether this was real or not. You looked around uneasily, and he seemed to understand your worry. He pocketed the favor.

“Say, do you two like dancing?” At the stag’s words, you exchange a glance with Dunk, then nod. Though this dancing was nothing like what you’ve been taught by your childhood teachers, people laughed with full lungs, bumped into each other, and let a wild tune carry their feet gaily. For what seems to be the first time since the hedge knight met you, he saw your colors shine, and you were breathtaking…The way your hair flew freely as you danced atop a table, twirling like an excited child, feeling everything so deeply— You laughed as you bumped into Ser Lyonel when he joined you in dance, like a colorful peacock. He watched as the Lyonel kissed your hand, before twirling you himself some more.

“Catch, big boy!” Dunk scrampled towards you as the other man lifted you, getting a startled scream from you, then threw you off the table. Dunk sank onto his knees, catching you in his big arms. Gently, with his pointer finger, he removed the hair that fell over your face. A small spark of fear ran through him, worried that you were crying from the scare. But no, you weren’t crying, far from it, your arms wrapped themselves around his neck as you laughed gleefully, voice breaking from joy. Dunk laughed alongside, and for the first time since beginning this journey, he felt genuinely happy.

The two of you arrived back where the horses were tied, only to find the boy from the inn there. Much to Duncan’s dismay, as you practically lectured his ear off when you left that place on why you two couldn’t take the child with you — which he thought was absolute madness from your side. The child wasn’t yours to take; poor Dunk should’ve definitely kept that thought to himself, though, because you started lecturing him some more— he could’ve sworn your morality would be the death of him.

“He’s adorable! Dunk, we have to take him with us!” The hedge knight sighs at your insistence that you just adopt the unknown child, though you could tell he wasn’t actually mad, even his heart hurt when the boy revealed he was without mother the day before. Now, you sat around the fire, eating the fish that the boy, Egg, prepared. It was decent. Though you definitely missed your own home’s food. Duncan got alarmed as you began to choke on one of the fish’s bones, hitting your back as Egg fetched some water. At times, you were as willful as a queen, and at others as breakable as glass, he thought. What was he to do with you?

The three of you lay in the open field; the fire that Egg lit began to dim as you observed the starry sky. A sound of awe paired with quiet laughter leaves your lips as a falling star passes the landscape above. You’ve been traveling alone for a few moons now before meeting the knight, sleeping in inns you found along the way and spending your gold on them, now, under Dunk’s protection, you could sleep under the open sky to your heart’s content.

“A falling star brings luck to those who see it.” A smile forms on your face, and you nod at Egg’s words. Sure enough, you grew up hearing similar fairytales. Never could you imagine you’d witness a shooting star on this journey, though. Dunk just scoffed, which earned him a glare from you. You covered Egg more thoroughly with your blanket, pulling the boy near your side. Dunk continues in an awkawad manner,

“So the luck is only ours?” You and Egg share a look, choosing not to answer the headge knight.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you traveling with Ser Duncan, my Lady?” Egg’s question makes you chuckle. You shrug. Dunk protected you, yes, but so would anyone whom you gave coin to. Then, you think back to how he leaped at your scream back in the inn, shielding you, and how he caught you when Lord Lyonel threw you— like you’re worth far more than any gold in all of Westeros.

“He’s…the only man I trust.”

“I am a man. Do you not trust me?” Egg asks,

“You’re a boy.” Duncan interrupts, strong voice carrying to the nearby grounds. You thought he went to sleep when Egg and you ignored him, but turns out he was just listening carefully to the conversation between his newfound squire and the lady whom he protects. Now you felt a bit silly for admitting your trust in him so outwardly, like a fair maiden that just confessed to the knight who guarded her honor. You decide to stir the conversation in another direction.

“You remind me of my brothers, Egg. Though you are far sweeter.”

“How many do you have?” Duncan, yet again, pushes himself into the conversation. The hedge knight, who never had a home nor siblings, found himself curious about the land you hail from and your family. Duncan remembers how he found you while burying his dead master, sitting on a rock further away and eating some pastry oozing with jam. It looked delicious, and you…you kindly offered him some (most of it). The tall man had never encountered someone like you, never been treated with such kindness from the get-go. But the way his heart thudded against the ribs caging it in when you revealed your trust in him betrayed Dunk’s excuse of just being curious. He was getting attached to you. And by the gods, he’ll do everything in his power to protect you.

“I have three younger brothers. They were all born on the same day.” Egg gasps at the revelation, quick to speak his own mind.

“Blimey! Triplets?” That earned the squire a small ‘watch your mouth, boy’ from Duncan, lecturing him as a disappointed father would. You continue,

“Mhm. It meant…a great lot to my family.”

“What do you mean? Do you come from a small family?” You think a bit, unsure of what to say to the knight. On one hand, you wished to reveal who you were; on the other, you knew better than to do that.

“I suppose so.” If only you knew.

The next day was even more eventful. And by eventful, you meant Ser Duncan, now self-proclaimed The Tall, getting shut down over and over again whenever he told people that the old man who raised him, Arlan of Pennytree, served them. None remembered. Even less cared. It tugged at your heartstrings to see the knight become more and more discouraged by the rejections. Duncan pulled you close to him as the townspeople rushed to catch glimpses of new arrivals to the tourney— and the same unease you felt when you saw the dragon coin washed over you when the banners came into view.

“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.” You could swear a vein popped on your forehead as one of the Targaryen kin spoke to Duncan like he was less than dirt under their fingernail.

“Uh, I’m not a stable boy, m’lord.”

“Not clever enough?” The prince raises a brow, then shakes his head.

“Well, if you can’t manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.” He dismounts his horse, his gaze falls onto you, and he smirks. He steps closer, seemingly not paying any mind to Duncan as he explains how he’s not a serving man either.

“Are you a wench? Never met a noble one.” You wanted nothing more than to punch his porcelain skin off the bone, but Duncan stood in front of you, shielding you. As the prince reaches for your hand, you move it away— he stops his motion, licking the outer part of his mouth as if thinking of how to act as snobbishly as possible next, only to deem you unworthy of the fight, and start to walk away.

“I’ll peg you!—” The prince stops at your words, but when he turns to face you once more, you’re no longer there, and neither is Ser Dunk. You glare at Duncan as he holds a hand over your mouth, hiding inside the horse stable. He gives you an ‘are you mad?’ look, before releasing you when the coast is clear. Did you not understand that this could have cost you your head? What highly worried the headge knight is that you most certainly knew that, but chose not to care.

You came to his defense, and it confused Duncan—being kind to him was one thing; he did not need or, for that matter, want you to lose your life because you had decided to defend his honor. However, his heart seemed to ignore the concern that his brain tried to convey to it; it chose to focus on the romantic aspect of it all— which had to be tricks, illusions by his green nature, you didn’t love him — you’re just far too kind, and accidentally captured the giant man’s heart. He just prays you don’t break it.

── © 𝑑𝑒𝑤𝑦𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑡

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ღ

[h0lym01y]

HEADLOCK MASTERLIST

pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader

summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.

tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism (additional tags on individual chapters)

CHAPTER ONE : like machines do : spencer and our leading lady find themselves in a tricky situation

CHAPTER TWO : you know you're better than this : things start to heat up between our stars.

CHAPTER THREE : too late to stop : our pairs on screen chemistry is tested.

CHAPTER FOUR : and you look half dead half the time : our couple prepares for their final act.

[sexy-monster-fucker]

You Know Just How to Get to Me

Richie Jerimovich x Carmy’s Childhood Friend!Reader

Summary: After a disagreement went a little too far, Richie told you not to come back. When he realized you really weren’t coming back, he had to come change your mind. Even if it meant knocking on your apartment door in the early hours of the morning.

CW: f!reader, probably off canon, takes place early season one, reader was carmy’s childhood friend, age gap, pre established relationship (not dating), flash back sequences, mentions of abuse, suicide mention, fighting, self deprecating, confessions, makeout, hickeys, makeup sex, nipple play, fingering, p in v, confessions, creampie

a/n: okay I’m barely three episodes in so be easy on me… I would have watched more by now but Disney+ is being a bitch and won’t let me password share

