I’m here to kindly ask you for a drabble, lovely V🧎🏼♀️♥️ (my phone corrected kindly to kinky at first lmaoo it knows me well) Could I please get some nipple play with Joel, baby? You write it masterfully and I always drool reading your stories🫠🥵 Maybe he’s looking for some comfort after a hard patrol and reader helps him relax. If the inspo takes you there, I’d love to see lactation added to the mix but it’s up to you💞 That man deserves a boob in his mouth!!🥹I’m sending you love, hugs and smooches!!♥️😘🫂 Love you!!!♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
Hi baby! 🥰
Thank you so much for sending me this delicious ask 🤤
I won’t lie, your request sent me into a horny state I couldn’t escape for several days, you know how much I love lactation 🤭
So much so that what I wrote is far longer than a drabble, I literally couldn’t stop myself 🤣
Anyway, I changed the plot a little bit but of course it is a huge amount of filth and I really hope you’ll enjoy this 😏♥️
Thirsty - Jackson!Joel x f!reader
Rating: Explicit, MDNI
WC: 5,7k (Woops 🤭)
Summary: Getting a glimpse of one of your intimate, tender moments triggers something in Joel that he never would have expected…
Tags: Lactation, breast milk consumption, mention of breastfeeding pump, reader just had a baby and she’s a Jackson resident, friends to lovers, age gap (reader is in her 30s), horny!Joel, kinda pervert!Joel, sub!Joel, gentle dom!reader, he’s desperate and horny and pathetic just the way I like him, sorry not sorry 🤭, but also soft!Joel 🥹, reader is explicitly described being curvy, having big juicy tits and thighs and ass 🙂↕️, she has stretch marks, hair long enough to fall down her shoulders but it’s not described in details, she has a bush because I said so and Joel loves it (!!!), my man Joel loves a big girl!!!, she’s wearing a breastfeeding bra, dirty talking, use of good boy, nipple play, use of milk as lube, nail scratching, pussy pronouns, unprotected p in v, cream pie, kissing, licking, biting, suckling and all the repertoire heheheh, female and male masturbation, Joel is huge (of course), reader is cheeky and she takes what she wants (again, just the way I like her 😌), voyeur!Joel (just for a brief moment but still 😏)….i think that’s all but let me know if I forgot something and I’ll add it right away.
A/N: if you’re not into lactation this could be the wrong fic for you, but thank you if you decide to give it a try! I really hope you’ll enjoy this huge amount of filth 🤭 thank you again @aurorawritestoescape for taking part in my little birthday celebration event and for sending me this wonderful request 🥰 English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistake!
dividers by: @/starrliqhtt
Drabble for V's birthday | Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist
Joel had a problem. The first time he'd realized it was at the doctor's, after he'd slipped in the snow during a patrol. Nothing major, but Tommy insisted he get checked out because he'd hit his head. No head injury, the doctor confirmed. He was leaving when he saw you in one of the other rooms, with Nurse Tisha. The door had been left ajar, and he couldn't help but peek. You were bare-breasted, while the nurse was helping you with a breast pump. Joel was petrified. He'd never noticed you before, too busy making amends with Ellie, or fixing things around, or simply being a lonely bear like he'd always been.
You were beautiful, younger than him, probably in your thirties, and apparently you'd had a baby. He watched Tisha gently attach the pump to your breast. You grimaced, a mixture of pain and relief, and then smiled at her as the milk began to flow. The whole scene had been tender, delicate, and as much as Joel tried not to admit it, even to himself, it had turned him on. He found himself hard in the middle of the hallway.
He'd almost been caught; the doctor's footsteps were getting closer, and if he'd stayed there another minute, he'd have seen him. He'd gone home, locked himself in his room, and lay down on the bed, still painfully hard under his jeans. He found himself with his hand in his boxers before he'd had time to process what had happened.
That evening he'd masturbated three times. He couldn't stop. The sight of your round breasts, your swollen, firm nipples, the way the pump sucked, the noises of relief you'd made, and the way your mouth curled into a smile as the milk began to flow—it was all burned into his mind. He'd never thought he'd be the type to get turned on by something like that, even though, like most men, he had a weakness for breasts. Big, small, it didn't matter, Joel had adored them ever since he'd found his father's Playboy magazines as a kid and seen his first topless model.
Then he'd had his first girlfriend and discovered how wonderful it felt to fill his hands with them. Soft, warm, sweet, and squeezable. Gorgeous. And after a while, he realized he could do other things with them, kiss them, suck them, nibble them gently.
He loved feeling nipples under his tongue, teasing them and feeling them harden, closing his lips around them and feeling the girl under him arch her back and moan. He spent a lot of time on it, it was his favorite foreplay. Sometimes he even managed to make her come without doing anything else, so yes, he really liked tits. And he was good at taking care of them.
He hadn't thought about it anymore, your tits were the first ones he'd seen naked since the pandemic began. More than 20 years without seeing a pair of tits. It was normal for him to react that way, after all, he thought. And yours were really beautiful, your nipples were beautiful and the areola and the voluptuous, firm shape... he had masturbated a fourth time thinking about how delicious they would be in his mouth. And the milk? Who knows what it tasted like. He had used formula for Sarah when her mother disappeared. Dozens and dozens of bottles. He had never had direct experience with someone breastfeeding. And now curiosity was consuming him.
Of course, he tried not to show it. He shut himself away in his work and managed to spend his days more or less peacefully. He sometimes saw you at the Tipsy Bison, sitting with your friends, your baby in your arms, laughing and sipping your soda. You were radiant, not in a manner of speaking; Joel found you radiated light and warmth all around you. And people adored you.
He was considered the town's grouch, he was respected and they were kind to him, but didn't have the same attitude they had towards you. Which was fine with Joel; he didn't like being the center of attention, he wasn't good at small talk, or at winning someone's immediate sympathy, and he didn't care. Until he developed a crush on you and found himself feeling like a miserable outcast you'd never choose.
Every time he passed you on the street, he'd simply nod, his knees shaking at your sweet smile. But no, he wouldn't make the first move. Better to wallow in doubt. It was fine this way, he told himself. You'd surely reject him anyway, so what was the point?
Nothing stopped him from fantasizing, though. And he did it often, practically every night, lying in his bed where no one could find out what was going on in his head. Your naked tits dripping milk onto his face, your tight, wet pussy filled with his cock, your convulsive moans as you rode him with your eyes closed and your mouth half open, your messy hair falling over your shoulders.
And it was all in his head until something he never hoped for happened. The snow that had fallen during the winter had damaged the roof of your house. There was a leak that ran straight into your bedroom. You'd asked him if he could fix it, and Joel had, of course, said it was no problem. Sure, his heart had leapt as soon as you spoken to him. The night before he came to inspect your property to assess the damage and figure out how to proceed with repairs, he'd barely slept. But it was his chance, finally, and he was starting to feel vaguely perverse after all the weeks he'd spent masturbating while thinking about you.
It was time to stop and be a man. Maybe knowing you would make his infatuation go away, he'd get over it, he'd discover he wasn't that attracted to you after all, it was just your boobs. But no, the first time you opened the door to your house, he'd had the same impression as always. You were delicious. And then you started talking to him, and you were even better than he thought. You were funny and intelligent, you loved horror movies and reading, and you'd been so impressed by the fact that Joel knew how to carve wood that he'd felt compelled to bring you a little carved squirrel.
For your baby, he'd said.
By the way, your son was adorable too. You told him how you'd ended up in Jackson, pregnant, scared, without your partner who'd died of an infection some weeks after discovering your pregnancy, while you were looking for shelter. You'd survived only thanks to your son, you told him, you'd never have had the strength to move on if it hadn't been for him. And Joel understood this very well, it was the same thing that had happened to him with Ellie.
He'd gone from thinking you had nothing in common to thinking it was as if he'd known you forever.
The way you talked to him, laughed at his jokes, made sure he always had a cup of coffee while he worked and a homemade sandwich for lunch—perhaps these were more than just casual politeness.
He needed to push things a little bit more, just a little bit to see how you could react.
His chance came one day when he knocked on your door and found you in tears. He asked you what was going on, but you wiped away your tears, simply saying briskly and a little bit harshly that it was none of his business. He walked sadly to your room, hearing you return to the kitchen sighing. He wished he could have done more, damn it, he hated seeing you like this, but from the way you'd answered, he deduced you didn't want him to interfere.
He kept his mouth shut, fighting the urge to run into the kitchen and hug you. After a while, you went to him.
“You know, I’m sorry about the way I answered before,” you said, offering him your usual cup of coffee. “I’m a little stressed these days.” Joel asked if he could help in any way, and you shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “God, no, I don’t think so.” What was it that made you laugh about his offer of help?
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Your breasts were fuller than ever, he couldn’t help but think as he looked at you. Your shirt was barely covering them now, and God knows how hard Joel had to keep from getting an erection every time he looked at you. You were gorgeous, simply gorgeous, and you were there with those big, sad eyes that drove him crazy.
“Unless you’re an expert in breastfeeding…” you whispered softly, almost afraid to say it. “Oh, so it’s about this… I see,” he said. He pressed his lips together, trying to push back the question that was on the tip of his tongue, but finally he gave in, under your gaze, knowing he was about to ask something.
“Does it hurt?”
“Uh. Kind of, how do you know?”
“Well, I… I don’t know, I took a guess, you seem in discomfort and I know the baby is still too young to eat anything else.” You smiled, sitting on your bed. Joel did the same, his toolbox forgotten on the floor “Yeah, it hurts a little. At first it didn’t seem like it was coming, but now… I have a lot, even too much, I think and the pump… do you know what a breastfeeding pump is?” Joel nodded. “It hurts when I use it.”
Joel shifted his weight on the bed, not sure of what to say, murmuring “I'm sorry” in the end.
“This isn't what you expected to talk about today, huh, breast milk and stuff,” you chuckled nervously. “Sorry, I shouldn't have, I just wanted to apologize.”
“No, it’s okay, I mean, you’re a mum, that’s totally normal to be concerned about this kind of thing and I’m your friend… I’m here for you”
Your shoulders relaxed and your smile widened as you looked at him. “Thank you, Joel.” He wanted to kiss you and hold you and tell you everything would be okay. His hands itched to touch you when you unexpectedly leaned in, kissing his cheek, your lips soft against his beard. It was only a moment, a friendly, grateful kiss, but Joel’s body tensed like a violin string at your touch. Once again, he feared you’d realize how much he wanted you physically.
“I’ll let you work,” you said, getting up. “I’m going to Tisha’s, but when I get back I’ll make you your usual sandwich and we’ll eat together, okay?”
Joel nodded reluctantly, not wanting to let you go, but he couldn't quite express what he was thinking. "I want your milk. I can suck it from you. I can give you relief and be gentler than that damned pump."
He heard the door close a few minutes later, went to check out the window, and saw you walking away with Kyle in your arms. He locked himself in the bathroom, his hands gripping the counter as he felt his cock pressing against the seam of his jeans.
Oh God, the effect you had on him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't calm down; he had only one dirty solution to the problem. He opened his jeans, freeing his cock just enough to take it in his hand, and began to jerk it there.
He closed his eyes, imagining your swollen, ample breasts, your hard nipples sliding between his lips, the taste of milk on his tongue. He cursed as he pumped his cock harder and harder into his fist, the pre-cum slipping down his palm and staining his fingers, hot and sticky. He imagined coming on your tits, your milk mixing with his seed, how he would clean you, licking every drop from your scented, sweet, and soft skin.
He imagined your moans of pleasure, the way you'd beg him not to stop, your hand reaching for his cock to bring it closer to your eager, soaking pussy, how you'd welcome it and swallow it whole inside your tight hole. He came, spraying your sink and mirror in long, messy, uncontrolled spurts.
His more animalistic side had taken over, and in that moment he wasn't even ashamed of it, he couldn't think of anything except how much he wanted you. You had been absolutely right about one thing: you shouldn't have told him about your breastfeeding problems; it had only inflamed him even more than before.
He opened his eyes at the mess he'd made, and panic gripped him. He had to clean everything up quickly before you came back. He put his dick back in place and buttoned up his jeans, then opened the cabinets in search of a rag and something to clean. He found a bottle of detergent under the sink, sprayed it everywhere, cleaned and rinsed with the rug. The smell of lemon wafting through the bathroom calmed him momentarily, giving him the clarity to check if everything was okay. The mat under the sink looked pristine, the countertop too, and he finally breathed a sigh of relief. He took the wet rag to his toolbox, he'd wash it and bring it back later, hoping you'd never notice.
He got back to work, finishing fixing the wooden planks, spreading on some mastic to make the surface waterproof, trying to keep his mind occupied.
Up the stairs, right next to your bed, he looked for a moment at your bedroom. It looked so yours, cozy and warm and simply but tastefully furnished, there was that soft touch that belonged to you everywhere, from the beige quilt on your bed, to the small jewelry box on the dresser, and the curtains you'd sewn yourself. And then he saw it, on your nightstand, the squirrel he'd sculpted. He was happy you'd kept it and even more so that you kept it near where you slept.
When he heard the door open again, his heart leaped into his throat, as if he were still in danger of being caught red-handed. Your melodious voice called to him a few minutes later, and he came down the stairs to your room and joined you in the kitchen. “Everything okay?” he asked, and your more relaxed face immediately cheered him up. “Tisha really reassured me,” you said with a sweet smile, the earlier hint of sadness having dissipated from your eyes.
“I’m happy for you.”
“Sit down, I’ll make you a sandwich,” you said cheerfully, and Joel couldn’t have been happier as he watched you move around the kitchen, pulling bread from the cupboard and humming softly as you spread mayonnaise on it.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kyle in the living room in his baby chair, sleeping.
There was no way you'd find out what he'd done, and even though it kept nagging at him in the back of his mind, he felt relieved. "Tisha told me Kyle's growing well, isn't that wonderful? And she gave me another breast pump that seems to be working better."
You turned to look at him smiling over your shoulder, and Joel couldn't help but nod. "Great."
"And if I have too much milk, well, I could donate it, you know, for other babies. He's following a couple of other pregnant women who might need it.”
“Oh. Sure, that’s a great idea,” he replied, feeling a little sick inside. It was the right thing to do, obviously. But he couldn’t be entirely thrilled, not when your breasts were still poking out so deliciously from the V-neck of your shirt as you opened the refrigerator and grabbed the sliced roast turkey from the bottom shelf.
You sat with him eating, chatting, giggling about how you'd seen Maria scold Seth for the way he'd handled the Tipsy Bison warehouse, and how you'd realized there might be something going on between Dina and Jesse. Joel listened to you raptly, trying to move his gaze from your sweet lips to your eyes, your hair, everything except your flourishing breasts that obsessed him.
“Do you still have much to do?” you asked, pouring him a cup of coffee. “No,” he replied, realizing in that moment that the job was done. The leak was fixed. His time with you was over. “It’s all right, no more water dripping on your head.” Damn.
It had been so pleasant, he didn't want it to end.
After finishing his coffee, he stood up and announced, "I'm going to put away the ladder and get my tools, so I can leave you alone with Kyle."
You just muttered, "Okay," but you didn't seem happy for him to leave. Maybe it was just him, why would you want him around anymore?
He was just fooling himself, he told himself as he gathered his things. But suddenly he heard you enter the room, calling him softly, “Joel…”
He turned around.
“Look, I wanted…” He was literally hanging on every word you said, delighted by the fact that you seemed slightly embarrassed to say what you were about to say.
He looked at you intently, urging you to continue.
“I wanted to ask you… is there anything I can do to repay you?”
“Oh no,” he said quickly, “there’s no need, really.” His voice cracked more than he’d intended.
There was a strange tension in the air, an electricity he hadn’t felt between you two before. You smiled, touching your neck, leaning closer to him.
What were you doing?
“Are you sure?” you said, placing a hand on his chest, raising your wide eyes to him. “Because you know… I noticed the way you look at me… and I didn’t want to say anything but…”
He thought he was dreaming. His hand instinctively moved to your hip, as if trying to grasp something to see if it was all real.
“Do you like me, Joel?” He swallowed, trying to stay calm. “Because I like you… so…”
Joel was stunned. He never dreamed of having so much luck.
Even though he had promised himself he would try, he had never managed to take the first step because there was your son, and your responsibilities as a mother and that obsession with your breasts, that pulsating pleasure he felt every time his eyes rested on your curves, made him embarrassed.
But now? Now his hand was touching you, and when he registered in his mind the softness he felt under his fingers, the warmth of your skin that he could feel even through your shirt, he felt his Adam's apple jump, the hairs on his arms stand on end, and the desire burning inside him. Were you offering yourself to him? He no longer had any doubts when you closed the distance between you two, placing your lips on his. A light, quick touch, as if you were testing the waters to see how far you could go.
“Joel…” you whispered, “would you like to kiss me again?”
So he did. And you eagerly opened your lips inviting him to deepen the kiss, welcoming his tongue and letting him licking inside your mouth.
Joel was hard. Hard as a rock just from the way your tongue was dancing with his, just from the way you moaned and grabbed the hair on the back of his neck, your fingers entwined with his curls, your nails lightly scratching his scalp.
He never had a kiss so good before.
And then you pressed your whole body against his, your tits warm and soft against his chest, your hips bucking against his erection.
His hands were feverishly exploring your back, under your t-shirt, your skin smooth like velvet under his palms. He didn’t stop, reaching the edge of your bra, moving under the fabric to reach the side of your tits, pressing his thumbs there, right on your nipples.
You whined in pleasure so hard, pulling away from him, arching your back, your hips pressing against his.
“God,” you exclaimed with your eyes closed, your mouth half open in a grimace of pleasure, your fingers now digging into his biceps to keep yourself balanced “fuck yes”
The clothes were soon gone, flying to the floor as you stared into each other's eyes, the buzzing of the baby monitor in your room the only other sound. Kyle continued to sleep peacefully in the living room.
When he first saw you in your bra and panties, Joel was breathless. Your soft belly protruding slightly from the pure white cotton of your panties, the matching nursing bra hugging your perky breasts, seemed like the most exciting thing he'd ever seen. He was captivated by the seductive swell of your body, the way your panties rested on your hips, almost sinking into your flesh, your thighs adorned with stretch marks that made you look like an elegant, bewitching, predatory tiger. Oh, Joel, he knew how to appreciate a real body; the abundance of your curves only made him even harder and more eager to give you all the pleasure he could.
“You’re so beautiful” he said in a breath, his voice deep and hoarse “I almost can’t believe my eyes”
You giggled and pushed him back to sit on the bed behind him.
“Well, I like what I see too,” you replied as your eyes wandered over his broad shoulders, down his chest and the strip of hair on his belly, until they settled on the noticeable erection growing beneath his boxers.
“Huge, huh?” You observed, your eyebrow raised and a mischievous spark in your eyes.
So you were cheeky. Joel had no idea, he always thought you were a sweet shy single mom but we was wrong. You were so much more than that and Joel was more than eager to discover every side of you.
You straddled him immediately after, pushing him to lay down on the bed.
Your thighs wrapped around his waist, your breasts towering over him, still covered by your bra.
“Tell me what you want,” you invited him seductively, licking your bottom lip.
“I…ha…I don’t know,” he stammered, overwhelmed.