title track 🎶🚬

~~~

That stupid fucking leather jacket.

Over another jacket to beat the Chicago cold. Cigarettes and cheap cologne wafting in as you opened the door. Tight fitted t-shirt hugging his torso. Hands tucked into his pockets of the track pants he always wore to work. Eyebrows laying flatly across his eyes as he scanned you.

Locking your jaw as you shifted on your feet. Hip cocking to the side as you looked up at him. Rolling your shoulders and stretching your neck. A game of chicken to see who would speak first. Both your egos not allowing you to be the one to start the conversation.

Two in the morning. Richie Jerimovich had the nerve to knock on your door at two in the goddamn morning! After having said some of the most unflattering things to you not even forty-eight hours prior. Taking shots the way only someone you had known for years could. Beating you down to the point of tears. Yet still having the nerve to show up at your apartment during the late hours of the night. Early hours of the morning? Whatever.

You had met back when you were still a teenager. Coming home with Carmy after school one day. Having taken some stupid science fair assignment together. Both of you needing the extra grade. Remembering walking into their home to loud voices shouting over each other in the kitchen. Fire alarm blaring every second. Mikey had accidentally lit something on fire over their gas powered stove. His lanky friend whipping a towel at it while cussing him over and over. Richie was Mikey’s best friend. Late college age. Back when his hair was shaggy and he always wore a wife-beater under his opened button downs. His eyebrows had been harshly arched and his mouth hanging open as he looked over his shoulder to the two of you. Yelling at Carmy, who he lovingly called ‘cousin’, to grab the bag of flour from the cabinet. Throwing it haphazardly across the open flames. Leaving their kitchen in a state of snowy white. Slapping Mikey on the back of the head with another chastising grunt. Mocking him for the scene that you, their newest guest, had to walk in on. Something about making them look bad. His first impression leaving a momentous memory in your developing mind.

Carmy had remained one of your closest friends throughout your lives. Growing up together. Going to every party together. Helping him ask out his first girlfriend. Late night runs around town just to so you did not have to go home. Attending almost every family function the Berzatto’s had to offer. Earning your place as an honorary member. Even when he went off to culinary school and left everyone behind, you still found yourselves texting. More than he gave his own family. Which was telltale of your relationship. The brother you never had.

So when you got the call from Sugar a few months ago about Mikey, you did not hesitate to come lend a hand. However they needed, you would be there. Even when it meant working at The Beef as it fell apart under Carmy’s new leadership.

Things were more than tense in the overly-crowded-underpaid restaurant. No one wanting to take Carmy’s direction. Constantly referring to ‘the system’ they had before this. Not welcoming change.

“Obviously that system doesn’t work!” you remembered shouting in his face.

Richie was towering over you, lips pushed tightly together as his nostrils flared, “Worked just fine ‘til you two fuckers showed up and decided to change everything!”

And that was just the start of it all.

Richie looked to the side and huffed, “You gonna make me stand out in the cold?”

Rolling your eyes and scoffing, you stepped out of the doorway to allow him inside. Locking it behind him. Crossing your arms over your chest as you turned to face him. Leaning back into the door and keeping your lips sealed. Waiting whatever bullshit reason he had for being here at this hour.

Richie’s hand cupped the back of his neck. Rubbing it nervously. Pacing in your living room. Clicking his tongue as he spoke, “We sold out of meat tonight.”

You nodded, raising a brow.

“Well, actually we ran out. Carmy’s hell bent on some new way of cooking it. So we didn’t have enough prepped. And the vendors have quit… cause y’know we’re overdue or whatever,” Richie tapped his foot as he rambled.

You poked your tongue into your cheek. Wondering where the hell this could be going. There had to be a better reason he was here.

“Usually, it’s all hands on deck when things like this happen. It’s how we keep it together. But… there was some hands missing tonight,” Richie finally looked to you again.

You scoffed, “Richie—“

“Let me finish,” he held his hand up to you, “Look, things only work when everyone is on the same goddamn page. I can’t help that you and cousin came in and decided things didn’t work anymore. And I know things got a little heated the other night, but you left us high and dry tonight.”

You widened your eyes at him. Breathing out a shocked laugh. Flattening a hand against your chest and rolling your eyes. Shaking your head because you could not believe this putz had the nerve to say something like that to you. Squinting at him, “I left you high and dry?”

“Pretty fucking much,” Richie shrugged.

“Oh. That’s fucking rich. Coming from you, asshole—“

“Christ, Y/N! You’ve been around long enough to know that’s how we talk. We fight, we scream, we name call; but at the end of it we’re still family. Ain’t that what you always wanted? Feel like part of this fucking family? You’re Carmy’s little friend and all,” Richie gestured up and down.

Carmy’s little…

“Carmy’s little wannabe girlfriend,” Richie had shouted at you the other night, “News flash, dipshit: if he doesn’t want you by now, he isn’t gonna!”

Your palms were burning with frustration. Striking a nerve with that remark. The one he knew always made you so angry. Using it against you in this moment. Everyone around gasping at the comment. You looked to Carmy who had just entered the kitchen. Eyes wide, shock and confusion tugging his brows down. It only made it worse.

“Real good stuff, Richie. And who didn’t Mikey leave the restaurant to, huh? Guess he saw how your marriage worked out and knew better. Can’t even keep a fucking family together. What would you know about running a restaurant?” you pushed up on your toes for a moment, getting back in Richie’s face.

Remembering how your stomach dropped at his expression. Regretting the words as soon as they left your lips. But having to stand your ground. Richie’s jaw flexed as he swallowed. Silence filling the normally hectic space. His eyes darting between yours. Clearly holding his tongue from saying more.

Pointing a finger in your face, “You… You’re being a bitch right now.”

Disrespecting you further. You ground your teeth together. Fighting back the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes. All the years of complicated feelings bubbling in your throat. Lip quivering as you tried to keep a mean face. Nodding as you prepped to say more, but getting cold feet.

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen,” he had said steadily.

“No— NO! Don’t give me that shit,” you pointed with every word, “Don’t act like you and I have some unspoken agreement about being family. Showing up here as if I owe you an apology. You’re the one who told me not to come back. Remember that? Eh?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Richie rolled his eyes, “I told you to get out last night. Not to fucking jump ship!”

You chuckled in disbelief. Lip arching as you took a step closer to him, finger still pointed at his face. Sharp eyes meeting his, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to say whatever the hell you want them show up here and act like I did something wrong, Jerimovich.”

“Ahhh, don’t ’Jerimovich’ me—“

“You knew better than saying that shit. Especially in front of everyone!” you clapped your hands together.

“Oh. Come on, Y/N! One fucking slip—“

“SLIP? Don’t you even dare. You know damn good and well how that makes me feel. How fucking angry I used to get when people in school would say that shit,” you barked in his face.

Richie got closer, practically pressing his nose to yours, “Stop playing victim, princess. You’re the one who had the nerve to bring my divorce into it. Let alone talking on Mikey’s name.”

Both of you huffing like bulls about to charge. The air between you running entirely too hot. Both your faces flushed.

“Why’re you acting like we’re strangers or something? Like you don’t even know me anymore?! I thought we were friends!” Richie spoke with his hands.

“I thought so too!” you held your arms out at your sides. Furrowing your eyebrows tightly together as your nostrils flared. Stepping back to rest against the door once more. Sniffling a little, “Thought things were different with us.”

Richie blinked. Things were different between you. Not like your relationship with Mikey or even Carmy. Richie always had a certain protective nature for you. Taking you under his wing as the only other none blood relative of the family. Something you had once bonded over when you were a young adult. Finding a comfort in him that no one else had ever given you. Hanging out with him and Mikey more once you were finally eighteen. And though he did not like to admit it, Richie was fond of you. More than he should have been. Laughing hard at some stupid joke in some movie you watched together. Sometimes letting you rest your body against his after a long day. Driving around late at night and just talking. It was all natural and easy. So, of course, he wanted to protect you. Needing to keep you on track when you teetered off the rails.

Carmy had went off to college just a few months prior. You were not taking it well. Not sure how to even function without your best friend, and things at your home had gotten bad. Your dad was drunk more often than not, and your mom could not take it anymore. Often taking his drunken frustrations out on you instead. It’s not like you could afford rent on your own, and you didn’t know anyone you could stay with.

Drinking helped you forget. The fake I.D. you had bought off some sleazy middle aged guy helped you get into bars and clubs. Drunk more nights than not. It helped you sleep. Helped you forget. It was the best distraction you had.

That night, you had been invited to a party by some older guys at a bar. Frat bros no doubt. Barely able to remember how you ended up at this house in the middle of no where. Surrounded by people you did not know. Music blaring so loud that you could not focus. A red solo cup that someone else had poured for you. Unable to taste it, really. Faces of strangers misshaping in your drunken haze. Some older girls stood around you chatting about life at their office. Mixture of groups confusing you further. Thinking this had to be a college party, but the way they talked about mundane work life made you question it. But the alcohol had you carefree. Bobbing your head to the over the top music. Eyes closed and smile beaming. Not sure what hour it was. Not sure where you were. Not caring either.

A firm hand on your shoulder had you spinning around before you could register the touch. Richie’s voice barely cut through the alcohol raging in your system, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hey! Richie!” you slurred, eyes lighting up when you finally realized it was him.

His eyebrows pinched the skin between them. Blue eyes wide and jaw hanging open. Shock written as clear as day across his face. Frustrated at you. Shrugging his arms to the side and shaking his head as he looked you up and down. Revealing clothes with ripped tights. Not enough layers to even begin protecting you from the cold air this time of year. Makeup smudged under your eyes. Cheeks glowing with alcohol.

“What the fuck is that? You’re not even old enough to have that in your hand,” Richie spoke through locked teeth, gesturing towards the cup in your hand. Aggressively snatching it from you and dropping it onto the ground. Earning a late protested ‘hey!’ once you saw the liquid pooling next to your feet.

You crossed your arms and shifted away from him, “Why do you care?”

Richie sighed. Pinching the top of his nose, “You know why. And if cousin isn’t here to keep you straight, looks like I’ve gotta be the fucking one. Now come on!”

That was the moment something shifted inside you. Richie’s hand on your forearm burned. Seeing him in an entirely new light. Rushing you out the door while curses rolled from his tongue. Giving any guy with a wandering eye a look that could kill. Feeling your stomach warm up when his blue eyes looked over his shoulder to you. For so long, he had been Carmy’s older brother’s friend. A guy who was always around the same way you were. Tagging along with the family antics. But now his image was changing. Protective of you. Guarding you from every body you passed.

The cold air wafting against your skin sobered you momentarily. Squinting your eyes into a harsh blink. Shivering instantly. Furrowing your brow at Richie, “Where are we going?”

“My car,” he bluntly responded.

You pulled your arm from his grasp. Firmly planting both your feet into the cold ground outside. Breath clouding in front of your face as you huffed.

Richie turned, arms falling loosely at his sides with a smack. Shoulders dropping as he tilted his head, waiting for whatever stupid thing you were going to drunkenly rattle off. Losing patience as you both silently stared, “What is it? You’ve gotta be freezing, come on—“

Without hesitating, he pulled his leather jacket off his body. Wrapping it around you, his hand met the small of your back. Tingling along your skin. You pulled it tighter against your body as you continued forward. The heat in your face was blurring between alcohol and blush. It smelt so strongly of him. Cigarettes and some cologne. Natural musk. Your heart was pounding as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Glancing over to him. Had Richie always looked so handsome?

No— fuck! Even drunk clean off your ass you knew better. There was no point in thinking something like that. Richie was way older than you, plus there’s no way he would be interested in someone like you. Carmy’s little friend.

The wedged heels you wore were beginning to burn. Walking more than you had anticipated. Especially on your wobbly legs. Relieved when Richie’s old-beater blurred in your sight. Opening the door, he helped you in. Holding your hand in his as he guided you into the passenger seat. Keeping you steady until you flopped backward against the cracking leather. Pointing at you and instructing you to buckle yourself in. Nodding mindlessly as your eyes grew heavier by the second.

Jumping when he slammed his own door. Taking his place behind the wheel, throwing his own advice to the wind. Putting the key in the ignition, the car barked to life. Puffing out a cloud of black smoke. He’d been driving this thing since he was a teenager. The life inside the engine was wavering. Looking over to make sure you were set, but you had not moved an inch. Tilting side to side in your drunk state. It made him smile a little.

Beginning to head back towards home, the car ride was silent to begin with. Until you groaned and had to sit straight up. Blinking slow then widening your eyes. Fighting your natural urge to sleep.

“Don’t barf in my car,” Richie warned.

“‘m not,” you sighed, swallowing the large amount of spit that gathered in your mouth.

Richie’s arm was propped up on his window sill. Fingers pressed firmly into his temple rubbing circles, “Your folks are gonna kill you.”

“They’d have to notice I’m gone first,” you slurred. Breathing a deep breath through your nose. Eyes staying opened without struggle now. Streetlights reflecting across your face every few feet.

It made Richie’s heart sink. He knew things were not good for you at home. It was the reason you spent so much time away from there. But he did not know it had gotten that bad. To a point that your parents were not even noticing their only child. Their only daughter who had dropped out of college before half way through the first nine weeks and started drinking as a way to forget her failures.

“I don’t wanna go back there, Richie,” you sighed, looking over to him. His eyes still locked onto the road ahead. Anxious that something would happen on the drive home and it would be his fault. Chewing on the tip of his finger. Slowly, you leaned over the middle console. Resting your head on his shoulder, nuzzling into his body, “Please… don’t make me.”

Richie let out a broken breath. Swallowing the lump overtaking his throat loudly. Eyes darting anxiously to the side as he thought. Shifting his hands on the wheel so he could drape one over your shoulders. Wanting to make you comfortable.

“O-Okay, fuck. You can come stay with me tonight,” Richie blinked as fast as he talked, “But no more running off to parties alone. I don’t wanna know what could’ve happened tonight. You hear me?”

You nodded. Listening intently to every word. Happy to be in his presence. Happy to be leaned against him. Feeling safe for the first time in months.

Richie clicked his teeth together, whispering, “Mikey’s gonna kill me.”

Your head hung low. Holding yourself tightly as you bit your tongue. Trying not to cry. The lack of sleep not helping. Dewey eyes peering up at him. Breaking his heart right where he stood. Hating when you cried, especially when it was his fault. No one ever got under his skin like you. Like you had his heart wrapped around a string. Tugging it whenever you pleased. Even after all these years. After all the different directions your lives went in. He was always coming back to you.

“Y-You know how I am,” Richie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You know better than anyone, okay?”

Which was arguable. Maybe not as much since Mikey was gone. But there had to be other people who knew him better.

You shook your head slowly. Tucking your chin further into your shoulder. Embarrassment burning into anger. Ready to continue the screaming match. Ready to kick him out of your apartment. Back into the cold with that damn attitude of his.

“You made me mad, alright? Shit’s been hard the last few months. And it was easy to take it out on you. That’s why I said what I said. I’ve got a short fucking fuse, you know that,” Richie over exaggerated with his hands. Taking a single step closer, but your harsh eyes stopped him. Shooting daggers clean through him. Reminding him of the expression you gave when he made an offhanded comment. Just with a new layer of disgust underneath it.

Richie remembered how his arm had snaked around your waist. One hand holding yours as to lead. Stabilizing you with every step you ascended, “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll get you a comforter and some pillows. Don’t go whining about being cold or nothing.”

Cold air cutting through him like a knife. Short sleeves the wrong choice of underwear. But atleast you stopped shivering with his jacket around you. Keeping his arm around you as he fumbled with the keys in his hand. Unlocking the door with a loud click. Kicking it open, having completely forgotten about the guest already passed out on his couch. Mikey’s unconscious body slumped across the cheap sofa he got from some guy. Stained and smelling of cigarettes, but he could not pass up on such a deal.

“Shit,” Richie mumbled. How could he have forgot that Mikey was here?! Taking up the only spare space he had to offer. Supposing his brain had went into over protective panic mode when he saw those boys circling you like sharks at the party. It was only a one bedroom, it’s not like there was some spare room he could cram you in. Closing his eyes and groaning lowly.

Beginning to guide you down the short hallway. Needing to talk what was happening out loud, “Change of plans.”

Clicking the dull yellow overhead light in the bathroom on, Richie guided your hands gently onto the stained countertop. Taking a step behind you and helping his jacket off your shoulders. Tossing it over his arm and looking at you in the mirror. Stress apparent on his expression. He pulled one of the drawers open and handed you a wash cloth, “Wash your face. I’ll try and find something for you to sleep in.”

Swiftly rushing across the hall into his wrecked bedroom. Piles of dirty and clean clothes merging together everywhere. Forgetting the last time he had done laundry. That damned laundromat had increased their prices. Running a hand through his hair as he scanned around the space. Begging for something he could offer you. Eyes reaching the small dresser he had tucked in the corner. Blue fabric hanging out of one of the half closed drawers. Finally. That shirt he won at one of the bars he went with Mikey to. Throwing a bullseye first try. Remembering how the room had erupted in applause and the blonde bartender had threw it at him. A dartboard in the center, oversized so that the bar didn’t have to keep extra sizing depending on who won. It sagged around his knees. Too big to wear out, but perfect for bed. Perfect for you.

When he came back to the bathroom, you had abandoned all layers besides your bra and panties. Rubbing your finger across your teeth with a glob of toothpaste that followed. Looking over to him with hooded eyes. His face bled red immediately. The matching lace set perfectly fitting your body was the last thing he expected to see tonight. Realizing how bad your clothes scattered across his bathroom floor would look to anyone else. Especially Mikey in the morning when he inevitably waddled into the singular bathroom to piss. Unable to stop himself from following the arch of your ass as you leaned down to rinse the toothpaste from your mouth. Muttering a curse as he strained to look at the ceiling. Offering out the barely worn t-shirt, “Put this on.”

Sliding it over your head, you lost your balance. Wobbling momentarily before catching yourself on the countertop. Giggling as you tried to keep quiet. Richie had jerked to catch you out of instinct. His hand held you at the elbow, concerned eyes peering at you. Body blocking the doorway, Richie hunched just enough to keep eye level with you. Standing together awkwardly, neither of you saying a word. This silence unlike previous ones. Tension webbing itself into it. His deep blue eyes making you blush.

“Guess I’m… uh, guess I’ll sleep in the tub?” you gestured behind you with your thumb.

Richie’s forehead wrinkled, “Fuck, no. You can, um, sleep in my bed.”

Shaking your head in disagreement, “Where will you sleep?”

“Floor’s fine,” Richie avoided the strong eye contact you attempted to hold. Stopping himself from making a decision he would live to regret. Even if everything in him begged to scoop you up in his arms and take you to bed. His eyes darted up, “You’ll have the whole thing to yourself.”

You flattened a hand against his shoulder. Shifting so that your weight pressed into him, hands loosely holding you. Richie closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Even when your lips pressed into his ear, “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight, Richie.”

A genuine plea. Not some forward move to get him to fuck you. Just a need to feel the touch of someone else. It made him sick. Shaking his head. Refusing to do this. Not with you. Not with Mikey in the other room. Not while you were drunk.

“Please,” it came out broken. Hiding your face in his neck when tears welled at your eyes. Grasping at his t-shirt with shaking hands.

Richie’s tongue wetted his lip. Taking a deep breath as he leaned his head back. Closing his eyes, “Okay.”

Walking together into his bedroom, Richie kept ahold of you. Pulling down the disheveled blanket to allow you to lay down. Draping it back across your body once you got comfortable against the pillow. The soft glow from the streetlights reflected in your eyes. Looking as beautiful as ever, Richie could have stared for hours. But that’s not what this was. So he rounded the bed and took his usual spot. Under the same covers as you. Bodies pressed tightly together on the full sized mattress. He turned his head to look at you, “No funny business. You hear me?”

You smiled. Closing whatever gap existed between you. Tossing your arm across his chest and snuggling into him. Closing your eyes and savoring this feeling. Whispering, “Thank you, Richie.”

His arm rested under you. Hand petting at your shoulder for just a moment before he rested his mouth to the top of your head. Nose nestled into your hair as he nodded, “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

Probably the softest moment either of you could remember. Unsure the exact moment that had pivoted to change that dynamic. To make both of you cruel and hateful. How had you gone down such different paths? When things between you had been so obviously intertwined for so long. Feeling now as if nothing had been before. Only anger and disdain.

Fingernails digging into your arms attempted to calm you. Something you had done since you were a kid. Hugging yourself when things seemed uncertain. Making up for the lack of sympathy and compassion your parents had. It made you stubborn, no doubt. You squinted at him, “Why are you really here, Richie?”

“I came to get you back,” he shrugged, raising his eyebrows with his breathless words.

“Why? So we can fight more? Or so you could get Carmy off your back?” you let your head fall to the side. Earning a loud scoff from Richie. Who was pacing once more. Contorting his face as he thought of a comeback. Hands digging into his pockets as he stepped. His inability to tell you the truth hurt worse than the fight.

Pushing off the door, you headed into your kitchen. Ignoring the noise that escaped Richie when you walked past like he wasn’t even there. Bringing his thumb up to his lips and chewing at it. Tapping his foot as he stared down at the floor. Blocking him out as you grabbed a bottle of water from the case you had laying on your floor.

“Carmy didn’t send me,” he finally said, “Everyone’s counting on you. We need you. I-I—“ He stopped himself when your head whipped upward. Waiting for the next part. For that simple admission. The thing that would change all of this.

“I’m not coming back,” you stated under your breath.

Richie sighed again. Swallowing the lump in his throat. Running a hand down his face and cupping his jaw. Nodding with the thoughts running rampant behind his eyes. Beginning to step closer to you. Resting his hand on the short island countertop. Leaning his weight as he looked at you, “I need you to.”

It shocked you. Eyes widening at the simple phrase that you don’t know you’ve ever heard him utter. It had to pain him. The look on his face told you that. All you could do was shake your head, whispering ‘no’ like it was breathing.

Richie stepped in front of you. Grabbing both your shoulders in his large palms. Staring at you with those intense blue eyes, “Come on. Tell me what I gotta do. Whatever, I don’t care, just— just tell me what it’s gonna take.”

You stared up at him. Jaw clinched as you thought. Taking a deep breath as your eyes darted to the side. Rejoining his with a softening of your expression. Blinking rapidly as you spoke, “Tell me why you’re here.”

Confusion tugged at his expression. Denying the truth. Even when it was clawing its way from his ribcage and into the back of his throat. Practically strangling him. He hated this. Hated how soft you made him. How easy you let him inside. How right it felt to have his hands on you again. No matter how he tried to deny it, you were what he wanted.

His forehead pressed to yours. Tightening the grip he had on your shoulders. Working up the courage to admit, “I came to say sorry.”

Your heart pounded. Feeling your mouth run dry at that. Richie never apologized, even when he had offended some of the most important people. Tending to stand his ground for whatever thing he had used as an insult. Getting punched? Slapped? Cussed? Didn’t matter. Richie was always right.

His hand came up to cup your cheek. Flattening against the side of your face as his fingers ran through your hair. His tongue wetted his lip, “I hate when I care about people. Makes me want to push until they won’t come back. No matter how bad I get hurt. When you came back, it was like this cut reopened. And I had to make it stop. I… I’m sorry I said those things to you.”

“I’m sorry, Richie…” was all you could muster. While it meant the world, you were not sure you could jump back into the job. Wanting to help Carmy, but not worth sacrificing whatever thread held you and Richie’s complicated relationship together.

He released his hold on you and stepped back. Looking up at your ceiling and flattening the back of his hand to his forehead. Nostrils flaring as his adam’s apple bobbed.

“F-For all of it. I-I’m sorry that I brought up your divorce. I’m really sorry that I even mentioned Mikey. I should’ve just stayed away, a-and let you guys handle this. Instead of inserting myself where I don’t belong. As usual,” you cupped your hand around your mouth, feeling your throat start to burn with the words, “I just wanted to help. I guess I still thought that things could’ve been how they used to be. When we used to… I dunno. Feel like a family or something. I’m so fucking stupid.”

You hit your fist to your forehead. Tears finally passing the threshold. Burning down your flushed cheeks. Words overflowing like vomit from your lips, “Carmy will know some people. Someone can take my place. Help you guys out in a productive way. Better than I ever could, Rich. And you guys can go back to being a family without me dragging on your coattails. I’ll stop being ‘Carmy’s little’ whatever and I can… we can stop whatever this is—“

Richie rushed back over to you, both hands grasping the sides of your face. Lips taking yours between them. Taken completely off guard, but slowly melting into him. One of your hands joining his on your face. Sparks jolted every inch of your body. Feeling the thing deep inside you bloom. What you had been starving for air all these years. Finally getting its life breathed back into it.

“Shut up,” Richie breathed barely above a whisper, “Please. Just shut up and come back.”

“Richie,” you swallowed.

His hand tangled in your hair. Keeping you close to him. Noses bumping one another. Your hands flat against his chest. Lips not even an inch apart. Struggling to breathe. Air thick and hot between you.

“I can’t lose someone else,” Richie pressed his lips to yours again, “I just got you back.”

Hands traveling down your body, Richie squeezed your hips. Holding you tightly to him like you were going to run away. Stepping until your back met the countertop. Breathing lowly as his hooded eyes scanned you. Flattening his palms against the cold granite, caging you between them. Tilting his head before interlocking lips once more. You draped your arms over his shoulders. Letting him kiss you however he wanted. His taste overwhelmed your pallet. Scent filling your nostrils. Weight pressed into you. Entirely him.

Steadily growing more and more heated with every movement. Tongues tasting the other. Teeth bumping occasionally. One of your hands gripping the back of his head. His stabilizing against your spine. Both of you pretending to ignore the bulge that rose in his pants.

Lips began to venture down your throat. “You’re one of the most important people in my life,” kissing against your pulse, “I’ll make this up to you however I need to.”

And you could not help but smile. Still apologizing as his mouth left a trail on your skin. Even when his cock was already half-hard and his mind had ventured to far darker places than he usually let it, he was still apologizing. Mouth always running. Over explaining everything.

His lips felt like heaven against your neck. Flattening his tongue and sinking his teeth in. Certainly leaving some purple marks that you would have to explain. But how could you care about that when you felt so good.

Richie was slowly losing his composure. The hunger in him creeping its way out. Hands growing a little more greedy as he cupped your ass. Pulling your lower half to his. Grinding against you as he sloppily put his lips back to yours. Broken breaths rolling through him. Chasing this feeling like it would disappear any second now. Causing your legs to press together, needing to feel some relief for the ache between them.

One of your hands flattened against his lower stomach. Toying with the hem of his shirt until your fingers met his skin. Feeling the soft happy trail that led down to the band of his pants. Dipping your fingertips beneath to rim along the elastic. Meeting the hair that decorated along his pubic bone. Richie’s air caught in his throat. His own hands cupping the sides of your face once more. Guiding you to meet his eyes.

You exhaled as your head fell to the side. Biting your lip as your eyes darted around his face. Taking in the way his cheeks flushed red and his eyes laid heavy. Lips swollen from kissing you. Dying to get him out of his clothes. Taking his hands in yours, you pulled away from the counter. Stepping backwards slowly, trying to make sure you did not bump any furniture. He followed you with ease. Leading him across your apartment to the hall where your bedroom lied. Stopping in front of the partially opened door and looking up at him again.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Tongue wetted his lips as he looked into your room then back to you. Eyebrows raising ever so. Which made you smile right back at him. Blushing as you giggled. Leaning your head against the doorframe. One of his hands held onto your hip.

“This how you want me to make it up to you?” Richie’s voice had dropped an octave, smug tone adorning it.

You grabbed his jacket between both your hands, pulling him down to you. Furthering into your bedroom. Stopping beside your mattress. Smiling with a laugh, “Maybe.”

Richie shedded his jacket into the floor. It’s weight thumping loudly. Arms flexing against his tight t-shirt. Swiftly removing his shirt as well before taking you back in his hands. Kissing you once more. Tongue lapping against your pallet. Hands ghosting down your sides to pull your t-shirt over your head. Dropping it into the pile with his clothes. Taking a moment to stare at your breasts spilling over your bra.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Richie said it with a low groan.

“Don’t flatter me, Jerimovich,” you quipped. Playing with him. A tease that came as natural as breathing between you.

“Not flattery when it’s true,” he cocked a brow, shaking his head as he spoke to emphasize his point. One hand cupping your breast. Thumbing at your nipple that had perked beneath the thin cup. A moan escaped the back of your throat. Small and barely noticeable. But it caught Richie’s attention. Reaching around to unclasp your bra, his breath fanned against your ear, “And don’t tell me what to do.”

You laughed. Bra sliding off your shoulders as Richie pulled back. Letting to drop in the floor, you flattened your hands to his bare chest. Exploring across the hair along it until your fingers met the cold metal around his necklace. Hooking a finger around it with a smile. Fluttering your lashes up at him. You pushed up so your lips could kiss against his throat. Nipping and sucking the skin. His head fell back with a low moan. Making sure you left a purple mark for tomorrow, it would only be fair. No one would ever put the two together. Even if the two of you had matching marks proclaiming your newfound relationship. After the events of the other night, it would be impossible to believe.

You sat back onto the mattress. Scooting yourself back to make room for him. Spreading your legs as an invitation. One Richie happily accepted. Crawling onto the soft covers and over you. Both of you slowly lowering until your head met a pillow. Lips meeting once more in a tender moment.

Richie’s hands met the band of your sleepwear. Tugging them and your underwear down in one swift pull. Throwing them behind him somewhere. Leaving you entirely nude before him. Vulnerable in a way you had never been with him. Feeling suddenly conscious of your body, you tucked your face into one of the pillows beside your head. Cheeks flushing when you could feel his strong gaze on you. He leaned down and placed a kiss against your clavicle. Kissing a path down to your breast, taking your nipple between his lips. Sucking and flicking it with his tongue. His other hand pinching the other one between tight fingers. Rolling it to match how his tongue moved. Your hands gripped the back of his head, moaning as your back arched. Forcing your chest closer to his mouth.

One hand traveled to your core. Calloused fingertips meeting your sensitive clit. Making your entire body jump, and Richie to pull off your breast. Looking up at you with a wicked grin. Laughing as he widened his eyes at you, “What? Those boys you’ve been with not know where it is?”

You scowled at him, “Fuck you. It’s just been a while.”

Stretching up to kiss at your jaw, Richie tried to hide how he chuckled at that. Utterly amused by everything your body had to offer. The strum of your heart racing at your pulse. How your eyes rolled back in your head. How red you were in the face right now. He was enthralled by it all.

“Yeah?” Richie slowly slid a finger into you, “Well, ole Richie will go nice and slow for you. How’s that sound, baby?”

Your mouth fell open. Eyes forcing themself shut as you threw your head back. Exhaling harshly, his name mixing itself into the sound. His finger pumped slowly into you. Curling and hitting the spot that made you see stars. His thumb pressing into your nub now. Adding fuel to the flames already raging on inside you.

Richie watched your every move. Admiring you as you slowly lost yourself to pleasure. Moaning and rolling your hips to meet his hand. His cock was throbbing between his legs. If you were like this from his finger alone, he could not wait to see how you acted with his cock inside. Chewing his lip for a moment until he could wait no longer.

Removing himself from your entrance, you whined at the loss of sensation. Eyes flying open to see him kicking off his pants. Giving you a full view of him in all his glory. Springing up to smack himself in the stomach, swollen and leaking. Red with his need. Absolutely living up to every fantasy you had ever had about him. Gawking now.

His eyes darted to your face. Catching you in the act, feeding his ego a bit. Smirking at you now, hovering his lanky body above you. Kissing from your cheek to your lips. His head fell to the side as he questioned you, “What’s that face about?”

You got a little flustered at his cocky attitude. Absolutely knowing the effect he was having on you. Making sure to use it to his advantage. Hands came to cup his face, “I just like looking at you, Rich.”

Lips interlocked once more. His cock gliding between your folds, making both of you grunt in satisfaction. More turned on than either of you had been in a long time. Richie pressed his lips to your ear, “Can I fuck you now, pretty girl?”

You sighed with a wide smile, “Please.”

Richie grasped himself at the base, lining up with your entrance. Taking his time to press the head between your folds. Shallowly thrusting to let your body adjust to him. Living for the view of your face contorting in ecstasy. Jaw hanging open as you panted. Sinking in inch by inch until your cores were pressed together. Dipping down so that your foreheads were flush. Heaving deep breaths.

There was a part of you that told you how perfect this was. How maybe this is how things were always supposed to be. And maybe if you and Richie had tried sooner, you’d both be living very different lives. This connection between you had always been different. Perhaps you should have explored it before now. But there was no changing the past. Only the choices you made going forward.

“I love you,” Richie breathed as quiet as he could. Words he swore he would never give another woman. Ones he never thought he could give someone again. Not after all the heartbreak and loss.

It made tears prick at your eyes. Shocked. Wanting to question him. Wanting to deny it. But it felt so right. You smiled, “I love you too, Richie.”

A wide smile taking over his face. Quickly kissing you once more to hide how flushed he got from that. Beginning to pull back before thrusting back into you. Finding a slow and steady rhythm that had you gripping tightly against his back. Nails scratching him. Never had you felt something so good in your life. He was perfect.

Richie’s hand traveled down your figure. Finding your clit once more and circling it with two fingers. Earning a rather loud moan from you. Hips arching at his touch. Giving him a new angle to fuck into you.

“Ri-Richie—“

“Yeah? Tell me, sweetheart.”

“It’s so— so good,” you whined, swallowing harshly.

He smirked, “I know. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

Moaning in response. Feeling the way the familiar coil in your belly was tightening. Warmth blossoming along your skin a warning of how close you were. If he continued like this you would be unraveling any second now. Walls squeezing him tightly as your body prepared.

“You gonna cum?” his tone naturally teased.

All you could do was nod and call out his name. Words not forming in your mind. Only the feeling of his cock stretching you over and over. The pressure of his fingers sending you to your finish. Wrapping your arms tightly around him as your insides began contorting. White hot blooming all throughout you. Swearing you had never finished so hard.

Richie’s lip quivered at the sensation. Holding you close as his cock began to twitch. Barely thrusting forward a few times before he was spilling inside you. Coating your sensitive walls with his release. Taking your lips between his to hide the moan that ripped from the back of his throat. Grunting with each rope of cum.

As your bodies came down from their highs, the two of you stared at one another. Eyes blown wide with a carnal pleasure. Feeling closer than ever. Faces sharing in their glow. Panting in unison.

Richie rolled off you. Both of you wincing at the sensation of loss. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to his side. Cuddling together in the post orgasm haze. Smiles written on both your faces. Lingering in the silence of the late hours.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” you whispered holding his eyes.

“Good,” he returned. Running a hand along the side of your head. Simply to feel you in his grasp. Loving how your body fit perfectly against his side as it always had. This intimacy between you entirely new, yet somehow familiar.

The early hours of morning were beginning to creep under your skin. Yawning then nuzzling your head against his shoulder. Sleepily kissing his cheek before tucking your face under his jaw. Bodies pressed together. Arms wrapped around one another. Lingering in the comfort. A promise of new beginnings.

“Goodnight, Richie,” you mumbled against his skin.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” punctuating it with a kiss.

~

Richie’s body woke him up bright and early. Still in your bed. Your body still snuggled against him. Warm and comfortable. Light from the window basking you both in its morning glow. He admired you. Even asleep, you were stunning.

Then he heard a little buzz from his clothes discarded on the floor. His phone still in the pocket of his jacket. Cursing softly under his breath as he looked into the floor. There was no way he could reach it from the bed. Besides, he did not want to disturb you with a phone call. So he ever so slowly began to remove himself from you. The chill of the room sending goosebumps across his skin, only making him more frustrated.

“Rich…” you mumbled still mostly asleep. Chasing after his body as he slipped from the blanket. Eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“I’ll be right back,” Richie pressed a kiss to your head, keeping his voice to a whisper, “Phone keeps going off. I’m gonna see what’s going on.”

You grunted in response. Instantly falling back asleep. Richie threw his pants and jacket on. Digging in the pocket for his phone as he walked out of your bedroom and to the front door. Pulling out the box of cigarettes with his phone. Placing one between his lips as he unlocked his screen.

It was Carmy.

Eight times. Calling him over and over like the little shit he was. It was probably something that could have waited until later, but Carmy did not have a relaxed bone in his body. He flicked the lighter he had tucked in the box and took a drawl of the cigarette before another call came through.

“Hey, cousin—“

“Look who decided to finally answer. Hey, yeah, Rich. I need you to go apologize to Y/N today. Last night was a fucking wash. I don’t care what you gotta do, just go say you’re sorry,” Carmy speedily said on the other line.

Richie smiled. Resting his head against the brick outside your apartment. Cigarette loosely dangling from his lips. Watching the way the sky shifted colors across the city. Feeling a warmth in his chest. Knowing you were just a door away. That you were probably still waiting for him to come back into bed.

“You hear me? I fucking mean it,” Carmy’s tone shifted when Richie did not answer.

“Yeah. Watch your attitude, kid. I’ll take care of it,” Richie muttered into the phone. Eyebrows knitting momentarily before his posture calmed.

“Thanks, cousin.”

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! This is my first time writing for Richie, and I think I’m in love with this guy. I love how brash and sarcastic he is. What a dream boat. A very fun addition to my roster. As always, my inbox is always open. Requests are welcome. Likes and Reblogs are appreciated. I love you :) //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @person-005 ~ @hargrovehoe ~ @its-a-show-stoppin-number ~

[dewypout]

𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ───── 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 ;; what if the kin of a believed-to-be long extinct house resurfaces, in ashford meadow of all places, and with a hedge knight, nonetheless? for whatever happens, may the stars be on her side, because if discovered, the targaryen's won't be, and neither will those loyal to them. 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ;; ser duncan x female!reader 𝒄𝒘 ;; mentions of past encounters with misogyny 𝒂𝒏 ;; did i end my break just to write a story about akotsk? yes. yes i did.

‎ꫂ᭪݁ the lace dividers are by ︵ @uzmacchiato

THE STORY BEGINS WITH PHEONIXES, the three representing many that graced the mountains of Dorne, and the sword wedged between them and “sin of sight” represents the end those magnificent beasts faced when humans discovered them. Every sinner faces their ruin; the same way that the bird was hunted to extinction, so did the world turn to hunting down your kin a century ago. What for? That you’ve yet to learn, no— you must learn. In the end, it all came around like one big circle; the hunter became the prey. Though this prey got tired of hiding.

House Ladybright is the phoenix — magnificent and hunted down to the grave. At least that is what the scarce descendants wanted the world to believe. But what happens when one flees hideout—, curses those who chained her down for her safety with bittersweetness, and faces those who made her need those chains in the first place with vengeance? Will the road ahead break her? Will the rediscovery of her house be her doom? Apparently, she'll get stuck with a shittyarse hedge knight, and his shite just so happens to smell like doom.

“What kind of man takes a dump near his deceased master’s resting place?” You turn opposite the man, whom you grown to know as Dunk, as he relieves himself behind a tree. Hours prior, you’d think yourself mad for feeding him like a starving dog that he looks like, but with a statue like his, he could be of use — hopefully, or you just witnessed his enormous buttocks for nothing. Thoughts of home, what little you had before running away, flow through your mind — mother, father, do you worry? Keep each other safe— another sound of the large man’s intestines pushing out the very meal you gave him, interrupt your sadness, and as disgusting as it was, it stops the self-pity from resurfacing.

“What kind of lady watches?” His answer grinds your gear just slightly, but what better would it do to argue? None. Dunk informed you that he was headed towards Ashford Meadow, apparently a tourney was held there — not that you knew much about those, but you have held an arrow ever since you stopped weaning, which may come in useful now. Behind you, the man grunts as he fastens his clothes back into place, before letting out a relieved sigh — is he happy that he finished his dump? Men.

“You’d better have washed.” You inquire, finally turning to face the giant of a man. Your nose scrunches as his stench tells you the exact opposite. No matter, you grew up with three younger brothers; nothing’s worse than those little hellions. He isn’t your brothers, and you’re not home anymore. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. The man in front of you spoke of honor and knighthood, but shits in bushes. You seek to be seen, to show that House Ladybright is strong, and here— still standing in this godforsaken realm that tried to diminish it — will you too end up like him?

“There is no stream near—” he tries to contradict, accent thick, but still tinged with that boyish foolishness.

“Leaves do exist, are you aware?” The remark earns a chuckle from the knight as he passes by you. Dunk nudges his head to the side, pointing you to one of the stallions he brought along. Three is how many this poor fella had, so not that poor, after all, was he? With a tired exhale, you mount the animal. You watch him put your own belongings, which you’ve brought in two sacks, onto the third horse. The way to Ashford was a long one, and with weary bodies and tired eyes, the two of you went to an inn to eat supper. You stared, to say the least, as Dunk devoured a duck and some lamb from the plate in front of him. Of course, big man, big appertiete.

“Are you going to eat that? Ow!” The sting of wood against skin rings through the tavern as you slap him with your bow when he tries to grab some of your food. It’s almost laughable, the look he gives you, like a big overgrown pupper, you were practically his owner now. With a grumble and “Gluttony’s a sin, you do well to remember that,” you give him your leftovers. A day. A whole day spent travelling with the…strangest man you’ve ever met. Not that you knew many at all, being a lady, you were taught fairly strict rules about engaging with men, and now you were traveling with one— then again, the winds always change course, you just pray you chose the right man to trust.

“You— I dreamed of you…” A startled screech leaves your lungs, body fleeing under Dunk’s in the spur of the moment. Dunk grabs you securely, pulling out his sword from the rope of a belt he wore. The pair of you look at the drunken man, who, without another word, stands up and leaves up the nearby steps. What in seven’s name was that? You gape at the now-empty seat, which the strange man had occupied before you and the hedge knight even arrived. Why would someone make a statement like that only to up and leave? And that coin…a shiver runs down your spine as the three-headed dragon engraved on it shimmers in the dim candlelight, before the working lady snatches and pockets it.

Warmth, muscle, and…the smell that should repulse, but didn’t because it was his— Dunk’s, enflunged you… His chivalry makes your cheeks feel warm, and makes an unknown feeling start to bloom in your chest. He rushed, practically leaped above the table, to hurl you against him and protect you like a true knight, and as if you mattered to him. Your fist curls against the poor fabrics of his clothes, the ones he had only ever known, which looked so strange clashing with the luxurious layers of your own dress. Maybe…just maybe, he will succeed in gaining the glory he so dearly sought.

“Uh…I apologize—” his voice brings you back, and you notice how he looks down at you, eyes flickering to yours, then lower to your lips, your heart skips a beat, or three, that you’re sure of. But it shouldn’t. It cannot. Not now — when you are so unsure of everything else, and real life, away from hiding like a wounded phoenix, is overwhelming you. With a few awkward coughs and charged glances, you move apart, sitting in your respective seats once more.

The rest of the day was spent with you two going around the tourney grounds asking houses if they knew Ser Arlan of Pennytree, because Duncan needed approval to join the joust. Which you thought was absolutely ridiculous— it’s scary enough that the hedge knight is doing this freely, but someone needs to approve participation in such a deathwish of a game? Mad people. Traveling really wasn’t for the weak; your feet ached in your heels, and you wanted nothing more than to get a good night’s rest. At least the two of you enjoyed a small puppet show.

“Halfman! Halfman!” strange — you and Dunk look around; it sounded almost as if someone had been calling out to him— calling him such unpleasantry— It’s then that one of the knight’s strong, warm arms grabs a hold of your wrist, but not to shield you from anything, like hours prior, but to make a stop of pace. As the two of you turn around, you see a familiar face, but from where had you seen it again? — He is the man who was sparing with his familiar while you and the hedge knight were walking around the grounds earlier this day, of course! You look up at your fellow travel companion, you notice the tight set of his jaw, and can practically hear his teeth grind at the name the other man gave him.

“Do I look like a halfman to you?”

“Aye.” Dear heavens— you had to bite back a smile at that. You didn’t know what was more laughable. Duncan’s offended look— or the other man’s quick confirmation of the question. The man then turns to you, a faint flush suffuses his features, he greets you with a small bow and “my lady”, which you curtsy at in return. With a clearing of his throat and one last, awkward smile, he turns his attention back to Dunk.

You walk a bit behind the men, not wanting to intrude on their conversation, it isn’t a lady’s business to need know what men discuss— is what your father taught you. Your hand tightens on the quiver attached to the upper half of your body where your arrows were stored, then moves against the bow’s string next to it, letting the fine string irritate your fingertips just slightly. An uncomfortable memory resurfaces of your father belittling you when you wanted to be a part of one of his council meetings, since you were his oldest child, you thought you should attend, but you thought wrong. Whatever hope you had of joining the table that day was diminished when your father reminded you that you were just a woman and women didn’t participate in council meetings.

Your flinch, snapping back into reality at the feeling of Dunk’s hand on your cheek. You meet his gaze, filled with worry. This was…so emberassing, to need comforting in a bustling event like this one, you wanted to brush his hand away, but he lowered it before you had a chance to, and instead guided your hand to loop around his own, bringing you between him and the man whose name is Raymun Fossoway, as he revealed it — and the man he trained with prior was his senior cousin Steffon. But your gaze…it didn’t leave Dunk’s side profile, not even when you tripped on something ahead, it couldn’t. This man— he didn’t allow for you to be left out, and that meant a great deal to you, more than he probably realized.

Was that for the better or worse? Being left out sounded a tad bit more enjoyable than the situation you got yourself in. It certainly was awkward standing in front of a man with antlers on his head. House Baratheon, you’ve learned of it, as much as the sept allowed you, that is. But nothing could’ve prepared you for a meeting with Ser Lyonel “the laughing storm” Baratheon. Even Duncan was having trouble communicating with him.

“Is that why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?” The hedge knight just gave an awkward ‘I don’t slouch,’ not that the norbleman listened very well. The two of you practically froze when the Baratheon asked what you’ve brought him— brought him? As in a favor? We just came here because Dunk has four stomach compartments like a bloody cow!

“Ser, I— beggin’ your pardons. I didn’t realize.” With a deep breath, you begin to speak your own mind before the stag in front has a chance to continue his own.

“Curry your favor?” You shot Dunk an uneasy look before returning your gaze to the other man. To save a friend the embarrassment of not knowing noble mannerisms, you threw yourself into the unsettling attentions of the Baratheon. You reached for the coin pouch attached to your dress and pushed two of your house’s gold coins to him. Lyonel looked at the coin in his hand before covering it as a man near him tried to catch a glimpse of the sigils with a ‘sod off, cunt’. The look on his face was that of confusion, and he met your eyes a few more times, as if to ask whether this was real or not. You looked around uneasily, and he seemed to understand your worry. He pocketed the favor.

“Say, do you two like dancing?” At the stag’s words, you exchange a glance with Dunk, then nod. Though this dancing was nothing like what you’ve been taught by your childhood teachers, people laughed with full lungs, bumped into each other, and let a wild tune carry their feet gaily. For what seems to be the first time since the hedge knight met you, he saw your colors shine, and you were breathtaking…The way your hair flew freely as you danced atop a table, twirling like an excited child, feeling everything so deeply— You laughed as you bumped into Ser Lyonel when he joined you in dance, like a colorful peacock. He watched as the Lyonel kissed your hand, before twirling you himself some more.

“Catch, big boy!” Dunk scrampled towards you as the other man lifted you, getting a startled scream from you, then threw you off the table. Dunk sank onto his knees, catching you in his big arms. Gently, with his pointer finger, he removed the hair that fell over your face. A small spark of fear ran through him, worried that you were crying from the scare. But no, you weren’t crying, far from it, your arms wrapped themselves around his neck as you laughed gleefully, voice breaking from joy. Dunk laughed alongside, and for the first time since beginning this journey, he felt genuinely happy.

The two of you arrived back where the horses were tied, only to find the boy from the inn there. Much to Duncan’s dismay, as you practically lectured his ear off when you left that place on why you two couldn’t take the child with you — which he thought was absolute madness from your side. The child wasn’t yours to take; poor Dunk should’ve definitely kept that thought to himself, though, because you started lecturing him some more— he could’ve sworn your morality would be the death of him.

“He’s adorable! Dunk, we have to take him with us!” The hedge knight sighs at your insistence that you just adopt the unknown child, though you could tell he wasn’t actually mad, even his heart hurt when the boy revealed he was without mother the day before. Now, you sat around the fire, eating the fish that the boy, Egg, prepared. It was decent. Though you definitely missed your own home’s food. Duncan got alarmed as you began to choke on one of the fish’s bones, hitting your back as Egg fetched some water. At times, you were as willful as a queen, and at others as breakable as glass, he thought. What was he to do with you?

The three of you lay in the open field; the fire that Egg lit began to dim as you observed the starry sky. A sound of awe paired with quiet laughter leaves your lips as a falling star passes the landscape above. You’ve been traveling alone for a few moons now before meeting the knight, sleeping in inns you found along the way and spending your gold on them, now, under Dunk’s protection, you could sleep under the open sky to your heart’s content.

“A falling star brings luck to those who see it.” A smile forms on your face, and you nod at Egg’s words. Sure enough, you grew up hearing similar fairytales. Never could you imagine you’d witness a shooting star on this journey, though. Dunk just scoffed, which earned him a glare from you. You covered Egg more thoroughly with your blanket, pulling the boy near your side. Dunk continues in an awkawad manner,

“So the luck is only ours?” You and Egg share a look, choosing not to answer the headge knight.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you traveling with Ser Duncan, my Lady?” Egg’s question makes you chuckle. You shrug. Dunk protected you, yes, but so would anyone whom you gave coin to. Then, you think back to how he leaped at your scream back in the inn, shielding you, and how he caught you when Lord Lyonel threw you— like you’re worth far more than any gold in all of Westeros.

“He’s…the only man I trust.”

“I am a man. Do you not trust me?” Egg asks,

“You’re a boy.” Duncan interrupts, strong voice carrying to the nearby grounds. You thought he went to sleep when Egg and you ignored him, but turns out he was just listening carefully to the conversation between his newfound squire and the lady whom he protects. Now you felt a bit silly for admitting your trust in him so outwardly, like a fair maiden that just confessed to the knight who guarded her honor. You decide to stir the conversation in another direction.

“You remind me of my brothers, Egg. Though you are far sweeter.”

“How many do you have?” Duncan, yet again, pushes himself into the conversation. The hedge knight, who never had a home nor siblings, found himself curious about the land you hail from and your family. Duncan remembers how he found you while burying his dead master, sitting on a rock further away and eating some pastry oozing with jam. It looked delicious, and you…you kindly offered him some (most of it). The tall man had never encountered someone like you, never been treated with such kindness from the get-go. But the way his heart thudded against the ribs caging it in when you revealed your trust in him betrayed Dunk’s excuse of just being curious. He was getting attached to you. And by the gods, he’ll do everything in his power to protect you.

“I have three younger brothers. They were all born on the same day.” Egg gasps at the revelation, quick to speak his own mind.

“Blimey! Triplets?” That earned the squire a small ‘watch your mouth, boy’ from Duncan, lecturing him as a disappointed father would. You continue,

“Mhm. It meant…a great lot to my family.”

“What do you mean? Do you come from a small family?” You think a bit, unsure of what to say to the knight. On one hand, you wished to reveal who you were; on the other, you knew better than to do that.

“I suppose so.” If only you knew.

The next day was even more eventful. And by eventful, you meant Ser Duncan, now self-proclaimed The Tall, getting shut down over and over again whenever he told people that the old man who raised him, Arlan of Pennytree, served them. None remembered. Even less cared. It tugged at your heartstrings to see the knight become more and more discouraged by the rejections. Duncan pulled you close to him as the townspeople rushed to catch glimpses of new arrivals to the tourney— and the same unease you felt when you saw the dragon coin washed over you when the banners came into view.

“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.” You could swear a vein popped on your forehead as one of the Targaryen kin spoke to Duncan like he was less than dirt under their fingernail.

“Uh, I’m not a stable boy, m’lord.”

“Not clever enough?” The prince raises a brow, then shakes his head.

“Well, if you can’t manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.” He dismounts his horse, his gaze falls onto you, and he smirks. He steps closer, seemingly not paying any mind to Duncan as he explains how he’s not a serving man either.

“Are you a wench? Never met a noble one.” You wanted nothing more than to punch his porcelain skin off the bone, but Duncan stood in front of you, shielding you. As the prince reaches for your hand, you move it away— he stops his motion, licking the outer part of his mouth as if thinking of how to act as snobbishly as possible next, only to deem you unworthy of the fight, and start to walk away.

“I’ll peg you!—” The prince stops at your words, but when he turns to face you once more, you’re no longer there, and neither is Ser Dunk. You glare at Duncan as he holds a hand over your mouth, hiding inside the horse stable. He gives you an ‘are you mad?’ look, before releasing you when the coast is clear. Did you not understand that this could have cost you your head? What highly worried the headge knight is that you most certainly knew that, but chose not to care.

You came to his defense, and it confused Duncan—being kind to him was one thing; he did not need or, for that matter, want you to lose your life because you had decided to defend his honor. However, his heart seemed to ignore the concern that his brain tried to convey to it; it chose to focus on the romantic aspect of it all— which had to be tricks, illusions by his green nature, you didn’t love him — you’re just far too kind, and accidentally captured the giant man’s heart. He just prays you don’t break it.

── © 𝑑𝑒𝑤𝑦𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑡

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ღ

[figginsmadelynne]

MY VERY CLOSE AND DEAR FRIENDS THE CAROLINA HURRICANES JUST WON THE STANLEY CUP OMG HOW IS THIS REAL LIFE

FUCK YOU VEGAS FUCK YOU CARTER HART

[venmondiese]

I'd like to see Daeron attempt to court a young lady but be absolute shit at it. He's just so head over heels in love it is hard to do anything right. The young lady could take matters into her own hands and very much give this boy all the attention he seeks and she desires. Perhaps Daeron just needs a woman who will take charge 😉

COURTING SOMEONE WITH STRANGE DREAMS...

✧ | summary: Daeron is head over heels for a lady, unsure how he must court her. He had never met someone more strange than him, that's for sure.

✧ | pairing: daeron 'the drunken' targaryen x reader

✧ | tags: cute and fluffy ! no beta read, the smallest amount of angst and if you catch the fate of reader you win a golden star :-)

✧ |note: posy li insert ? hell yeah prepare for more fanfics with her personality bc i love her she is so fun!!! tried to make a small twist in the request to make reader a bit more fun and weird to match daeron's vibe :-) hope you like it!!!

"My lady"

Daeron walks with a cup of wine in his hand, his pace a bit unsteady on the grovel. You were watching the small pond of Summerhall, both of your hands in the parasol handle, holding it against your shoulder so the sun would not burn your skin. Everyone at court was gathered around the open marquee, preferring to stay under the shadows, eating food and wine.

At least he did.

"Prince Daeron" You say with a smile, making a polite bow, not thinking beforehand how the parasol hits his head slightly "Ow, sorry!"

"No it is.. fine" he says, a hand moving to where you accidentally hit him. "I have been hurt worse"

You knew that after the Ashford Tourney, and the infamous Trial of Seven, Daeron had lost part of his ear. It was not as grotesque as it had been, and after a moon, it looked less painful. 

"Oh, well, I have been hurt too" you say animatedly. "My mother used to drag me by the ear when I misbehaved" you say with a cheerful smile, the weight of your words and your behaviour confused him.

He knew you were rather clumsy, as you had accidentally stepped on the curtains of the main ball, making a scene when they fell. Your father had apologised, while he saw how your mother scolded you in front of everyone. 

That’s the first time he noticed you, and since then, he was head over heels for you. He tried not to make it obvious, since he was pretty sure he would be a shitty husband for you, and he dared not ask his father for permission, even if you were a proper lady. He had seen you from a distance, curious about why you were away from court, as he always tried to search you in these events to appreciate you from a distance. You were a comely girl, and he did find you beautiful, delicate and so different from the rest. 

He had spoken to you before, amused by how you did not have a filter with your thoughts. It was cute, and he could hear you speak all day. How he wishes to hold you close, and let you yap about anything.

“Sorry. It was rude to say” You say quickly, a soft smile with apologies. 

Daeron remains a bit quiet, unsure what to say.

“In this season, frogs start jumping and playing” You point out at the pond. “And there are golden fish in there too, but the beauties are the turtles, they move incredibly slow, and it is mesmerising to see”

Daeron had never taken a second look at the frogs, turtles or fish, and he had been found passed out drunk in the pond more than once. 

“I never noticed,” he says quietly, drinking from his cup. He was not drunk yet, barely starting drinking. “It comes naturally for you to notice those things?”

“Oh, yeah, my mother says it is the most obnoxious thing” You say without a second thought. “She says I am silly and notice unimportant things, and when I was little, she would make me count all the birds in our backyard while she tried to get suitors for my sister”

"Oh" He says, unsure what to say. How does one can comfort a lady when she says that? "How bad"

He wanted to drown himself in the pond by how lame he was.

"Yeah, I do know that! It was very mean"

Daeron frowns “Why she asked you to do that?”

You turn to see him with a smile, and say “Because I would scare any suitors away. I am very chatty, and my father says that no one wants to know about my weird dreams”

Daeron pauses for a second, speechless at that comment, as if getting a deja vu all at once. “I do have weird dreams too”

“Really? Last night I dreamt that I was so small I fell into my chamberpot, and then I travelled to the far land of the Summer Islands. Did you know they have a lot of butterflies there?”

Gods, you were chatty. Daeron thinks, trying not to grin like a fool. It made his heart go crazy for you.