“Yes, you know…” you scolded him softly, sliding your hips against his, letting him feel your warm, wet center over his boxers. “Tell me, Joel, I wanna hear it.”
“I want…all of you. Every piece, every single curve, baby, you’re so damn pretty and sexy, you don’t even know what you’re doing to me” words came out of his mouth in a rush, like a river he could no longer stop “I just… GOD, I need to feel you, need to touch you…”
Your very pleased gaze said everything. Your voice lowered as you moved you hips again, making sure to slide right over the large stain that was forming on his boxers’ fabric and said “then fuck me, Joel…I’m all yours”
Joel gasped at the sensation, digging his fingers more into the soft meat of your thighs, desperately bucking his groin to seek for more friction.
You leaned your weight on him to hold him still. “Hey, calm down, be a good boy… let me take these off.” Joel froze at your command. He would do anything for you, you had him under your thumb like a puppet. And it was clear you enjoyed it as much as he did. Joel was good at following orders, and he was going to prove it. He remained still as you pulled his boxers down to his ankles, tossing them to the floor. His cock bounced on his stomach, hard, his red, swollen tip dripping profusely. You watched him twitch on the bed as you moved closer, pushing your panties aside. You weren’t completely shaved, another detail that drove him wild; a small, neatly trimmed bush adorned your mound.
And under that, he saw the most delicious pussy, all puffy and leaky for him.
You straddled him again and took one of his hand, bringing it to your slick. His fingers felt like he was dipping them in a honey jar, your warm and sticky nectar coating his digit up to the middle. He moaned, quite pathetically, curving them to gather more of your wetness, all the way up to your clit. He pressed there gently, making you close your eyes and hoarsely whisper “fuck… just like that” He started drawing tight circles on it, making you whine again.
“Play with her…” you whispered “hell, it’s been so long…”
He kept his thumb on your hard bundle of nerves, moving his index and middle to your slit again, poking at your entrance and your cunt immediately clenched and sucked and cried for him, a fresh wave of arousal dripping down his palm.
His cock was slamming against your ass, not yet in the game, dripping desperately waiting to nestle inside you.
It was all about you now, Joel was mesmerized by your pussy, the way you writhed on top of him, your trembling thighs tightening around his hips every time he applied pressure to your clit.
He deliberately brought his other hand to your breast, filling it, finally allowed to touch what he'd always dreamed of. It was heavy, soft, warm, and slightly moist through the fabric. When you quickly pulled down the cups of your nursing bra, Joel thought he was in heaven. Your turgid nipples faced him, swollen and inviting, a small drop of milk dripping onto your areola as you begged him, "Suck them, Joel." It was all he wanted. You leaned over him, offering him one of your little buttons. It was just a step away from his lips; Joel could smell the faint scent of milk along with the divine scent of your skin.
Instinctively, he stuck out his tongue, reaching for it, a greedy lick at the tip making his hips buck. It was sweet, salty, a thick drop slipped onto his tongue and it was exactly as he had imagined. Incredible.
He eagerly latched onto it, beginning to suck. A shiver ran through you, and you arched your back, pushing into his mouth as the milk began to flow.
In ecstasy, you squeezed your other breast, spraying his face. Joel jumped in surprise, your pussy slamming against his stomach, his cock twitching. You giggled, muttering, "Sorry," and he pulled away from your breast, milk dripping down his chin and neck, smiling at you, "It's okay, I like it."
Evidently galvanized by this, your smile widened, your hand caressing his temple, pushing back a rebellious curl. “Hmm, so my milk is good, huh?” you said, swinging your hips lasciviously on him.
“The best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he nodded. “I’d never get tired of it.”
“What a good boy. You’re thirsty, aren’t you? Want more?” Joel didn’t need to be told twice, he wanted nothing more than the softness of your breasts between his lips, your milk flowing warm over his tongue, filling his mouth with a sweet, comforting flavor.
The room filled with your moans, you were moving back and forth on his belly leaving a wet trail, seeking your first orgasm against his skin.
Joel's tongue swirled around your nipple, alternating licking and sucking with a throbbing desire in his chest, he wanted more and more, and the fact that you were still wearing your bra was even more exciting, the fabric getting wet with his saliva mixed with your milk, becoming gradually more transparent, soaked in your juices.
had your entire areola in his mouth, his teeth occasionally closing gently on it, making you moan louder before he resumed sucking.
Your taste, your scent, the salty sweat beading on your skin, everything was so good, Joel would have sworn he never had anything better than that before. He would never stop.
Your orgasm came as electricity that flowed throughout your body, your thighs held him impossibly as you pulled your head back emitting moans that had something desperate and animalistic, eyes closed and mouth open as if to seek air, Your damp hair messily scattered over your shoulders.
Joel was already missing your breast in his mouth, he concentrated on not exploding in an orgasm right there and then as he watched you take your pleasure on top of him.
As soon as you calmed down a little, you looked at him with the sweetest eyes he'd ever seen, whispering "God...", your hands resting on his chest, his holding you firmly by the hips. You were so soaked that Joel felt his belly completely soaked with you.
“I want you inside Joel… now,” you murmured, moving on top of him, taking his cock in your hand as if it belonged to you. Joel loved your determination, the greedy, authoritative way you took what you wanted and was more than eager to oblige.
You aligned his shaft with your tight hole, slowly lowering yourself onto him to welcome him, your pussy swallowing him inch by inch as if she wanted to devour him. The way you stretched for him, the heat of your walls enveloping him, your throbbing clit, and that delicious bush soaked with your juices and your breasts wet with milk, your sweat and his saliva, shiny and turgid hanging from your chest asking for more attention… you were a sight to behold.
When you reached the bottom you leaned down again, your clit slid deliciously along his happy trail as you invited him to take your other breast into his mouth.
He reconnected his lips to your nipple, beginning to move slowly inside you, your pussy welcoming every thrust and your eyes fixed on him. “Like this… just like this…” you stammered. Your breasts began to flow almost immediately, the milk flowing down his throat like a river of sweet nectar, even more wonderful than he’d imagined every time he’d masturbated thinking of you. He thrust his hips upward, sinking into you, again and again, taking a handful of your thick, luscious ass.
The swaying of your hips drove him wild, your swollen breasts in his milk-drenched mouth a heavenly sensation that pushed him to the limit much sooner than he wanted.
He pulled away only to beg you to change positions. He didn't want to come right away, he wanted to enjoy your warmth and the intimate connection that had developed for a little longer. You gladly agreed, moving off of him to lie down on the bed. He removed your now soaking panties, sniffing them before throwing them on the floor. You giggled at the sight, your nails on his forearm, pulling him against you. "Come here," you said softly. Joel climbed on top of you, sinking back into your open, dripping pussy.
Waves of pleasure running through you both he began moving inside you.
One hand gripping your thigh, the other on your breast, placing his mouth on the other, continuing to suck, harder with each thrust, filling his mouth and then letting it slide down your body in a mess of saliva and milk that soaked both of you and dripped down your belly, down to the point where the two of you were connected, making everything even more slippery and sticky and hot.
And the more he felt both of you soaked with milk, the more he couldn't stop. He began pumping into you like a fury, lifting one of your legs slightly to push even deeper. When he reached the spot inside you that made you see stars, your hand flew into his hair, tugging hard, while you continued to say his name in an endless litany. He loved the feel of it, he loved the way your body tensed and relaxed, your hips slamming rhythmically against him, and his balls pounding against your ass.
He had never felt anything like it, something so intense and captivating that it prevented him from thinking clearly, he felt like he was under a spell in which he couldn't detach himself from you and he couldn't say enough to your sweet nectar that filled his mouth.
He opened his mouth to let him flood your swollen nipple, then swirled his tongue around it in a turgid, wet ecstasy, sucked as much as he could between his lips and spit on your other breast, where his fingers gently pinched and pulled and twisted, making you scream with pleasure.
You were both exhausted, soaking wet and overwhelmed when he felt his orgasm rising uncontrollably from his lower abdomen, almost in sync with yours. He could feel it in the way your pussy strangled his cock, in the way you clung to him, your nails scraping his back, and the moans that escaped uncontrollably from your mouth. He exploded inside you with one final powerful thrust, in long, white, hot spurts that filled you to the brim.
Leaning on top of you like that, a long, strangled moan escaping from the back of his throat, his cock throbbing and spurting inside you, Joel felt dizzy and aching but the most satisfied he’d ever been in his life.
He pulled out of you, buried his face in the crook of your neck, basking in your warmth, and felt your hand in his hair, caressing him softly as you whispered, "My God, that was amazing..." He licked the soft skin beneath your ear, leaving a trail of small kisses as he tried to regain his normal breathing. He felt his cum dripping down your thighs beneath him, along with the milk in a sticky puddle.
As soon as he could, he moved away so as not to weigh you down too much, but immediately pulled you back into his arms.
Joel!” you squeaked, giggling immediately afterward, resting your head on his chest as he pulled you close and kissed your forehead, stroking your back. You remained silent for a moment before murmuring softly, “Maybe I should clean up before Kyle wakes up.”
“I’ll help you,” he offered immediately, but before letting you get up, he stole another kiss, deep and sweet.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and you gave him the cutest smile in the world and replied, “I’ve never felt better, really.”
“I’ve been dreaming about this for months,” he confessed in a fit of sincerity that he almost immediately regretted, fearing that you thought he was some kind of pervert, but you simply ruffled his hair and gave him another kiss on the lips, teasing him. “Well, then you’re not the good guy I thought you were… but I like it.”
— TASTE BACK (ex-husband!joel x f!reader) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚
— Summary: You thought he was the love of your life; Joel took you for granted. Three years after a painful and dramatic divorce, you and Joel are forced to face each other at a mutual friend's destination wedding in Maui. But you’ve moved on; you even have a new man. Besides, it’s only for a weekend. You can be cordial for that long, can't you?
A/N: I saw a Parent Trap gif the other day and my brain immediately went: Joel Miller, but make him a yearning ex-husband. And pair that with Harry Styles song "Taste Back" on loop and… well, here we are. I debated keeping this as a one shot, but I can't help it, so this will be a three part mini series. First part will be posted in may 19th. Hope you like it!
If you want to be in the taglist, leave your comment below!
tags: AU - No outbreak / joel is 40, you are 36 / divorced and not on good terms / dirty smut, p in v, oral sex (f and m receiving), creampie, bad decisions, drunk sex, you're a mess, he's a bigger mess than you are... etc etc and more.
synopsis: your long-term crush, george weasley, asks you to the yule ball and suddenly every daydream you’ve ever had is finally a reality.
a/n: this is not good, bear with me as i rejuvenate my fanfic writing skills from when i was 13 ok
wc: 1.5k+
“ It’s feminine intuition, cuz I always had a vision of us standing like this. ”
The Great Hall is unusually quiet, filled with the sounds of quills scratching parchment and the silent suffering of students. With the Triwizard Tournament celebrations at their peak, and a ball just around the corner, the last thing the students of Hogwarts wish to be doing is studying.
You’re no different.
Under the long Gryffindor table, your leg shakes anxiously, eyes darting around your paper; completely unfocused.
Just across the table from you is the boy you’ve had an immense interest in since you boarded the train when you were younger. Ever since you had sat alone on the train ride to Hogwarts and the twins had joined you, keeping you from your lonesome habits.
Fred had socialized with nearly everyone who’d come within a meter of your compartment, but George had kept his eyes on you. He’d gone out of his way to include you, and you’d been smitten with him ever since. Over the years this feeling didn’t dwindle, even as you went separate ways.
Encouragement had come your way over the years, pushy friends who begged you to do something, but you never approached him. You opted for longing gazes across the Great Hall, long hours spent daydreaming, and unyielding passion in the form of your imagination.
“How would I even approach him?” You’d asked once, on a day where confidence decided to actually be on your side, for once.
“You’ll know when the time comes, take the opportunity when it shows up.” A confusing, unhelpful answer that was at the time, but you think you understand now.
You didn’t have a date to the Yule Ball, and George didn’t either, as far as you know. It was the perfect opportunity. You had spent countless nights envisioning a way to ask him, but your nerves struck down those ideas.
The sound of parchment hitting the table snapped you from your thoughts, glancing up as Ron opened a crumpled note from his brothers. You watched as the red-haired boys teased each other, until Fred turned his attention to another person. Angelina, otherwise known as a good friend of yours.
Fred shot a quick glance around the room, eyes searching for the professor's before poorly imitating dance moves towards Angelina, shooting her a wink. You, along with the girls near you, chucked softly, before Angelina sent him a quick thumbs-up.
Just like that, you thought, eyes trailing over to George. Maybe you could do this.
However, the moment you locked eyes with George, who was already looking in your direction, you snapped your eyes back down to your paper. A giddy feeling engulfed your body, heart pounding against your chest; was he really looking at you? It must’ve been your imagination.
Your quill trembled as you tried to shift your focus to your parchment, wanting to quickly leave.
But you could feel his eyes. Or, could you? Surely not.
A crumpled piece of parchment lands perfectly on your materials, smearing the ink of your previously written words. You froze the moment it landed before you, cautiously setting your quill aside and reaching out for the parchment.
You slowly unravel the crumpled paper, revealing a note:
Yule Ball?
— George
The opportunity had just dropped itself directly into your hands, yet, a sinking feeling filled your chest. With your heart in your throat, you trail your eyes over to George’s position, watching as he leans towards you with anticipation evident in his eyes. Fred’s looking at you too, and you know your friends are, so you give him a small smile and a gentle nod before returning to your paper.
Quiet celebration fills your ears and Angelina gives you a teasing nudge, but you can only manage a tight smile.
He probably only asked so he would have a date, you told yourself, fully convinced you were just a last minute decision.
With a hearty sigh, you pack up your materials and hurriedly exit the table, handing in your parchment to Professor Snape before rushing out of the Great Hall, your head down.
The time to the Yule Ball passed gruellingly slow, with only a few awkward words exchanged between you and George. No doubt made awkward by your sullen attitude, mind consumed by your insecurities.
The night had arrived with much anticipation, and sweat droplets beaded on your forehead as you struggled with your dress. It was snug in all the right places, but so snug that it took your breath away. The dormitory was full of gleeful chatter, girls helping each other with hair and makeup and sending heartfelt compliments towards one another.
Angelina came up to your side just as you finished putting on your heels, “You’re stunning, girl.” Her voice was so sweet, you couldn’t help but relax in that brief moment.
”Me? Look at yourself!” You answer cheerfully, joining her when she laughs softly, “Fred’s gonna go bloody mad when he sees you.”
She laughs louder at that comment, giving you one last compliment before she trails off to join another group of Gryffindor girls. With a lingering smile on your face and a quick glance to the time, you follow them out of the dormitory and join them in the corridor. It’s easy to slip into conversation with them as you journey towards the ball, easily guided by the decorated hallways and bustling crowds.
Immediately upon arrival, you can spot the fiery hair of the twins, and your mood instantly changes.
One side-step later, you’re hidden behind a wall, the downward staircase just one step away. Taking a few deep breaths, you barely notice Angelina standing before you,
“Y/n, come on! No need to be nervous!” She reaches out an offering hand, and you take it with a grateful smile, letting her drag you towards the stairs.
You keep your eyes down as you descend down the stairs, not knowing if your heart is strong enough to see George’s face. However, you don’t miss a stuttered gasp from one of the twins as you draw nearer. Angelina releases your hand to venture off with Fred, leaving you flustered and nervous before George.
As you shift your weight from one foot to another, swaying, you hear a muttered “Bloody hell.”
That makes your eyes snap up to his, wondering what possibly could have elicited that reaction from him. George’s face is burning red, blending in with his hair, and for once, his laidback confidence is replaced by something else, but you can’t quite place your finger on it.
Noticing your eyes on him, he quickly clears his throat and offers you his arm, “May I?”
You loop your arm through his with a shy smile, softly resting your arm against his and giving a soft nod. He returns your smile with a cheeky grin, confidence returning to his face, and leading you into the ball.
The music is slow, contrasting to the previous booming music that had students rowdy on the dancefloor. You and George had not joined the crowd yet, still seated at an empty table, shoulder brushing before you both jolted away.
You stare enviously as the couples wrap their arms around their partners, heads laid on shoulders, hands rested upon waists, and gazes staring into the eyes of their partner. You couldn't even look George in the eye.
You’d envisioned this moment so many times before; practiced your words in front of the mirror, listened intensely to advice, danced alone in your room so many times you’d had blisters.
You were a Gryffindor for Merlin’s sake, have some courage.
With that thought, you jump to your feet, a sudden surge of confidence overtaking your body. Turning to George, who looks unsurprisingly shocked, you clear your throat and hold out your hand, “Care.. care to dance?”
You curse at your stutter, but hold your facade of fake confidence as you await his answer. George rises to his feet, immediately towering over you, his warm hand taking yours, “It'd be my pleasure.”
You try not to look too happy as he leads you to the dance floor.
Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around his neck, but his hands are steady on your waist. You move in sync across the floor, weaving through couples and sending each other fleeting looks full of warmth and soft smiles filled with unspoken words.
As the night slows down, couples leaving for the night, you and George sway softly among the scattered group of people still upon the floor.
You recognize a look of nervousness upon George’s face as he speaks, “I want to be straight with you.”
Your heart drops. Is this the rejection you’d readily prepared yourself for during all these years?
”When I asked you to the ball, it was because I knew you’d say yes. You see, Angelina spilled your business to me and Fred during quidditch practice some time ago…” His voice is solemn as he speaks, something so unfamiliar coming from his mouth that you visibly flinch out of his hold, but he drags you back before you can leave him completely, his hand so firm on your waist you aren’t sure you’d even be able to leave, physically.
”But, I was wondering if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade together after all this is over?” His voice is shaky in a way that tells you this isn’t one of his infamous jokes, and finally, you start to believe that you’re not deluding yourself.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?” You laugh softly, resting your head on his shoulder in an unspoken answer. You feel as he physically deflates, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.
Joel Miller slept with you once and now he’s wondering if he just changed both your lives forever.
Contains: smut, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, unprotected sex, pregnancy, praise, multiple orgasms, body worship, dirty talk, slightly insecure Joel, breast play, riding, fluff, angst, nervous Joel, flirting, panic, one night stand, unspecified age gap
Wordcount: 7,249
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Joel tilted his glass a little, glaring at the bottom of it.
It had been his second glass, but he could hardly feel any effects of the alcohol, which wasn't unusual given his tall, broad figure. His high tolerance was a curse and a blessing at the same time, but right now, he wished he would feel a little more at ease. Especially because his little brother seemed to be on another planet, and his wild behavior was usually a lot more endurable with his head pleasantly buzzed.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Joel, do you see this chick over there?"
Seriously, what was wrong with his brother using such terms at his age? He was talking like some college freshman who had gone out for the very first time in his life.
"No, Tommy. And I'd rather not."
"Joel, she's basically undressin' you with 'er eyes." Tommy grabbed his shoulder, trying to get him to shift his attention toward her, but Joel just peeled his hand off.
"Well, I wouldn't really like that in this goddamn cold."
It was untrue that he despised any kind of interaction with beautiful women, specifically when he felt that he had sparked an interest in them, but he doubted that Tommy had a good eye for any of this. He was… difficult sometimes. After dating Maria for quite some time, then breaking up with her in a huge fight, followed by months of reunions and more fights that ended ugly, Joel wasn't so sure he was the one to turn to for advice. Even though he would obviously never tell Tommy that.