“I did not know”

“What are your dreams about?”

He pauses for a second, finishing his second glass of wine before answering. It was not something pleasant to remember, and when questioned about it by the lady he fancies, his mind panics “I… I dream about… many things”

“I was looking forward to meeting you, because my sister says you do have weird dreams”

“Ah… I suppose I have that fame…” Daeron says, scratching his head. He really does not wish to speak about the matter, and before he can finish a sentence -or a thought- you speak once again.

“Do not worry. I think that weird dreams are great, and more so if you learn how to control them”

Daeron frowns “Control your dreams?”

“Yeah. Like when you know that you are dreaming and you can do whatever you like”

He had never heard of such things. Daeron tried many things before to suppress his dreams, and so far, wine was his only option. If he passed out drunk, no dreams would torment him. 

“How do you do that?” 

“I am not sure. I have a book about it” 

“Another wine” He says to a servant who walked past them with a bottle full of wine. “Leave it here.”

You look at him, holding your parasol as you see him pour himself another cup. It was most indecorous for a prince to serve his own cup, but you do not mind.

“Does your father truly despise me? For ripping his curtains?”

“He despises everyone. Do not feel bad” He consoles you, watching your curious face. 

“Oh, that’s good. My mother said he would send me to be a silent sister, but then she said he might as well just cut my tongue out because I never shut up”

As he drinks up, Daeron cannot help but to sigh at how horrible he is at courting a lady. He hears your wild stories as you speak like a chatterbox, yapping any thought in your pretty head. He liked it, as it helped him to think of something else rather than his misery. 

He knew you were different, he knew everyone found you obnoxious and strange, but he liked that about you; people found him strange as well, more so because he was drunk all the time, calling him a rake more than once. But it wasn’t just for the pleasure, it was the relief. 

“Do you…” He tries to speak, trying to think how to ask without being improper. “Have any suitors?”

“Mmm, not really” You say, looking at him. “And you?”

He frowns slightly “If I have suitors?”

“Yeah”

“...No”

As silence falls between you both, only filled by the sound of the birds chipping and the faint sound of the bard playing for ladies at court. Daeron sucks at courting ladies, he always knew that, hoping that his father would simply marry him off with a lady, and be done with it. 

Whores were easier, as he simply gave a bag of coins, and he had company for the night. But he could not pay a highborn lady, and he isn’t a fool to try to compromise one. But he had no idea how to interact with one. Less more with one as strange as you.

“Would you like to… ehm, well…” he says, pouring himself another cup trying to not panic as you watch him with those big, curious eyes. “Fuck!”

He says, as he tilted the bottle too much, staining his velvet doublet, and making a mess on his breeches as well, feeling the fabric getting damp and sticky. His father would kill him for making a mess, much more for being a drunkward. 

“Oh, do not worry!” You say to him, as he steps back. “Surely, we can ask the maids…”

He gulps the wine on his cup as he simply turns away, in shame, going inside the castle without saying goodbye. 

What an idiot! To think that he came to you with intentions to court you, to make you see how charming he could be when he was not drunk, just to make a fool of himself. 

Daeron has dreamed of you. 

In his dreams, you were full of life and wonder, still chatting and yapping to him about anything in your way, but he could not make the words. He saw you in your pink dress, in your silver one, yellow one… Always glowing with a smile and a giddy, warm personality. 

In the spring, you fell asleep. In a field full of flowers, he finds you in your chemise, alongside his cousins, both Valarr and Matarys. 

He avoids you like the plague, then. He knows one thing about his dreams: always dreaming of someone meant something bad. If court is taking place, he simply wanders the other way. If he knows you’ll be at the gardens, he stays in the library. In days he mostly stayed inside, getting drunk for the night and for when he went to the taverns near the castle. 

But how he saw you from the distance, hearing your chatting and giggles in every corner of Summerhall. He dared not to get close, afraid that his proximity might cause your doom, but he was allowed to stare from afar, and sigh as he was head over heels for you, thinking about you most of the time. 

“Prince Daeron!”

His father had asked him to meet him in the yard, perhaps to force him to train the sword with him, as if another Blackfyre rebellion might start anytime soon. With Aerion, Aemon and Aegon gone, he was down to three children, and only Daeron was a boy to pick up a sword.

So, he was trying to go hide in his chambers, walking toward the stairs. And your voice stops him, as he sees you leaning in the stair railings above him, waving at him with a smile.

“Stay right there! Do not move”

He sighs, his heart beating more quick as he hears you going downstairs quickly. 

“I was looking for you” You say without a breath, holding out a book for him “Here!”

He sees the cover, almost faint letter of the title. “Guide for dreams? Really?”

“I sent a letter to my home, so the servants could fetch it and bring it here.” You say proudly “And I highlighted the important parts, so you can control your dreams. It’s a gift to you.”

Daeron is a bit surprised, because he had forgotten you mentioned a book. He was too ashamed, of being clumsy to throw wine into his clothes in front of you. 

“It is from Volantis, a gift from my uncle. But I already read it, so it is yours”

He was a bit speechless at first, as it was a cute gesture, he had to admit. Only his mother and father would worry about his dreams, when he was a child, but now it was something no one spoke of. Sometimes Egg and Aemon would be curious, as children were, but some dreams came true, some did not. 

“Thank you”

“When one is courting someone it is proper to gift things” You say with your hands clasped together, proud of yourself. “So this is my gift to you”

Daeron blinks for a second, confused at your words “Courting someone?”

“Yes. My mother said that if a man wants to court me, he must give me things.”

That did not explain your comment. “And this was a gift…?”

“Yes, but it is from my uncle. Not a courting gift, of course, that would be silly, But it is my courting gift to you”

“You intend to court… me?”

“I do not intend, I am.”

Speechless was one word. But he was frozen in place at that, confused and unsure what to say. Women did not court men, that was sure, less  a maiden to a prince. But again, you cared little for social norms, it seems. 

“Oh”

You smile proudly of yourself, as you get on your tippy toes to press a soft kiss on his lips. 

It was ridiculous, him of all people, getting wooed like he was the maiden, and not the drunk prince who would always ask a serving man to fetch him a wench. 

“You can refuse me, if you like. I would not ask for the book back” You say then, with a giddy smile in your lips, proud of yourself. 

“I… I… I am not refusing, I just… I have never been… courted?” He says, unsure of his words and the situation. Was he not having a ridiculous dream now? Could you have infected him with your queer dreams?

“I haven’t either. But I think I am doing a good job”

“I think so too, I suppose”

“You do not need a septa to chaperone you?”

“Ehm… no. I think not”

You grin, and say “Then, you must hear my dream from last night! Have you ever heard that the Yi Tish emperor has concubines? Well, I dreamt that I had many concubines, but all of them were made of water, and so they could not see the sun, because they would evaporate…”

“That it’s silly” He notes, allowing you to hold his hand as you two walked across the halls. 

“I know, but thank the Gods that you are not made of water!”

Daeron was unsure how a strange lady could simply take care of him, courting him. But he would not refuse your attention to him. And besides, not all his dreams come true, and you have always loved the gardens.

[vhagars-dementia]

Ohhh how precious!

[trisarahtopssuh]

DEAR GOD: Leaving's The Hardest Part

Dennis Whitaker x Popstar!Reader

DEAR GOD MASTERLIST

Part 2

Summary: You and Dennis are hopelessly involve, you decide to stay in Broken Bow, despite your dream is to leave and pursue music. You go into nursing, though you struggle through the first year. Making a life and relationship changing decision

CW: Depression, mental health struggles, anxiety, emotional distress parental neglect, academic stress, burnout, themes of isolation and loneliness, relationship conflict, abandonment, Not proof read, grammar mistakes.

WC: 3k

The sky is painted in hues of soft pink and purple, which slowly blends into the orange of the sun dropping below the horizon. “Denny?” You ask the man lying next to you, his arm hooked around your waist. You lie in the bed of your truck. 

“Mm?” He answers

“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” You roll over onto your stomach to look at the boy. He’s silent for a second. Barley thinking before answering. 

“A doctor.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, remember that cow that went into labor n’ I had to help it give birth.” He looks at you

“Oh! I do, but it’s different from animals from humans to cows, Denny.” 

He laughs, “I know that, just want to do something useful. What’d you wanna be?”

You think for a minute. School isn't exactly hard for you to do; you just don't enjoy it. You understand the topics, do well in school, but it’s just not fulfilling for you like it is for Dennis. You think your dream is to sing, leave broken bow, never look back, and sing, doesn't matter where. It’s all you want. “I want to be a singer.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you’ve heard me sing before, m’not half bad. I don't need fame, just singing, that’s all.” You say.

“I could see that.” He looks at the sunset. Sun nearly fully under the horizon.

“We would be a power couple.” 

“Yeah?” He smiles

“Duhh, a doctor and a singer think about it.”

“That would be pretty cool,” Dennis replies.

You lay your chin on his chest, looking at him, “Do you think you’d ever leave?”

“If I get the chance, right now probably not. Why?”

“Just, we graduate in 3 months, im not going to college. I don’t have much here.. Just you, really. I was thinking about actually leaving.” You say, “Like, actually taking singing seriously, maybe move to California or something.” 

Dennis thinks for a minute about you leaving. What he would do alone, what he would do without you? “You should go,” he says this quickly, though what he wants to say is, “Don't go, stay here, marry me, live on the farm with me, make music here.” He knows you wouldn’t stay, even if he begged. You’ve said it time and time again, Broken Bow has nothing for you, and it never will. Well, at least that was before you and Dennis started dating. Before he became the love of your life, before he was your best friend.

“Yeah, but it's unrealistic. I could go to community college. Get a degree in like nursing, i dont know. You could go there too! We could work in the same hospital. It would be like greys anatomy!”

“Yeah?” Dennis feels relieved, though that doesn't come alone; he has guilt for being relieved that you may not leave him. That you would do something unfulfilling to do something more ‘realistic’. 

You walk across the stage, grabbing your diploma, shaking your principal's hand. As you walk back to your seat, among other graduates sitting, you spot Dennis. You beam, smiling ear to ear, mouthing “we did it!!” He smiles at you, mouthing, “I love you.”

Afterwards, you go find Dennis, sprinting up to him, jumping straight into his arms, kissing him. He smiles into the kiss. 

“Congratulations, Baby.” He beams at you.

You swat at his chest. “D’you have amnesia? You just graduated, too! Congratulations to you, too, my love.”

He huffs a small laugh, “Thank you.”

“Have you seen my mom?” You ask dennis looking around puzzedly.

“No.. did she not come?”

“Yeah, probably.. S’fine.” Your voice faltered.

“M’sorry, baby, how bout this, you come to dinner with the rest of my family and me.”

“Would they mind?”

“Not at all, they love you.” He reassures you.

Your keys jingle as you unlock your front door, stepping inside your home, smelling softly of cigarette smoke. Taking off your shoes, “Mom?” You yell out. Walking around the house, you look for signs that she was here. Opening your phone, you look for a message from her. You send a message.

You: Where are you? Your car’s here, you missed my graduation. When will you be back?

You place your phone down, sitting on the couch with a sigh, still in your graduation gown. You look around the living room, furniture decades out of fashion, slightly yellowing. The wooden coffee table nailed back together over the decade of family game nights, turned into heated arguments. Turning on the TV to distract from the sweet and sour memories, SpongeBob reruns are playing. 

For about 15 minutes, you pay attention, then you remember the text you sent to your mom, and you're still waiting for a reply. You open your phone, first looking at the photo of you and Dennis, you’re kissing his cheek, his face is scrunched up. You type in your password. The screen opens to your message

You: !Where are you? Your car’s here, you missed my graduation? When will you be back?

Your message could not be delivered

You sigh, deciding not to worry about it. Her phone is probably just dead; she’s out with that dude that keeps coming around. You reassure yourself. Focusing on the TV in front of you. Though in the back of your head, whispers of worry linger.

“Denny, s’to hard.” You sit on his bed, textbook resting in your lap. In the last 6 months, you and Dennis have both started college, you with nursing school, and Denny studying Pre-med. It started easily for you, getting CPR certified, studying vitals, but the one class getting you is anatomy. 206 bones in the body, muscles, and placements of nerves. The memorization is frying your brain. This isn't a class you can avoid; it's mandatory to graduate. Though the dread of graduating isn't too far. The community college nursing program, being two years long, is intimidating you. 

Dennis takes a deep breath, “Okay, I have some flashcards, you just need to know the name and location. It's all memorization. But that can wait. It's nearly 1 am, let's take a break, yeah?” He takes the thick textbook out of your lap, closing it and placing it on his nightstand. 

You lie down with him, his arm loosely wrapping around your waist. His breath slowly removes the weight from your chest, but the knot in your stomach stays, leaving your mind racing, unable let you think about one thing without thinking about how you're a failure, how you’ll never graduate, how you’ll never leave Broken Bow, how Dennis is better of without y-

“I love you, Bowey,” Dennis whispers.

“I love you too, Den.” You look at his sleep-ridden face, how peaceful and stress-free he is. Jealously looming over you, why can I be this happy?” You wonder. 

You stay like that for a while, in silence. After a while, you open your phone to Instagram. You aimlessly scroll, seeing posts of your friends partying at their colleges far, far away from Broken Bow. Having the time of their life. Or on trips, backpacking across Europe. Every scroll gives you makes the sense of jealousy even stronger, for the fact that they're happy. While you’re miserable, studying for something in two years will only make you hate your life more. You begin to compare your life to theirs and Dennis’s, Dennis enjoying learning for his degree, making friends, and being comfortable with the fact that he may never leave Broken Bow. You look up at Dennis, now sleeping soundly. You decide to stay, for now, with him. The love you have for the man outweighs the pain you have for this town, for your life's trajectory.

Finals come and go, and with them, sadly, the anxiety decides to stay. A new habit has started, every day when your alarm goes off. Your body can barely get out of bed. 12 hours of sleep feels like two now for you. Lying in your bed, you look out of your window. Light reflects off the snow, right into your eyes. You squint, the light slowly giving you a headache. You cover your face with your blanket. Hoping that in 5 seconds, the ache will ease into a hum; something more manageable. On your bedside table, your phone buzzes. You flip the blanket off your face, huffing, and you pick up your phone. It’s Dennis. You pick up.

“Hello..?” You answer

“Hey! Just wondering if you’re coming over. You said you would be over today, so im just wondering.” 

You’re confused for a minute, thinking it's 10 am, when really it’s 2 in the afternoon, nearly 3. Your alarm going off at 10 am is something you can clearly remember. How long were you just lying here? “Yeah, uhm ill be right there, can we get lunch or something?” You roll out of your bed. Picking up a hoodie off your floor and a pair of sweatpants. 

“Yeah, of course! Love you!” He says happily.

“Love you too, be there in ten.” You yawn.

Dennis is worried about you, to say the least. He’s seen how you barely speak unless spoken to, or how you don’t eat as much, how you can sleep for hour upon hours and then still be tired. At first, he thought it was the transition between highschool to college. But now it’s February, he's worried that you may hurt yourself. You barely talk to him anymore. When he finally gets you to come over, he decides to confront you. 

Dennis hears the front door open. You walk inside, slipping off your shoes, and walking upstairs towards his room. Once you walk in, he embraces you in a hug. You lightly hug him back, sighing into the hug.

You and he end up watching a movie. It hums in the background. Your laying on his chest. You stare at the TV, though your mind runs from topic to topic in your head. The movie pauses.

“Baby, can we talk?” Dennis asks softly.

“Uhm- yeah.” You sit up, facing him.

“Im not sure how to ask this, but,” He takes a breath, “Are you okay?”

Your face blanches, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I know you’re lying. I want to help you.” He grabs hold of your hand.

“Dennis, I said im fine.” You pull your hand out of his grasp, becoming defensive.

“Baby, I really, really wanna help. I’ve seen how you’ve changed since June, im worried for you. I know school has been hard for you. But if you need help, I’m here.”

“Im fine, really, it's just that it’s winter, and the coldness is messing with me.” Your lie sits in the air; you know that it’s a lie, though Dennis seems to believe it. 

“Okay, im here if you ever need to talk. I love you.” He looks at you, the look of a man who cares all too much for a woman who’s far too stubborn, and in love with him to ask for it.

“I love you too.” You say it, it's truthful, though it doesn't feel as full as how you would say it did before. How a smile would grace your lips every time. Now, just the corner of your lips raises. 

Winter comes, spring graces Broken Bow, what you were hoping was just the winter blues, was not. Spring came, and spring slowly left. The late-May sun warms your cheeks. You lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling, warm sunlight streaming through your window. You slowly peel yourself out of bed, tears streaming down your face. Dreading that you have to drive 45 minutes to the next town over, to go take a final, that you know for a fact you will fail, for a job that you will hate more and more each year you work.

 Your feet are heavy against the floor, and you walk to your car. You put the key in the ignition, and the car stalls. You try again, again, and again.  “Fuck.” You lay your head back on the headrest. Taking a deep breath in. Tears of frustration well up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. You turn the key, hoping it was just a fluke. The engine stalls again. You look at the time on your phone. You needed to leave 10 minutes ago to make it on time. At that, the tears in your eyes spill over. They pour down your face, staining your shirt. Your chest heaves, and snot runs down your face. You feel like you can't breathe. You attempt to take a deep breath, to focus on anything but the sense of panic that runs through your veins. 

After a while, your sobs turn into a light mist of tears. You pick up your phone out of the cup holder, its been nearly an hour, and that barely bothers you. You open messages.

You: I know right now you're taking a final, but can you come over afterwards, probably with jumper cables?

You don't look to see if he might’ve seen the message. You hop out of the truck, walking straight into 

your house and into your room. Jumping onto the bed. Tears still spilling out of your eyes, staining your sheets. Slowly, you sleep consumes you.

Dennis softly shakes you awake, “Baby, get up, I jumped your car, the battery was dead.” 

You say something inaudible, and he moves you over to lie on the bed with you. As you pick up your head off the bed, he finally sees your face; eyes red-rimmed, puffy, lips, cheeks flushed.

“What happened?”

“I missed my final, my car died.” You say.

He moved stray hairs out of your face, “M’sorry, baby, is there a chance you can retake it?”

“No, the professor was clear about it. You miss it, you’ll get a zero.” You sigh. “M’really tired, Dennis.”

“Well, did you get any sleep last night?”

“Denny im tired like really, really fucking tired.” Your head is resting between his neck and the curve of his shoulder. “Not sure if nursing, or really college, is for me.”

“What is it you wanna do?”

“What I want is unreachable. I want out of this town.” With that, you fall asleep. Leaving Dennis to think about what you have said.

Dennis never brings up what you said, nor do you; you barely remember that day. You failed the final, but luckily, not failing the class. The other finals, you didn't do so great, but you passed by a landslide. It’s now July, and today is when you pick your classes. The day you dread. As you stare at your laptop resting atop your legs, you finally realize how miserable you are. How your life isnt your’s, and if you stay in nursing school. In Broken Bow, you’ll forever be stuck. Living a lie. A life that will age you faster than the world spinning round and round ever could. You shut your laptop shut. Looking out the window to the vast farmland. You think about how, for the past 19 long years of your life, Broken Bow feels less and less like home, and more like being stuck in memories.

Leaving was something you dreamt about a lot, since you were a child, but especially in the last year, it’s all you’ve dreamt about. Never considering the actual action of leaving till now. Then you realize, the one man you love is here. He won't come with you. He’s the one reason you stayed. He's the one reason you would stay. Thats when tears start falling, realizing that it's either love or happiness. You are oh so in love, but it's being washed out by your hatred for everything else. 

You grab a duffel bag out of your closet. Filling it with clothes, your notebooks full of music, your birth certificate, anything you could think of, with tears spilling out, chest heaving, and mind racing.

You walk up onto Dennis’s Poarch, it's dark out, nearly 3 am. Tears stain your face, letter in hand, you place it in his mailbox. You slowly walk away, towards your truck, and you look back once. You start the truck, slowly pulling out of the driveway. Tears now stream instantly down your cheeks. Your chest sputters. You look out of your rear-view mirror. His home was slowly fading away into the distance. 

Dear Dennis,

I know that if I tried to do this in person, it would never happen. You know, that in the last year since school ended, and well before that, I've wanted to get out of Broken Bow. I have been thinking about leaving for a while. Nursing or anything academic-wise has never been fulfilling for me. This has really been showing since nursing school started. I don't fit in, im hardly any good at it. I also know that if I did finish the program, I would never truly be happy. So, im leaving. Im not sure where. Im gonna figure that out. But I want you to know that I stayed for you. My love runs so deeply for you that im not sure where it ends. But I know that my being here is not healthy for me. You were right, I really am not okay. But I will be. I love you to the moon and back, I always will. Im sorry. I hope that one day you go far, far away from Broken Bow, live the life you deserve, and become a great doctor. 

Love,

Bowey.

A/N: This chapter to me dragged. Writing it was soooo hard. DWWW next chapter will be fun, not much Dennis will be included but it'll be more happy def. That will be out soon probably the next few days if I dont proofread.

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[catbayunthestoryteller]

Dragons Caught in the Storm (Part 3)

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2)

Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.

The night was chaos. Maids were summoned. Whispers spread quickly: of sickness, of spoiled wine, of something ill in the prince’s constitution.

He was kept to his chambers, pale and shaking, his body rejecting whatever had been forced upon it by Rhae's witchery.

You did not sleep. You did not dare.

By morning, it was over. The love was gone. You saw it immediately in the way he looked at you. He was back to himself. Weakened, but no longer consumed.

“And now,” he said hoarsely, reclining against his pillows as Maekar stood nearby, his expression darkening with every passing moment, “I will not marry her.”

Maekar stared at him. “You begged for this match.”

“I was not myself.”

“You were very much yourself,” Maekar snapped. “You declared it before the court.”

“I was under some…influence,” Aerion said, his gaze flicking briefly, very briefly, to you. “It has passed.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. This had not been the love match he had hoped for. This was pure embarrassment.

Lyonel arrived that same day. Storm itself incarnate. And when he learned that the match he had ridden hard to secure was now dismissed, that his niece had been all but tossed aside, his temper broke.

“You think this is a jest?” he thundered, his voice carrying through the hall like a war drum. “You send for me, speak of betrothal, and then...what? Change your minds like children at play?”

Maekar stood firm, unyielding. “My son has reconsidered.”

“Your son has insulted my blood,” Lyonel shot back. “And you expect me to simply swallow it?”

“You will accept that no vows were made,” Maekar replied coldly.

Lyonel laughed. It was a threatening, mad, unpleasant sound.

“No vows?” he echoed. “You think that matters? You think word means nothing now? Is that what your dragons have come to?”

The tension in the hall tightened.

“You will be compensated,” Maekar said, as though that settled it. “Another match will be arranged. One of my kin...”

“I do not want another match,” Lyonel snarled. “I want the one that was offered. Or I will take my own crown and be done with this mummer's farce.”

The threat hung in the air. Open rebellion.And still it was not enough.

Tyrosh, apparently, mattered more. Trade. Alliances. Politics.

You did not.

You did not attend dinner. You dismissed your maids. You stood in your chamber, packing your things, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“Ours is the fury.” Your house words rang in your mind.

You had been humiliated. Overlooked. Used as a convenience, then discarded. And there was nothing you could do. Nothing but leave.

“Have the carriage be ready by morning,” you had ordered. “I shall return to Storm’s End.”

Alone. You would not stay here another moment, you had already decided. That was the only thing holding you upright. Not dignity, not after being bartered and dismissed like some ill-fitting arrangement, but sheer, stubborn resolve. The kind that had been carved into you long before you knew what court politics even were. The kind your uncle had raised you on between laughter and blood and storm-winds.

“Ours is the fury.” It rang through you now like a war drum.

You would not give them the satisfaction.

Your uncle would rage, of course. He already had, if the echoes of his voice earlier in the hall were anything to go by. But at least there, his fury would be yours. Not something you were forced to stand still beneath while others decided your worth in measured, political tones.

The door opened behind you. You did not turn at once.

“Get out,” you said, assuming it was one of the maids returning despite your dismissal. “I said I would finish...”

The door shut firmly. You turned.

Aerion stood there. He did not look like the lovesick creature who had followed you through corridors and gardens only days before.

“What did you do to me?” he asked.

You stared at him for a moment, then folded your arms slowly across your chest. “I might ask you the same. You caused quite enough trouble without needing help from me.”

He took a step further into the room, gaze fixed on you in a way that made it clear he was not here to be dismissed.

“I remember pieces,” he said, measured. “Not everything. But enough to know I was not in my right mind. I was...” He exhaled sharply, almost disgusted with himself. “Clinging. Begging. Speaking nonsense.”

You said nothing.

His eyes narrowed. “You will explain.”

You considered lying. You did not.

Perhaps because it no longer mattered. Perhaps because you were too tired to construct something neat and palatable. Or perhaps because, for all his faults, Aerion had already suffered enough humiliation without being left in ignorance of it.

“You drank a love potion,” you said plainly.

Silence followed.

“…what?” he asked incredulously, after a moment.

“One Rhae made,” you continued, your tone steady even as your fingers curled slightly against your arms. “She meant it for someone else. It was never intended for you. You took the goblet before I could stop you.”

“The goblet,” he repeated slowly. “The one I took from your hand.”

“Yes.”

“And that was...what?” His gaze lifted back to yours, something keen and probing behind it now. “Meant for whom?”

You hesitated. Only for a second. But he noticed.

“…Valarr,” you said.

That did it.

It was subtle, but unmistakable, the shift in him. Not anger, not outright, but something far more cutting. Something almost…offended. A short, disbelieving breath left him.

“So,” he said, pacing once across the room before turning back to you, “I was not even the intended fool. I merely…stumbled into the role.”

“You took it from my hand,” you snapped, irritation flaring. “Uninvited, I might add.”

He gave a short laugh, though there was little humor in it.

“And you paid for it,” you added. “You were sick enough to rid yourself of it.”

He studied you for a long moment after that.

Then he glanced around, taking in the half-packed trunks, the folded gowns, the disarray that spoke not of leisure but departure.

“You are leaving,” he said.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In the morn.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“And you intend to go quietly?” he asked. “After all this?”

“What would you have me do?” you shot back, the fury you had been holding in your chest surging up at last. “Stay? Smile? Pretend I was not offered and dismissed like a passing inconvenience? They have made their priorities quite clear. I will not remain here to be pitied.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “You would not.”

Silence stretched again. Then: “I will make you a proposal.”

You stiffened. “I am not interested in...”

“You should hear it first,” he cut in, not unkindly, but firmly enough to stop you.

You pressed your lips together. “Speak, then.”

“We restore the betrothal,” he said.

You stared at him. “…what?”

“We renew it,” he continued, as though discussing something simple, something practical. “Publicly. Before your uncle leaves. Before the court has time to settle on a version of events that does not favour you.”

“You refused it,” you said flatly.

“I did,” he agreed. “Under the impression that my previous…condition had made the decision for me.”

“And now?”

“Now I am making it consciously.”

You threw your hands up in exasperation. “This is absurd.”

“No,” he said calmly. “This is useful.”

You turned away from him, running a hand over your hair in frustration. “You expect me to simply agree? After everything? After your father dismissed my uncle’s anger as though it were nothing?”

“My father dismissed the threat of rebellion because he believes it will not come to pass,” Aerion replied. “You and I both know your uncle would burn half the realm before bending easily, but he will not start a war without cause that he can justify to others.”

“He has cause,” you snapped. “His niece was insulted.”

“His niece was inconvenienced,” Aerion corrected, though there was no mockery in it, only blunt truth. “And inconvenience is not enough to rally banners, no matter how loudly he roars.”

That stung. Because it was true. You hated that it was true.

He watched your reaction carefully before continuing.

“But a renewed betrothal changes that,” he said. “It removes the insult. It restores your standing. It gives him what he came for.”

“What of you?” you asked sharply. “What do you gain from this arrangement, aside from further entangling yourself in something you already wished to escape?”

“Several things,” his mouth curved. “For one, it allows me to correct the spectacle I have already made of myself. For another…” His gaze flicked briefly toward the door, as though aware of unseen ears, before returning to you. “It offers certain…satisfactions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as watching my dear cousin come to terms with the fact that what he overlooked is now beyond his reach,” he said lightly.

You held his gaze. You could not deny that something in you responded to that. Vindictive. Baratheon.

“And the court?” you pressed. “They will not simply accept that you changed your mind twice in as many days.”

“They will accept whatever story we give them,” he replied. “People prefer a narrative that makes sense of discomfort. We provide one, and they will cling to it.”

“What story would that be?”

“That you were overwhelmed,” he said, watching you carefully now. “That my proposal came too suddenly, that you felt…cornered. That you withdrew, and I, in my pride, took it as an insult and withdrew in turn.”

“And now?” you asked.

“Now we reconcile,” he said simply. “Privately first. Publicly soon after. A misunderstanding. A quarrel. Nothing more.”

You were quiet for a long moment. It was a good plan. Too good.

“And you will take the blame,” you said slowly.

“If necessary,” he replied without hesitation. “It will cost me less than it costs you.”

That, too, was true. You exhaled. “…fine,” you said at last. “We will do it.”

Relief did not show on his face. He nodded once. “It will be done, then.”

You turned back toward the trunk, reaching for a folded gown with more force than needed, as though the conversation had settled something cleanly.

It had not. There was a pause behind you.

Then: “There is something else.”

You stilled, your fingers tightening slightly in the fabric. “What?”

He did not answer immediately. When you turned back, Aerion was watching you again, but differently now.

“I remember it,” he said.

Your stomach tightened.

“The way I felt,” he clarified. “Not all of it. But enough.”

You swallowed.

He took a step closer, slower this time, as though approaching something uncertain.

“It was…” He exhaled, searching for the word. “Intense. Yes. Overwhelming. But also...” He frowned faintly, as though the admission irritated him. “Good.”

You looked away.

“I remember wanting to be near you constantly,” he continued. “Wanting to touch you. To speak to you. To…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly. “It was not entirely unpleasant.”

“It was not real,” you said, colder than intended.

“I know,” he replied. There was no argument in it.

“I know,” he repeated, softer now. “That does not mean it was not...something.”

Silence stretched.

“I remember you, as well,” he added after a moment.

Your almost took a step back to escape.

“You were not cruel,” he said. “Not entirely. You were…careful. Even when you did not wish to be.”

You did not know what to say to that. You had not realized he had noticed.

“I remember your hands,” he went on, almost absently now, as though the memory had taken hold of him despite himself. “You touched me as though I might break. As though you were…” He trailed off, then shook his head once, as if dismissing it.

You forced your voice steady. “You were ill.”

“That is not the point.”

“No,” you said quietly. “It is not.”

“I would not mind,” he added, almost casually, though his eyes betrayed something else entirely, “if you did not hate me quite so much this time.”

Your breath caught.

He turned away then, as though the admission cost him more than he would ever allow you to see.

The betrothal was renewed before the court had quite decided what to make of the first disaster. There was no room left for whispers to grow teeth. Aerion Targaryen spoke with a clarity that bordered on insolence, as though the reversal were not a reversal at all but the correction of a trivial misunderstanding. You stood beside him, still as carved stone, aware of every eye in the hall and yet refusing to give them anything they could feast on.

Your uncle watched. That was the worst of it. Lyonel Baratheon did not shout, did not laugh, did not storm out in outrage, he simply watched, weighing the thing like a man deciding whether to split a table with his bare hands or leave it standing out of sheer spite.

When it was done, Maekar Targaryen summoned Aerion away from the hall. You did not follow, but Maekar’s voice carried through the half-open doors.

“You will not make sport of this again. You will not dangle alliances as though they were baubles to be picked up and dropped when you tire of them.”

Aerion did not answer immediately, and in that pause there was something unfamiliar. When he did speak, it was lower than you had ever heard him, stripped of ornament.

“I will not repeat it.”

It was not apology. Maekar would not have cared for one. But it was something like acknowledgement, and that seemed to suffice, for the door shut and the matter, outwardly, was settled.

Outwardly.

It left other things to fester.

Valarr Targaryen did not rage. That would have been easier to bear. Instead, he watched you with an attention that grew more suspicious by the hour, as though he had misplaced something and could not remember where he had last set it down.

You felt it at your back, across tables, in corridors where chance encounters began to feel less like chance. He lingered in conversations that did not concern him, appeared too quickly when you withdrew, dismissed explanations that might have satisfied anyone else. There was something strained in him now, something pulling tight.

You might have endured it longer if not for Rhae Targaryen, who had never learned the discipline of silence.

She did not confess outright. It slipped from her sideways, dressed in half a joke, a careless remark that would have meant nothing to anyone without context. Unfortunately, Egg Targaryen had context. Years of being the unwilling subject of her concoctions had given him an ear for precisely that sort of mistake.

Valarr found you in one of the smaller passages, where the tapestries swallowed sound and the court felt far away. He did not bother with courtesy.

“Tell me it is not true.”

You knew at once what he meant, though you tried, out of reflex more than hope, to evade it. “You will have to be more specific.”

“The potion,” he said, and there was something raw beneath the words now, stripped of the careful composure he usually wore so easily. “Rhae’s foolishness. Aerion drinking it. All of it, tell me it is not true.”

You hesitated.

He drew in a breath that did not quite steady him. “You should have come to me.”

“And said what?” you exploded instantly, worn thin by repetition and scrutiny and the slow erosion of patience. “That your cousin made a spectacle of himself under something he did not understand? That I was dragged into it? What would you have done with that?”

“I would have stopped this,” he said, and now he stepped closer, urgency overtaking restraint. “You would not have had to accept him again.”

“I was not forced...”

“You were,” he insisted, more quietly, and that quiet was worse. “You always choose the path that preserves your dignity, even if it binds you to something you do not want. You would rather endure than be pitied. I know you.”

The familiarity of it stung.

“We can undo it,” he pressed. “We will speak to them again. Properly this time. There are ways...”

“There are not,” you said, and you meant it, though saying it felt like closing a door you had not quite examined.

“There are,” he repeated, but now there was something else threading through his insistence, something less noble. “If you stand with me...”

“And what shall that look like?” The question did not come from you.

Aerion Targaryen leaned in the archway as though he had been there long enough to hear everything that mattered. There was nothing languid in him now, nothing of the careless prince who provoked for sport; his attention was fixed.

Valarr turned sharply. “This is not your concern.”

“It is precisely my concern,” Aerion replied, pushing himself away from the stone and stepping into the narrow space between you. “You are advising my betrothed to dismantle her own standing. I am curious what you intend to offer in its place.”

“I intend to offer her a way out.”

“From what?” Aerion’s tone did not rise, but it sharpened, each word set carefully. “A marriage that restores her position? That silences the insult you allowed to stand when it first mattered?”

Valarr’s expression darkened. “Do not twist this into something it is not.”

“I am not twisting anything,” Aerion said. “I am asking a simple question. What do you offer her?”

Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Aerion did not look away. “Exactly. You offer her indignation and nothing else. A grand gesture that leaves her to bear the consequences alone.”

“That is unfair.”

“Yes,” Aerion agreed softly. “But it is accurate.”

He shifted then, not quite placing himself between you and Valarr, but close enough that the intent was unmistakable without needing to be stated.

“She will not leave this court diminished,” he said. “Not while I can prevent it.”

Valarr looked at you, and for a moment the anger stripped away, leaving something else, something that might have been regret if it had come sooner, if it had not arrived amplified by the sight of you standing beside another man.

“You do not have to stay,” he said.

The simplicity of it nearly undid you.

But before you could answer, Aerion spoke again, far more cutting. “She has already chosen.”

It was not true entirely but the way he said it made it feel settled.

“Go,” Aerion waved a hand. “Attend to your own betrothal. Leave mine alone.”

Valarr did not argue again. There was nothing left for him to use that would not unravel further under scrutiny. He stepped back, the tension in him coiling inward rather than dissipating, and left without another word.

Aerion did not look at you immediately. When he did, it was brief, as though confirming something to himself, and then he turned away as well, leaving the corridor feeling suddenly too narrow.

The dress arrived the following afternoon. It was not the sort of thing you would have chosen, it was unflattering but it refused modesty. The fabric was rich without being ostentatious, dark enough to make the gold threading at the seams stand out. The neckline dipped lower than was strictly proper, softened only by the structure of the bodice, which held everything precisely where it ought to be.

You ran your fingers over the embroidery, recognizing the pattern without needing to think: stags worked subtly into the design. Baratheon, reshaped.

When Aerion appeared later, you did not bother to hide your suspicion. “You are aware this will be noticed.”

“That is rather the point,” he said, as though it were obvious.

The certainty in it should have irritated you more than it did. You wore it.

At supper, Valarr's gaze found you quickly and lingered without disguise, drawn to the unfamiliar lines of the gown, the way it altered your shape, the way it made something that had always been present suddenly impossible to ignore.

It should have satisfied Aerion.

That had been the intention, after all: a small, petty victory carved neatly out of a larger, more complicated situation.

Instead, he found himself distracted by something far less convenient. By you.

It was not new, exactly. The memory of the potion still lingered in him in unwelcome fragments: the pull toward you, the restless need for proximity, the disorienting certainty that everything else was secondary. He had dismissed it as an aberration, a chemical imposition that had nothing to do with him.

Watching you now, he was less certain.

It was quieter, what he felt. Less consuming. Yet no less persistent.

You shifted in your seat, adjusting the fabric at your waist, and his attention followed the movement before he could stop it. When you laughed at something Rhae said, the sound caught him off guard, familiar in a way that unsettled him. He looked away. It did not help.

Later, in your chambers, you turned slightly before the mirror, fingers fussing with the neckline. “It sits oddly,” you murmured, though the complaint lacked conviction.

“It does not,” Aerion said from where he leaned against the doorframe.

You glanced at him through the reflection. “You would say that.”

“I would not, if it were untrue.”

You studied your reflection a moment longer, then, in a small voice, “Do you like it?”

It was a simple question, but it held more weight than it ought to have. There was something in the way you asked, as though his answer mattered in a way that had not been the case before.

“Yes,” he said at last.

You nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the mirror, smoothing the fabric once more.

He pushed himself away from the wall without quite deciding to do so, drawn forward by something he had not named and could not easily dismiss.

He reached for you before the rest of the thought could form. His hand came up, fingers brushing along your jaw with a familiarity that might have startled you if it had not already existed somewhere beneath the surface. He tilted your face toward him, just enough to meet your gaze fully, and for a moment he simply looked at you, as though measuring something he had resisted too long. Then he closed the distance.

The kiss was nothing like the fevered grasping the potion had driven from him before. There was no urgency to it, no desperation clawing at the edges. It was slower, steadier, shaped by awareness rather than absence of it. That made it far more difficult to dismiss.

Rhae’s careless words returned to you then, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. It only amplifies what is already there.

part 4: pending...

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[justalonelyslytherin]

I am so heavily invested in this series now! Aerion??! I'm so rooting for him right now. Valarr has still to redeem himself, which I do hope he will do at some point.

The way I have been giggling and kicking my feet at this. Oh I enjoyed reading this soso much. Please add me to your taglist, I can't wait to know what happens next!

He was kept to his chambers, pale and shaking, his body rejecting whatever had been forced upon it by Rhae's witchery.

Poor Aerion. He did not deserve this, even if he brought it on himself, snatching the spiked drink from her

“And now,” he said hoarsely, reclining against his pillows as Maekar stood nearby, his expression darkening with every passing moment, “I will not marry her.”

Yeah that's going to be trouble. Lyonel will not take this lightly, having travelled to Kings Landing just to for the betrothal to fall through. Better prepare for the storm that he will bring with him when he finds out.

“I was under some…influence,” Aerion said, his gaze flicking briefly, very briefly, to you. “It has passed.”

He knows???? Did he catch on or was the potion a bit like his consciousness was awake inside him and knew something was wrong but he couldn't act against it?? I'm so curious ahh

This had not been the love match he had hoped for. This was pure embarrassment.

And it's going to get even more embarassing and uncomfortable the moment Lyonel arrives..

And when he learned that the match he had ridden hard to secure was now dismissed, that his niece had been all but tossed aside, his temper broke.

Oh he is furious. I love it haha.

“I do not want another match,” Lyonel snarled. “I want the one that was offered. Or I will take my own crown and be done with this mummer's farce.”

OH DAMN. He means business, whoopsie.

You had been humiliated. Overlooked. Used as a convenience, then discarded. And there was nothing you could do. Nothing but leave.

From Valarr? Yes. From Aerion? Ehh, it's more complicated then that. That part really is kinda also her own fault for agreeing to use Rhae's love potion (even if they could not have anticipated for it to actually work)

“Have the carriage be ready by morning,” you had ordered. “I shall return to Storm’s End.” Alone. You would not stay here another moment, you had already decided. That was the only thing holding you upright. Not dignity, not after being bartered and dismissed like some ill-fitting arrangement, but sheer, stubborn resolve. The kind that had been carved into you long before you knew what court politics even were. The kind your uncle had raised you on between laughter and blood and storm-winds.

I do love how she stands up for herself though. She won't take the insult eitherway, as she should. As much as I adore these particular Targaryens they aren't above consequenes

“What did you do to me?” he asked. “I remember pieces,” he said, measured. “Not everything. But enough to know I was not in my right mind. I was…” He exhaled sharply, almost disgusted with himself. “Clinging. Begging. Speaking nonsense.”

Ohohoho! Now this is getting interesting. There isn't really a lie she can tell him, but I do wonder how he'll react to being drugged essentially.

Or perhaps because, for all his faults, Aerion had already suffered enough humiliation without being left in ignorance of it.

Hard agree!

“…Valarr,” you said. That did it. It was subtle, but unmistakable, the shift in him. Not anger, not outright, but something far more cutting. Something almost…offended. A short, disbelieving breath left him. “So,” he said, pacing once across the room before turning back to you, “I was not even the intended fool. I merely…stumbled into the role.”

Well that part you did to yourself dear. You snatched the drink out of her hand after all

Silence stretched again. Then: “I will make you a proposal.”

OH??? I'm listening

Wait so now he wants to get betrothed again??

“You refused it,” you said flatly. “I did,” he agreed. “Under the impression that my previous…condition had made the decision for me.” “And now?” “Now I am making it consciously.”

I'm screaming! So there was some underlying attraction that made the lovepotion so potent on him ahhhh. This is getting so interesting omg

You turned away from him, running a hand over your hair in frustration. “You expect me to simply agree? After everything? After your father dismissed my uncle’s anger as though it were nothing?”

It's a damn good deal. Especially considering what might happen. It might not be outright rebellion but it will create conflict and troubles. And I understand she is hurt, I'd be too in that situation. But ignoring emotions this is the best solution

I really like this scheming between the two of them. Can it be called a truce too? Aerion seems rather calm and nice. Of course there is something in for him as well, he'd love to see Valarr suffer, I'm sure it brings him great satisfaction. I also assume that when he speaks of satisfactions he also might be hinting at being able to sleep with her? When they would be husband and wife, after all they'd be expected to have children at some point

“And you will take the blame,” you said slowly. “If necessary,” he replied without hesitation. “It will cost me less than it costs you.”

I'm really surprised how willing he is to take the blunt end. I love that!

I'M SCREAMING HE REMEMBERS??? OH HE SO FELL IN LOVE WITH HER AHH

“I would not mind,” he added, almost casually, though his eyes betrayed something else entirely, “if you did not hate me quite so much this time.”

OH MY GOD YESSS. Oh this is so good

Your uncle watched. That was the worst of it. Lyonel Baratheon did not shout, did not laugh, did not storm out in outrage, he simply watched, weighing the thing like a man deciding whether to split a table with his bare hands or leave it standing out of sheer spite.

I truly wonder if Lyonel is taking it. Does he believe it? It feels like he doesn't completely trust this yet. Which, understandable, totally understandable.

Ahahaha of course Rhae would spill and to no other than egg?? And of course Egg immediately runs to Valarr to tattle too. Oh this is so entertaining hehe

“There are,” he repeated, but now there was something else threading through his insistence, something less noble. “If you stand with me…”

Of course now he tries to jump in and be her saviour!! Valarr this is a tad bit too late dude. Omg and Aerion is now part of the convo too? Are they going to fight over her? Oh please do

“She will not leave this court diminished,” he said. “Not while I can prevent it.”

I'm bowing to Aerion. He stands on business and I love that he is thinking more of her and what it would mean than Valarr does. Valarr right now is upset that he can't have her and he doesn't want anyone else to have her either if he can't. But what the consequences are for her? He either doesn't care or is to oblivious to realize. Only one of them is a pampered prince that gets what he wants and the heir of the heir. And a man at that, who have it easier everywhere in live anyways. So I do applause Aerion for being aware of what that would make her look and that Valarrs "solution" would only aid and satisfye one.

The dress arrived the following afternoon.

And Aerion got her a dress made?? I fear I am sold. Even if it apparently shows a bit too much. He is staking his claim and I love how petty it is.

It should have satisfied Aerion. That had been the intention, after all: a small, petty victory carved neatly out of a larger, more complicated situation. Instead, he found himself distracted by something far less convenient. By you.

Oh I'm so living for this!

He reached for you before the rest of the thought could form. His hand came up, fingers brushing along your jaw with a familiarity that might have startled you if it had not already existed somewhere beneath the surface. He tilted your face toward him, just enough to meet your gaze fully, and for a moment he simply looked at you, as though measuring something he had resisted too long. Then he closed the distance.

AHHHHH egspgnepgnawnagsoneognoan!!! He is so down bad for her, I LOVE IT! I was waiting for this to happen

Rhae’s careless words returned to you then, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. It only amplifies what is already there.

YES YES YES YES

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

New Territory

Title: New Territory

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: Soulmates, explosions, kissing, mild language, sharing a bed

Summary: Soulmates are born with their match’s initials printed on their arm. After years of searching for your soulmate on your own, you give in and turn to SLMTS to help you find him.

A/N: This technically takes place around Christmas, but that is not integral to the plot. I just forgot to post it here! I have loved soulmate AUs for a very, very long time, though I don’t write many of them. While this is an old trope, I hope you enjoy it as if it’s a new one. Thanks for all you do to support my writing!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Your mark has never changed. It’s never felt itchy or prickly, it’s never stung, and the skin never gets irritated, even when sunburned. You know that at some point it will, but until then, your soulmate’s initials are simply part of your skin, like a freckle or a birthmark. Sometimes it feels like the stories about peoples’ marks reacting when they meet their soulmates are less fact and more fairy tale.

Like every other mark holder, you were born with your soulmate mark. It started out as a small black dot, and as you grew older, the initials formed. They were legible around the time you said your first word. Your mom spent hours searching for people in town with last names beginning with the letter ‘B’, but nobody’s initials matched.

For years you’ve wondered about the person it belongs to. When you were younger, you would stare at the initials during class as if they would transform into something new or magically give you some new piece of information. You would lie awake at night trying to conjure up an image of your soulmate in your head, and you searched extensively online for anybody with those initials. The results felt endless, and instead of making you feel closer to finding him, the internet proved to you just how far away you really were.

You run your thumb over the tidy black letters on the inside of your wrist as you sit and wait for Day to come in. Her office at SLMTS is warm and welcoming, with honey-colored furniture and soft lighting, but you still find yourself anxiously bouncing your leg as you stare at the back of her computer monitor—the monitor that could hold the name of a man you’ve been waiting to meet your entire life.

“Sorry to make you wait,” Day greets as she opens the door and bustles in from the hallway. You hear laughter from somewhere outside her office, but then she closes the door again and comes around the desk, taking her seat in the rolling office chair across from you. She smiles and sighs as she sits. Day sets the teal file folder in her hand beside the computer keyboard, but keeps it closed.

“No worries,” you reply, giving her a polite, closed-lipped smile. You truly don’t mind, especially since you know that she and the other Searchers are busy. The waiting room had been packed when you came in, and it had gotten even fuller by the time you’d been led back to Day's office. The holidays are a busy time for Searchers.

Cuffing season, you think, remembering the words of your oldest cousin at last year’s Christmas party. She’d found her soulmate only days before the dinner, and she’d been the one who’d given you the idea of getting professional help with your search.

Day smiles a little wider, and her almond eyes crinkle at the corners before she looks down at her screen and taps at the keyboard. You glance down at her hand, immediately clocking the gold band on her ring finger. It brings out a richness in her dark skin, like sunlight does on a balmy summer afternoon. You hadn’t noticed it the last time you were here.

“You’re married,” you dumbly say, then quickly backtrack, “I mean, I assume that most Searchers probably are. It’s probably easier to find other peoples’ soulmates if you’re not distracted by finding your own. Not that your staff is distracted, they’re great—“

She chuckles good-naturedly and opens your file, mercifully interrupting your rambling. “Most Searchers are married, yes, but you’d be surprised at how many are still single. Some by choice, others not.”

You can’t imagine why someone would choose to be single if they had a soulmate. The whole point is having a partner who’s perfect for you in every way.

Why would someone choose that for themselves?

Forcing an awkward smile, you shift a little bit in your seat and glance out the window. The rain has lessened since you first arrived, and a steady drizzle is now coating Manhattan and filling the air with a thin gray mist. It’s not quite cold enough for it to turn to ice or snow, but they’re saying it will within the next few days.

“Alright,” Day sighs, and you drag your eyes away from the gray sky. She flips another page in your file before looking up at you. “I take it that you listened to the voicemail we left you last week and that’s why you made this appointment, yes?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yes. I mean, it was pretty vague. You said that you haven’t found them, but that you might know why they haven’t shown up?”

She nods and taps at her keyboard again, then swivels the computer monitor so that you can see it. The preferences screen you’d first filled out during your first appointment has been pulled up.

“Yes. We have yet to find your soulmate, but I wanted to ask… Have you considered broadening your pool? It looks like so far you’ve only been meeting with men. Would you like for met to check the other boxes listed so there are more matches?”

“Oh…” You can feel the blood rush to your face, and you resist the urge to squirm in your seat. “No, that’s not… really my thing. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really only into guys…”

Day’s expression softens in understanding as she regards you from across the desk. “Soulmates can be platonic, too, you know. I can make a note that if you’re matched with someone who’s not male, you aren’t meeting with them romantically.”

“You can do that?” You hadn’t even known that soulmates could be platonic. “I didn’t even know that was a thing. Is that common?”

“Not particularly, but it’s been known to happen. We have more records of it nowadays than in the past, though, so it’s hard to tell.”

Nodding slowly, you stare at the screen for a long moment before asking, “So if I get matched with a guy, it’ll be a romantic pairing, but if it’s anyone else, it’ll be platonic?”

“Not necessarily. You may have a platonic soulmate who’s a male.” She shrugs. “Usually if it’s your ideal gender, it will be romantic, but I’ve seen a few cases where it hasn’t been.”

You consider Day’s offer for a moment, then nod. “Okay. Will that cost extra?”

You’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel. Your savings are mostly gone, and your minimum wage paychecks are barely getting you by, but you pull out your wallet anyway. A large part of you is screaming to put it away, and yet you can’t. You’ve lived your whole life wondering why you haven’t met your soulmate yet, and now you have a possible answer—you were just looking for the wrong kind of soulmate. You’ve been clinging to the possibility and the hope of finding them ever since you met Day for the first time, and you can’t let go of that hope now, even if it means missing some meals or lowering the heat in your apartment even further.

Smiling, Day shakes her head. “All I have to do is click a few boxes.” She does just that, ticking off the boxes on the computer screen for all the genders before scrolling down to the very bottom, where you notice a box labeled “platonic” that you hadn’t seen during your initial appointment. She ticks it off with one final click before saving the changes and swiveling the monitor back to its original position.

“There,” Day says, satisfied with the changes she’s made. “It’ll probably be a few days before we start getting any matches, since there are so many profiles in the system it will have to re-sort through, plus all the ones you haven’t been checked against, but you’ll get an email with any positive results, just like you have in the past. It will specify if it’s romantic or platonic, so you know what to expect.”

You nod and quietly tuck your wallet away, your mind suddenly whirling with questions. As if reading your mind, Day says,

“The match is never one-sided. If it’s platonic for you, it will be platonic for them.”

“You mentioned before that there are lots of Searchers that remain single by choice. Is that because their soulmates are platonic?”

She nods and folds her hands in front of her, resting them on top of your open file. “Sometimes. Other times it’s because there is something about their soulmate that they don’t like, enough so that it affects their willingness to be partners.”

You frown and clutch your bag in your lap. “I thought soulmates were supposed to be a perfect partner. What kinds of things would deter someone from that?”

Day considers your question for a moment, and when she speaks, she’s a bit hesitant, as if she’s afraid she’ll say something wrong. “We have very few restrictions when it comes to who can become a client here. There are people in the system who have things in their past that are not publicly disclosed, but that they might tell their soulmate when the opportunity arises.”

“Things in their past? Like… bad things?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

You let out a slow exhale and look back out the window at the rain. The drizzle has turned back into a steady downpour, likely flooding the street of your apartment building. It’s a good thing you chose to wear boots and a jacket.

“We can choose to exclude those people from your results…”

Your stomach lurches at the thought and you frown deeper. The thought of that gives you an aching feeling that claws at the inside of your ribs, as if to tell you that excluding those people is the worst decision you could possibly make. You feel a bit breathless as you shake your head and look back at her.

“No. No, it’s okay.”

Day searches your face with a curious expression, her hand now hovering over the mouse. “Are you sure? It’s just another box to tick, it’s not a big—“

“No. Keep them,” you tell her, forcing yourself to sit taller in your seat, though inwardly you’re trying to figure out why her suggestion has knocked you so off-kilter.

After a moment, Day nods and pulls her hand away from the mouse. “Okay. Well, then I guess we’re done, unless you had any more questions for me?”

You shake your head and she closes your file, then stands. You mirror her, slinging the strap of your bag over your shoulder as she gestures for the door behind you. The waiting room proves to be just as full as it was before your appointment, and when you make your way out of the building, you pull your hood up over your head and start the walk toward the nearest subway station, intent on making it home at least mostly dry.

The first set of results lands in your inbox two days later, and you stare at the notification for a solid ten minutes before actually opening the email. Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton as you silently read through it once, then twice.

Day has found you two matches. The first is platonic: a girl roughly the same age as you. She works at an insurance call center in Brooklyn, but it lists her hobbies as crocheting, baking, and puzzles. Her name is Janiya, and she seems nice enough. You briefly consider not even scrolling any further, and instead messaging her right away to set up a meeting, but your thumb seems to move all on its own.

The second match is a romantic one. As you read through his information, you wonder why he hasn’t shown up before. Day had mentioned in the voicemail before your last appointment that you’d gone through practically every profile in the system with no success.

His name is James, and his profile isn’t as detailed as the others you’ve been matched with. There’s no picture. It says he works in security and that he’s from Brooklyn, just like Janiya. There are no hobbies listed, but it does say he has a cat.

“I like cats,” you mutter to yourself as you scroll back up to look at Janiya’s profile. Your head is telling you to meet with her first. You know more about her, and it seems like she’s genuinely interested in meeting someone. James’ profile is so empty that for a second, you’re suspicious.

Who tries to find their soulmate with so little information?

Still, your heart is stuck on him. You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the messaging icon in the email. After a few seconds, however, you close the app and instead dial Day’s office.

The receptionist puts you on hold and you transfer the call to speaker phone while you make yourself dinner. You’re just pulling your leftovers from the microwave when the hold music stops and Day’s voice rings out from your phone.

“Hi there. What can I do for you?”

You hurriedly set down the bowl on the stove and grab your phone, taking it off speaker to wedge it between your shoulder and ear.

“Hey! Hey, Day.” You try to sound as casual as possible, as if that will somehow hide the way your heart is suddenly hammering in your chest. “I have a question about the matches you sent me.”

“I was wondering if that’s why you were calling,” Day replies. You can hear her typing in the background, no doubt pulling up their profiles. “Is this about one of them in particular?”

“Um… yeah, kind of.”

Grabbing your food, you carry it back to the living room and sit down on your normal side of the couch, carefully cradling the hot dish in your lap.

“Alright then. You know I can’t tell you specific details about them, but if it’s a general question, I can definitely help. Which profile did you have a question about?”

“James?”

The line goes quiet. Day doesn’t say anything. There’s no typing on her end of the call and you sit up, moving to hold the phone against your ear with your hand.

“Day? Are you there?”

She clears her throat. “I’m here. What would you like to know about him?”

The way she’d gone silent so suddenly makes your stomach twist and you set your food aside. Your heart is still racing and you pull a blanket over your lap so you have something to fiddle with.

“I couldn’t see very much about him in the email—just his work, where he’s from, and that he has a cat. Is that… correct?”

“That’s correct,” Day answers. There’s a hint of exasperation in her voice, which makes you frown.