"Joel, she wants to fuck ya."
"Who are you even talkin' 'bout?"
Okay, now he was interested. Just a tad. Despite its recent growth and all the new refugees coming from the East, Jackson was still a small town, so people knew each other. Especially Joel, who had been living there for four years now.
"The pretty one."
"Jesus…" He drew a heavy breath through his nose as he finally wheeled around to see who his brother had been watching for the past minute.
Oh. He had expected a lot, but not the person his eyes now landed upon.
At first, he assumed that he was mistaken, and that Tommy was talking about one of the women at the table beside you, but no. His brother was very clearly watching you.
"Are you fuckin' serious? You think she's starin' at me?" Joel chuckled, reaching for his glass only to remember that it was empty. How pathetic.
"She is. And she almost looked like she was about to drool."
"Christ… Tommy, she's like – I don't know, 35. What would she want from me?"
"I told you, she – "
"Yeah, yeah…" Joel grunted and determinedly put his glass back on the counter, turning the idea of getting himself another round over in his mind.
"Well, I'm gonna go over to this other group now and introduce myself like a polite gentleman would do, and if I were you, I'd join so I could talk to that pretty woman and…"
At this point, Joel stopped listening to his brother and just gave a nod when Tommy excused himself to execute his plan and approach the group of ladies next to you.
Tommy was insane, Joel thought, scoffing to himself while the idea of refilling his drink became more and more appealing with every passing second. But then again, drinking with his brother was one thing, but sitting alone at the counter sipping beer while Tommy was off flirting with women was even more humiliating. No, he would have to find different ways to deal with the loud noises and indistinct chatter without the liquor. At least until he was sure that Tommy was either safely at his house or had gone home with one of the women he had just met.
"Hey."
Joel's head spun around quickly, his breath catching in his throat. Shit, his body was too old to move that quickly, he thought, pressing his hand against the side of his neck.
Only then did he realize whom he was facing. It was probably the last person he had expected to see right now, maybe except for his brother, who seemed to be only just getting started throwing around compliments and lighting up the women with his widest smile.
"Oh, hey, how are you?"
Joel wasn't a friendly or particularly charming man, but he tried his best for you. What were you even doing here, talking to an old grump like him? Well, no matter what the reason was, it didn't change anything about the fact that you were pretty, had a beautiful smile, and were flashing your eyes at him at that moment.
"Oh, I just spotted you across the room and thought that maybe you – I don't know, you'd like some company?"
So you had been watching him? His brother was right? Otherwise, you wouldn't have headed straight over to him the second Tommy had left him alone at the counter.
"Of course, always," Joel said, but cursed his rough voice that might have just told you to fuck off. Hell, he just wasn't well-liked amongst women, and there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn't a natural, he wasn't the kind of man women really liked to spend a great deal of time with. Waste their time, rather.
"Can I sit?" you asked sweetly and didn't even flinch at his gruff tone. You were definitely either immune to it or hoping to crack his shell the moment you began having a conversation with him. He genuinely didn't know which he would prefer to be true.
"How are you? I feel like I haven't seen you in town forever. Did you attend last week's town meeting?"
Joel shook his head, feeling grateful to be able to talk about something that wasn't just superficial small talk.
"No, I was really busy fixin' my brother's window that day. The storm, you know… The glass broke out of the frame, so I had to replace it."
"Wow, that's impressive… I could use your help sometime, I think."
"Oh yeah?" Joel scoffed, averting his gaze to hide his flushed cheeks. He just wasn't used to this, talking to beautiful women at the bar who seemed to have a genuine interest in hearing about his daily life. "With what?"
"I have some lights in the living room that don't work. It's not too bad because I have others that light up the place, but I'd like it fixed sometime."
"Yeah," Joel growled and nervously turned his glass in his hand, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Goddamnit, was this really all he was capable of? Saying yeah and staring at the floor like he'd rather be buried beneath the parquet than spend another second in your presence?
It wasn't even true, for that matter. Joel didn't mind talking with you, which was remarkable since he couldn't stand half of this town's population. And for fuck's sake, you were pretty. He just couldn't stop thinking about how. He had seen you many times before, of course, but had never paid attention to you in such a way.
"Your brother went over to talk to some of my friends over there."
Yeah, that was it. Now you were about to come up with a lame excuse for why you had to head back over there and throw yourself at Tommy's chest like everyone else did. Joel just wondered why you had even come over in the first place rather than just staying with your friends and his handsome brother, whose brassy laughter was soaring through the entire bar.
"Yeah… That's Tommy, mhm?" Whatever, perhaps it was time to go home, and it wasn't such a bad thing that you were about to leave him alone.
"I don't really get it. Without being mean, of course."
"Get what?" he murmured, narrowing his eyes and planting his palm flat on the wooden counter.
"Why they all wanna talk to him… I mean, I just think there is an even more appealing Miller brother."
His brain short-circuited, and for an instant he was speechless. There were no thoughts running through his head, but when he had finally caught up on what you had said, he wanted to laugh.
"What?" Joel chuckled and awkwardly shifted his weight onto his elbow, trying to seem casual with his cheek resting on his palm, but he assumed it just looked ridiculous and forced.
"I just… wanted to talk to you. That's all."
"Talk about what?"
Now it was you who laughed, throwing your head back, which looked incredibly endearing. "Nothing specific, Joel… Just you. I just felt like coming over to you."
Your words stole his breath again, only this time his heart rate picked up as well, causing an uncomfortable hollowness to swell in his chest. So all of it was true, you were here because it was where your heart had led you? Tommy had been right when he had claimed that you had been subtly watching him?
His mind hadn't fully processed everything when your lips were already moving again.
"Not that I have anything against your brother, of course… He's such a polite man. But I just – I saw you by the bar. And you looked… handsome."
"Handsome?" Joel repeated, his voice a low, raspy drawl. At this point, he didn't even take your words seriously anymore, as you were probably just too drunk to think before you spoke, which was the very reason for your mindless stammering.
He wasn't handsome, he was harsh and mean to the people around him, while the ones he didn't want around were treated coldly and without any interest in getting to know them better. Joel didn't know where to place you in that… Sure, you weren't someone he usually saw on a daily basis, but at the same time, he didn't mind having you around. Seeing you briefly in the grocery store or at a town meeting had the advantage that there wasn't much potential for you to piss him off. Most of the time, the two of you just exchanged a few words before everyone went on their way.
"Yeah, handsome. I like what you – did with your hair today."
Joel had no idea how he had ended up in that situation, but when he later looked back, he assumed that this sentence had been the reason for it all, that with those words, the seeds had been planted.
The conversation about hairstyles and clothing had led to one about favorite seasons of the year, and then, all of a sudden, you had asked if he wanted to catch some fresh air.
Of course, Joel had agreed, since a crowded, noisy bar was high up on the list of the most uncomfortable places for him. He had agreed so quickly that you had asked him why he had even come in the first place if he hated it so much, but Joel had just shrugged, mumbling something about his brother, who had the talent of always getting what he wanted. And tonight, he had wanted to go to the bar with him.
One thing had led to another, you had caused his cheeks to flush with more of those sweet compliments, and ten minutes later, Joel and you had entered his house, your back crashing into the wall the moment he had locked the door behind you.
Your mouths were pressed together so tightly he couldn't breathe, and he didn't care about it either. All he cared about was savoring as much of the feeling of your soft lips as possible and getting his fucking hands on you.
"Holy shit," he choked after a while, grabbing your wrists with both hands and pinning them above your head. He didn't even intend to restrain you or cage you in, he just genuinely liked tracing your soft wrists and your pretty skin.
"Joel," you panted, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him back, which made his head spin. You, desperately crying his name just because you desired him so much. You, stretching your body toward him just because you wanted to be closer to him. It was a beautiful dream, impossible to believe.
After accepting that his hands weren't so successful in their mission to remove more layers of clothing from your body — he kept getting distracted by every inch of skin he uncovered — Joel pulled back a little to guide you to his bedroom.
You gasped for air, your flushed cheeks dimpling with a mischievous smile as you took the hand he offered you. You followed him with light steps, the anticipation tangible in the way you held yourself and squeezed his hand, which made it hard to believe that you weren't drunk. You had promised him as much after all on the walk back to his house.
Still, he took the liberty of asking you again the moment he had guided you onto his bed, which practically invited the two of you to take advantage of it with its wide mattress and plush pillows.
"You promise you're not drunk?" he huffed while sliding your shirt over your head before he got sidetracked once again.
"I'm not. I promise." He hadn't tasted any alcohol on your tongue, he had to admit.
"Why, do you think I'm acting drunk?"
Joel scoffed and dropped your shirt on the ground next to the bed, struggling to keep his gaze on your face while he yearned for a glimpse of your torso. He wanted to be respectful, of course, and not make you feel like he only appreciated your looks and couldn't have cared less about the things coming out of your mouth.
"No, I'm just… I don't know, I'm wonderin' what you want with an old guy like me. You could have anybody you want, sweetheart."
Now it was you who chuckled, though something was also shimmering in your eyes that prompted him to nervously shift on top of you. Your gaze was intense, that was all. The fire in your eyes seemed to burn off the layers of his clothes, making him feel vulnerable, which was remarkable since you were the one half-undressed.
"Are you serious? Joel, you… Of course I want you. You think I would only want you if I were drunk? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"No, I mean…" He started, but then his voice trailed off as he realized that it was precisely what he had assumed. It just sounded a lot worse out of your mouth.
"Let me show you," you whispered and put your hand on the back of his neck, tugging him closer so that the words that followed could barely be heard, nothing but a breath between you.
"Let me show you how much I want you."
Joel grinned, coming off a lot more casual and natural than he viscerally felt.
"How?" he grunted, his lip twitching when you took his hand and brought it to rest on your lower belly.
"I want you to feel it… Can you do that? I want you to feel how wet I am for you."
His ears grew hot at your blunt words, his stomach coiling with a mix of anxiety about messing this up and a desperate urge to melt into you. Shit, he had an extraordinarily beautiful woman under him who was inviting him to touch her most intimate parts. He would never forgive himself if he messed this up.
"Yes," was all that he breathed.
You moved his hand to the waistband of your jeans, but the moment his fingers brushed against the cool metallic button, he took over and undid it himself.
Without yanking your jeans down your legs, Joel slipped his hand inside your pants. There was something enthralling and nerve-tingling about leaving your lower half dressed while he touched you, and he might get a proper look at you later. If you let him, and if he hadn't done something wrong by that point.
"You look pretty," Joel murmured, just to fill the silence surrounding the two of you. He wasn't sure if you minded the quietness, if he was doing both of you a favor by speaking, since your expression was unreadable. Actually, it wasn't entirely unreadable, there was still sweet longing etched into your features, but Joel supposed that this was just your standard look for tonight.
"Thank you," you murmured, batting your lashes and opening your thighs wider for him, allowing him to settle between them.
His hand was now nicely sheathed between your jeans and your underwear. He had to twist his wrist a little to move freely, but he liked your warmth and how your pussy seemed to have a magnetic effect on him. He wished he could touch your bare skin, maybe even slide a finger inside, but you hadn't asked him explicitly yet, so he —
"Joel…" you whimpered, which came so suddenly he twitched slightly. "Please… Please, touch me."
God, you seemed on the brink of begging him, which wasn't at all what he had expected. The sight of the sheer hunger in your eyes, how you chewed on your bottom lip as though it would quench your needs, was both terrifying and heart-warming. Terrifying because Joel felt a little overwhelmed by your undisguised desire, and heart-warming because it was simply an endearing sight.
"Like that?" he whispered and pressed the heel of his hand against your clit, or at least he assumed he was pressing against the right spot beneath the fabric.
When your breath hitched and your muscles tensed, his suspicions were confirmed, and his shoulders eased a little.
It wasn't like he was completely talentless when it came to the art of making love, it was just that he was a bit rusty. Here in Jackson, Joel didn't have a recurring partner to have sex with, which was why he was afraid the things he had learned over the course of his life were slipping out of his head the older he got.
Someone like you, though, someone who was many years younger than him and surely had a lot of sex, given that you were so beautiful and charming, definitely knew what you wanted. So what if he just wasn't competent enough to compare with those other men and please you?
"Joel?" you whispered, clearly aware that his mind had drifted off again.
Your warm hand rested on his cheek, your thumb drawing a few vague circles over his skin.
"It's okay. It feels good. Very - fucking good."
Your voice was breathy, lips parted as you forced large amounts of air into your lungs. Which was a good sign, right?
"You like that?"
"Yes, Joel, fuck... I like it - so much. Please."
The corner of his mouth instinctively curled. He liked hearing you beg. A lot. Besides its obvious effects, it also made him more secure in his own skills and caused his hand to rock against your core with more force.
After a few more minutes, he couldn't wait any longer and pushed your underwear to the side to gain access to your hole, which was hopefully dripping for him by now.
"Is that okay?" he panted against your lips, the sweat pooling on his brow most likely trickling onto your head at that moment, but it was better not to think about it and perhaps become self-conscious. Instead, he focused on your sweet whisper and your swollen lips.
"Yes, Joel. Please, just—put them inside. Please."
It was all the assurance he needed to remove the damp fabric and let his fingertips circle your hole. He hoped they were warm enough to feel pleasant, but sensing no hint of startlement from you, he was confident you didn't mind.
Goddamnit, you were soaked. He had hoped to find some wetness, prayed that there was enough to comply with your request and push his fingers inside you, but he hadn't dared imagine your juices running down your legs like that.
"Do you believe me now?" you laughed, burying your hand in his locks and yanking his face against yours, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss.
"I... Yeah. Yeah, you... fuck, you're wet, baby."
Joel dipped his fingers in a little deeper but moved his thumb to your clit to keep up the friction that had evoked so much pleasure within you in the first place.
"It's all for you, Joel... 'Cause I want you. I want to feel you so bad."
Your words, in combination with how you felt, how your pussy sucked him in greedily yet so effortlessly, drove him near insanity. Joel's head was spinning like he had just gotten off a roller coaster and the earth beneath his feet had yet to stop tilting. It was a tad unsettling, still, he wouldn't trade the feeling for the world. It was too precious, you were too precious, for him to take a second to calm himself.
"Ohhh fuck. Yes, Joel, please, I—yes, like that."
He was working his middle and ring fingers inside you, thinking that you were relaxed and wet enough to take two at once. The idea of you being so comfortable with him that you opened up for him just like that was filling his heart with pride, even though he knew that he shouldn't get too presumptuous about it. You were just confident and experienced, that was all. There was no reason for you to get nervous with him, because it was just him. Just a slightly insecure, awkward old man who didn't really have a clue what he was doing.
"Feels good, Joel," you whimpered and rolled your hips forward, inviting him to start moving.
Which he did gladly. At first, he thrust them in and out of you slowly, occasionally going knuckle-deep while other times just feeling how beautifully you stretched around him.
But after becoming certain that you had accommodated the size of two of his fingers, he allowed himself to match the pace of his digits with the tight swirls over your stiff bundle of nerves, which he didn't forget no matter how tight and warm you felt around him. How much he wished he could experience it with his cock as well.
"Oh my god," you cried out, arching off his bed and digging your toes into the mattress.
He loved how your entire body responded to him, not just your hot, pulsing pussy. He wished he could tell you that, but he didn't know how without coming off as strange. Was that a normal thing to say during sex? Would your pretty smile broaden, or would your eyebrows draw together? Or would you show no reaction at all but internally question whether it had been a good idea to go home with him?
"Joel. Joel, I—I'm gonna cum," you informed him, causing his stomach to flip.
He couldn't help it, the idea of bringing you to the edge so quickly made his chest flare with pride and excitement, filling his veins with adrenaline.
"That's it, baby," he whispered in your ear, driving his fingers all the way out of you, which produced a squelching sound. The moment you began whining for his fingers to stuff you full, he worked them back inside you. All the way, until his knuckles were inside you. He curled them a little, hitting your spongy, sensitive walls and using your natural wetness to smoothly glide his pads along your insides.
This was downright obscene, and doing something like that with a woman he hadn't exchanged more than a few words with in the past made it feel even more brazen. Though in a good way, if that made sense.
"I'm gonna cum," you pressed out, cheeks turning red while you moved your left hand to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt firmly.
"I know, sweetheart. I know you are. It's okay, you can cum any time you want."
It took him another minute of circling your little nub and keeping you full of his fingers before you unraveled for him. The sight was the most intoxicating and gorgeous thing he could imagine. Your head was thrown back, eyes pinched shut, and mouth open while throaty moans spilled from your throat. Since you couldn't see him, Joel felt nearly intrusive for regarding you in your most vulnerable state, but he couldn't look away either.
"Ohhhh fuck. Huh. Joel, fuck."
Your hands fell away from him and instead came to rest next to you on the bed.
You looked so exhausted and weak, he considered rolling off you to give you some room to breathe and restore your strength, but he didn't dare do so when you slung your legs around his hips.
"Shit, that was good," you grinned and looked up at him through your lashes, both tiredness and devilment glinting in your eyes.
"Yeah? You liked it?" he growled casually, trying to make his voice sound as carefree as possible.
"Yes. Of course. I don't think I've ever come so quickly while being with a man."
"Oh, you... you like women too?"
You burst into laughter at once, which made his brow furrow in confusion.
"No, I meant I've never come so quickly except when I do it myself. And when I have to be fast, you know? Not that there's anything wrong with liking women."
Shit, he really did turn into an idiot the second he got close to a beautiful woman.
"Oh, yeah... I get it now."
"Joel?"
The tender skin of your hand traced his patchy beard, seemingly not minding the stiffness and sharpness of the little hairs.
"Yeah?"
"I wanna do something for you now."
"Oh, you—you don't have to, sweetheart. You really don't."
You narrowed your eyes at that, licking your bottom lip.
"But I want to. Will you let me ride you?"
Despite feeling a rush of arousal go through him and head straight to his core, he was slightly taken aback by your words. Not that he doubted in any way that you were capable of doing it, it was just that no woman had ever asked him that question so bluntly.
"Yeah, sure..."
Joel grinned wryly and trailed his thumb along your cheekbone, wondering how it was possible to look so breathtaking and adorable at the same time. Your hair was a little messed up, your face blotchy after your high, but that didn't decrease his lust for you in the slightest. No, it only added to it, if anything.
Within seconds, you had climbed on top of him, straddling his clothed thigh while Joel slowly placed his hands on your waist as if to gauge where to touch you best.
You took your lip between your teeth, the grin you were wearing making your whole face gleam.
Then, you reached behind you and unclasped your bra with a seductive sheen in your eyes. His mouth dried at the sight of your bare chest. Instinctively, his fingers jolted upward, which didn't seem to escape your notice.
"You can touch me, Joel."
While he ran his index finger along the underside of your breast, careful at first as though he were afraid you would break under his hands, you took care of your pants and underwear, then of Joel's clothes. He helped you by lifting his hips and sliding his arms out of the sleeves of his shirt, but for the most part, he only paid attention to your body and your protruding nipples, which were a sight for sore eyes, hardening under his touch.