Is she irritated with me? Or him?

“So I’m just supposed to decide if I want to meet him or not based on that? I mean, I can tell you more about the people on the subway last night than I can tell you about him!”

On the other end of the call, Day chuckles, and you relax a little bit. You feel your shoulders drop and your grip on the phone loosens ever so slightly, thankful that your attempted humor has landed.

“I can promise you that James is a good man. I’ve met him myself. He’s just… private.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I have. I’m the one who set up his profile,” she tells you.

“It seems a little strange that someone that private is using a service like this. I mean, they had to know that people would want to know more about them than just the basics, right?”

“Everyone has the right to make their profile as open or as private as possible. Most people choose to disclose more details to make it easier for prospective matches to get to know them a little bit before they choose to meet, but people also have their reasons for putting only the basics.”

Reasons like what?

You reach forward to grab your food again. Steam is still rising from the bowl and you hold the phone away from your ear for a second to blow on your meal, as if that will immediately make it cool enough to eat.

“I thought I’d already been tested against all the profiles,” you say, changing the subject before you can feel guilty for questioning his right to privacy. “His is new then, right?”

“That’s correct. He’s only been in the system for a few hours.”

You pause, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. “A few hours?”

“He was in earlier today.”

“That’s… fast.”

The call is quiet for a second again, but then Day says, “Y/N, I’m not supposed to tell you anything that’s not in the email you received, but I promise you that James is a good man. Your match with him is…” She trails off and you shift on the couch, waiting for her to continue. She doesn’t.

“Day?” you ask. When she doesn’t answer, you repeat a little louder, “Day? Are you there?”

“You should message him,” she finally replies.

“What were you going to say about my match with him?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

“Day—”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks, her tone suddenly more professional than it has been the entire call. “I have a patient waiting on me.”

You pause, then relent. “No. No, that’s it.”

“Promise me you’ll message him?”

It’s strange to hear those words from a Searcher, especially one that you don’t know very well, but you recognize the heaviness of it all the same. Searchers are well-regarded, and their known for being impartial. Their job is an important one, and one that affects the entire world, even if they largely live quiet lives. To have one invested in your match like this, rather than simply matching you and moving on, is a rare occurrence.

“I promise,” you hesitantly agree. “I’ll message him.”

“Good. Have a good night, Y/N.”

“You too.”

You hang up the phone and toss your phone onto the opposite cushion, then stare at the dark TV. When you’d called the office, you’d been hoping for a little bit of information on James—maybe a hobby or his favorite band. You hadn’t been expecting the strange nervousness that sprung to life inside of you as soon as Day answered the phone, and you certainly hadn’t been expecting her to emphasize your match with James as much as she had.

While the promise you’ve made to her thrums in your chest, you force yourself to eat your food before it grows cold, but the phone sitting on the cushion beside you is like a physical presence that you can’t ignore. Finally, you can’t stand it any longer. You set aside the mostly-empty bowl and unlock your phone. You go straight to the email and thumb the messaging icon before you can think twice.

You: Hey. I’m Y/N.

You send the message, then immediately regret it and think of a thousand things you could’ve said instead. Each and every option would have made you seem cooler and more put-together.

James: Bucky.

Frowning, you read his message and type out three replies before you finally send the final draft.

You: I thought your name was James?

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you mumble. You grab your dish from where you’d set it on the coffee table. After eating the last few bites on the way to the kitchen, you stuff your phone in your pocket and grab a sponge. You’re setting the bowl on the drying rack after scrubbing it clean when your phone dings again, then twice.

James: My friends call me Bucky.

James: Do you want to meet?

You blink at the text bubble. Before you can even process the message, another one comes through.

James: I’m not great at texting, I’d rather talk in person.

Smiling a little, you reply quickly, hoping it will make it through before he can send anything else and before you can chicken out.

You: I’d love to meet, Bucky. Can I call you that? I know we’re not friends yet.

His reply is simple: Yes.

An hour passes, then two, and you find yourself messaging Bucky with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other. You’ve set up a coffee date for tomorrow afternoon, and while he says he’s not great at texting, his messages prove otherwise. Bucky is funny, and he’s good at asking questions. Finally, however, he wishes you goodnight, and your phone’s notifications clear for the first time since dinner.

You lay in bed and stare at the wall, wondering what Bucky looks like. You’ve created a mental picture of him in your head while you’ve been talking all evening, and you’re hesitant to hold onto it.

What if he’s ugly? What if I’m totally wrong and he’s not attractive?

You squeeze your eyes shut. It would be easy to look him up online. How many people named James have the same nickname as him? There’s bound to be a couple, but you know he lives in Brooklyn and he works in security. You could find him in less than an hour, maybe even less.

Go to bed, you silently chide yourself. It doesn’t matter what he looks like if you’re actually soulmates. You repeat this to yourself a few times before you start to drift off, and when you open your eyes again, the room is brighter and your alarm is ringing, reminding you to drag yourself out of bed so that you can clock in on time.

Your workday moves slowly, and your schedule is jam packed. The only redeeming part of the day is that it’s Friday, which means you get to work from home. Despite this, every meeting you have feels like it takes hours, and you barely get through your daily tasks before it’s time for you to log off for the weekend.

The project that’s been looming over your head for the past three weeks gets pushed out of your head as you close your laptop and hurry to your closet. Bucky had agreed to meet you at your favorite coffeeshop shortly after four o’clock, which means you only have thirty minutes to find something to wear and catch the train.

You settle for a pair of jeans, boots, and a newly favorited shirt, then exchange your jacket for an actual coat as an afterthought. The city is quickly descending into its nighttime December chill, and you know you’ll regret it later if you don’t have a heavy outer layer.

Slipping your arms into the sleeves, you hurry down the stairs and down the street to the subway, where you catch the train right as it pulls up. It feels like a miracle, and when you get to the coffeeshop and there’s an open table, it feels like you’re destined for some luck. On a Friday in December, finding a table is usually next to impossible.

The cozy interior of the cafe is one of the reasons you’d picked this shop to meet up with Bucky. It’s been one of your favorites since moving to Manhattan. It’s nearby one of the city’s older parks. You’d found it by accident one day when you were exploring. The smell of espresso and pastries had lured you inside, but it was the art and the overstuffed chairs that had held you captive all the way until closing that day.

The owner has clearly leant heavily into the holidays. String lights are strung around the room and someone has tucked garland above the windows, tucking the lights into the branches. It’s warm and comfortable inside, and the scents of cinnamon, peppermint, and chocolate wafting through the air make you jittery and excited, as if you’re a kid coming home to a table full of sugary treats. Some vaguely familiar singer is crooning over a speaker somewhere as you tuck yourself into a corner seat where you can see the entrance.

This is a good sign, you tell yourself. Maybe he’s the one.

There’s a finality in those words and you have to pause and breathe for a second. You glance up at the door again, feeling a little like someone’s watching you, but everyone is looking down at their devices or talking to the people at their tables. There’s only one person not doing either one of those things—a short woman with a frizzy white perm—and she’s telling the barista about her granddaughter’s dance recital. She even has her phone held out over the counter so she can show off the pictures she’d taken.

You stifle a smile at the way the barista is nodding along as the woman continues to add more and more details to her store, then pull your own phone out of your jacket pocket. There’s a message from Bucky. Your smile droops a little when you see it.

James: I’m sorry, I can’t make it today. Work emergency.

You stare at it for a minute, then glance up at the entrance again, as if the message will disappear and he’ll miraculously be standing near the glass doors. Slowly, you look back down at your phone and type in a response. It feels like your brain is full of static and you have to hold back tears as you press send.

You: It’s okay. We can find another time. Hope everything’s okay.

Much to your surprise, he replies right away.

James: I was looking forward to meeting you.

You: Same, but at least I still have coffee. :)

The smiley face at the end feels entirely too fake, but you keep it. You’re tucking your phone in the pocket of your coat when you sense someone standing nearby.

“Y/N?”

Lifting your head, you meet the eyes of a tall black man in a leather jacket. He smiles warmly when you see him, and something about him seems oddly familiar.

“Can I help you?” you ask, a sitting up a little taller. Though you don’t sense anything threatening about him, you’re not about to admit to anything unless you know he means absolutely no harm.

“Bucky sent me. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it, but he wanted to make sure you got this.” The man holds up a small bouquet of flowers. They’re pink and dainty, and you wonder if Bucky picked them out for you specifically or if this man had. “He also wanted me to tell you that he called and gave the barista his card information, so anything you want is on him. Go crazy.”

You blink at him in surprise. It’s a thoughtful gesture, and your brain is still trying to process the fact that you’re not meeting your soulmate, but rather a stranger sent on his behalf. “What?”

“I’m Sam.” He holds out his free hand for you to shake, and you do after a second, when your brain starts to catch up with what he’s saying. “Bucky and I work together.”

“Oh. Were you not needed for the emergency?”

Sam winces a little. “No. Not yet, at least,” he adds. “If we’d had any say in it, I would’ve stayed back to care of things, but they specifically asked for Bucky.”

“So he sent you to give me flowers and tell me I could order coffee on him?”

Nodding, he replies, “And to make it very clear that he’s sorry he couldn’t be here. Emergencies in our line of work can’t really be ignored.”

“I mean, I guess, yeah. Security emergencies probably have to get fixed right away before the issue gets any bigger, right?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he gestures to the chair. When you nod, he sits down and sets the flowers between you on the table, then folds his hands.

“Security,” he repeats, a bit questioning, and you nod again.

“Yeah. Isn’t that what you two do? You said you were his coworker, right?”

“Yeah. Our job is… complicated, but I guess security’s the best word for it.” Sam leans back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes search your face for a moment before he asks, “How did you and Bucky meet?”

His expression is neutral, but you can tell when you’re being scrutinized, and you fight the urge to make yourself small. Something inside of you is saying that in order to win over Bucky, you need to win over his friends. You need to prove yourself.

“Through a Searcher.”

Sam raises his eyebrows again and lets out a long whistle. “A Searcher? Bucky didn’t say anything about that.”

Shit, you think, inwardly cringing. You hadn’t realized that Bucky wasn’t as open as you when it came to your plans. Then again, you probably should’ve guessed based on how locked down he kept his profile.

Wait, why is he keeping it a secret? Why wouldn’t he want people to know that he’s looking for his soulmate?

“That would make you the pretty girl he’s been texting,” Sam says, and a slow smile spreads across his face. He lets out a chuckle. “We didn’t realize you guys were soulmates.”

You can feel your face and ears growing warm, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat underneath his gaze. His eyes are twinkling with excitement and pleasure at finding out his coworker’s secret. There’s a pit in your stomach now that you know you should have said as little as possible.

“Well, we’re not— I mean, we haven’t—” you splutter, searching for the right words. “We don’t know for sure yet.”

“You mean that you haven’t met up yet? This was the first?”

When you nod, Sam straightens up again. The merry look in his eyes is quickly fading and you pull your hands from the table to fidget with the zipper on your coat. You haven’t even had the chance to take it off yet.

“Would you excuse me for a second, Y/N? I gotta check in with work real fast.”

Hesitantly, you nod again. “I’ll… get something to drink. Do you want anything? Since Bucky’s paying?”

That earns you a grin, and you feel your anxiety ease when his expression lightens. “I knew I liked you. Yeah, get me one of those peppermint mochas. My girl told me I’d like ‘em from here.”

You catch yourself glancing down at his left hand before you can stop yourself. There’s a gold band on his ring finger, and when you flick your eyes back up to his face in hopes that he didn’t notice you looking, his smile softens, enough that you can’t help but think that his wife is a lucky woman. In just a short amount of time, he’s proven himself to be a kind, genuine person.

If Bucky’s anything like him, I’ll be the luckiest person in the world, you think, allowing yourself to smile at the thought.

“It’s only been a few months,” Sam tells you. “I still can’t believe it.” He chuckles and shakes his head in amazement.

“Is she your soulmate?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’m lucky I found her. Well, she found me.”

Normally, you’d feel jealous. Every time you’d sat through people telling you the story of how they found their soulmate, you’d leave feeling like your face must be an unnatural shade of green. You’d go home seething with envy and cursing the universe over your lack of a present soulmate, and then you’d sulk on the couch for the rest of the evening. Now, however, you smile wide. You just feel happy.

As he heads outside, already typing on his phone, you join the short line at the register, your smile still lingering. The sun outside is setting quickly, casting a syrupy, golden glow throughout the cafe as the light slips between the buildings and spills in through the windows. The string lights twinkle merrily and the heat is working hard to keep it warm, however, and for a second, you can ignore the fact that you’ve been halfway stood up tonight.

You’re sipping your drink back at the table when Sam comes back inside. He picks up the red to-go cup you’d gotten for him, then nods at the one in your hand.

“I’ve gotta go, but you should stay here and finish that.”

You tilt your head, opening your mouth to ask why, but he shakes his head in response.

“Work thing. It was nice to meet you, Y/N. I’ll see you soon,” Sam says, and then he’s walking back out the doors to the street again, leaving you sitting alone at the table in the corner.

Though it’s a little strange that he left so quickly, you can’t hold it against him. He’d said it was work-related, and if Bucky was working an emergency situation, maybe Sam was too. Still, you stare at the door for a second before picking up your drink to take another sip. The coffee is warm and buttery and you close your eyes, trying hard to enjoy it.

You’re setting your cup back down on the table and reaching for the danish you’d purchased when there’s a loud explosion outside. You scramble out of your chair and away from the shop’s glass windows as an SUV rolls down the street, banging into a light pole and a bus stop in the process. The light explodes at the top of the pole and sparks rain down as the last of the sun slips below the horizon. People run screaming in the opposite direction, looking for safety as another explosion rattles the building. Furniture wobbles and tips around you. The lid on your coffee cup pops off, spilling the coffee when it hits the floor, the table only inches beside it. The danish is crushed.

You and everyone else in the coffeeshop watch in horror as pieces of buildings, cars, and items on the sidewalk go flying by, illuminated by streetlights and the colorful strings of holiday lights strung up in windows. Something hits the cafe’s window, cracking the glass, and you back up even further, bumping first into the wall beside you and then the person from the table between you and the counter. They steer you around them before you can apologize, and then the baristas are shouting, directing everyone into the back of the shop. You have no idea if it’s any safer there, but at least then you’re hidden from whatever or whoever is causing the chaos and destruction outside.

As you head toward the storage room, you take one last look out the windows. A man with dark hair in a black leather jacket is standing on the other side of the street. His figure is shrouded with shadows, enough that you can’t quite make out where the darkness ends and where he begins. You meet his eyes and a shiver runs up your spine. You rub at your wrist, wincing at the pain flourishing there. The man is staring at you with a look of utter horror and dismay, but before you can process what’s happening, you’re being pulled back by another customer and the man turns just in time to duck out of the way of an assailant dressed in dark red leather. You manage to grab your jacket and bag from the floor before you’re herded to the back of the store for good.

“What the hell is happening?” somebody asks as you enter the storage room. You’re the last person, and one of the employees shuts the door behind you. A man pushes a table in front of it and you move out of the way as another comes to stack boxes on top of it. They’ve already blocked the exterior door that leads into the alley with a set of metal shelves.

Several people are sitting on the floor—a woman dressed in business professional who clutches a laptop with both hands, two men sitting side-by-side and murmuring to each other, a college student texting frantically—and you join them in silence, waiting for an answer to the question that you were all thinking.

“Some kind of attack,” the college student says after a few moments. You glance over to see them scrolling through social media. “Captain America is out there, though.”

“More aliens?” asks the woman, and you feel the air of the storage room electrify at the word. Since the Snap, everyone has been on edge when it comes to extraterrestrials. Every single person on earth, not just New York, is painfully aware that another attack could come at any moment. Life is excruciatingly fragile, which is part of what convinced you to connect with Day. If you’re going to live a life that could be cut short in a split-second, you want to live it with your soulmate.

“It doesn’t say.”

You look around and then scoot back until you’re leaning against a box of pre-packaged coffee. There’s no telling how long you could be here. Another explosion makes the building shake and the lights flicker once, then twice, before finally turning off entirely, plunging the storage room into darkness. The building goes silent after that. There’s no hum of refrigerators or freezers, just the noise from the fight out on the street. If not for that, you could hear a pin drop in the storage room. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, as if you’re all waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I can’t die before I’ve met my soulmate. That’s not fair, you muse, closing your eyes when there’s another loud boom, this time farther away. It’s hard to keep yourself from spiraling, but you have to. The back room of a coffeeshop is no place for a breakdown. Nonetheless, your wrist feels like it’s on fire and your head is pounding. You can feel your pulse right behind your eyes.

The college student keeps track of the time and the battle for you, and the light from their phone slices through the darkness as they scroll through various apps, gathering information. When the noise outside starts to fade, they report that the battle has moved south, but that the city has ordered everyone to shelter in place until they’ve stopped the attackers and contained any major fires or damaged buildings.

After a half hour, you hear noise in the coffeeshop. It’s the closest anything has been since the start of the attack, and your heart thuds against your sternum once, then stops for several beats. Everyone freezes, and you look up from your phone. You’ve been trying to stay off of it and save the battery in case you’re here all night, but you wanted to see if Bucky had messaged you again. He hadn’t. You run your fingers over the letters on your wrist, which are red and irritated from the stress of the day. The sensation of your own touch sends pins and needles up your arm and you wince. It’s abnormal that the skin is affected at all by what’s going on in the world, but then again, you’ve never been caught in the middle of a potential alien attack. You hadn’t even been near the epicenter of the Snap when it happened—you’d been on a cruise off the coast of Alaska.

You lock your phone again and strain to listen past the heavy door. All you can hear are footsteps on shattered glass, but then the door handle jiggles. It’s locked, and after a second, the person on the other side starts knocking.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?”

Looking around at each other, one of the men who’d originally blocked off the door shakes his head. He stands slowly from where he’d been perched on the edge of a folding table, and the other man does too. One of them has a pocket knife, the other has a long-handled broom. You can’t imagine how they think those will last long in a fight against anything, but you’re grateful for their courage all the same. The college student points their phone flashlight at the door.

“It’s safe to come out now,” the voice says from the other side of the door. You frown, staring at the tile for a long few moments.

Why do they sound so familiar?

“Y/N, are you in there?” they ask.

Jerking your head up, you stare at the door with wide eyes. Whoever’s on the other side, they know you, and they know you’re here. You hadn’t told anyone else you were coming to the coffeeshop today.

“Y/N, it’s Sam Wilson.” The door handle jiggles again. “Everything’s contained, it’s safe for you guys to come out now.”

You get to your feet slowly, wincing at the stiffness in your legs from sitting in the same position for so long.

He came back to check on me? Did Bucky send him?

“Do you know him?” the woman whispers.

You’re still trying to process the fact that you’d been smack dab in the middle of an Avengers-level threat to acknowledge her question. Carefully, you step over the legs of one of the baristas that had moved to sit on the floor only five minutes before.

“Y/N?” Another knock.

You swallow against the dry, sandy feeling in your mouth that always comes when you feel anxious. “I— I’m here,” you call back.

There’s a moment of silence on the other side of the door, and then Sam asks, “Is anyone hurt? Can you open the door?”

The two men exchange glances, then look over at you. When you realize they’re waiting for you to say if it’s actually safe enough to open the door, you nod.

“We’re okay. We’re opening it now.”

All around you, the rest of the baristas and customers start to stand, stretch, and gather their belongings. The storage room stays eerily silent as you watch the two men deconstruct the barrier they’d created. When the way is finally clear, they unlock the door and pull it open.

Sam Wilson stands on the other side of the doorway, but you wouldn’t have recognized him had he not told you who he was.

The college student behind you speaks up first, and he says what’s going through everyone’s heads. “Dude, it’s Captain America!”

He offers polite nods and reassurances to the people around you, but when he finally sees you standing near the center of the storage room, he holds out a hand.

“Bucky asked me to make sure you got home safely,” he says.

You blink at him and it’s like your brain has finally started firing on all synapses, because you’re putting together the pieces of the puzzle you’ve been missing all day.

Sam Wilson. Captain America. James. Bucky. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The Avengers.

“Holy shit,” you mumble, and then you step forward, letting him take your hand to lead you safely out of the destroyed coffee shop. Your boots crunch over glass as Sam helps you step through the rubble. Your headache is edging toward a full-blown migraine.

“Is he—”

Sam glances back at you when you stop mid-question. You want to ask where Bucky is, if he’s safe, and why he didn’t come find you himself, but you can’t bring yourself to pull the word from your thoughts. There’s a nagging fear in your mind that you may not like the answers. Your chest aches.

“He’s helping clear buildings farther south,” Sam answers, as if he’d been waiting for you to ask the whole time. “I’m supposed to be there too, but he asked me to come check on you first.”

Your mouth betrays your mind when you ask, “Why didn’t he come himself?”

That question earns you an irritated huff, and you immediately loosen your grip on Sam’s hand. He stops walking to look back at you.

“Do you want my opinion or what he’d want me to tell you?” he asks.

“Your opinion,” you reply, surprising yourself. You don’t know why, exactly, but you feel that you can already trust Sam to tell you the truth.

“He’s afraid that you’ll think of him only as the guy in the reports,” Sam tells you, glancing back into the coffeeshop, where the others are now traversing the remains of the shop and making their way out into the hazy city street.

Sirens blare somewhere behind Sam and there’s smoke sifting into the air from half-crushed cars and destroyed storefronts all around you. The smoke and fumes stings your eyes and makes them water, and you pull your shirt up over your mouth and nose. More people have started to venture out from their hiding places when your phone’s emergency alert goes off. Looking away from Sam, you read the notification telling you that it’s safe to head home, and that emergency shelters are open for those affected. You shiver, suddenly realizing that it’s still cold out and you’re not wearing your coat. You’d taken it off in the storage room when the close proximity of the others had been heat enough. Sam takes it from your hands and holds it up so you can slip your arms in.

Captain America is helping me put my coat on, you think as you do just that. Bucky Barnes was my date. How much more bizarre can this day get?

“We can talk more later, okay? I gotta get you home and safe so I can go help him.”

You nod in agreement and let Sam lead you down the street and around the corner, where a black SUV with tinted windows sits at the curb, eerily pristine in the wake of all the carnage and damage around you.

Sam approaches it easily and opens the back door, revealing a dark leather interior and a woman in the driver’s seat who turns around to smile at you. She’s beautiful and seems friendly, and her voice is chipper when she says,

“You must be Y/N.”

“Uh.. Hi?”

“This is Jen. She’ll take you home from here.” He reaches for your bag and you hand it over reluctantly.

“Do all Avengers have… chauffeurs? Just… on hand?” you ask, staring into the backseat of the car. There are water bottles in the cupholders and a little trash can attached to the back of the front console.

You really did trust Sam, but the day was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. You half expect Hawkeye to climb out of the passenger seat at this point. Silently, you peek over the backseat headrests, but there’s only empty trunk space.

He shakes his head and holds out a hand to help you into the car. “No. I called in a favor with a friend of mine. Believe it or not, we usually drive or take the subway.” Sam hands you your bag and you stare at him through the tinted window as he closes the door and waves. You’re too shocked by what’s happening to even try and picture Thor riding the subway, though you vaguely think that you’ll have a good laugh about it later tonight.

Jen starts driving and you sit back against the seat, then think twice and buckle your seatbelt. The car ride is silent except for the low drone of the car and whatever music Jen plays over the radio. It’s barely audible in the backseat, but she bops her head along to the beat and mouths the words as she navigates the crowded streets of Manhattan, which are made even worse by emergency vehicles, road closures, and mobs of people and cars evacuating away from the worst of the fight.

“Do you know what happened?” you ask, staring out the window at a woman on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. Flashing red and blue illuminate the crowd of crying people standing on the curb, watching the EMTs work.

“No idea,” Jen answers, her earlier bright tone dimmed slightly. “The first six blocks were only partially damaged—that’s where you were—but further south it’s…” She trails off, looking for the right word. You understand before she can find it.

“I’m glad that they’re there, then,” you murmur.

Jen hums in agreement and smoothly turns onto your street. It’s oddly quiet, given all that’s happened. You’d expected some of your neighbors to be outside the building, but the sidewalk is empty. The power is still on—holiday lights blink on balcony edges and in windows, and your downstairs neighbor’s Christmas tree is visible through the gauzy curtains of her living room.

“This it?” Jen asks as she slows to a stop, then parks against the curb. You nod and meet her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Stay safe, Y/N.”

“You too,” you tell her, and you mean it. “Are you going home after this?”

Jen nods and you grab the door handle, then pause. As nosy as it is, you have to know. “Sam said he called in this ride as a favor?”

“Yep.”

“Must’ve been a pretty big favor. I wouldn’t have gone out in these conditions unless I absolutely had to.”

She grins at that, turning around to look at you over her shoulder. “I used to be a Searcher.”

You pull your hand from the handle to look at her properly. “What?”

“I quit when I realized I didn’t like the pressure everyone put on me, but not before I met Sam and helped connect him with Day.”

“Day?” you ask.

How many Days live in New York? It can’t possibly be the same one…

“It was love at first sight.” Jen chuckles at your shocked expression. “But it always is for soulmates. She and I both worked at SLMTS. She’s your Searcher, if what Sam told me is correct.”

You nod, trying to connect the dots. “So when Sam said he called in a favor…”

She shrugs. “It was Day’s favor, technically, but she shared it with him. When she told me it involved soulmates, I couldn’t say no. I’ve always had a soft spot for true love.”

“He’s not my soulmate, or at least, I don’t know if he is or not. I’ve never even met him,” you admit. “We were supposed to meet for coffee today, but he didn’t show up. He sent Sam instead, and then…” You gesture toward the window and the chaos that lay somewhere behind it.

“Are you sure you’ve never met?” she asks, frowning slightly. “Bucky seemed pretty certain he’s at least seen you.”

“Yes, I’m—” You pause, remembering the man you’d seen from across the street before you’d hidden in the storage room. Pulling out your phone, you go to search up a photo of him, but it’s dead.

Another phone appears in your line of vision. “Here,” Jen says.

You take it and immediately open the internet, looking up pictures of Bucky Barnes. Your breath catches in your throat as soon as they load. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a picture of him that isn’t from a courtroom or from his past, but the first result is crystal clear. Your heart leaps in your chest and tears prick at your eyes.

“It’s him!” You look up at Jen, who’s smiling fondly. “I have seen him! He was across the street from the coffeeshop before the baristas had us all hide in the storage room and block the doors!”

“And his initials?” She takes the phone from your hands.

Pushing up your sleeve, you hold out your wrist for her to see. Your heart is in your throat as she tenderly takes your wrist in her hands and turns it from side to side, inspecting the red, puffy skin bordering the thin black letters.

“It show all signs of a match,” Jen confirms. “The irritation and all other symptoms will lessen once you’re together again.”

“All other symptoms?” you ask, pulling your wrist back so you can look at the mark yourself.

“Your body’s adjusting to being near them. Having a soulmate affects every part of you, from your gut to your brain to your skin, and everything in between. It’ll take some time for your body to settle down again, but having him near will make it easier. That’s why most companies have soulmate leave.”

You swallow and nod. The headache makes sense now. “I should call them. My boss, I mean. I remember them saying something about that when I first started.”

“Get inside where it’s safe and get all of that sorted out now. You won’t want to have to worry about it once Bucky’s free to come find you.”

“You think he’ll know where to find me?”

That makes her chuckle. “Go upstairs, Y/N. He’ll show up eventually, I’m sure.”

Unable to stop yourself, you smile wide at her and grip the door handle again. “Thanks, Jen. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

You head upstairs to your apartment with a new sense of purpose and a family of butterflies making their home in your stomach. You can’t remember ever being this excited for anything, and the fact that you don’t even know when Bucky will arrive make it all the more nerve-wracking.