At times, you squealed or jerked when he twisted your nipples, which filled him with anticipation and made his skin prickle. Faster than he could process, the two of you were naked, except for your socks, but neither of you had the patience to remove another piece of clothing, which was why your eyes went straight to his cock.
Joel maybe would have felt embarrassed about being so eager for you if he hadn't touched your soaked pussy a moment ago. He was rock hard, the tip swollen and red, which caused a flicker of pity to appear in your eyes.
"It's so pretty," you commented, wetting your dry lips with your tongue.
"Yeah? You think so, baby?"
Joel splayed his left hand across the small of your back, yanking you closer. You reached for his member, forming a fist around his shaft, which was answer enough.
"It's gonna feel so good," you panted and slid your hand up and down a couple of times, hot blood pulsating through his veins at the stimulation.
"You wanna put it inside, darlin'?" Joel groaned, feeling the remnants of his nervousness disintegrate as greed consumed him. There was no space for it anymore, his thoughts were replaced by his craving to feel your pussy hugging his pulsing member. It would feel so good, he just knew it.
He could only hope that he wasn't going to burst the second you sank down on him, that he would be able to hold back for a few minutes, which would hopefully give you the time to take from him what you needed to slake your own longing before he spilled his cum inside you like a pathetic teenage boy.
"Yes," you hummed and tilted his dick a little, lifting your hips to properly climb on top of him.
It took you two attempts to work the head of his cock inside, as the slippery mess between your legs caused the tip to slip aside at first, but then the two of you moaned in unison, feeling your walls give way.
You were tight, but not so tight that he anticipated any discomfort from your side while he reached deeper inside you. Besides, you were still the one in charge and could stop any time you needed a break to get used to him.
But holy shit, it didn't seem like you wanted anything like that. You just glided down on him as though the most hidden and secretive corners of your pussy were begging to be filled by him, and you didn't have the patience to wait a second longer than necessary.
"Oh my fuckin'..." Joel growled, throwing his head back, his lids falling shut, but then they opened again when he felt you kiss his neck.
"Baby. You feel goddamn good, you know that?"
You whimpered softly but didn't let go of his skin. No, you were clinging to his body like a monkey, your hands squeezing his bicep with every other inch you took of him.
"Ohh god. Oh shit."
You rolled your hips a tad, allowing him to claim yet a little more of your body until he hit your cervix, and you ground your teeth.
"Don't hurt yourself, baby," Joel grunted, one of his hands landing on the back of your head while the other rested on your hipbone, guiding you into him without urging you to pick up your pace.
"I just—Feels really good. You're so deep, Joel."
"I know I am," he hummed, glaring down at your head, which was still pressed against his collarbone. He couldn't see a lot, though, as sparks were flickering in his vision, drowning everything in a hazy, blazing bubble.
"You like that, sweetheart? You feel good?" Joel asked and moved a hand to your breasts again, which bounced wonderfully under the steady rhythm you had set for yourself.
"Yes, Joel..." you murmured, almost in awe of his girthy length inside you.
Your eyes were round and glossy, making you look like you were on some other planet or perhaps just encapsulated by his cock, stuffing you full with every thrust.
"You feel perfect," Joel grunted and weighed the flesh of your breast in his hand before he suddenly dropped it between your thighs, finding your hardened clit in no time.
You flinched slightly at the first touch, but after a few gentle swipes, it seemed to start feeling good again. Your motions became a little more uneven, sometimes you stopped about halfway above his cock when he pinched your clit just right, but Joel didn't mind it at all. No, he devoured every single image like a dry sponge, rewarding you with little kisses on top of your brow.
"I ain't gonna last long," he muttered in your ear after a while, his thick Southern accent even more distinct now than it always was when he felt strong emotions. "Sorry, sweetheart... You just—you feel very fuckin' good. I'm—God, baby, I... You're so warm..."
You raised your head from his chest at that, planting both hands on his shoulders to have better support while you rocked back and forth. He didn't know what exactly your technique was, didn't know how you did it, but the sensation was a totally new and spectacular one.
"Holy fuckin'..." he grunted, squeezing the flesh of your waist so tightly that the skin turned white.
A split second later, Joel's world collapsed. His body released the tension it had been holding, and he spurted his creamy seed within your wet pussy.
"Fuck..." was all he felt capable of muttering, shoulders slackened and eyes pinched shut.
Everything went still for the moment, the noises gushing from outside his house, the creaking bed, and even his own thoughts. He even forgot all about his guilty conscience for cumming before you instead of waiting like a gentleman.
Then, his high abated slowly, and he felt capable enough to raise his regretful gaze to face you.
"I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart," Joel whispered in your ear, feeling his sticky cum pushed deep inside your pussy by his dick, which was still buried all the way inside you.
Although you just gave him a smile and assured him that you were perfectly satisfied with what you had received from him, Joel insisted on making you cum a second time, which you didn't mind in the slightest.
Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth and curling your toes in excitement, you spent another fifteen minutes on your back, legs spread wide and lids fluttering while Joel used both his tongue and fingers on you until you saw white.
He licked you through your high, kept his tongue attached to your clit, and when you neither flinched away nor told him to stop after your apex, he just kept going, feeling addicted to your juices.
Your orgasm was followed by another, but after that, you weakly cradled his head and pulled him up to you.
That night, both of you had a restful sleep.
You dozed off the moment Joel had crawled up and spread the blanket over you, and he joined you in your dreamscape shortly afterward. He was even too tired to clean up the mess the two of you had made, thinking that he would have all the time in the world to do it the following day.
With a heavy groan, Joel shoved the cupboard against the wall, dropping his hands to his hips.
"That's it, ain't it?"
His brother pursed his lips and eyed the corner of the room, then the rest of it.
"Yeah. Looks right, mhm? We did a good job 'ere. Thank you, Joel."
He gave a small nod and let his gaze wander over the freshly painted but dried walls of the room with a satisfied hum. The creamy white reflected the light much better than the dark grey had, which had been one of the main reasons why Tommy's wife, Maria, had asked the brothers to repaint the garage of their house.
Now everything looked much friendlier, Joel had to admit, even though he had been the one to raise his eyebrows in doubt when Tommy had brought the idea forward to him. After all, there were many more important things to tend to than the color of their garage.
But whatever, the job was quickly done, and if it made his sister-in-law happy, he would sacrifice a few hours of his free time to help them out.
For once, Tommy and her were doing well in their marriage, and their fighting had been reduced to things around the house, which Joel considered a good sign.
Besides, it looked like he was about to get rewarded with a cold beer in Tommy's garden, which was precisely what his sweaty body was craving right now.
A moment later, Joel was sitting with him on the terrace. The sun stood low in the sky, warm enough to tingle pleasantly on his neck but not as pungent and aggressive as it had been a few hours prior.
"Cheers, brother," Tommy grinned and clinked his glass against his. "Thanks again. Maria really appreciates it. She even thinks about invitin' you to 'er birthday next month."
"Very funny," Joel scoffed but nodded anyway. "No problem. If I get rewarded so generously..."
He tilted his head toward the glass filled with beer that had come straight out of the refrigerator and tasted cold against his tongue, filling his body with the refreshment he had been missing over the past hours.
"You're welcome. This is precious stuff, so you know we really appreciate it."
"How's your 'lil guy?" Joel asked after a while, looking around the garden as though he was expecting his nephew to jump out from behind a tree any minute.
"Oh, he's doin' well. He's visitin' a friend right now. But I swear to God, they grow so fast, you can't even keep track. He's learnin' how to read, Joel. I feel like it was yesterday that Maria and I took him home from the hospital."
Although everything about his words sounded very cliché to Joel, he had no doubt about their authenticity. He felt the same way, really. Watching Benjamin grow up had been one of the strangest and most beautiful experiences of his life, and it reminded him strongly of raising Sarah all those years ago.
"Speakin' of children, you know what Maria told me today?"
Joel took another swig of his beer, then set his glass back on the table.
"Shoot."
"So, you remember y/n? The girl from the bar?"
Joel's breath caught in his throat at the mention of your name, and he just hoped that the warmth creeping into his cheeks didn't show on his face.
"Yeah," he answered and subtly avoided Tommy's gaze.
There was nothing to be embarrassed about, it was just that Joel had never told his brother that he had hooked up with you four months ago. Sure, he hadn't been able to avoid talking to him about you the following day, but he had left out the part where he had taken you home and slept with you.
He didn't really know why he had lied, though. Tommy was surely the last person who would judge him for having a one-night stand.
"People are talkin' 'round the town."
"About what? I haven't heard anythin'."
"Of course you haven't," Tommy snickered and patted him on the back. "'Cause you live behind a rock."
"What are they sayin'?" Joel rolled his eyes and felt his heart pound in his chest a little faster than usual. Just because he hadn't seen you again after that one night—except for the occasional, inevitable run-in at the grocery store that had been limited to a friendly greeting—didn't mean he didn't care about you.
"They're sayin' she's pregnant."
Oh.
Joel's stomach twisted, his skin turning pale. Obviously, he wasn't looking in a mirror that could have confirmed his suspicions, but he just knew that it was the truth.
"Pregnant?" he repeated, eyebrows shooting up to portray indifference.
"Yeah..."
"Who's sayin' that?"
"Well, Maria told me. She talked to some of 'er friends, and apparently Nicole saw 'er with a baby bump. And then she talked to some of her friends who told 'er that, yeah, she's pregnant."
"How far along?" it burst out of him before he could stop himself and reconsider showing such intense emotion in front of Tommy.
"Jesus... I'm not sure. What, are you mad at it? Do you like 'er? I thought you weren't so interested after your conversation at the bar."
"No, I... I mean, no. I'm not interested. I just... I don't know—"
"So, her friend didn't say how far along she is, but Nicole said she assumed around fourth or fifth month."
Jesus fucking Christ.
There was a good chance Joel had messed up badly. Of course, that chance wasn't a hundred percent, but if Nicole was right about her assumption and if you hadn't been with anyone else shortly after him and before him, there was... No, he didn't even want to finish the thought for now. First, he needed a few more pieces of information.
"And she said anything about whose child it is? Does she have a boyfriend?"
Obviously, Joel knew that you didn't have one. Against his own will and what he deemed the right thing to do, he had silently watched you a little, just a tad more closely than the other residents of Jackson. He had kept his ears open when walking down the streets and had automatically scanned you when he saw you at town meetings. If there was a boyfriend, you would have surely sat next to him at one of those events, but you were always just accompanied by your friends.
"I don't know. But I haven't heard anything... Have you? Why am I even asking..."
Joel joined his laughter just to conceal his nervousness.
Holy shit.
What if he had really gotten himself into some trouble because of his careless actions?
When he was home an hour later, Joel still felt anxious even though his body was supposed to feel more normal at this point. He sank into the couch cushions, all the air leaving his body as he exhaled.
Well, if that wasn't something.
He didn't want to feel certain that he was responsible for this and that it was his kid before talking to you, but Joel didn't really doubt his involvement in it. He had come inside you, after all, acting stupid and risky like a reckless teenage boy.
Talking to you, yes... If that wasn't long overdue.
He needed to know if it was his child, and if it was, why you hadn't come to him earlier for help. He needed to know if there was any way to help you and if you had any plan or wish whatsoever regarding the future.
Joel nervously tapped his fingers on his thigh.
It had gotten late.
The sun was setting, and the sky was painted in rich orange colors. The wisest thing to do was to wait until the next day to approach this issue with a clear head and a relaxed body, and still, Joel rose to his feet at once.
He didn't even hesitate when he grabbed his keys and dashed out the door.
summary: You grew up knowing the church as a place of rules, not refuge. As Jefferson Wicks’ niece, you learned early how to sit still, keep quiet, and survive under watchful eyes. When a new priest arrives in Chimney Rock—one who notices too much and speaks too carefully—you expect him to become just another fixture of a building that never protected you. Instead, you learn that sanctuary isn’t always found where it’s promised.
Pls can i have a thin crust pizza with pepperoni and veggies, kinda like your last fic were he over hears reader saying she’d marry him during f marry k, maybe all the girls are fussing over Judith and cooing over her and Carol asks if you had to a baby with someone they know who would it be any Reader obviously says Daryl given her fat ass crush.
The prison cell block had gone quiet in that rare, fragile way it sometimes did between walker alerts and supply runs. Sunlight slanted through the high barred windows in dusty golden shafts, catching on the specks in the air and warming the patch of concrete where you’d all spread out an old blanket. Judith was the center of it — the tiny, beating heart of whatever this place had become.
She was in the dress Rick had brought back three days ago. Soft pink cotton with little white polka dots and a ruffled hem that barely covered her chunky thighs. It was absurdly, heartbreakingly sweet against the gray walls and the ever-present smell of concrete and death. Rick had looked almost embarrassed when he handed it over, muttering something about “saw it and figured…” before disappearing again. But Judith didn’t care about the world outside. She was currently on her back, kicking one leg like she was trying to launch herself into orbit, the dress riding up to show her soft belly. Every so often she’d let out a bright, gurgling coo that made all four of you melt in unison.
“Look at those cheeks,” Beth sighed, leaning over to brush a finger along Judith’s face. The baby immediately grabbed it with surprising strength, shoving it toward her mouth. “She’s getting so big. This dress actually fits her now.”
Maggie snorted softly from where she sat cross-legged, one hand absently rubbing her own stomach like she was already imagining the day her own kid would be here. “Rick’s gonna have to go on another run just for bigger sizes. She’s gonna outgrow everything in a week at this rate.”
You were sitting with Judith half in your lap, one arm looped under her back so she could look up at you. She reached for the collar of your shirt, tiny fingers curling and uncurling, and you felt that familiar ache in your chest — the one that always came when you held her. She smelled like the weak soap you all shared and something sweeter underneath— pure baby. Her eyes were wide and dark, tracking your face like you were the most interesting thing in the universe.
Carol watched from a few feet away, folding a stack of towels with practiced efficiency, but her eyes kept drifting back to the baby. There was a softness in her face that only ever showed up around Judith these days.
“She’s got that look,” Carol said after a minute, voice low and warm. “The one that says she knows she’s got all of us wrapped around her finger.”
You laughed quietly, bouncing Judith a little when she started to fuss. “Can you blame her? Look at this face. She’s perfect.”
Judith chose that exact moment to blow a spit bubble and kick both legs at once, the pink dress fluttering. All four of you made embarrassing cooing noises at the same time. It was stupid and soft and the closest thing to normal any of you had felt in months.
The conversation drifted the way it always did when the four of you got like this — soft, half-whispered, careful not to wake the baby or draw attention from the men on watch. Talk of how fast Judith was growing, how she needed more clothes, how the group was holding together better than anyone expected. Then Carol’s voice cut through, casual but pointed in that way only Carol could manage.
“Alright. Honest question.” She set the last towel down and looked straight at you, one eyebrow raised. “If you had to have a baby with anyone here… who would it be?”
The words landed like a stone in still water. Beth’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Maggie’s mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. You froze with Judith’s tiny hand still wrapped around your finger.
Your brain short-circuited.
You didn’t think. You didn’t weigh options or try to be diplomatic. The answer was already there, had been there since the quarry outside Atlanta, since the first time you’d watched Daryl Dixon melt into the trees with that crossbow and come back with dinner when everyone else was starving.
“Daryl.”
It came out soft but certain. The second it left your mouth you felt heat flood your face, but there was no taking it back. Judith made a happy little noise and patted your cheek like she approved.
Carol’s eyebrows climbed higher. Beth let out a tiny, delighted squeak. Maggie actually laughed under her breath.
“Daryl Dixon,” Carol repeated, slow and amused. “Didn’t expect you to say that out loud.”
You could’ve stopped there. Should’ve. But once the dam broke, everything you’d been holding in for months came spilling out in a rush of whispered words while you kept your eyes on Judith’s face so you wouldn’t have to see their reactions.
“I know it sounds crazy,” you said, voice low and a little breathless. “But it’s him. It’s been him since Atlanta. He’s just… he’s so steady. Doesn’t say much, but when he does it matters. And the way he looks out for everyone — for Judith — without ever asking for anything back. I’ve seen him with her when he thinks no one’s watching. He gets this look on his face like he’d burn the whole world down before he let anything happen to her. He’d be the same with his own kid. The kind of man who’d teach them how to survive and still make them feel safe.”
Your thumb stroked over Judith’s soft knuckles. The words kept coming, quieter now, more honest.
“And there’s… more than that. The way he moves. Those arms, those hands… God, his hands. I think about what it would be like if he ever looked at me like how I look at him. If he ever decided I was his to take care of. To claim.” Your voice dipped even lower, almost embarrassed by how much you were giving away. “I’d want it to be him. I’d want him to be the one. If I had to build something real in all this mess… it’d be with Daryl. He makes me feel like maybe we could actually have a future. Even here.”
You laughed softly, self-conscious, and pressed a kiss to the top of Judith’s head to hide your burning face. “Sorry. That was a lot. I just… yeah. Daryl.”
Beth was smiling so wide it looked like it hurt. Maggie looked like she was storing every word away to tease you with later. Carol just watched you with that knowing, almost maternal expression she got sometimes.
None of you noticed the shadow that had gone still just outside the open doorway.
Daryl had been coming back from checking the outer fence line, crossbow slung over one shoulder, boots quiet on the concrete. He’d heard your voice first — soft, warm, the way it always got when you were with the baby — and something in his chest had pulled tight the way it always did around you. He’d meant to keep walking. Meant to grab water and disappear back to his perch on the walkway like he usually did.
Then he heard his name.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The crossbow strap dug into his shoulder as his grip tightened. He stayed just out of sight, shoulder against the cold wall, and listened while you kept talking. Every word sank into him like a hook.
You wanted him.
You’d been thinking about him since Atlanta — the same way he’d been thinking about you. The same way he watched you when you weren’t looking, the way his eyes tracked the line of your throat when you laughed, the way his cock stirred when you bent over to pick something up or when you held Judith and he let himself imagine, just for a second, what you’d look like carrying his.
And now you were saying it out loud. Saying you’d want his baby. That you’d want him to claim you. That you trusted him to be the one.
Daryl’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Heat flooded low in his gut, thick and immediate. His cock twitched against the front of his pants, thickening fast at the mental image of you round and glowing with his kid, of getting you that way — spreading you out somewhere private, holding you down with those rough hands you’d just been talking about, fucking you deep and hard until you took every drop. He could almost hear the sounds you’d make. Could almost taste the salt of your skin under his mouth, feel the way you’d shake when he bit down just hard enough to leave marks.
He shifted his weight, trying to ease the sudden ache, but it didn’t help. His breathing had gone rough and quiet. One hand flexed at his side like he was already reaching for you.
You still didn’t know he was there.
You were still sitting on that blanket with Judith in your arms, cheeks pink, voice soft and honest while the other women teased you gently. Oblivious to the way Daryl Dixon was standing ten feet away, heart hammering like he’d just sprinted through a herd, cock hard and mind spinning with the sudden, feral certainty that he wasn’t going to be able to keep pretending he didn’t want you anymore.
Not after hearing that.
Not after knowing you wanted him back.
He stayed in the shadows a second longer, listening to the sound of your laugh mixing with Judith’s happy coos, and felt something dangerous and possessive settle deep in his chest.
You were his.
You just didn’t know it yet.
The nap didn’t come easy.
You’d excused yourself from the others with a quiet “I’ve got tower duty tonight—need to get some sleep while I can,” and Carol had given you that look again, the one that said she knew exactly why your cheeks were still pink. Beth had smothered a smile. Maggie had just smirked and told you to “get some rest… or don’t.” You’d rolled your eyes and slipped away before they could tease you more.
Your cell was dim, the thin mattress and threadbare blanket waiting. But when you pulled the blanket back, your breath caught.
A single wildflower lay on your pillow.
Small. Delicate. Purple petals, a little crushed at the edges like it had been carried carefully in a big, rough hand. No note. No explanation. Just the flower, soft and out of place against the gray concrete and faded sheets. You knew instantly who’d left it. The same man whose name had fallen out of your mouth hours earlier without permission.
Your fingers trembled as you picked it up. It smelled faintly of earth and the woods outside the fences—him. You pressed it gently between the pages of the old paperback you kept hidden under the mattress, heart hammering so hard you were sure someone would hear it. Then you lay down, the ghost of that flower still on your pillow, and tried to sleep.
It didn’t work.
Every time you closed your eyes you saw Daryl’s face—the way he moved, the quiet intensity in his eyes. Your body felt too warm under the blanket. You shifted restlessly, thighs pressing together as your mind supplied images you had no business thinking about on a prison mattress— Daryl’s hands on you, his low voice in your ear, the weight of him pinning you down while he made good on the thing you’d blurted out loud.
You didn’t touch yourself. Not fully. Just let your fingers drift once, twice, over the waistband of your pants before you yanked them back like you’d been burned. Not here. Not now. Not when you had to be sharp for watch.
Eventually exhaustion won. You drifted into a thin, restless sleep.
Rick woke you with a gentle shake to your shoulder. “Hey. Tower’s yours. Sun’s down. Don’t fall asleep up there.”
You blinked up at him, nodded, and sat up. The flower was still safe between the pages of your book. You touched the cover once like a talisman before you geared up—knife at your hip, pistol holstered—and headed for the stairs.
The guard tower was cold at night. Metal and concrete and open air. You climbed up, settled into the chair with the binoculars, and scanned the fences. The prison below was dark and quiet. Most everyone was asleep or on minimal watch. The only sounds were the distant, occasional groan of a walker and the wind moving through the trees beyond the perimeter. You pulled your jacket tighter and let your mind wander back to the flower. To him.
You didn’t hear him come up.
Daryl was good at being quiet.
One second you were alone, the next the door at the top of the stairs creaked open and shut with a soft click. You spun, hand going to your knife on instinct—then froze when you saw him.
He stood there in the low moonlight, crossbow slung across his back, vest open over his chest, that same intense blue stare fixed on you like he’d been thinking about this moment all day. The air in the tower changed instantly. Thicker. Charged.
Neither of you spoke.
Then his voice came, low and rough, barely above a whisper so it wouldn’t carry.
“Heard what y' said earlier.”
Your stomach flipped. Heat flooded your face—and lower.
“Daryl—”
“About wantin’ a baby with me.” He stepped closer. The tower was small. Two steps and he was right in front of you, close enough that you could smell leather and smoke and the blood on him. “Said it without even thinkin’. Said you’d been thinkin’ 'bout me since Atlanta. That I’d be the one you’d trust with that.”
You swallowed hard. Your back hit the edge of the console behind you. There was nowhere to go.
He didn’t look away. “Left that flower on yer pillow. Figured you’d know it was me.”
“I knew,” you whispered.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the way your jacket had fallen open. When he spoke again his voice had gone even rougher.
“Been hard all fuckin’ day thinkin’ about it. You. Sayin’ my name like that in front of them. Tellin’ ‘em you wanted me to put a kid in ya.” One big hand came up, calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, then lingering at the side of your neck. “That what you want, girl?”
The question hung between you like a live wire.
You nodded before you could stop yourself. “Yeah. I—I meant it.”
Something dark and satisfied flickered across his face. Then he was on you.
The kiss was nothing like the soft ones in stories. It was hungry. Possessive. His mouth claimed yours like he’d been waiting months for permission, tongue sliding deep, teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You gasped into it and he swallowed the sound, one arm banding around your waist and hauling you flush against him. You felt how hard he was already, thick and insistent against your hip.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Y' got no idea what hearin’ that did to me.”
His hands were everywhere—rough palms sliding under your shirt, calluses dragging over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You arched into the touch with a soft sound you couldn’t quite bite back. He kissed down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point like he wanted to bite down and mark you right there where anyone could see tomorrow.
“Y' said I’d be good at it,” he rasped, voice low and filthy against your skin. “Said I’d protect what’s mine. That you’d want me claimin’ ya. Fillin’ ya up.” One hand slid lower, popping the button on your pants with practiced ease, fingers slipping inside to find you already wet and aching. He groaned when he felt it. “Jesus, girl. You’re soaked. Been thinkin’ about this too, huh?”
You nodded frantically, hips rocking into his hand as he stroked you—slow at first, then firmer, two fingers sliding through your slick and circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees weak.
“Daryl—fuck—someone could—”
“Ain’t nobody comin’ up here,” he growled, nipping at your collarbone. “Told ‘em I was checkin’ the south fence. We got time.” His fingers pushed inside you, thick and relentless, curling just right. “And I ain’t leavin’ this tower till I hear y' come on my hand thinkin’ about me puttin’ a baby in ya.”
The words punched the air out of your lungs. You clenched around his fingers, a broken moan slipping out before you could stop it. He kissed you hard again to muffle it, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with his hand between your legs.
It didn’t take long.
You were already wound too tight—from the flower, from the nap you didn’t really sleep through, from months of wanting him in silence. His thumb worked your clit while his fingers thrust deep, and when he growled low in your ear, “Come f' me. Let me feel it,” you shattered.
Your orgasm hit hard, thighs shaking, face buried in his neck to keep quiet as you pulsed around his fingers. He worked you through it, murmuring rough praise—“That’s it, good girl, fuck, yer squeezin’ me so tight”—until you were limp and panting against him.
He didn’t pull away.
Instead he kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense, and when he finally eased his fingers out he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean while holding your gaze. The sight made your spent body clench again.
Daryl’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. His cock was still hard against you, straining against his pants.
“This ain’t done,” he said, voice gravel and promise. “Not by a long shot. But I ain’t fuckin’ y' for the first time in a goddamn tower where I can’t take my time.” His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. “Yer mine now. Ya hear me? That shit y' said… it settled somethin’. Y' want my kid? I’ll give it to you. When I’m ready. When I can lay you out proper and make sure it takes.”
He kissed you once more—slow, deep, like a seal—then stepped back just enough to let you breathe. His hand lingered at your waist, possessive.
“Get through yer shift. I’ll come find ya after. We’ll talk.” His mouth curved in something that was almost a smirk but darker.
Then he was gone—silent down the stairs like he’d never been there, leaving you flushed and trembling and aching in the cold night air of the tower, the taste of him still on your tongue and the ghost of his fingers between your legs.
Below, the prison stayed quiet.
But nothing felt quiet inside you anymore.
The morning light in the prison was thin and gray, filtering through the high windows. You’d made it through the rest of your tower shift in a fog—eyes gritty, body heavy, mind looping the same reel over and over— Daryl’s fingers inside you, his voice in your ear, the filthy-soft promise of I’ll give it to you when I can lay you out proper.
You hadn’t really slept after. Just dozed in fitful bursts on your bunk, the wildflower from your pillow now tucked safely in the inner pocket of your jacket like a secret. Every time you closed your eyes you felt him again. By the time the sun was properly up you were wandering more than walking, half-delirious with exhaustion and want, the ache between your legs a low, constant throb that wouldn’t let you rest.
You were sitting on the bottom step of the cell block stairs, elbows on your knees, forehead pressed to your hands, when a shadow fell over you.
Daryl.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just crouched in front of you, close enough that you could smell the night on him. His eyes flicked over your face, taking in the tired slump of your shoulders, the way your eyelids kept trying to drift shut even now.
“C’mon,” he said quietly. Rough voice, but soft underneath. “Not here.”
You let him pull you up. Let him tuck you against his side with one arm around your waist like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you. He walked you past the occupied cells, past the common area where a few people were already moving around, and deeper into the block—toward the far end that hadn’t been fully cleared yet. An empty cell at the very back, door half-off its hinges, a thin mattress someone had dragged in weeks ago and never used. It was quiet here. Private. The kind of place people only came if they were looking for trouble or trying to disappear for a while.
Daryl guided you inside and nudged the door mostly closed behind you. The light was dimmer, softer. He turned to you and the look on his face made your tired heart squeeze—something between hunger and careful tenderness.
“Yer wrecked,” he murmured, big hands coming up to cradle your face. Thumbs stroked your cheekbones. “Didn’t sleep after, did ya?”
You shook your head, leaning into his touch like a cat. Your arms slid around his waist on their own, cheek pressing to his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. “Kept thinking about you,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and need. Your fingers curled into the back of his vest. “Just want you. Please. I’m so tired but I… I need this. Need you.”
He made a low sound in his throat—half groan, half something sweeter—and kissed the top of your head. “I got ya.”
He took his time with you. No rush. Just quiet, steady control as he walked you backward to the mattress and eased you down onto it. You went willingly, pliant and affectionate, reaching for him the whole time. He stripped your jacket off first, then your shirt, pausing to press a kiss to the center of your chest like he was memorizing the beat of your heart. You shivered, but not from cold.
When he got your pants and underwear off he didn’t dive straight in. He looked at you—really looked—spread out on the thin mattress in the low light, eyes heavy-lidded and soft for him. His hand rested on your belly, warm and broad, thumb stroking just above your hip.
“Still want what y' said yesterday?” he asked, voice low and rough but gentle. “Me puttin’ a baby in ya? Claimin’ ya like that?”
You nodded, slow and honest, too tired to be shy. “Yeah. Want it. Want you to fill me up… make it take.” Your hand covered his on your stomach, pressing down lightly. “Want to feel you there.”
Daryl’s eyes darkened, but the way he touched you stayed careful. He leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, tongue sliding against yours like he had all the time in the world. One knee nudged your legs apart and he settled between them, the heavy weight of him grounding you in the best way. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on, nuzzling into the side of his throat, breathing him in while he kissed along your jaw.
He opened his pants just enough, freed his cock—already hard and hot against your thigh—and stroked himself once, twice, before lining up. He didn’t push in right away. Just rubbed the head through your slick folds, teasing your clit until you whimpered and rocked your hips up in sleepy little movements.
“Easy,” he murmured against your mouth. “I got ya. Gonna take care of ya.”
When he finally sank into you it was slow. Inch by careful inch, stretching you open while he watched your face for any sign of discomfort. You were still a little sore from his fingers last night, but the ache only made it better—deeper, more real. You let out a soft, broken sound and clutched at his shoulders as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “So warm. So fuckin’ perfect around me.” One hand slid under your lower back, lifting your hips just enough to angle you better. The other stayed on your belly, possessive and gentle at the same time. “This what y' need? Me right here, fillin’ ya up?”
You nodded, eyes half-closed, legs wrapping loosely around his hips. “Yes… Daryl… please move.”
He did. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged every inch of him against your walls. No pounding. No frantic pace. Just steady, thorough thrusts that made you feel every ridge, every pulse of him. He kept most of his weight off you but stayed close—chest to chest, mouth brushing yours between quiet groans. Every time he pushed deep he stayed there for a second, grinding, like he was already trying to press his come as far inside as it could go.
“Ya feel that?” he rasped, voice husky and low right against your ear. “Gonna put a baby in ya just like y' asked. Gonna keep fuckin’ ya full till it takes. You’d look so pretty carryin’ a kid… all soft and swollen. I’d take care of ya. Keep ya safe. Keep both of ya safe.” His hand pressed a little firmer on your belly as he thrust deeper. “Mine. Y' hear me? This pussy, this body… gonna be mine in every way.”
The words washed over you like warm water. You were too tired to do much more than hold onto him and moan softly into his neck, but every filthy-gentle thing he said made you clench around him, made fresh slick ease the way. You kissed whatever skin you could reach—his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth—affectionate and clingy, fingers stroking through his hair.
“Daryl…” you whispered, voice dreamy. “Love how you feel… love you like this. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He kept the pace slow and deep, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit in lazy circles that matched his thrusts. The combination—his cock hitting that perfect spot inside, his fingers on your clit, his low voice telling you how good you’d look pregnant with his kid—pushed you over the edge before you even realized you were close.
You came with a soft, broken cry, pulsing around him, face tucked into his shoulder as your whole body trembled. He held you through it, murmuring praise—“That’s it, good girl, let go fer me”—and kept moving, drawing it out until you were boneless and whimpering.
Only then did he let himself go.
His thrusts stayed controlled but got a fraction deeper, a little more urgent. He buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, and when he came it was with a low, guttural groan against your skin—hot pulses flooding deep inside you. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried to the hilt, hips rolling in tiny movements like he was working every drop further in, one hand still protectively over your belly.
“Gonna keep it right here,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “Let it take. Y' want that, don’t ya? Want me to breed ya proper?”
You nodded sleepily, arms still looped around him, legs loose around his hips. “Yeah… want it so bad. Want you.”
He stayed inside you for a long time after, softening slowly while he kissed your face—forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose—like he couldn’t stop touching you. When he finally eased out it was careful, and he used his fingers to gently push what had leaked out back inside, eyes dark with satisfaction.
Then he pulled you into his arms properly, tucking your head under his chin, one big hand stroking slow lines up and down your bare back. You were already half-asleep again, body lax and warm and full of him, the exhaustion finally winning now that the need had been soothed.
“Rest,” he murmured against your hair. “I got watch later but I’ll stay till yer out. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
You made a small, content sound and nuzzled closer, one hand resting over his heart. The wildflower was still in your jacket pocket on the floor beside the mattress. Safe. Just like you felt right now—claimed, filled, and gently held by the man who’d heard every word you’d said and decided you were his.
Hiding your pregnancy is getting harder and harder, especially when you agree to go to a dinner party and Spencer has to drink every glass of your wine to keep the secret.
୨ৎ ──── fluff. 5,4k. fem!reader. drunk reid. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
David Rossi loved hosting dinners.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.
At least for the first twenty minutes.
After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.
“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”
Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.
“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”
Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.
The house was already alive with familiar voices.
Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.
Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.
Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.
“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”
“It was just a lamp until you said that.”
JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.
Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.
Not a minute early. Not a minute late.
His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.
And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.
Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.
You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.
“Perfect.”
The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.
Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.
His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.
So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.
Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.
For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.
And the smells were by far the worst.
It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.
Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.
Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.
Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.
Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.
Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.
Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.
When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.
He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.
“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”
The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.
You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.
An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.
You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.
Positive.
You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.
For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.
Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,
“We’re having a baby.”
The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.
Only the two of you knew.
No one else.
Not the team, your parents, or his mother.
No one.
It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.
God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.
At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.
Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.
You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.
Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.
The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.
Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.
Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.
Because he wanted them safe.
You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.
“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.
You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.
“…Why that one?”
Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.
“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”
You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.
You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.
If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.
You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.
But eleven weeks still felt fragile.
Delicate.
As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.
You knew the statistics.
So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.
The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.
Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.
Smile.
Compliment Rossi’s cooking.
Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.
Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.
Eat dinner.
Go home.
And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.
***
For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.
The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.
Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.
With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.
Your smile froze.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.
Of course. Wine.
You hadn’t thought about the wine.
For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.
Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.
His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.
Then to you.
You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.
Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.
“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.
Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”
The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.
Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.
“She’s driving.”
For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.
Driving? You hated driving.
Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.
Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.
He knew. You knew.
Neither of you dared acknowledge it.
Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.
“Fair enough.”
The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.
Or so you thought.
Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.
“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”
Your heart lurched.
For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.
Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.
“I did.”
Rossi looked between both of you.
“You finished two glasses already?”
“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.
Rossi stared at him.
“You were thirsty.”
“Yes.”
“For wine.”
“Correct.”
For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.
“There.”
Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.
“There we go.”
“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.
Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.
The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.
Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.
No one noticed.
Well…almost no one.
Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.
Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.
“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”
He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.
“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”
The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.
You felt your stomach sink all over again.
One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.
Including yours.
Again.
You forced another smile.
“Thank you.”
Your glass remained untouched.
Again.
Spencer noticed before anyone else did.
Again.
Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.
By now he’d finished one glass.
Then two.
Then three.
Now…four.
Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.
For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.
A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.
Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.
“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.
“You drunk, pretty boy?”
Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
“No.”
He paused.
Thought about it.
Then nodded once with complete seriousness.
“Probably.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.
Spencer looked utterly adorable.
Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.
Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.
She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.
Again.
She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.
Again.
She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.
Again.
Something about the evening refused to fit together.
Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.
But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.
***
By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.
Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.
Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.
Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.
Watching him was almost painfully endearing.
You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.
“You okay?”
He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.
“I love you.”
The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.
You laughed quietly.
“I love you too.”
“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”
Morgan snorted into his coffee.
“Oh, this is priceless.”
Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.
His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.
“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”
Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.
God, he was going to destroy you.
“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.
“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.
“Because you couldn’t.”
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
“Spencer.”
He looked delighted with himself.
“I helped.”
Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.
“So noble.”
“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”
Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.
Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.
“Sweetheart—”
He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.
It wasn’t.
“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.
The entire table continued talking.
No one seemed to notice.
Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.
Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.
“Although…”
Every instinct in your body screamed.
“Oh no.”
He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”
Silence.
Morgan blinked once.
“A what?”
Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.
JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.
At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.
Pieces quietly clicked into place.
Rossi simply stared.
His mouth opened slightly before closing again.
For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.
Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”
You buried your face in both hands.
“Spencer…”
He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.
“What?”
“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
A long pause.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.
For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Garcia exploded.
The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.
She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.
“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.
“I knew something was going on!”
Emily looked at him flatly.
“You absolutely did not.”
“I suspected!”
She folded her arms.
“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”
Morgan hesitated.
“I was…close.”
Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.
“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”
His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.
“I have to admit…”
He smiled.
“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”
Even Hotch stood.
He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.
Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.
“I ruined the surprise.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up at him.
His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.
A smile spread across your face.
“I’ll forgive you.”
His eyes brightened immediately.
“You will?”
“Eventually.”
The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.
“Good.”
He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.
Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.
Visitation | Javier Peña x Black Latina F!Reader | ~4.3k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.
Summary: Javier visits you in prison after putting you in there.
Tags: SMUT, pwp, dirty talk, cursing, oral (m receiving), throat fucking, cock worship, ball sucking (we're doing it all!), unprotected p in v sex, bi!reader, mentions of f/f sexual activities, creampie, 2 degrading uses of the word(s) 'slut' and 'bitch', untranslated spanish, reader has hair that can be put into a ponytail and carded through, mention of reader losing weight, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, little to no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, barely beta'd, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!