Though all you want to do is wait by the door, you force yourself to go through your daily routine of tidying up your apartment, doing laundry, making dinner, and going through your workload for the next day, though you message your boss and explain the situation in case Bucky comes back tonight. They respond immediately, telling you that they’re glad you’re safe and that they’ve noted your time off in your team’s calendar.

The anticipation builds all evening, and as it gets later and later, you try to keep yourself busy. You adjust the ornaments on your Christmas tree three times before you put them back the way they were to start. You pop a pain pill when your headache worsens again, then sit down to watch a news report about Sam and Bucky helping with evacuations and clean-up. The sight of him, even digitally, makes the pain lessen and sends the butterflies back into a flurry.

As it nears midnight, you start to give up on the idea of Bucky finding you tonight.

I might as well head to bed, you think, trying not to feel too upset, though the word “heartbroken” comes to mind when the butterflies pound against your sternum, then fall flat at the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Maybe he’ll come by tomorrow. Or maybe I should go find him?

There’s a clattering noise out on the street as you pull open your dresser, and you pause, listening. Someone shouts, and against your better judgement, you peek out through your bedroom curtains.

Bucky is standing outside, still dressed in black. If it weren’t from the colored lights on the balconies and the singular streetlight on the corner, you wouldn’t have seen him. He meets your eyes immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to look out all night.

Frantically, you run to your living room and open the sliding door to the balcony, then step outside into the cold night air. Bucky has his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. His breath comes out in small white clouds that crowd around him, then float up into the city.

“What are you doing down there?” you call, hoping he can hear you despite the fact that you’re eight stories above him.

He watches you for a long moment, making you wonder if the internet had been wrong about his enhanced senses. When you open your mouth to repeat yourself, this time louder, he speaks up.

“I’m wondering if it’s a good idea for me to come up,” he calls back.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a very beautiful girl, and I’m not so beautiful right now.”

You squint down at him, trying not to smile at the compliment. There’s a smear of red on his face, and you can tell even in the poor lighting that his clothes are covered with dust and dirt. His eyes are tired.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t care?”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, searching your face from far below. When he finally replies, his voice is softer, and you have to strain to hear him when he says,

“I’ll always believe you.”

Before you can reply, he starts toward the entrance to your building. You stand on the balcony long enough to watch him go inside. When the exterior door swings shut, you launch yourself back into the apartment and slam the sliding door shut hard enough that you think it might shatter. After a second, you close the curtain, too. You don’t want anyone looking in and spying on your first meeting with your soulmate.

The apartment is clean and cozy from your earlier cleaning, but now you stand in the middle of your living room, turning in a circle and wondering if Bucky will like it. You’re contemplating lighting the gingerbread-scented candle on your coffee table when there’s a knock at the door and you freeze. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest and the butterflies flutter back to life, sending a burst of energy through you, like you’d just had a shot of espresso.

Carefully, you cross the room to the door and look through the peephole. Bucky is standing in the hallway, looking entirely out of place against the light gray paint and drab carpet.

“You’re here,” you say as you open the door. “Like, actually here.”

He nods and searches your face. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, though it looks like it’s healing, and he’s covered with a sheen of dust and sweat. The red smear you’d seen on his jaw is dried blood, but it doesn’t look like it’s his.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” you admit, trying desperately to fill the silence.

“I was worried you wouldn’t want me to,” he murmurs.

You frown and step aside, motioning for him to enter. He steps inside your apartment, being careful to stay on the square of vinyl tile right inside the door. You look the door with both the deadbolt and the chain, then turn. With both of you on the tile, you’re almost nose to nose, and you can feel the heat coming off of him. It makes your heart skip a beat and you swallow nervously.

“We’re soulmates. Of course I want you here.”

Bucky licks his lips and then briefly looks away, taking in the quiet of your small apartment. It’s a one-bedroom that you’ve lived in for years now, since moving back to New York when your mom disappeared during the Snap. You’d wanted to be close to where she had lived, and when she reappeared, you stayed. The previous tenants had decided to move away from the city—and the Avengers—after reappearing themselves, and they’d graciously allowed you to stay without a legal battle, unlike some of your neighbors. Your mom decided to move out of the city, saying something about wanting to enjoy a quiet life. Since then, you’ve made the place your own.

“You know about my past,” he says, more of a statement than a question, and you nod in response. “And?”

“And…” You begin, knowing that your next words are critical. You hadn’t thought up an answer to this question in advance, though you’d thought up the answers for a thousand others, so you’re slow to reply. “And I know that you’re a good man despite all of the bad things you’ve been forced to do.”

“Forced?” There’s a trace of self-hatred in the word and it makes your heart ache. The idea of him hating himself makes you want to cry.

I don’t want anyone to hate him, you think.

A surge of protectiveness wells up in your chest, making you stand a little taller. You grab his hand, immediately realizing that it’s his real one when the skin gives under your grip, and squeeze.

“Would you do those things today? If somebody asked you to?”

He looks you in the eye and answers immediately, “No.”

“Then you were forced. You’ve more than made up for everything, at least in my book. You brought my mom back after the Snap.” There’s a lump in your throat at the memory of being suddenly without her for so long.

Much to your surprise, Bucky squeezes your hand. “I’m sorry you lost her.” He pauses. “My friends were the ones who brought her back. I was gone, too.”

“But you fought Thanos. If you’d lost, who knows what would have happened. Whether or not you were gone for those five years wouldn’t have mattered then.”

He nods in agreement, then takes another look around your apartment. You fall silent, watching and waiting for some kind of reaction. You want him to like it—you want him to feel as much at peace here as you do. It’s your sanctuary, and you hope that he’ll feel that way too.

“Can I—?” He gestures toward the living room and you nod quickly, stepping out of his space, though it’s more difficult than you’d like to admit to be out of arm’s reach of him.

“Yes, sorry. Come in.”

He toes off his boots without being asked and nudges them into place next to yours. Then, Bucky steps further into your apartment. You wait for him to move, not wanting to intrude on his train of thought as he takes in the photos on your walls, the furniture you’ve collected over the years, and the trinkets you’ve picked up on your travels and received as gifts from your friends and family. He lifts a gloved hand to touch the plastic needles on your Christmas tree, then rest a glass ornament in the palm of his hand. The contrast of the glittery, fragile glass in his hand is striking, and you watch with bated breath.

“You’ve made it a home,” he finally says, meeting your eyes.

Your heart lifts and you smile wide at him. When he smiles back with a cautious, unsure kind of smile, you’re struck by the vibrant blue of his eyes and the crinkles that form at the corners. You’re distracted by just how handsome his is for just a moment, and then you clear your throat and divert your gaze, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks when he says your name.

“I was staring, I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head and re-enters your personal space, making you look back up at him. “I'm used to it.”

You furrow your eyebrows at him. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

He hums quietly and you watch him quietly as he looks over the living room again. His eyes catch on the dirty pan on your stove. You’d left it there after dinner, unwilling to stay away from the door long enough to properly wash it. When you’d decided to go to bed, you’d fully planned on leaving it to soak in the sink all day tomorrow.

“Let me make you something to eat,” you find yourself saying, realizing that he’s probably starving after the fight and, consequently, the aftermath.

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

Narrowing your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest and stare until he sighs and relents. As soon as he gestures toward the kitchen, you drop your arms and hurry to the fridge to find something for him.

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

“I’m… lactose intolerant. At least I used to be, before HYDRA. I still eat that way sometimes.”

“Do you like eating lactose intolerant?” you ask.

He pauses, then shrugs. “It’s not… a conscious thought. Sometimes I just find myself making or eating something without dairy out of habit.”

“That’s nice,” you reply after a second. “That your body remembers that, even if you don’t really need to anymore.” He hums in response.

Opening the fridge, you stare at its contents for a second before you start to pull out containers and packages. Bucky takes them from you before you can protest, and he arranges them on the counter beside him.

You straighten up and close the fridge. After a second, you let your eyes trail down over Bucky’s clothes, which are still covered in dirt and grime. It looks even worse close up, though the cut near his eyebrow looks like it’s healed a little bit since he’d first knocked on the door.

“You probably want a shower, and to get out of those clothes,” you say. “At least, that’s what I would want if I were in your shoes. If you want, you can shower while I make you a plate.”

“Are you sure? I can stand while I eat.” Bucky searches your face for any sign of trepidation or lying, but you know he won’t find any.

“I’m sure,” you tell him, nodding. “If you hand me your clothes through the door, I’ll put them in the wash while you’re in the shower. Unless… they can’t be washed?”

You’re lucky enough to have a washer and dryer in your apartment, which would come in handy if he was wearing regular clothes, but you look over the leather jacket and tactical pants skeptically. Making their gear machine washable probably wasn’t something the Avengers ever had to consider, nor was it probably one of their top priorities.

“I’m not sure,” he answers with a small frown.

“Better not, then. My neighbor’s husband is roughly your size. I’ll see if they have anything you can borrow while you’re in there and I’ll just knock and leave it right outside the door if they do. Otherwise, my towels are really big, so… That should work until we can find something else. The bathroom’s the second door on the right, okay?” You gesture toward the short hallway that leads from your living room to your bedroom.

He nods, then hesitates.

“Is that okay?” you ask. “If you’re not okay with just the towel, maybe you could shower and then come right back?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave. I just… You’re really okay with me being your soulmate? After everything?”

It hurts to think that Bucky doubts your connection with him. Slowly, making sure he can back out if he wants to, you take both of his hands in yours.

“I’m your soulmate, and you’re mine. We can’t argue against that, Bucky. I have waited for you and I have looked for you for years, and you’ve been doing the same thing for even longer, even if it wasn’t always conscious act. I want you. I want you more than anything in the world, and I’m going to fight for this with everything I’ve got for as long as I live. Nothing could convince me that you and I weren’t meant to be together. Okay?”

His eyes are shiny as he nods, then looks up at the kitchen cabinets behind you. He blinks a few times, trying to stave off the tears that have formed. Before he can do anything else, you release his hands and lean in, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug, dust and dirt be damned. You know there’s more blood on his jacket—blood that doesn’t belong to him—but you don’t care. Showers and washing machines exist for a reason, and you’ve waited decades to hug your soulmate.

Bucky seems to have a similar idea because he hugs you back, but then you find yourself being pulled out of his grasp and picked up by the hips. You squeak in surprise, grabbing onto his arms for support as the floor disappears from beneath you. Almost as soon as he’s lifted you up, however, Bucky places you down on the edge of your kitchen countertop, in between a jar of salsa and a package of tortillas, and he crowds close. Your legs bracket him on either side and he threads his fingers through your hair. His metal hand rests on your thigh, a heavy presence that simultaneously calms your racing heart and stirs up the butterflies in your stomach. With one thumb near your jaw, he tilts your head back ever so slightly, then presses his lips to yours.

The world disappears from beneath you, and it feels like the butterflies have somehow lifted you up from inside. Bucky’s a good kisser, and you grip his jacket with both fists, clinging to what little extra fabric there is. He kisses you long and hard, only pausing to let you catch your breath, and by the time he finally pulls away, your heart is pounding again, your lips are swollen, and you’re likely only a few degrees away from a full-blown fever. On the other hand, your headache has long since disappeared.

“Too much?” Bucky asks, his breath hot against your face as his blue eyes search your expression.

You shake your head and grip his forearm with one hand. “No… No. That was… That was great.”

You’re dazed, embarrassingly so. It’s as if Bucky kissed all common sense out of you, because you lean forward and rest your forehead against the dusty shoulder of his jacket. He chuckles and runs his hand up and down your spine in long soothing strokes. You shiver underneath his touch.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again. You can hear the pride in his voice and if you’d been any more put-together, you would’ve teased him about it, but you’re still gathering your wits.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. Is that a 40’s thing?”

Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh and helps you sit upright again. “I don’t think so. It’s just a you thing, sweetheart. You bring out the best in me.”

“I should bring out the best in you more often,” you reply, feeling a bit cheeky now that you’re sitting upright on your own now.

He grins and gives you a peck on the cheek. “I have to shower, still. You probably should change clothes, too.”

Glancing down at yourself, you realize that the filth from his clothes has transferred to yours. You can’t help but laugh. Carefully, Bucky helps you down from the countertop. You hold onto his hand even after your feet are firmly on the floor again, and when he walks down the hallway, you trail after him.

“One more,” he says, and you find yourself being pressed against the wall outside the bathroom door. Bucky kisses you gently, though his grip on you is firm, and you melt against him.

“If you keep kissing me”—you tease in between kisses—“then we’re never going to get clean, and you’ll waste away from hunger right here in my hallway.”

“I can think of worse ways to go,” Bucky replies.

You know that he can—literally—and you put your hands on his chest, pushing gently until he takes a step back.

“Shower, soldier. Let me clean up and make you something to eat, alright?”

“Y/N…”

“Let me take care of you. You’ve been taking care of people all day.”

The guilt in his expression melts into something new, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“When your initials started burning outside the cafe, I was worried that it meant something bad,” he admits, and your smile falters. “Now I know that it’s the opposite. You’re one of the best things to happen to me.”

The butterflies flutter again. “You hardly know me.”

“I know enough,” replies Bucky.

Smiling a little bit, you open the small linen closet beside the bathroom and pull out your biggest, softest towel, then hand it to him. He takes it gingerly, purposefully brushing his fingers against yours.

“Take as long as you need,” you tell him, and he nods, then steps into the bathroom and closes the door.

Silently, you change into your second set of clean clothes since coming home, then you head to the kitchen and brace your hands against the counter. You close your eyes and take a slow, deep breath to try and calm your galloping heart, but you only succeed in letting out a giddy laugh. You press your hand over your smile to try and keep quiet. Though you know he’s your soulmate and that logically, he shouldn’t be bothered, you don’t want Bucky to know just how excited you are. It feels silly and girlish.

I’ve waited forever for this, you think, turning around so you’re leaning against the cabinet. I can’t believe I finally found him.

Pushing up your sleeve, you look down at the inside of your wrist where the letters “JBB” are permanently etched into your skin. The letter are black and small, and you’d once spent hours in middle school comparing them with different fonts on the computer until your best friend had decided that “Didot” was the closest match. Only days ago you’d thought that going to SLMTS was a waste of time, energy, and money, but now you knew otherwise. The pink, itchy skin around the letters was proof, as was the man in your bathroom. The hero in your bathroom.

You stand in the kitchen for several long minutes, staring at the letters and rubbing your thumb over them with a stupid grin on your face, until the sound of the shower squealing to life in the bathroom brings you back to the task at hand.

Dinner for Bucky.

It’s a little nerve-wracking to think that you’re making dinner for both your soulmate and an Avenger combined, but then a snippet from your middle school history class stored deep within your brain reminds you that Bucky was alive during the Great Depression, and then you remember that he was also a soldier. The knowledge that he’s probably had a lot of truly terrible food in his life eases the pressure, so you push your sleeve down and get to work.

The door to the bathroom opens as you’re piling reheated grilled chicken onto the tortillas you’d warmed for him.

“I hope tacos are okay, I figured they’ve got lots of pro—”

You stop speaking as soon as Bucky appears at the end of the hallway. The towel is wrapped around his waist. He’s tucked it into itself near his hip. His metal arm gleams in the dim light of your apartment and you swallow thickly when you see the planes of muscle that had been hiding underneath his protective gear.

“I forgot to check with my neighbor,” you dumbly tell him, unable to take your eyes off his bare skin for a moment. When you finally look up to meet his gaze, he’s grinning at you.

“You’re staring again,” Bucky replies.

Your face feels hot and look away to flip off the stove burner, moving the pan away from the heat. You busy yourself with finishing his plate, and when Bucky approaches you, you keep your eyes down.

“Hey.”

Cautiously, you look over at him, pointedly looking straight at his face so you don’t get tripped up by his bare chest again.

“I don’t mind. I’m just teasing,” he says. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” His smile is gone, replaced with worry, and you shake your head.

“No.” You clear your throat. “No, you didn’t. I’m just… adjusting. To having you here, you know?”

He nods. “I do. Not just to having you here, but being here. It’s a lot different from where I live.”

You hold out the plate and he takes it. “Tell me about your house?”

Bucky follows your lead back into the living room and he sits down on the couch, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of him. You grab your water bottle from earlier and curl up on the other cushion.

As he eats, he describes the various places he’s lived, starting with the apartment he grew up in. He pointedly skips over the places where HYDRA kept him prisoner, but you know better than to press. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

It’s long past midnight by the time Bucky finishes his food and his stories. By then, you’re leaning against the back of the couch, blinking drowsy-eyed at him and reveling in the warmth of his hand on your knee. His thumb rubs a soft arc over your sweatpants, back and forth, over and over again.

“Pretty girl?”

You blink your eyes open to find Bucky leaning in. He chuckles when you squint at him, then grunt a little.

“You fell asleep. I think it’s time you head to bed.”

A yawn escapes and you bring your hand up to cover your mouth. You screw your eyes closed and duck your head in a poor attempt to hide it, but the yawn is a jaw-splitting one. Your ears pop and you shake your head. When you finally settle back down again and open your eyes, Bucky is disappearing into the kitchen. His empty plate and your water bottle are both gone.

“Bucky?” you call, biting back another yawn. You push yourself up with one hand just as he comes back around the corner. He’s found a gray t-shirt and pair of navy sweatpants and you frown, rubbing your eyes with a fist and pinching grit out of the corners.

“D’you go next door?”

He shakes his head and sits back down beside you, though he stays on the edge of the couch. “Sam dropped some stuff off for me,” he replies.

Nodding, you scoot forward until you’re seated on the edge of the couch, too. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“S’okay. You held out until the very end.” Bucky pauses, glancing at the curtains behind you before looking back at you. “Would it be alright if I spent the night? I don’t know how fast this soulmate thing is supposed to go…”

You nod again. “It’s okay. You can stay as long as you want, James.”

He stares at you, his expression unreadable. “James?”

“I was just trying it out,” you quickly explain, shaking your head. “I must be more tired than I thought. It’s just… your initials have always been JBB to me, so I—”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he murmurs. He looks down at his hands, then turns his wrist over to reveal your initials.

You smile a little. “Bucky for short.” You keep your voice low as you reach out and touch your fingertips to the tiny black letters on his skin, saying your full name for him.

“You can call me James, if you want. Not many people do.”

“No?” you ask, taking his right hand in yours. You stand and he copies you.

“My ma, mostly. Steve, if he was really mad at me. Drill sergeants, when they felt like being casual.”

“Did they feel that way often?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No.”

A beat passes and you smile at him, then squeeze his hand and step around the coffee table. Bucky follows you down the hallway to your bedroom, quietly letting you lead him down the path you’ve taken every night for years.

You drop his hand once you’re both inside. “This is it,” you announce, nervously clasping your hands in front of yourself. You hadn’t realized just how personal it would be to let your soulmate see your bedroom until now.

He surveys your tiny room—your haven, your retreat away from the world outside, including the living room, where you often work from home—and smiles softly.

“I like it,” replies Bucky.

Exhaling heavily, you nod and smile when he looks over at you in surprise. “Sorry, I’m just… I’m a little nervous. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to be nervous.”

“Is it? You don’t seem nervous at all. You seem to be taking this whole soulmate-thing in stride. Not that I’m not,” you quickly add. “I’m— I'm ecstatic that we’re soulmates. To find the one person who’s supposed to complete you, the person I’ve been searching for my whole life is a big deal, and I’m thrilled! But it’s…”

“It’s a big change,” Bucky finishes. “I may not seem nervous, Y/N, but I am. I’m nervous as hell.”

“Really?”

He gives you another small nod. “This is new territory for me, too. I’ve faced a lot of scary things, but the prospect of my soulmate not liking me or being upset that I don’t like her…”

You grab his hand again and squeeze. “I like you, Bucky. I promise. I meant what I said before.”

“I know that, in my head. It just might take me a while to believe it.”

“Then I’ll remind you as many times as you need me to.”

Smiling, Bucky pulls you in for a hug. You close your eyes as he tucks you against himself, holding you securely in his arms. It feels right to be close to him like this. After a long while, he pulls away to look you in the eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with me staying here overnight? We could take things slow. I probably won’t sleep anyway, I’ve got insomnia, so I tend to watch TV or read at night.”

You nod. “I’m sure. Besides, it’s just like a sleepover right now. Nothing has to happen, and I’m a heavy sleeper. You won’t wake me up.”

“Nothing has to happen,” he confirms, and then he releases you all the way.

You step back and go around to the opposite side of the bed to start your nighttime routine, though you’re ultra aware of the fact that Bucky is watching you. As you gather up your pajamas, you glance at him.

“I’m gonna shower. You can… There’s books, if you want, and the remote for the TV is on my nightstand. Watch whatever you want, okay?”

He nods and before there can be any more pre-bedtime awkwardness, you duck into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. You feel the butterflies stirring as you shower and get ready for bed. All you can think about is how your soulmate is in your bedroom waiting for you, and though you’ve both already agreed that nothing will be happening tonight besides sleep, it’s the first time you’ll be able to fall asleep next to someone you’re certain loves you, and to wake up beside them again in the morning.

When you finally emerge, feeling clean and cozy in your pajamas, you pause in the doorway. The TV is on, playing an animal documentary at a volume so low you can barely make out what the narrator is saying, but Bucky isn’t watching it. He’s fast asleep under the covers. He’s tucked himself underneath the covers on the side of the bed you don’t normally sleep on—clearly he’d made a note as to which nightstand had all your things on it and which one was mostly empty—and he’s snoring softly.

I should’ve figured he’d fall asleep right away, you think as you tiptoe into the bedroom and finish your routine in silence. He was out fighting the bad guys earlier today. I’m exhausted and all I did was hide.

You crawl under the covers, being careful not to bump into him, and curl up. The bed is already warm, a testament to the benefits of soulmates that you hadn’t thought of before now. You smile to yourself when Bucky rolls over to face you, his eyes opening just a sliver as you reach over to turn off the bedside lamp.

“You gonna sleep?” he asks, more a slurred mumble than an actual question. When you hum in response and snuggle further under the blankets, he reaches out for you and pulls you against him so that your back is pressed up against his chest. His arm drapes over your side and you can feel his breath on the top of your head when he exhales.

“This okay?” he asks.

“Yes. Goodnight, James,” you whisper.

“Goodnight, pretty girl.”

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[gaybybirth]

participation credit - explicit nsfw 

Research Team (fem!Leader) x fem!Reader 

part two & pt three // Kinktober '25 Schedule // More Kinktober // Masterlist 2.0

Synopsis: When you take $10,000.00 to be the sole successful participant in a rather unique study, the money offered continues to grow when they want to run more and more invasive tests. What’d started as some basic stimulation tests between magically linked sex toys to you quickly escalates into so, so much more. 

Warnings: POV switches a bit, explicit nsfw content–porn no plot AT ALL; consensual sexual tests run on the reader, magic sex toys (think portal pussy but with every hole), research/medical/scientific kink, monetary payment offered but it’s all consensual, it’s for genuine research (mostly); sex toys used (anal plug, anal beads, various dildos and vibrators), reader is blindfolded, earplugs & noise-canceling headphones used for a bit, restraints used & the reader is held down at one point, clit stim, nipple stim, nipple clamps (vibrating and normal), fingering (vaginal and anal), slight edging/orgasm denial, oral (reader receiving, reader deepthroating a dildo, and fem!researchers receiving), anal and vaginal sex via the sex toys, protected anal and vaginal sex (with the reader), (anal and vaginal sex with the linked toys and the reader at the same time), multiple orgasms, overstim but different, squirting, and mentions of aftercare // if i missed anything that should be tagged, please let me know!

Word Count: 6k

A/N: Idk it’s Kinktober and I’m ovulating. Here’s an extra nonsense story <3 I woke up today running on very little sleep, not intending to write this, and it was edited right after writing, so I apologize in advance for any missed errors (I'm sorry)!

**** indicates a sort of POV switch 

It was a brand new, extremely experimental, highly sensitive project. The kind you certainly didn’t write home about, and the kind that definitely found its way into your consideration for the promised cash payment. All you had to do post-signing-up was show up, let them say a spell or two, and then you’d simply say yes or no if you could feel each test they administered. 

So you sat in the cold, white research room while over half a dozen of those working on the project milled about. You knew what the project was for. Knew exactly what the $10,000.00 cash tucked into the envelope in your purse was for. But it was just a few tests. Easy, fully clothed, verbal confirmation tests.

They rolled the sterilized metal table to face you more, the objects neatly aligned on their stands. The spells they'd said were distant words you couldn't recall, but you'd already nodded when they'd asked if you could feel the tingling connection when they'd finished. You could–it was a warm hum underneath your clothing that already had a bit of sweat forming at your brow. But that could've also been the anticipation. 

The silicone facing you was highly detailed. Granted, for what they were, toys had already gotten far in looking real. They were soft and giving, and they replicated what they generically needed to replicate. Breasts, nipples, vagina, clit, an asshole, and a mouth. Still, you swallowed hard listening to the murmured conversation, and you gripped the edge of that metal table they'd seated you on. 

“You will be blindfolded to prevent any phantom sensations by merely watching,” one said before a thick black strip of fabric was tied over your eyes. “We will begin momentarily, so we just need you to speak when you begin to feel something. We have a series of tests to run through, some a bit more invasive to test the maintained connection, then you will be finished. Okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed.

And you braced yourself against that metal edge warmed by your touch. In blistering, stomach-flipping anticipation, you waited. $10,000.00. You swallowed hard. It was so worth it for $10k cash.

Just a few tests. Ones that might not even work–

Beneath your thick sweater, underneath your bra, you felt it. The warm, gloved touch. A brush of fingers underneath your breast, following the curve up. A jolt at the touch had you pulling back from nothing. Nobody was in front of you, magically slipping underneath your shirt. It wasn't lifted. Your bra didn't magically vanish. No, as you leaned back from nobody's touch, the gloved fingers went higher, and they brushed over both nipples.

“Yes,” you stuttered, eyes wide behind the blindfold. Not that you didn’t think it was possible–surely if they were offering so much money, they had some semblance of a success they needed to recreate, but still. Actually experiencing the slow connection of their fingers pinching your nipples without actually touching you? “Yes, I feel that.”

“Good, human contact is successful. We need to test artificial,” he stated.

Artificial…? 

Oh.

Oh.

The actual coldness of the metal was somehow there and faraway at the same time. It didn’t entirely make sense how you were able to process it. But magic was magic, so. One tight metal clamp closed around one nipple, and the rip of pinching pleasure shot through to your spine and went lower.

“Yes–”

A second clamp closed on your other nipple. 

Tight, there, but not. A low throbbing bullied its way beneath your shirt. It was…strange. The sensation of the sharp pinching that was there but wasn’t. Squeezing the table’s edge, you fought the urge to reach up just to feel yourself through your sweater. The throbbing acted in tandem with the clamps, but there was more to it. A necessity you couldn’t fully put to words–that you wouldn’t put to words for them–that you ached to touch yourself beyond the means of just…checking. Your nipples ached, that’s as plain as it got, and they ached for contact.

“Yes, I can…I can feel both,” you breathed.

“Good.”

The clamps released. 

The ache remained.

The metal was a soft clack on the table, and with a little tilt of your head to listen to what the blindfold was now painfully keeping hidden, there was a brush against your lips. A gloved finger, unmistakably. It was a subconscious response. Again, you reared back from nothing. There wasn't anyone or anything but you and the air around you. But there, again, fingers touched your lips, pushed past with just a little bit of force, and you could feel two pressing down on your tongue.

“Mhm,” was all you managed to get out. Muffled yet…not. They weren’t actually in there, but the pressure kept your tongue down and mouth closing around their fingers.

“Okay,” came as a distant murmur, and then fingers retreated. 

There was only a half-second pause before your mouth went from swallowing empty to taking in a wooden tongue depressor, pushing your tongue down as the fingers had. The woody taste was flat and bitter, but not entirely direct. You made the same muffled mhm sound as best as you could, fighting back the urge to push up on what wasn’t actually there. 

It retreated. 