A/N: so this is def inspired by me being put into horny jail for no reason! straight up indulging in this fantasy, if you couldn’t tell by the bi!reader tag 🙂↕️ javier peña i went to jail for you, the least you can do is screw me right 😇 thanks to @ovaryacted for slithering into my brain and convincing me to write this, same with @probablyreadinsmut for lowkey enabling it too, lmfao. oh, and how could i forgot, this is my ride4ride fic for @javierpena-inatacvest lol she gave us this sexy masterpiece right here and i told her i'd write a riding fic back so voila! i hope you guys like it, we are so back (kinda... sorta...) 🖤
Javier leans back in the stiff, uncomfortable chair, fingers drumming lazily against the surface of the scratched-up table. The dim, fluorescent lights cast an unflattering yellowish glow over the grimy glass partition that separates him from the other side. The air in the room is stale, the only sound filling the emptiness is the slow, torturous ticking of the analog clock above the heavy steel door.
Every second drags until finally there’s movement. The shuffle of boots. The metallic clang of cuffs. And then, the slow, aching creak of the door.
There you are.
Dressed in that drab gray jumpsuit, wrists shackled in front of you, your hair pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes roam over you without shame, mapping the way your body has changed, the slight weight you've lost—but fuck, you still look so damn good.
Like a fucking feast laid out before him. The curve of your hips is there, the same mouth he’s spent nights getting lost in still just as plush, just as dangerous.
Your eyes lock onto his and you freeze, the recognition flaring in your dark, narrowed gaze before your full lips part, nostrils flaring. The guard grumbles under his breath, nudging you forward and you move reluctantly, making a whole show of it; like you’d rather be anywhere but here with him. But Javi knows better. Knows the way your pulse is probably kicking up, just like his. Knows that despite everything, you still feel it too.
You sink into the seat across from him with a huff, and he watches as the cuffs come off, his own fingers flexing at the sound of metal unclicking.
You snatch then lift the receiver to your ear, and he follows.
“What the fuck do you want?”
That voice. Laced with biting attitude and something else he knows all too well—resentment, sure, but beneath that? Heat. Lust. A wound that never fully closed.
Javier wets his lips, his mustache twitching as he suppresses the smirk threatening to curl at the corners. Goddamn, he missed this. Missed you.
“Chiquita, why you bein’ so hostile?” His voice dips low, smooth as whiskey, feigning innocence. His brows draw together in a mock pout, savoring the way you bristle at his tone. “Figured you’d be happy to see me.”
Your scoff is immediate, eyes rolling hard. “Have you forgotten why the fuck I’m in here in the first place?” You snap, no patience for his bullshit.
That attitude is what hooked him in the first place. You were never the type to be tamed, never the type to fall in line like the others. You made him work for it, played the game better than anyone. Had him chasing after you like a man possessed.
The way you writhed beneath him, nails scratching down his back, thighs locking around his hips, your breathy little gasps turning into full-on cries when he gave it to you just how you liked it—it was intoxicating.
It made him reckless, made him stupid. Made him a fucking addict for you. He lost himself between your thighs too many times to count, missed calls, ignored protocol, fucked up royally—all because of you.
And when shit got too messy, when the walls started closing in, he had to make a choice.
So he chose.
Chose to play you, to make you believe turning yourself in was your only option.
And yeah, maybe tricking you wasn’t exactly the cleanest way to do it, but Javier always did have a habit of getting what he wanted—one way or another.
“¿Sigues en eso?” He tilts his head, settling back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world. “I’m workin’ on getting you out.”
Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “Oh yeah? ¿Y por qué debería creerte? Eres un maldito mentiroso.”
He doesn’t flinch, shoulders rising and falling in a nonchalant shrug. “Because I’m the only one taking care of you right now.”
Silence. He watches the shift in your expression, realizing that he’s the one putting money on your books, making sure you have what you need. That despite it all, despite how he fucked you over, he’s still the one looking out for you.
Your lips press into a tight, furious line. Then—
“Fuck you.”
You slam the receiver down, the sharp sound slicing through the air, and he feels it—the thrill, the heat licking down his spine. You turn away, signaling the guard that you’re done, but he doesn’t move. He just glances at Javier, waiting for his cue.
Javier gives him a lazy nod.
And just like that, the guard steps out of the room, leaving you two alone.
He watches as your lashes flutter shut, as you take a slow, measured breath like you’re trying to get a grip. And then, just as quick, you whip back around, snatching the receiver again.
Yeah. That’s more like it.
“What do you want?”
He leans in, forearms bracing against the table. “I just wanted to see you, baby. Been missin’ you a whole lot out here.” He sees the way your resolve wavers, however briefly, under the weight of his stare. “Still so fuckin’ pretty.”
You can try to act indifferent all you want, but Javi knows you. Knows what happens when he leans in close, when he lowers his voice, when he looks at you like this.
“Miss that pussy even more,” he murmurs, tongue swiping slow over his bottom lip. His gaze drops lower, like he can see through the fabric of your jumpsuit, down to the heat between your thighs. “You been takin’ care of her in there?”
You tilt your head, eyes glazed over with mischief, giving him a slow, sultry once-over. “You really wanna know?”
He doesn’t answer—doesn’t have to. His tongue drags out again, a deliberate movement, and your eyes track it, just like he knew you would.
Javier watches your pupils dilate, sees the memories flash across your face—the same ones flooding his mind. His tongue buried inside you, lapping at every inch of your cunt, drinking your heady sap while you quivered beneath him.
His cock twitches in his jeans, stiffening against the rough fabric.
“Found someone to help me pass the time,” you murmur, watching his reaction carefully.
His expression tightens, the easy arrogance in his face slipping for just a second before jealousy flares hot in his chest. His mind goes straight to the worst fucking scenario—some sleazy correctional officer shoving you against the wall, making you take his cock like you belong to him instead. The thought burns.
“Who?”
You bite your lip, clearly enjoying the shift in his demeanor. Letting the tension linger, stretching it out until you finally purr, “My cellmate.”
Javier exhales shakily.
His jealousy shifts, transforming into something filthier. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper as his mind floods with sinful images of you—your naked body tangled with another woman, fingers buried in her cunt, lips slick and shining as you look up at her with those heavy-lidded eyes he knows too fucking well.
Jesus fucking Christ.
His hand slips beneath the table, palm pressing against the thick bulge in his pants, fingers flexing as he tries to keep his composure.
“And she’s been takin’ care of her?” His voice is rough, laden with interest.
You hum, mirroring his stance, leaning in close until your breath fogs up the scratched glass separating you. “Leaves me satisfied every time. Can’t complain… had to teach her a thing or two, though.”
“Yeah?” His hand continues to palms his growing bulge under the table, thumb stroking over the fabric, imagining your lips wrapped around him. “She spoilin’ you? You fucking her too, gettin’ your mouth full of pussy or what? Or is she the one doin’ all the work?”
Excitement bleeds into your countenance as your breathing picks up, chest rising and falling a little faster now.
“I do it all, Javi.” Your voice is a sexy, quiet purr that makes his cock ache. Your fingers drag slowly down the glass, a teasing mimicry of how you’d drag them down his chest. “I see why you like being in control so much. Feels fucking good when she comes all over my tongue.”
Javier swears under his breath, gripping the receiver so tight his knuckles turn white. He can see it so vividly, the way you’d dominate, take what you want, just like he does to you.
“Fuck.” His hips roll deeper into his palm, subtly trying to relieve some of the pressure. “Tell me—what else do you do?”
He needs to hear it, needs to burn it into his brain for the nights when he’s alone, aching for you, stroking his cock to memories that no longer feel like enough.
Your pretty eyes twinkle, eyelashes fluttering as you lean closer, voice dropping to a hushed, breathy confession. “We rub our pussies together, and it feels so good,” you moan sweetly, lost in the memory. “I fuck her with my fingers until she’s crying into the pillow. Ride her face, trying to pretend that it’s you, but she’s so soft. It’s nice sometimes, but fuck, Javi—” you shudder, not breaking eye contact, “I miss getting fucked by you.”
Javier stands so fast, the chair scrapes loudly against the floor, receiver slamming into its cradle as he strides straight for the door that leads to your side of the room, his fingers fumbling with the keys he secured earlier.
The moment he crosses the threshold, you’re on him, fists gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him down as your lips crash together in a desperate, bruising kiss. He barely has time to kick the door shut before he’s walking you backward, guiding you with firm hands until the backs of your thighs hit the table, forcing you to perch on the edge.
Your hands are greedy, roaming over the hard planes of his body, fingers raking through his hair, gripping his shoulders, smoothing down his chest. He groans against your mouth, reveling in the way you touch him like you’re trying to memorize every inch of him all over again. His tongue sweeps along the seam of your lips before plunging inside, licking deep, tasting you.
Then your hand is there—palm pressing against the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, fingers curling around his length, stroking slow.
“Shit,” he grunts against your mouth, hips jerking up into your palm.
His hands are just as restless. One palms your tit, kneading roughly, while the other glides up your outer thigh, his thumb slipping beneath the loose fabric of your jumpsuit to graze bare skin, savoring the weight of you in his grasp. He pulls away only to bite down on your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth before releasing it with a wet snap.
“Mouth tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” he rasps, breath fanning hot against your lips. His fingers slide into your hair, yanking the ponytail loose, letting your tresses spill over your shoulders. He tangles his hand in the strands, grips tight, pulling your head back, exposing the soft column of your throat, locking you in place beneath him. “Bet it feels fuckin’ sweet, too. That bitch make you forget how to suck cock, or do I need to remind you?”
Your whine is immediate, needy, and he can practically see the way your mouth waters, tongue darting out as if you’re already imagining wrapping your lips around him.
“Fuck my throat, Javi.”
He chuckles darkly, bringing you in with the tight hold he has on your hair as he crashes his mouth back onto yours, devouring you, tongue thrusting deep.
Your hands are already working his belt open, yanking it free with practiced ease before moving to his zipper. He growls when your fingers slip inside, brushing through the coarse hair at his navel, teasing the thick base of his cock.
“Shit—”
Then you wrap your fingers around his shaft, and fuck, he swears it’s never felt this good. His dick throbs against your palm, heavy and hot, leaking onto your fingers as you stroke him slowly, teasing him, making him suffer.
He can’t take it. He needs more.
“Ponte de rodillas.”
His hand slips from your hair as he steps back, dropping into the chair you’d just been sitting in, manspreading wide. His jeans hang open around his thighs, exposing the thick, aching length of him. His cock lies heavy against his stomach, veins prominent, the swollen tip glistening with precum, smearing into the dark hair of his happy trail.
You obey instantly, sinking to your knees, sliding between his thighs like you belong there. Which you do.
“Take your top off, baby,” he murmurs, desire evident in his tone. “Show me those pretty tits of yours.”
You bite your lip, trying—and failing—to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.
That gorgeous smile. It’s dangerous. It reminds him of all the things he tries to keep buried, the real feelings tangled beneath the lust, the ones he’d rather not acknowledge.
Javier’s serious thoughts vanish the second your top half is exposed. His breath stutters, hunger sharpening in his brown eyes as your tits bounce, nipples peaked and aching. You shift slightly, arching your back just enough to tease him, and his gaze shamelessly devours every inch of bare skin now on display.
Then he sees it. A lovebite, right where the swell of your right breast begins. It pisses him off.
His expression darkens, heat shifting from lust to possessive jealousy.
Before you can react, his hand snakes around the back of your neck once more, fingers tightening in your hair as he yanks you forward, shoving your face into his lap. The hard weight of his cock presses against your cheek, and he grips the base with his other hand, slapping the tip to your lips, smearing precum across them.
“Open.”
It’s not a request.
The second your lips part, he thrusts forward, feeding his cock into your mouth in one brutal stroke, groaning at the slick warmth as you struggle to take him all at once. Your hands clutch at his thighs as you gag, saliva spluttering everywhere.
A muffled moan of protest vibrates around his length, but he doesn’t care, moving you up and down with his hold on you. His head falls back, the tendons in his neck flexing as you begin to match his thrusts eagerly, sucking him down with hollowed cheeks, tongue moving sinfully.
Javier gathers your hair into his fist, twisting it into a makeshift ponytail so he can control you with more force and desperation. Your nails dig into the meat of his thighs, dragging down his skin, the sharp sting spurring him on.
He watches, enthralled, as drool and precum smear across your lips, dribbling down your chin, coating your throat. Each wet squelch echoes in the air, obscene and addictive.
“So fuckin’ hard to stay mad at you with a mouth like this,” he grits out, hips moving enthusiastically while fucking your mouth. His free hand slides over the swell of your breast, thumb flicking your nipple, making you moan around him “Holy shit, chiquita—your throat is fuckin’ heaven.”
Javier lets out a throaty groan, head lolling on his shoulders at the feel of you choking around his cock with every harsh stroke. He chases after the filthy gagging sound, holding you down until your nose is flush against the damp curls at his base, soft puffs of breath exhaling from your nose as you struggle to breathe.
“That’s right, mierda putita, guess you didn’t forget how to suck cock after all,” he laughs breathlessly, his words tapering off into a sharp grunt when your tongue drags along the juicy protruding vein that curves around his shaft; throbbing when the tip of your tongue brushes against it.
He jerks your head back suddenly, pulling you off his cock with a wet pop, and stares down at the wrecked state of you.
Your lips are swollen, eyes dazed, spit and precum caked all over. A beautiful and obscene visage.
“Javi,” you rasp, voice raw. Your hands stay busy, both wrapped around his cock, twisting, pumping, stroking in opposite directions, making a mess of him.
Your tits press together as you work him over, your nipples just barely grazing against his thighs.
“I need your cock inside me. Please.”
He exhales sharply, chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. His eyes flicker to the mark on your chest again, jealousy spiking all over.
“Do you?” Javier mocks, putting just enough pressure on the bruise to make you squirm. “Seems like you’ve been doin’ just fine without it. S’that why you’re lettin’ her mark you up?”
You don’t get the chance to answer. He yanks you forward again, but this time, he shoves you lower—forcing you down until you’ve got a mouthful of balls.
He groans, eyes fluttering closed as your mouth opens, tongue stroking over the sensitive skin of his sac, licking, teasing, making him curse under his breath.
“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he pants, feeling your lips curve into a smirk as you suckle at his scrotum, getting them warm and wet.
Your hands never stop jerking his dick, moving rhythmically. His breath shudders as pleasure builds. He could spill down your throat, paint your face in his spunk—but he’s been fantasizing about this moment since making the plans to come visit last week.
He needs to be inside you. Needs to bury himself in that tight, wet pussy he’s missed so fucking much.
His grip in your hair loosens—a silent signal that you have control again. You pull back slowly, leaving a string of spit bridging your lips to his balls.
“I’m just having fun with her. You know I’m yours, Javier.”
Your tongue flicks out, kitten-licking at his slit, circling his spongy head, then tracing that sensitive vein before pressing your lips fully against him. You make out with his cock like you would his pouty mouth, worshipping every inch.
His heart damn near bursts at your words paired with such a euphoric act. Damn fucking right you’re his.
“Mmm, chiquita… come up here and ride me.”
You fucking giggle, a sultry, wicked little sound.
It’s a stark contrast to the hardened, fiery woman who had been dragged in here earlier, all steel and bite. But now? Now you’re dripping with excitement, turning into the version of yourself he’s missed most—the one who melts at his touch, who aches for him the way he aches for you.
Javier leans back as you slowly rise to your feet, utterly enthralled as he watches you strip bare, peeling away every last scrap of fabric until you stand before him in nothing but a pair of plain white socks.
Fuck.
He’s not sure where to look—those full and soft tits, the soft curves, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the luscious, messy wetness between your thighs, the bush at your mound making him feral. His fingers twitch with the need to touch, to grab, to claim.
Javier fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, popping them open hastily but leaving it on, needing the contrast of his still-dressed body against your completely bare form. His control is slipping, hips shifting as he strokes himself, his cock aching for the heat of your cunt.
“Vamos, súbete, nena,” he murmurs, his hips shifting provocatively, arms reaching for you. He expects you to straddle him immediately, to sink down onto his cock like the greedy little slut he knows you to be. But you don’t. Not yet.
Instead, you turn away from him.
You brace your hands against the edge of the cold metal table, bending forward, presenting yourself like a sinful offering.
His breath catches in his throat, jaw going slack as his half-lidded eyes drink you in.
Your messy cunt glistens, soaked from how wet you got blowing him. The soft curls framing your pussy lips only make her look even more enticing, your swollen folds parting slightly, practically beckoning his tongue to part them like the red fucking sea.
He wants to spread you open with his fingers, to press his mouth against that pretty, weeping slit and drink every single drop from your tight, wet hole.
You smirk over your shoulder, rolling your hips just enough to make his mouth water, and then you spread your legs even wider, blooming yourself open completely for him.
Javier groans, his grip tightening around the base of his cock.
“Stop bein’ a fuckin’ tease and c’mere before I leave you with nothing.”
You laugh, the sound dripping with amusement. “That doesn’t sound ideal for either of us, Jav.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
He pulls his chair forward, closing the distance, and you move with him, reaching down to grab his cock, keeping him steady as you finally—finally—lower yourself.
The first push inside is enough to make both of you moan, your walls stretching, gripping, molding around him as he sinks into your cunt until you’re fully seated on his cock.
“Ay, Javi…”
“That’s right, baby," he groans, pleasure clawing up his spine. “Shit, you feel fucking amazing.”
Your forearms rest against the table, giving you leverage as you begin to move, rolling your hips in a teasing, delicious rhythm. The reverse cowgirl position gives him the best fucking view—your slick folds stretching around his cock, your greedy little hole swallowing him over and over, sucking him in deeper.
His breathing grows ragged as a thick, creamy ring forms at the base of his shaft. The wet sounds of your pussy slapping against him fill the room, weaving with your high, breathy cries.
“Javi! Javi! Ohh—fuck me you’re in so deep, ah shit your cock feels so good inside my pussy baby fuck me!”
You’re a blabbering mess, moans and whimpers spilling from your lips as your pace quickens, your ass bouncing against his lap.
Javier watches, completely wrecked, large hands grabbing at your ass, squeezing, kneading the meaty flesh. His thumbs pull your cheeks apart, exposing the tight, untouched pucker above your stretched pussy, and his cock throbs at the sight.
Without warning, his palm cracks against your ass.
You yelp, jolting from the sudden impact, your rhythm faltering for a second before you push through it, still grinding, still taking him.
“Keep fuckin' taking it.”
Another slap. Then another. The heat of your ass gets hotter with each strike.
Your moans turn into soft, gasping sobs, the overwhelming pleasure tipping you into something almost delirious. But Javier doesn’t let up nor does he give a shit.
Because he knows—deep down, past the pain, past the shock—you fucking love being treated like this.
His cock slips out of your pussy, smeared in your mixed wetness, swollen and pulsating as it rests between your ass cheeks. Your body doesn’t know any better, still grinding against him, his dick sliding between your sticky lips, making a sloppier mess.
Javier actually fucking whimpers at the sight, teeth biting into his bottom lip while his hands moved from your sore ass up to your love handles, pushing you further up the table as he stands.
He grabs his wet cock, smacking it against each cheek before he sheathes himself inside you again.
“Javiiiii,” you sing for him.
“That’s right, just like that.” He grunts, slipping his hands up until he’s cupping your tits, pulling you flush against his chest as he starts plowing you vivaciously.
His fingers tug, roll, pinch and strum at your sensitive nipples, the texture of his mustache at your neck as he licks and nips at it, leaving blotchy marks of his own as both of you begin to orgasm.
“Please please please don’t stop Javi, oh my g— I’m about to come,” you whimper, totally fucked out, digging your nails into his wrists as he continues to play with your tits, dragging scratch marks down his brown forearms.
One hand leaves your breasts and glides down to your pert clit, rough fingertips swirling it around, pinching it, and that does you over.
“Come all over my cock, fuck, eres tan pinche hermosa.”
You turn your head and he quickly slots his mouth over yours, the kiss messy and sloppy as your high pitched moaning fills his mouth, his tongue licking over your teeth and swapping spit.
His thrusts grow frantic, rutting into you wildly, holding your bouncing tits for dear life when he finally comes, clutching you so tight he’s almost afraid he’ll crush you to death.
You’re both panting frenziedly, all types of bodily fluids coating your skin. His mind feels fogged over, orgasm so intense he swears he’s seeing fucking stars.
“Mmm,” you hum, going pliant in his arms while he holds you, caressing you dotingly, swollen lips leaving open mouthed kisses all over your bare shoulder and up your neck, making you sigh contently.
“Te extraño,” he mutters sincerely against your skin and he feels your body tense briefly.
“Then why am I in here?” Your voice is a mix of frustration and something softer, hurt, he guesses.
Javier hesitates, the lines of worry etching deeper into his face. “It’s complicated,” he admits, his words slow and measured, “but I meant what I said—I’m workin’ to get you out.”
You offer no reply—only a long, weary sigh that betrays the depths of your desire and the burden of your reality.
He pulls out of you then, already missing your warmth, and you both hiss at the feeling.
Then he sees his milky spend bubbling out of you, dolloping at your clit. He’s quick, fingers returning to your used cunt as he collects it and shoves it back in, plugging you with his seed.
“Hold it in, chiquita. When you get back to your cell, I want her to eat my cum out of you.”
i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤
oh, the whole world it is sleeping (but my world is you)
title from bloom by the paper kites
words: 6, 219 (woah.)
gif credit: @panda-pal
a/n: HELLO GUYS I'M SO HAPPY TO BE BACK!! i'm so sorry the writing train has kind of dried up because i've gotten busier at my internship (which i am posting this from lol) but whatever whatever i'm trying to get back into it slowly starting with... ahaha... this request that got away from me so incredibly fast you have no idea. which is why i made it a separate post instead of just replying to the ask. but uhm hi anon PLEASE let me know if u see this and if u like it!!! again not really proofread bc we die like rory williams enjoy guys i love you!!
———
The Doctor would never admit it to your face, but he was bored.
Oh, scratch that — he would and he had, multiple times in the past when you were stuck together doing laborious, meandering things. Domestics, especially. He had, much to your annoyance, complained at length about his boredom while you were loading your dishwasher after you had (very kindly) invited him for tea at yours. That had resulted in an unfortunate incident which ended in broken dishes, soapy suds covering the entirety of your kitchen floor, and a dishwasher spinning at about a hundred revolutions per second. To be fair, he did apologize, but only after the suddenly upgraded dishwasher had calmed down enough to stop shaking your cabinets off of their hinges.
He, however, would not admit his boredom to you now. Not when you weren't even awake to hear it.
The Doctor understood sleep. However, Gallifreyans needed considerably less sleep than humans. So much less, in fact, that the Doctor could hardly remember when he had last slept at all. It didn't bother him, really — time asleep was time wasted and could be used to do so much more stuff than lie horizontal, practically unconscious, for hours on average. But the Doctor understood your need for it, so when you had retired to your bedroom after a particularly tiring adventure, he had thought nothing of it.
The Doctor didn't know what he thought now, but it was definitely not nothing.
He'd started worrying after the first hour. By the second hour he'd retired to his spot underneath the TARDIS console, tinkering with the tangle of wires and connections for no reason in particular. Just to keep his hands busy and ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Every so often he would stop and listen closely just in case he could catch the sound of your footsteps leaving your room, or the sound of you calling for him over the sound of the TARDIS singing. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing for another two hours. On the fifth hour he took a little trip to the early 19th century to see the invention of the croissant. He'd come back to the TARDIS on the sixth hour, still smelling like butter, ready to excitedly offer you one of the very first croissants ever made in Paris before remembering that you were still asleep in your room. So he'd eaten them alone before they could go stale. He could bring you to 1800s Paris another time.
You hadn't come out of your room for eight hours. Eight hours, twenty-three minutes, and forty-seven — forty-eight, now — seconds. Not that he was counting.
The typical amount for a normal, healthy human your age was seven to eight hours, and who was he to judge if you wanted to get some extra shut-eye? The Doctor knew he had no logical reason to worry. Out of all of the emotions he had felt, worry was low on the ranks — he hated the anxiety that came with it, the way that it twisted his hearts just enough for them to squeeze unpleasantly in his chest. But, the Doctor pondered, worry was the price that came with having anyone onboard the TARDIS and traveling with him.
Especially when it was you. Wonderful, shining you, who always made him smile and never let him feel lonely, not even for a single second.
So he supposed it was worth it. Didn't mean he had to like it, though.
And yet, worry he did, the strange, gnawing feeling in the back of his mind growing stronger and stronger and louder until —
The TARDIS hummed. He couldn't understand what she was saying, since she spoke without words, but an insistent feeling began to prickle on his skin. Something not too dissimilar from the anxiety that buzzed through his body. It seemed that the TARDIS, in all her infinite and impossible geometries, was worried about you too.
"Oh, alright," he sighed, and pulled a lever on the console. The ship's glass central column bobbed a few times, rising and falling like heavy breaths, before it slid to a halt. He'd pumped the brakes, so to speak, leaving the TARDIS to idle.
Deep, calming breaths, the Doctor thought as he walked through the hallways of the TARDIS and navigated to your bedroom. The Doctor could do deep breaths. In fact, he could do very deep breaths, courtesy of his respiratory bypass system, but that was neither here nor there.
He took a left, then a right, then walked for approximately twenty-six paces until he found himself in front of your bedroom door.
"Hello?" he called. "Are you awake in there? Because this'll be very awkward if you are."
He leaned closer to your door and strained his ears for any kind of sound. Only silence greeted him. The gnawing feeling returned in full force. If his hearts twisted any further they would give out, and he had no intention of finding out what that felt like.
But you could just be sleeping. He could open the door to find you peaceful in your big, comfy bed that the TARDIS had made for you, all tuckered out after a long day of running through time and space. He could tiptoe over to your slumbering form and brush your hair away from your face, maybe steal a kiss on your forehead (as he so often did when you wouldn't notice). He could find you safe, and most importantly alive, and he would have nothing to worry about.
Or it could be the complete opposite and be, in short, very, very bad. The Doctor swallowed.
"I'm coming in," he said, and he slowly opened the door.
The first thing that the Doctor noticed was that it was nearly pitch black. He blinked quickly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness — then he spotted you, and a relieved smile spread across his lips. There you were, curled up underneath your blankets — yes, blankets (plural), you'd insisted on them before you even had a bedroom — and you looked like you were sleeping very soundly indeed.
The Doctor sat down at the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush his fingers against the edge of your cheek and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Hello, dear," he whispered, unable to stop the fondness from creeping into his voice. "You're quite the sleepyhead today, aren't you?"
You didn't reply, because of course you couldn't. Instead you exhaled a shallow, shuddering breath, your head lolling against his palm.
The second thing the Doctor noticed was that you were barely breathing.
If the Doctor was one to swear he would, loudly and furiously. But instead any kind of curse he could muster died and turned to ash in his mouth. No, no, no, no, the Doctor thought, not like this, and his mind was racing so much he barely noticed he was muttering the words under his breath. He your face in his hands, moving it so he could take a good look at your face.
Your skin was warm, much too warm to be normal, your neck damp with sweat that rolled off in rivulets and soaked your shirt. Oh, he'd been such an idiot. How could he have not noticed? You hadn't walked to your bedroom all those hours ago, you'd staggered — and the Doctor had been too thick to notice, too swept up in the thrill of piloting the TARDIS to safety, whooping in excitement and lost in the wide-eyed, exhilarated look in your face.
"You're okay, you're okay," the Doctor muttered. Who was he trying to convince? You or himself, his hearts hammering in double time? He swiped a bead of sweat on your temple away with his thumb and —
A wall of fog descended over his mind. His own thoughts, once rapid and rushing like a waterfall, slowed to a heavy crawl. Faint sensations brushed against his awareness — the warm flush of fever, a hollow, bone-deep ache, and a sharp stinging pain blanketed beneath layers of down.
The Doctor blinked. The feeling disappeared.
Illness tended to loosen the mind — and without meaning to, he'd made contact with yours. He frowned, still cradling your head in his hands. The heat of fever and the hollow ache he understood, but the pain? The pain was a mystery.
A mystery he had to solve if he wanted to keep you by his side. And he did want that, more than anything. Enough that it scared him.
"Can you hear me?" he asked, making contact once more. Nothing, not even a twinge of consciousness. This wasn't a healing coma — humans couldn't do that, unless you'd gone off and gotten lessons while he wasn't looking, which was impossible since the Doctor rarely let you out of his sight. It wasn't the haze of sleep, either. If you were simply sleeping, you would be dreaming. And dreams, no matter how small or silly, could take easily shape behind your eyes. A trained telepath such as himself would know.
No, this was something else. If your mind was active at all he could ask really, really nicely and you would let him in. But no one was home. This fog, it felt more like a firewall, keeping his own mind from peeking into yours.
The Doctor shifted, moving his position so he was knelt beside your limp form — but his knee nudged against your side, and you whimpered.
He froze. The sound — a sudden sound of pain — it broke his hearts. He would give anything to never have to hear it again… but his ears pricked up at the noise.
The Doctor gripped your blankets and pulled them aside, and his broken hearts sank.
There it was, the source of the pain that he had felt when his mind brushed against yours. A wound on your side, haphazardly covered with bandages, already weeping blood. He reached out to touch it — trying to ignore the way his fingers trembled — and found it strangely warm to the touch. Infected, he mused, or worse.
Hands still trembling (and still trying to ignore the trembling because he was stubborn and he was doing everything he could to keep himself from spiraling, thank you very much), he peeled the bandages away from your heated skin. A long, thin gash peeked up at him. The edges of the cut were clean and sharp, the skin around them angry and inflamed.
If the Doctor's hearts could break any further, they did. You clearly hadn't done a good job of patching yourself up. A horrible, vivid image sprung to the front of his mind — you, stumbling and in pain, trying to clean yourself up, blood dripping off your skin, and then crawling into bed, weak and alone.
Why hadn't you come to him? He would have done anything in his power to fix you. It was what his name said on the tin, after all. Wasn't he a healer? Wasn't that what he tried to do, every second of every day?
The Doctor swept his sonic screwdriver over your wound. The green bulb at the end washed it with a sickly glow and he shuddered. He shuddered again as he flicked it open and peered at the readings. It was most definitely infected. Whatever had cut you had gotten into you and was taking hold by the minute.
But there was something else. He made another pass with the sonic… there! Glinting in the light, embedded in your cut, was a small piece of glass. He concentrated the sonic on it. It almost seemed to vibrate, a high pitched tone resonating through the air.
"Gotcha," the Doctor said.
How had it come to this? Your life hanging in the balance without even a monster to fight. He should've come to you earlier, shouldn't have waited all those hours to see if you were okay, shouldn't have gotten so distracted by your beautiful, awestruck eyes. But there was no use dwelling on what he should have done. He could still save you now.
The Doctor took the deepest breath he could, pressed his thumbs to your temples, and let the fog of your mind pull him under.
———
Mind landscapes — mindscapes when concatenated, the Doctor loved a good concatenation — were tricky things. Every mindscape was unique, built around an individual's upbringing, culture, society. The mindscapes of simpler beings — no offense — tended to be simple too, and usually never had any interactable form. It was like swimming in a thick soup.
No, not like that — a soup of thoughts, ideas, and memories. To the more telepathically inclined, the mindscape was a sandbox. You could create mind palaces, forests, endless worlds, with the only limit being your imagination. The Doctor preferred his TARDIS console room as his mindscape. It was the safest place in the universe, and therefore the safest place in his mind.
Your mindscape, however, looked nothing like what the Doctor thought it would look like.
When the Doctor opened his eyes, he found himself in a world swathed with white. A towering structure pierced through thin clouds painted against a blindingly bright sky — it was a lighthouse, he realized, squinting up at the building and its bone-white masonry. There was nothing else for miles except the tower, only endless dunes and the memory of salt hanging in the air.
The Doctor couldn't help it. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. An abandoned lighthouse in a dried up ocean… in your mind. How exciting.
But enough of that — he had a job to do, and that was find you. He began to trudge through the dunes he had appeared in, silently bemoaning the sand trickling into his boots, even if it was imaginary. Imaginary sand. Course and irritating but all in his head. As if it couldn't get any worse.
As he walked, he cast his mind out like radar waves, trying to see if the signature of your self would alert him to your presence in this foreign mindscape. There was no where else you could be except the tower, but where? He expanded the bubble of his mind upward… and there!
There you were, a faint fleck of warm thoughts, right there at the very top of the lighthouse. The sound of your laughter washed up against him like soft ocean waves — but not just the sound, but the feeling of it. Light and airy and happy, like a giggle hidden behind a palm.
It should have made him smile, but it didn't. It felt wrong. The Doctor knew the sound of your laugh like the back of his hand — or any of his body parts really. When you've lived in a body for as long as he had, you become very familiar with all of your anatomy. No, this laughter was hollow. Laughter for the sake of laughter. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
The Doctor clenched his jaw and kept on walking.
He stepped into the the tower, shaking the sand from his coat, and lifted his head to narrow his eyes at the almost endless staircase that spiraled to the top of the lighthouse. Another laugh, breathless and shy, drifted below to him.
The Doctor's hearts twisted for a third time. Any more and he would be wrung out.
Shards of broken glass littered each step of the staircase. The Doctor nudged one with his foot, and a jolt ran up his spine — a bright, summer sky flashed before his eyes, and the warmth of family filled his chest along with it. The feeling was so awfully, painfully familiar…
Then he shook his head, and it was gone.
No, it couldn't be possible. But of course… your injury… the glass in your wound and the way it had sung…
The Doctor knew where he was now. But his knowledge would be useless if he couldn't get to you in time.
The last of the steps opened up into a spacious chamber. The pale stonework of the tower arched upward like steepled finger bones. Instead of windows, the walls of the room were covered in mirrors, rusted golden filigree curling over their edges. A hole in the ceiling let a spotlight of sunlight beam down, illuminating your motionless form.
The Doctor let out a shuddering exhale, and let his hearts begin to untwist. There you were.
"Sweetheart?" he murmured, inching closer to you. "Sweetheart, it's me, it's the Doctor. Can you —"
He let his gaze flick upwards to look at your face — and the rest of question died violently on his tongue.
You sat on the floor, your legs folded underneath you, your knees bent and tucked together. Your eyes were crinkled into a pleasant half-crescents. A serene smile spread across your face. Were it any other situation, you could have been mistaken for calm and peaceful, even happy.
But if the Doctor looked, really, really looked, he could see it. Despite the smile on your face, your eyes lacked the sparkle he knew in his hearts should have been there. Instead, they gazed unfocused into the distance. He peered into your eyes and saw himself reflected in them. You were terrifyingly still, too, head tilted to one side like the weight of it was too heavy to bear.
You barely blinked, barely moved, barely breathed. The Doctor's hands twitched, reaching out but barely touching, worried that even a single breath would shatter you like glass. Like glass…
Then your lips parted, and you laughed, that sweet, melodious sound. The mirrors around you shimmered and glowed with light for a moment before returning to casting back your reflections.
Being in the metaphysical reflection of your trapped mind, he didn't have his sonic, but he mimed throwing it from one hand to the other. Anything to keep his trembling hands busy.
The Doctor moved closer to the mirror right in front of you and pressed his face closer to it. His nose bumped the glass and there it was again, those strange sensations, rippling through his mind like clear water. A cold breeze settled against his skin as the room began to darken, the arched ceiling of the lighthouse bending into the shape of a night sky. The solid stone floor beneath him softened into grass brittle with frost. The blurry shape of a pond stretched out in front of him. A pond…
Across the pond, a shadowy figure stumbled and fell face-first. More shadowed figures emerged from the inky blackness of the night, their heads curving into sharp beaks. The one that had fallen twisted on the ground and scuttled backwards on their elbows.
"Help!" they cried.
With a start, the Doctor realized where — and when — he was.
That was you across the water. This was the night you met.
The air began to hum with the wheezing, groaning song of the TARDIS. This bit he remembered well — he watched as his own self stumbled out of the TARDIS, raised his arms, and shouted, "In here!"
He was still dressed in the warmer tweed of an era long gone. Here was a Time Lord, freshly heartbroken, waving his arms frantically like an idiot in the night. One last run, he had decided then. He'd figured one last trip to save someone, anyone, before he would give it up forever. Retire, so to speak. Like the fool that he was, he promised just once more, just one last time before he quit.
But he hadn't saved just anyone. He'd saved you.
"In there?" you cried incredulously. The Doctor nodded vigorously and gestured wildly to the TARDIS beside him. "What?!"
"It's this or getting your eyes pecked out by bird-men!" he shouted. "And trust me, that's no fun at all! Believe me, I've tried! Come on, quick as you can!"
You scrambled to your feet and whipped your head around to look behind you. The bird-men were still advancing, their feathers glinting sharply with the moonlight, their piercing red eyes trained on you. The Doctor felt a wave of fear clench at his chest. Of course. This wasn't just any old memory. This was yours.
"This is crazy," you squeaked, but you turned and ran anyway. Your winter boots crunched against the frozen ground. The closer you got to the Doctor — both his memory-self and his… real self — the more his hearts began to pound, matching the way your own thundered rapidly in your chest. Your fear slid across his skin, cold and clammy. "You're crazy!"
"I've been called worse," the Doctor grumbled. He reached out, hands outstretched. "Nearly there!"
The bird-men were moving faster now. A chorus of incessant cawing sliced through the air — the sound startled you, and you shrieked, falling to the ground once more. Where then he had felt panic at your stumble, The Doctor now felt what he had not noticed on that winter evening — your fear, confusion, and inexplicable resignation paralyzing you and keeping you rooted and prone on the dirt.
Worry coiled his spine like a spring, but before he could move, his memory-self rushed forward.
The Doctor sprinted forward to grab your arm and pull you to your feet. He hadn't noticed it then, the way your eyes had locked onto him as he whipped his sonic out and hit the bird-men with a frequency excruciating only to them. "Back off!" he'd bellowed, his hand wrapped protectively around your elbow. "Bad birdies!"
What was it that had passed across in your teary gaze? Was it simply shock? Or was it a growing awe at this odd, alien (in more ways than one) man that was rescuing you on the weirdest night of your life?
The Memory-Doctor dragged you away with a whoop. The real Doctor followed silently and watched him pull you, with a little bit more force than necessary, across the threshold of the TARDIS. The TARDIS doors clicked behind you, and the both of you fell into a heap on the floor of the console.
"What," you wheezed, "the hell was that?"
"Llaterans," the Doctor panted. "Bird-men. Bad, bad bird-men. Huge hoarders. Extremely possessive. There's a small, struggling colony living on the roofs of your city. Thought they would've made themselves scarce after what happened in 1963, but I guess I was wrong. Bad timing for you."