"We will be moving on," someone else said. Her voice came in from the left as adjustments were made to your right. The soft scratching from pencils carried across papers. More papers rustled, and your pulse was through the roof. With a held breath, you waited for what exactly moving on meant.

A quiver in your thighs traveled down to your toes. 

It’d be just a few more tests.

Sensitive ones, but $10k. Yeah.

You fought the subconscious need to nod.

In all but seconds, as you listened to the air conditioning run through the vents above you, while pencils scratched against papers, you felt it underneath your jeans. Beyond the thick seam and the awkward inadvertent touch of your thighs together. Past your belt, button, and zipper. Underneath your underwear came the warm, gloved touch over you. Just a stroke over your folds. Like the graze of a paintbrush on a canvas. 

Tension shot through from your hitched breath down to your curling toes.

“I can feel that.”

You breathed through your teeth.

Higher up the finger went. Light as a feather still, parting your folds in the process, you sat in wait. A heart-stopping, grip-tightening wait. They were going to test every spot, weren’t they? It was important. It was about making sure the pleasure connections were there. What good would it serve if there was just minimal connection? They had to test–

The finger brushed over your clit.

“Yes,” you cracked out. It was a rash reaction, but the pad of their finger ran over your clit directly. Back and forth. They were idle touches and nothing more, but sweet hell. It continued. With a bit more pressure behind the strokes. “Yes, yes, I…I can feel that.”

The touch retreated. The air conditioning hum battled with the flicker of your pulse. The thrumming in your ears found your head. They were just tests. Important tests. This was what you signed up for. You knew it was coming. You’d prepped yourself for it.

Still, when the cold silicone touched your clit, you jolted so hard you gasped. It was a perfect circle that came with a soft touch at first, then a second long brought more pressure. Not hard or even remotely uncomfortable, but as you nodded, the person applying it seemed to settle it firmer against you. 

“We will conduct a quick test just to test external stimulation success,” one said. 

The words drowned in the sea of ambiguity that suddenly made a whole lot of sense when that firm press wasn’t just a tongue depressor equivalent. A near-silent click caught your attention before it was suddenly eviscerated. All focus fell into a pinpoint on your clit. Where the hum of the air conditioning and the thrum of your heart had been in your head, all that encapsulated it was an abrupt vibration against your clit. Low in intensity, but it was still a vibrator to your clit. Directly to your clit.

“Oh my god.”

A quiet laugh echoed out to your right.

“I would say she can feel it,” someone said.

“We need to test the varying levels, but we can return to that,” another said. Click. The vibrations kicked off just as your clit began to ache. Not that general ache of stimulation, but when the sensations cut, you felt the slight release in tension that only came in slight. The seam of your jeans pressed up against your clit, and it pulsed against the thick material to ask for more attention. A pulsing that sank deeper than just surface level.

Your cunt clenched. A dampness in your underwear turned your senses up a notch.

“We will conduct another external test, and then two internal ones,” someone said. “Then, the general testing will be complete.”

“Okay,” you muttered.

One more external and then two internal?

A flash of the objects laid out on the table came up.

One more external and two internal…that could only mean….

There was a gentle pressure against your asshole. Warm, gloves, and slick with lube. It was just one slender finger running slow circles. Careful, delicate circles. Much like the touch against your clit. Just rubbing. Yes, you could feel that. You started nodding frantically, hardly able to find the single word yes. But the scratching pencils told you they'd gotten your answer. The pressure still pushing against your asshole, however, came with a gradual increase. More and more and more. 

Oh.

Your breath caught in a sharp gasp.

Their finger pushed into you. Stretching. Bit by bit, you gave way with an ease only possible with the toy they had their finger in. It seemed to correlate with you, even if you weren't lubed. Knuckle by knuckle, they pushed in. Oh, god. You didn’t mean to clench around them, but you could feel their hand against your bottom. Bottomed out. Wiggling–Jesus Christ–they wiggled their finger.

“Yes. I…. Yes, yes, I can…feel…that,” you said through careful breaths. 

“Good,” some said, her voice static and unaffected. 

A gradual pull left you empty and feeling partially gaping. But it wasn't a long sensation. Cold and lube silicone roughly the same size as the finger came to replace it. As gradual as the finger had entered and left, the thin rod-like thing pushed into you. Deeper–it went deeper than the finger, and you…. Keeping still and casual was a fight. How were you supposed to sit on that table, nodding your head and sputtering that you could feel it not be anything but awkward? 

A part of you wanted to fall back, but it was general testing!

So you gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles went white and clenched your jaw until it hurt. Casual. Professional. Click. The rod hummed to life, and your gasp brought more notes to pages. Wait. Pages fluttered. The rod stayed on and pulled out, then pushed back in. Oh, god. You nodded. And nodded. And nodded.

“Good.”

Click.

Off.

Out.

Empty.

The darkness of the blindfold blurred. How, you had no idea. But when the tension released from your shoulders and you slumped, everything felt a little blurry and off-kilter. No hair stood on end. No discomfort. But your asshole pulsed and you were…so empty. Tests, they were just tests. Ones meant to simulate sex and foreplay, so it made sense to get a little aroused. It…it was fine.

It was totally and completely fine.

One warm, gloved finger was back on your cunt. A pass over your clit made you twitch, and the path lower was a mark for the final test. A light ringing hit your ears as more fingers spread you, and the tip of one finger touched your entrance. Pushing back to get a better position on the exam table, right as you sank down to really sit, the finger sank into you.

Just like in your ass, knuckle by knuckle, it pushed in. So, so slowly. Filling you up with a curl. A nice, careful curl. A curl that brushed right over your sweet spot. Oh, fuck. It wasn’t stagnant. While you sat there, thighs spreading involuntarily, it pumped. And curled. And pumped and curled in slow, almost teasing strokes.

“Yes,” you threw out there on a cracked moan. You hadn’t said you could feel it. “Yes, yes, I can feel that. Yes.”

Their finger pressed all the way back in, and there was a quiet hum. 

“Good.”

Then, you were empty again.

Then, the cold, roundish tip of something silicone touched your entrance.

It was wider than the finger, but nothing abhorrent. Lubed up, it pushed into you and filled you right on up. The slight stretch was a sudden tease, and you couldn't help it. Your elbows hit the table with a thud. Equilibrium was off, and for a moment, you worried you might tumble to the floor. Just for insertion! This was bad. But the scribble of pencils said they took that as the necessary answer. 

You were fine.

This was just research.

Click.

“Oh, my–”

That vibration test echoed to life in your cunt. Right against your sweet spot, your head fell back, and you had to grit your teeth and bear the pleasure. Couldn't moan. Couldn't gasp. Just had to bite the bullet that you'd already thrown your head back, you couldn't do more than that. Had to fight it. Had to face it. Had to nod your head. 

“I can feel that, yes.”

In and out. 

They pulled the toy in and out, practically fucking you on it.

“Yes,” you pushed out. 

In and out. In and out, all the way to the vibrating tip. And….

Click.

“Good,” someone said.

“Great,” from another.

That tension faded into obscurity and embarrassment. Shaking like a leaf in the breeze, you just lay there. Your underwear was soaking wet and your cunt…. Parts of you were throbbing that shouldn't still be throbbing and clenching that shouldn't be clenching. But it…they…. Whatever. That was the preliminary testing done. 

You managed to get back upright like normal after a minute or so, the blindfold still intact. Pencils scribbled down notes. Papers fluttered. Footsteps came closer, but not entirely near. 

“Given how well you’ve reacted to the tests and the success with each, we would like to offer you another $5,000.00 to advance the next set of tests we were already going to complete. They will just be a bit more…intensive than originally planned. Nothing will be confirmed without prior consent. We just have not had a compatible subject with such success yet, and we wish to take advantage of such a case. If you are willing.”

Your hands twitched on the table’s edge. An extra $5k? For…a higher intensity, huh?

“What do the tests entail?” you asked softly. There was a rough edge in your voice that hadn’t been there at the start. What were you doing? You didn’t let yourself answer the question.

“Well, we need to essentially test that all connections remain intact while in use. Simple touch tests can provide the simple responses, yes. But it would be great to test higher intensity activities together to make sure all can remain working properly without conflict. We would hate for connection to be lost during the moment.”

…

You swallowed hard.

Incense activities?

“We will have to simulate various activities in repeated tests to check the maintained connection. We will require verbal confirmation throughout to make sure all is correct. Really, it is not much different. The initial tests are simple finger stimulation and insertion. This would be additional stimulation of a higher intensity, that is all.”

So…it…. Okay….

“We will offer $7,000.00 if you are willing to strip for the tests so we can see any bodily reaction,” someone said behind the woman talking to you. 

$7,000.00? $7k. You’d be walking away from the tests with $17,000.00. Sweet fuck. 

What else were you supposed to say to that? Seriously. Seriously, $17,000.00. 

That would cover multiple months of rent and help you pay off the last of your car. So then…. Then.

Then, you cleared your throat and nodded slowly.

“Okay. $7,000.00. I consent.”

Behind the blindfold, you could still see the room light up.

“Fantastic,” the woman said. “I will help you out of your clothes and back onto the table.”

****

Truthfully, the tests were simple but invasive. You were laid out stark naked on the metal table, blindfolded, and shaking uncontrollably. Stripping you down was nothing but necessary for the tests. But eyes still wandered. Seeing the peaks of your nipples in the cold air and the glistening over your cunt was definitely a great sign. And sight.

You kept your thighs together and scrunched up a little, but it wouldn’t last. 

If the tests remained successful, you’d be begging them to keep running them.

But $17,000.00 was an okay price to pay for success. 

They’d all be making ten times that when this hit the market.

The group of researchers watched you with eagerness. Anticipation was a curse upon the room amongst them and you, but patience had to be called for. The next cart was wheeled in, and more gloves were pulled onto the hands of assistants. They'd be stimulating every sensitive part of your body for the next…three hours? Maybe more. They couldn't just jump up to the highest intensity just to make sure it worked. Longevity was part of it.

There was already another stack of $10,000.00 waiting for you when this was over to allow them to check for distance after you left. Within that testing, yes, there came another intensity level check. If they sent you on your way with a thrusting dildo in you and a vibrator on your clit, would the sensations remain just as strong a step outside the building as it would while you slept in bed? Would it remain for hours on end, or would it eventually fade into the background to be ignored?

And more importantly, as these tests in-house would also test, would the participant cum?

If yes, would they be able to repeatedly? Would they be overstimulated if their body wasn't actually experiencing the direct contact, or would the sixth orgasm feel as incredible as the first?

What if there was stimulation on the toys and on the person? If someone was fucking your cunt through means of the toy and in-person, what would you feel? What if a vibrator was strapped to the clit on the toy and someone knelt between your legs and sucked it into their mouth? Questions. Endless questions. And you were the perfect guinea pig; you just had to be worked up to the point of agreeing to work with them. But those were such intense tests…. These early ones had to be conducted first.

So, with everyone gathered in the proper places, it was time to begin.

Test One: simply touching. In your mouth, where you muffled around the two fingers. On your nipples, where they were pinched just enough. Down where one finger pushed into your asshole while one entered your cunt. Then, up on your clit, pressure. Just a little bit of pressure on the silicone bud.

Notes were written as you seemed to stall out a little on the table. It was quite a lot to endure at once. But as your hands fell to the sides of the table to squeeze, your thighs pressing and rubbing together, it was obvious before you even muffled a yes. 

Good.

Test Two: All fingers retreated, and the same was recreated without pause with the silicone toys.

The arch in your back came through nicely. The researchers all reacted in tandem. The clamps added to your nipples were tugged, and the toys between your legs all clicked on at the same time.

Test Two already made you moan. Much like a broken, gasping sound, it cut through the silent research room with success written all over it.

The lead researcher held up her hand. The way your back continued to arch said you could orgasm if they simply decided to leave you like that. But this wasn’t about that yet. And any denial prior to then was considered helpful, so she just gave you those few extra teasing seconds before lowering her hand.

All were removed. More notes were written.

“Tests from this point forward will be with movement,” she said plainly. They would be. This wasn’t some malicious research study. They had to run each test to be sure. You’d agreed. You’d taken the payments. “And repeated penetration. May we continue?”

A hitch in your breath was all that the next pause was, then you nodded.

Test Three: Fingers closed around your nipples in place of the clamps and pinched hard. Not painfully, but as you gasped at the touch, three fingers pumped into your mouth. Two found your cunt and pushed in very, very slowly, two found your asshole and did the same, and up on your clit, attention was given. Light and slow, in gentle circles. Barely there, but looking back….

One hand went over your head, and your thighs parted. Enjoyment was a positive sign. Not inherently an important one, so long as the stimulation was noted, but enjoyment worked in their benefit. Your cunt was dripping onto the table, and you outright writhed as more pressure was applied to your clit.

“Contractions,” two said one right after the other as their fingers pumped into you.

“Oh, so you can feel them?” the lead asked. You breathed through your teeth behind them, and out came a whine. “Good. That’s really good.”

Test Four: Was the same with merely added intensity. You propped your feet up on the table and let your legs fall wide open for everyone to see you jerk with every thrust of the fingers into you. Taking them like someone was practically fucking you right there on the table. Your initial awkwardness upon arrival dripped out of you right down onto that table. Good. Comfort made this better.

The lead researcher nodded, and more attention was given to your clit. Direct, unrelenting attention. Tight, faster circles that made your hips lift up off the table. Your orgasm impending. But not yet. It wasn’t the right time just yet. But that meant you could cum quickly, and that was also perfect. Just short of walking into the research building and offering yourself up naked and willing to do it for free, you were turning out to be the perfect participant. 

Test Five: Silicone returned. A small dildo was pushed past your lips and you choked on nothing but air behind them. Vibrating clamps closed around your nipples. A thick vibrating plug was pushed in right to the thickest part, pulled out, pushed in, pulled out, and then pushed right back into your ass while you writhed on the table. On your cunt, the circular vibrator was pressed back to your clit directly, and lower, lubed up, an average-sized vibrator gradually pushed inside of you.

“We will run the next test with simulated sex with these,” the lead researcher said upon your initial consent. You nodded to both.

Click. You had to be held down. None moved inside of you outside of the low vibrations, but the way you jerked, four assistants had to rush over and pin you to the table. Hands back by your head, ankles and legs held against their stomachs, they pinned you properly so others could take the necessary notes. The position provided the perfect view for such required notes. There was a physical reaction. There was no hint beyond your arousal that you had every hole filled. Your clit didn’t so much as twitch when the vibrator was lifted and someone rolled it between their thumb and forefinger. 

Yes, you lurched and lashed. Yes, your cunt dropped and clenched. But as they moved onto Test Six–thrusting the toys in every hole–you were subsequently empty in your sudden squirming. 

The lead researcher stood over you, watching. How you pulled and whined, rocking your hips before stopping, clearly trying to act professional. The test would only last about another ten seconds, but she could see it. You could feel her watching you, and you knew as well as she did that you were close to climaxing. 

But….

Click.

You threw your head back. Sweat sheened, and your body went limp. 

She walked around to stand beside you, bending over with new ideas popping in at a dangerous speed and with questionable ethics.

“Can we apply dual stimulation?” she asked beside your ear. “For an extra $10,000. In accordance with our testing the distance between here and your home, I want to apply stimulation to the toys directly and to you.” She looked over your aching nipples. “Think about it. While we finish this round of testing.”

Test Seven: Before you could answer, she held up her hand to begin. Click. The next level of intensity shot through the toys. Pumping in and out of you, the lube squelched like you yourself were getting fucked in both holes. Your scream was partially muffled, and your hips lifted again. Tried to, at least.

“Can you feel it in your mouth?” the lead researcher asked, pointlessly. She knew you could.

You still nodded.

“Can you feel it on your nipples?”

Again, you nodded.

“Your clit?”

Your whine said yes.

“Your asshole? Do you feel the vibrators inside your asshole? Inside your cunt?”

Two more whines that said yes, yes. You did. You most certainly did. You did because there, pulling at those pinning you down, you started squirming again. Pulling and pushing, back and forth, trying to get yourself back to wherever you were trying to go, but there you were arching your back off the table and choking on a dildo that wasn't actually in your mouth.

There, you screamed out a broken moan, and your orgasm came over you violently. The exact way they’d needed it to. Violent, unforgiving, and just perfectly. The pleasure erupted improperly because nobody was actually touching you, and your body twitched and shifted. You took the thrusts of the toys with your head back and pussy dripping. Fucked in all holes–barely, they’d barely started giving you real thrusts and strength–you clenched empty and aching. And yet?

Yet, you still came.

Click.

“Test Eight,” the lead researcher declared with a hint of amusement in her voice.

You flinched at the words, but there was no denial.

Click.

The next of five intensity levels. The lead researcher bent over the table and whispered in your ear. We have so many more tests we need to run. Will you help us? Seeing how many ways we can reach an orgasm with these is imperative. If you’re willing. 

Test Nine.

The penultimate intensity was locked in. You came again. Thrashing on the table, more were called in to hold you down. The lead researcher watched from between your legs when your climax hit. Hardly any evidence that you were being fucked senseless. If you could keep yourself together, nobody would know. A good selling point for the exhibitionists. Sort of.

Interesting.

Test Ten.

Test Ten was quite a lot for you. The toys drilling into you harder than before whilst on the highest settings? The one on your clit was turned on last out of courtesy, and when that click came through, it was immediately silenced by your shriek. 

It only took seconds.

Literal seconds. Successful seconds. 

Whatever words you'd been aiming to speak were immediately torn to smithereens. Your cunt gushed empty and aching in the sudden burst of your orgasm. It ripped through you as violently as your first one had, but this one…. The lead researcher didn't hold up their hand, and the panic came across your face immediately when the stimulation didn't stop. It was a good testing point.

The way you fell into the pleasure was visible. From the rush of your orgasm into the mind-shattering pleasure that remained, it was a partial answer. You were overstimulated, but differently. Sobbing, but barely begging, your hips lifted and your back arched, and just like that, you came. Again.

Came with another shriek and came with such a successful force, it was fantastic.

All while you lie completely untouched. Your poor clit was swollen, but it wasn't from touch. It wanted. 

How fascinating. You were multiple orgasms in, and your body technically hadn’t had a real one yet. Just a brush against your clit said you’d cum. But at the wave of her hand, the test finished. It was unethical to touch you without permission. And the way you collapsed when the clamps were removed and the toys were pulled out, you were in need of a break she didn’t entirely want to give. But….

She walked over to you slowly. Everyone took the notes she didn't need to take. Left in a sweaty, gushing mess, she just bent over you. Your chest heaved, and tears dampened the blindfold just enough to be visible, but she was undeterred.

“Will you walk out of here $27,000.00 richer for just a few extra tests?” She paused. You wanted that $27k. Badly. But…. “We need to test simultaneous stimulation. I will raise it to $30,000.00 if you roll onto your knees and chest and allow us to penetrate you.”

$30,000.00. Holy…. It….

Your chest stuttered on your next breath.

Notes were still written. Your body still hadn’t fully relaxed.

$30k. 

Fuck it. 

Fuck it!

Your nod was barely there, but it was a nod.

And with a careful, moaning roll, the tests continued.

****

They had to tie you down. You drooled onto the metal table, the minutes ticking by into hours. How a little stimulation test turned into this, you had the answer as cash in your purse, but sweet fuck. They’d started with the toys first, pushing beads one by thickening one into your ass there and using the same toy on you. Literally on you. Lubing you up and working you open with a slender finger first, then giving them to you.

In together. Out together. Then alternating. Magically, they were pushed in, while literally, they came out. Being stretched at different sizes while being filled and emptied at the same time made no sense, but it felt so out of the world incredible, you couldn’t breathe.

They did the same with their fingers in your cunt. Gloved fingers pushed into the toy, then out, then two more ran over your aching cunt like a torturous tease before pushing in. And when they pushed in, sweet hell, it was a whole other ballgame. The difference between the toys and the real thing was felt then. Prominently. 

But as they pulled out of your cunt and pushed back in whilst those in the toy did the same, there was no time to linger on such a thought. They fucked you together, making you whine onto the table. 

The tests weren’t stated anymore. They just started touching and didn't stop until you were quivering and clenching. The bindings on your ankles and wrists kept you pinned clean to the table. One strap went higher over the backs of your knees to keep you steady, and another went over your shoulders. 

They gave you earplugs so you couldn't hear any comments or commands. 

Blindfolded and deafened, you just listened to the beat of your pulse while you drooled and moaned. Gloved fingers alternated in fucking your cunt with a not-so-gradual increase in intensity. 

You didn’t hear them when the lead researcher said to rub your clit on you while directing one of the assistants to lick the one on the toy. Didn’t have to, though. You felt their tongue drag over you the second before the finger touched you and rubbed. Pleasure spiked in an instant. Your clit was finally given attention, and it came with a phantom wrap of lips around it and a suck that made you scream.

It happened so fast. Clenching around the fingers. Spasming and twitching. The rush of pleasure rippling from the contact on your clit and the curl of the fingers in your cunt. You sobbed uncontrollably when your orgasm hit you like it was the first of the night, and you gushed. Sprayed. 

All over the table and the person behind you.

You came.

Their fingers, their mouths–they continued without pause. Even literally on you, they continued. It was so much. So, so much. You said as much against the table, but they continued. They pushed and pushed and pushed until you were there again. Again! Tears dampened the blindfold in your second, powerful, overwhelming orgasm.

You dripped down your thighs.

The tests continued.

When a signed contract to act as their official test subject for $30.50/hr was in your purse with your messy signature on it, your throat was raw and scratchy as hands gripped your hips. The table was lowered, and your position was changed just enough to fit someone underneath you. The hours ticked by. The earplugs were changed to noise-cancelling headphones, and the blindfold stayed on. Your hands were bound behind your back then, with a harsh grip holding onto the rope keeping them together.

On the table, alternating thrusts, two assistants fucked you, and one stood next to the table with her skirt up. Both holes were stuffed full with alternating rough thrusts. Out of sight, your orgasms were tallied on a whiteboard for you to see when you were finished. Behind you, however, the test found its second important layer.

Three more assistants and the head researcher stood with the toys. One played with the silicone nipples in varying-strengthed pinches and pulls. Two more mimicked those at the table with you, their pants down, the toys off their stands, fucking into you slow at first, then they matched the rhythm of the other two. A small vibrator was taped to the toy just at your clit.

The mouth one came underneath the head researcher’s skirt, locked there where she felt every motion you did to the assistant standing beside the table.

It was for research. To see if you could really feel everything. When they put their fingers inside the toys, they could feel you warm and wet and clenching. And now they could say that oral could be reciprocated that way. It could even be done so efficiently that orgasm could be reached.

She locked the toy against herself in proof of that.

And….

And orgasm could be reached multiple times while clearly overstimulated with multiple cocks penetrating you. Granted, it was one in each hole, and there was a vibrator on your clit. But you were being fucked senseless in four ways, and you spasmed and screamed with orgasm after orgasm.

Until cum dripped out of both toys, and the assistants were pulling their pants up.

Until the condoms were full and you were left with a glistening mouth and gaping, clenching holes on the table.

The head researcher set the mouth replica aside. 

“We will be running various tests of this nature every night for the foreseeable future,” she said beside you, lifting up the headphones. Water, towels, snacks, and a robe were brought next. Those who had to wait their turn for next time to…run the test…took very gentle touches to you to clean you up. “Do you have a short, casual dress?”

You barely nodded. You did. 

“Good. Bring it tomorrow. We will be testing how prominent the spell remains while you complete other tasks. It requires frequent checks, and a dress makes it easy.” She gave your back a small pat. “My assistants will help you. See you tomorrow at 9:00 AM. Oh, and fill out this sheet if you feel anything during the night or experience any reactions in the morning.” 

A folder with a dozen sheets was set aside for you. To note symptoms, to write about what you’d thought they’d done to you via the toys during the night. All set up neatly for you to fill out and them to check. Ones that’d be handed out to countless others if they could perfect the product and bring in other participants. Then, they could have you test the products on each other at will and randomly.

"Thank you for signing on with us. You'll see an additional $500.00 be deposited into your account as a sign-on bonus."

It felt laughable compared to the $40k in your purse, but comparatively…. You'd taken a small chunk of the fortune awaiting them. It'd take about a year of testing, and they'd be the most successful product of its kind on the market. With you as their top tester and advocate. 

But…you had to get through that year first, and in that year came a lot of tests.

It made incredible money, and with all the orgasms attached?

Who the hell were you to say no?

[cod-indulgences]

Ghost x afab!reader, jumping on that portal pussy bandwagon, anal, pussy eating, chat is it selfcest if you eat yourself out?, dom/sub vibes

Ghost tosses the portal pussy in front of you, as his cock prods at your asshole, smearing the lube and slick he'd pulled out of you with his fingers before shoving the other half of the portal over your cunt.

You blink at it, hazy, and Ghost drags your wrists into the small of your back. "Eat it."

"Huh?"

You jerk forward over the mattress, chin digging into it, and the pussy- your pussy- bumps your lips. You feel it, a soft brush against your folds, and gasp.

"I said, eat it. Until I say done," Ghost answers, and forces his cock into your ass with a brutal snap of his hips. You moan, body sliding again, and one hand holds your wrists as the other grips the back of your head, briefly forcing you down, lips parting across your own pussy, tasting your slick, clit throbbing on your tongue.

Fuck, oh fuck, hard fat cock in your ass and the musky-sweet taste of yourself, not licked off Ghost's fingers or cock but straight from the source, and you moan as your tongue curls over your clit. The matching sensation spurs you on, needing more, sucking at yourself as Ghost sets a fast, hard rhythm, taking your ass for himself while you feast on your pussy.

Each lick and suck hits you twice over, the mindfuck of it all, eating out a soft, wet pussy but feeling it on your own body, learning how to make yourself feel good from a new angle, no fingers to help you, just your own tongue wriggling into your hole, fucking yourself on it, drool and slick smearing across your cheeks. You suck your clit hard and lose the rhythm immediately, eyes rolling at the dual sensations, as Ghost keeps steadily gaping your ass open around his cock.

"Fuck, oh- I can't," you gasp, and lick across your pussy from hole to clit, shuddering. You know what you need to come but you can't do it, too lost in the pleasure of your tongue and lips, and Ghost takes the back of your head again and shoves you down into your pussy again, this time holding you there as you pant and squeal. Your ass burns around his cock, the clenching muscles only making it worse, pussy so sloppy wet it's obscene, feeling the spasms on your tongue as you moan, clenching around your tongue like a toy.

You can feel Ghost, you realize, the relentless pound of his cock rubbing against your tongue through the thin barrier between pussy and ass, and your tongue curls and your pussy gushes, his hand on your head and the powerful motions of his body forcing you to- grind against yourself, tongue rubbing up and down, in and out, you can't stop it and can't move against or for it, just riding the pressure and heat as it builds in your belly.

Your pussy clamps down, spasms building, and you pant and whine as your tongue is dragged over your clit again. Oh fuck, fuck fuckfuck, gonna come- "Baby, fuck, gonna come," you slur, sloppy with your own gushing fluids, and Ghost grunts behind you, picking up speed.

His cock splits your ass open, and you start to come as he pulls all the way out and shoves back inside, making you take it, and your clit grinds across your tongue as you lap over it, a little throbbing pulse, and oh god, the way your tongue is so wet and hot on your pussy, feeling your breath stutter, you can just barely suck at it and wriggle your tongue into your hole and fuck- oh shit-

"Cum, cumming," you moan, and the squeezing clench of your pussy echoes between your thighs and on your tongue, wet smears sticking to your cheeks and chin as Ghost groans, feeling your orgasm in your ass, as you milk at his cock. The musky scent of your come fills your nose, the soft folds swollen on your cheeks, your own sweet, precious little pussy, eaten and sucked, you know what it feels like now, to make yourself come on your tongue, and you moan and shudder when your lips rub over your clit again.

Ghost pants, his hips slapping hard to your ass, and you muffle a shout into your pussy as he puts his weight on you, crushes you into the mattress, hips forced flat. The angle of your pussy in the portal changes, and your clit rolls between your lips, scraping your teeth, and a sharp burst of slick fills your mouth as a hard clench burns through you.

You squeal, breathless, and Ghost sighs pleasure into your ear as he comes, the hot bursts in your ass, his cock slipping back and forth in the mess he's making of your insides. You gasp when he lets up, releasing your wrists and head properly, leaving you to roll your cheek away from the portal, your pussy all soft and slick in your blurry vision.

His hand slides between your legs, and abruptly the portal is moved up, pussy vanishing from sight, instead replaced with a swollen little pucker- your asshole, gaping just a little, with thick creamy come dripping out to the rhythm of your pounding heart.

Ghost drags the portal back to your face, and sets your lips against it, his cock now notching at the tender entrance to your pussy.

"Eat it."