"Ah." You inhaled a lungful of air. "So what'd I do to piss them off?"
"Pick up a shiny rock, I imagine." The Doctor turned his head to look at you and raised an eyebrow. "Did you?"
You pursed your lips. Then you reached into your pocket and pulled out what was, indeed, a very shiny rock. Perfectly smooth and round. Perfect for skipping across a pond.
"It looked nice," you said, sheepish.
For a while there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths and your stuttering heart slowing to a more manageable pace.
The Doctor thought back to this silence. In that moment he had felt nothing. He had just saved a life and he had felt nothing, which was horrifying. For a single, terrifying second he had just stared at you, breathing heavy on the floor of the TARDIS, and wondered if he had made a mistake. If this was what he felt after saving one stupid human life then maybe he was right to exile himself away and quit being the savior of worlds for good.
But then sputtering peals of laughter had escaped you, and the Doctor felt his hearts sing.
The Doctor stared. The walls that he had just started building around his hearts had cracked open just a smidge at the sound of your laughter. It was exhilarating and free - that was it, captured freedom in a bottle, loud and animated, distilled joy spilling from your lips.
The Doctor in the memory had startled, shocked at the sound, but even he ended up smiling. The Doctor watching the memory smiled too. It was the last time he would smile in a long while.
He wouldn't realize, until much later, until his impossible girl had gone once again one rainy Christmas Eve, that he didn't have to be afraid of that song, and the very next day he had gone looking for you again.
The night sky morphed and melted into mirrors. The Doctor staggered backward and turned to face you — you were smiling still, and the ghost of another laugh rang through the air.
"The mirrors," the Doctor muttered to himself. "Your memories."
The Doctor slid to another mirror, the one to your right. As if on instinct, you shifted in place to face it, your expression still and placid. There was no more time to be watching play-by-plays — he let his palm rest just inches above the glass, watching his reflection waver into another memory.
This was one he hadn't expected. The memory played through your eyes. Meters away, framed through prison bars, was him. He turned away from you, bathed in darkness, shadows creasing his face as he stared down a man who had captured you once to hurt him. Never a good idea, that. He remembered it well, remembered the relief he'd felt when you weren't hurt and the ancient anger that had consumed him when he found the one responsible.
He doesn't remember what he had said that dark day. It must have been something cruel, because your heart had stuttered — most likely with fear. The Doctor was so old and so tired, so tired of losing the people he cared about. Most especially you, who had lifted his hearts out of the heavy storm that burdened him. And so what if he was frightening and monstrous, as long as you were safe?
But again, you surprised him. The Doctor could feel the swell of empathy that burned behind your chest then. You shuffled closer and reached in between the prison bars to take his hand. He remembered the fury that had clouded his judgment slipping away when he turned to look at you, the oh-so-gentle smile that had curved your lips taking away any thought of vengeance that had been on his mind and redirecting his focus to your safety.
But looking through your eyes, he only saw his own anguished face staring back at him, his dark eyes softening at the sight of your gentle ones, pleading a million words without having to say a single one out loud.
"Consider yourselves lucky," he had said, his voice sharp as knives, before locking them in the same cell you had just been trapped in.
That memory faded away too, leaving his own expression staring back at him.
He looked stricken. He felt stricken.
The Doctor scurried to another mirror. The two of you in Russia in the 1950s, bundled up in fur coats watching the birth of magnetic fusion. In another mirror, the vision of you gripping his hand tight before he could fall into the abyss at the heart of the TARDIS. Another mirror shone with the light of a dying star illuminating his awe-struck grin.
In the last mirror he looked at was the adventure you had just had right before this. Where you had grabbed his hand tight and told him, with a wild-eyed smile, to run just before the tower you had been in began to shake and collapse. Stumbling over cobblestones and laughing madly as you fell into the TARDIS together, bodies intertwined, chests heaving, blood pumping with adrenaline, just like the night you met.
The Doctor was blown away — not only by the sheer feeling of freedom that was running through your veins, but by the giddy skip of your heart as he turned to look at you and pressed a shaky kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his kiss had followed you all the way as you stumbled into your bedroom and into the darkness, passing out under the covers.
In every mirror was a vision of him, made beautiful by the light of your affection, of your love.
The Doctor's hearts stopped beating in his chest.
You loved him.
And that's why you were stuck here.
Slowly, the Doctor knelt in front of you.
"I know you're in there," he said quietly. "I know you can hear me. I'm gonna get you out of here."
He took your steady hands into his trembling ones. "This is a prison," he continued. Absentmindedly, his thumb began to rub soothing patterns onto the back of your palm. "The planet we visited… when famine struck, everyone left except for the prisoners. So why didn't the prisoners leave?"
You didn't reply, because of course you couldn't. But this time, instead of the fear of finding you fighting for your life, the Doctor dared to hope. "The mirrors trap you. Your happiest memories, your fondest memories. Memories of the people you love. Playing on loop until you serve your sentence. Imagine a prison where no one would dream of leaving. That's what we found when we landed. The crumbling remains of the happiest penitentiary in the galaxy.
"We must've set off some kind of alarm, some kind of self-destruct system that brought the tower down but —" The Doctor swallowed. His throat was dry, all of a sudden, the words forcing themselves out. "But then you got hurt. Bit of the mirror got you. The mechanism that kept the prisoners locked inside their minds kept dormant until you passed out."
Why didn't you tell me? Why hide that you were hurting? The Doctor wanted to ask. He squeezed your hands. They were so, so cold. You could be slipping away in the real world, right now. But in here, the Doctor could still try. He had to.
"Listen to me," he pleaded, tipping his head low and looking into your unseeing eyes. "You're dying, out there. If I leave I can save your body. But I can't save you, not your mind or your soul, not really, unless you wake up and come back to me."
Your eyes flashed like mirrors.
"Come on," the Doctor urged. His hands left yours and he lifted them to cup your cheeks, holding your head steady. Your skin was chilled against his but he willed them to be warm, to give you even a fraction of the warmth you always gave him. "Come back to me. Please."
Your blank eyes flickered, and you blinked. Blinked!
If he was a fool for hoping then he was the biggest fool this side of the universe. "That's it," he said. Ever so slightly, underneath his palms, your cheeks began to flush. "That's it, listen to the sound of my voice. I'm here. I found you."
You blinked again, the strange reflective sheen of your eyes melting away. Behind him, the Doctor heard a mirror crack. It was working! You were waking up!
Quickly, the Doctor pressed his fingers to your temples — how strange, to initiate contact within contact — but instead of the glass's hold on you unraveling, there was a stubborn wall blocking your consciousness from fully surfacing. He probed a little further. This mental wall was solid, nearly impenetrable. One good psychic poke told him it wasn't alien at all, but entirely human. What was this obstinate blockade made out of? He poked it again, and his mind tingled with an anxiety that bled into his skin and clenched at his hearts.
The Doctor dug the contact deeper, and rush of loneliness washed over him. It was so powerful that it would have knocked him over if he hadn't been seated already. The feeling rolled over him like a wave, and he tumbled for a moment in a blinding froth of hurt. You wanted to stay here, because leaving would hurt, but staying hurt anyway.
You were scared. You were scared to wake up.
And how could you not be? How happy were you, dancing in memories of him, never having to face the reality that he might never love you back?
…That was silly. Of course he —
The Doctor frowned. Those weren't his thoughts.
Your thoughts were leaking through to him, even through that wall of fear. But they were slower now, sluggish like molasses. If he wanted to save you, he had to do it now.
What else was there? He was there with you, holding you in your mind and in the real world, pleading softly for you to come back. There had to be something else he could do, something else he could say that would convince you to break out of this prison. Something like…
The Doctor tested the words in his mouth. They were surprisingly bitter. The last time he had tried to say them, he had been just a nanosecond too late. He had waited all of those years to tell her and they had blown away with the heart of a dying star. What a fool he'd been. He was a creature born of infinite second chances, yet he would never allow himself just one. What was the point of trying again?
But he did, didn't he? Endlessly and without question. All because he had done the impossible — he had given himself a second chance — and he'd found something infinitely more precious.
He'd found you.
"I didn't think I was gonna tell you like this. Or ever. I thought I was going to lock it up forever and throw away the key," the Doctor said. "Or run away. Running away 'cos I'm scared. Like always. Not today. Not like this. The last time I didn't say it, it's because I thought she knew. And maybe she did, but you — I'm not gonna hurt you like that. No, today I'm gonna tell you, okay? So… if you're listening, and I know you are —"
The Doctor took a deep breath —
"I love you," he rasped, and his hearts finally, finally, untwisted, the vice around his hearts that had been holding him for who knows how long loosening its grip. What had he been so afraid of? "I love you and I never told you — but I'm not gonna make that mistake again. I love you."
He closed his eyes, your head still cradled carefully in his hands, and did the last thing he felt he could do — he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Everything was spinning. The Doctor couldn't tell whether it was because his hearts had kicked themselves into high gear with his confession, or if it was because he was too late again and you were gone and he was just talking to the empty shell of your mind.
No, it couldn't be, because behind him, there was another tremendous crack, and the sound of shattering glass.
The Doctor opened his eyes, and you were finally awake.
And on the verge of tears. Oh no. But your teary eyes no longer shimmered like mirrors. Instead they sparkled like a sea of stars. Your lips trembled around the shape of a sob, your hands — no longer still as a statue — finding his wrists, shaking fingers wrapping around them.
"Oh, no, sweetheart, it's okay," the Doctor soothed. He rubbed your cheek to wipe away an errant tear. "Shh, it's alright. I've got you."
Your face crumpled. "I'm sorry," you whimpered, and for a strange moment the Doctor had never been so relieved to see you cry. It was so much better than the stillness. Then the concern, quick as a bullet, broke through. He wrapped his arms around you, and the Doctor knew it, sure as the golden sunsets of Gallifrey — you were safe. He was home.
"No, no." The Doctor sighed. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, and he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. You inhaled a deep, shuddering breath at that touch. "I'm sorry. I've been careless with you."
He felt you squeeze him back weakly.
"Doctor?" you asked.
He hummed. "Yes?"
"Do you mean it?"
"Mean what, sweetheart?" he asked, leaning away from the hug to look you in the eyes. It was so wonderful to gaze into them and see the sparkle there.
"That you love me," you said, your voice so incredibly small. "That I'm not… still stuck in a dream, or something."
The Doctor smiled — a real one, this time. "Of course I mean it," he said, and the way even saying that made him feel was impossible. He could only imagine how that would feel in the real world. "I do love you. I love you to the end of the universe — and I've been, so that must count for something."
He could still hear the sound of glass, fracturing and falling to the ground like rain. In a few moments you would be really awake, back on the TARDIS and not in some awful prison of your mind, and you would be in a lot of pain. But the Doctor was ready for that. He could be ready for anything, as long as you were there with him.
The tower was crumbling now, the mindscape collapsing around you, broken mirrors folding into themselves — but before it could all fall apart —
"Tell me again when I wake up?" you asked.
And when you opened your eyes, he would, a million times over.
if you've read this far i hope you enjoyed! have a lovely rest of ur day <3
Summary: You and the doctor are running from a horrific beast, but He has something to tell you.
Warnings: Monsters and Snogging.
Hello all! I hope you're all doing well, this is my first fan fiction so be nice! But if you like what you see I take requests!
“I think you made him angry.” The Doctor’s voice was tight with panic, the edges fraying in a way you’d never heard before. He wasn’t just nervous; he was afraid, Terrified even. And if he was afraid, you were as good as dead. He moved in front of you, his stance tense, like a man trying to shield a child. He squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest, Small and fragile pretending to be bigger than he was. It would have been almost endearing if it wasn’t utterly useless.
Your breath hitched as your gaze stayed locked on the thing in front of you. It was wrong. Blinding white, the color of fresh snow and hospital walls, but there was nothing pure about it. Its eyes, a vast blue, the other red and raw, freshly wounded. its gaze tore into you with a predator’s patience. A fresh scar slashed down its grotesque, rodent-like face, its curved ears twitching at every breath you took.
And then there was its body. massive. A hulking, bearlike beast, towering over you both like a skyscraper waiting to collapse. One swipe, one lazy flick of its monstrous claw, and you would be nothing but shredded meat. You could feel it. It knew that too and you bet it liked it.
Desperate, you turned to the Doctor, searching for some sign of reassurance, some plan, some miracle. But for the first time since you’d met him, he was silent.
“Angry?” You managed to get out. It felt more like a panicked ramble. “Why would he be angry?”
The doctor, still eyes glued to the monster, noticed the snapped pile of sticks and twigs, the pile was too small for the monster to have sat in but based on where the monster stood and the sudden switch, you would assume that it was the reason.
“It was a nest for its offspring and you broke it.” The doctor’s voice wobbled. “You stepped on it and you broke it.”
He didn’t sound like he was angry or telling you off in any way, which surprised you considering you were face to face with certain death and it was all your fault.
“I didn’t mean to.” You squeaked.
The Doctor twitched his head, “I don't think it cares. Over three hundred years of hunting, searching and scouring the planet for a nest for its newborns and it's been squandered by a human.”
Silence fell over you as you heard the monster’s snarls and growls. It sounded somewhat like a lion or a tiger. Both of you took a mini step back again as you felt your heart beating louder and louder. You looked to the doctor for some sort of comfort, but when you did, you received no such thing. The same look of eyes wide and a slightly agape mouth, still etched on his face didn’t necessarily take you by surprise but it definitely made your heart sink.
“Doctor.” You said, tugging at his sleeve.
“Yeah?” He responds, eyes still glued to the monster.
“Would now be the best time to run?” You began to panic even more. The Doctor turned to look at you for a split second, the first time he looked at you since you saw the creature. You’d never admit it but you liked it when he looked at you.
Even during certain death. Especially during certain death.
The Doctor, without taking his eyes off the monster stretched his arm around so he’s able to grip your hand. “Uh, yes. Yes I think that would be a great idea.”
He snapped out of his daze and pulled you by the hand and together you ran for your lives. The monster lets out an eardrum rupturing screech before barrelling for both of you. The ground shakes at every single booming step. You Watch as corridors twist and turn in your view.
You looked back, the doctor’s hand still in yours. A huge group of cyber armoured soldiers burst through one of the doors, their guns pointed at the creature - you were safe.
“Where did you put the TARDIS?” You asked, still slightly out of breath. You looked around, the entire building isn’t anything you’ve seen before. A spaceship of some kind? A derelict hunk of metal whirling through deep space, sent to keep the beast contained and never return to whatever hell it came from. There’s an acute feeling of despair that stains the walls of this Wraithhold.
“I haven’t the foggiest. It was meant to be here.” The Doctor said, panic dripping in his voice. “It was right here, I swear.”
“So, we’ve Lost it?”
“Unfortunately.”
Your heart Slammed against your ribs, a cold dread coiling in your gut. This is it, Here you are, Stranded on a dying, rust coated hunk of junk with nothing but the faint sounds of systems, slowly failing and the slow, wet grunts of the thing that might eat you alive. Panic grips at your throat, what if no one can get you off this god forsaken ship? What if you never see your mum again? Never step foot into your crummy job ever again? Never feel the warmth of the sun? It wasn’t much of a life before Him but now you are standing at the edge of something so much worse.
“(Y/N)” The Doctor broke you out of your trance. You spun around to look at him properly. His hair flopping in front of his face, dropped to his knees, twisting slightly so he was facing you. He looked to have been trying to ‘sonic’ an exit out of the side of the metal. “I think this is bad timing, but I have a feeling that we might not make it out alive-”
“Oh my god, please don’t say that.” You shrieked. “You have never said anything like that.”
“Would you just let me finish?” He cut you off, launching to his feet in one fluid motion. Before you could protest, his hand was suddenly on you. Warm, firm, calloused as it pressed against your mouth, silencing you. Your breath hitched. He never touched you. Not like this. Not ever.
Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as his gaze burned into yours.
“We might not make it out alive,” he murmured, low and rough. This was so unlike him. He was usually so bubbly, but this tone, it made you feel something. Then he shrugged, “but we probably will, because it’s me. But if we don’t…” His fingers twitched against your skin, his thumb ghosting along your cheek as his voice dropped to something almost guttural. “I need to do this. Just once.”
And then, before you could process it, before you could even breathe. His lips crashed into yours.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw, searing, all-consuming. His fingers slid from your mouth to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just right as he deepened the kiss, pressing himself flush against you. Heat coiled low in your stomach. The metal walls around you, the danger, the ticking clock. It all dissolved, drowned out by the way he tasted, the way he took you in his arms.
When he finally pulled back, just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, his breath was uneven. His hands lingered, thumbs stroking along the skin of your jawline as though worshipping the shape of you.
“If we die,” he whispered, lips barely brushing against yours, “at least I’ll go, knowing what that felt like.”
You pull away from him, a sly grin plastered across your face. “That was really cheesy, doctor.”
The doctor looked back at you with a look you couldn’t quite read, you supposed – you hoped it was a positive one. Then he smiled, oh god, He smiled. His dimples brimming on his cheeks. “You know me, gotta keep you on your toes.”
The Moment, just as quick as it started, was cut short by the ear splitting, shrill roar of the monster. You both snapped your heads in perfect unison adrenaline pulsing all over again.
“Speaking of keeping you on your toes.” A wicked grin spread across his face, Then before you could react, he laced his hand in yours and the two of you took off down the corridor
Hey girl, I see you’re taking requests so I thought I’d throw in something. Eleven with virgin!reader, he starts off slow and gentle but then ends up accidentally absolutely railing her. I feel like he’d just get so wrapped up in it and loses control a little.
Much love 🫶🏼
i decided to make this a blurb so i hope you enjoy more headcanon like vibes!! also pls ignore the fact that this is very late and i apologize 😭😭
nsfw | mdni | 11th doctor x virgin!reader
when you and the doctor have sex for the first time, he’s definitely so attentive and makes sure you’re not hurting in any way, shape, or form. he wants you to feel good and not to worry about being in any sort of discomfort. his thrusts would be slow, a hand would be intertwined with yours, his forehead resting against yours as he moved his hips.
but when he starts really getting into it and once he knows you’re feeling good too? it’s so different.
the doctor would start moving faster, he’d start babbling about how good you feel, he’d bury his head in your neck, all while you’re whining and moaning in his ear. at some point, he’d have your legs to your chest, thrusting in and out of you like he was on a mission. and when you finally cum, the doctor is absolutely mesmerized with how beautiful you look when you’re cumming that he cannot help but bury himself deep inside of you and cum so hard and so much.
afterwards, he would pull you into his arms and hold you close. and only when you mention something about how good your first time was, the doctor would suddenly realize he had lost himself in the pleasure. it had been a long time since he’d done it after all. he’d apologize to you profusely all while you’re smiling and shaking your head, promising him how much you adored it.
I couldn’t find find a list of “what I will and won’t write” so I apologize in advance if you do not write such things 🙏
Onto my request: Qe all know Valentine’s was a little bit ago, but I was wondering if we could get a late valentine’s special of the Eleventh Doctor X reader? Day of love so if you do write smut that be pretty super epic gaming (idk why I said that but I’m to far in writing to stop and go back.) But if you don’t then just something super sweet if you don’t mind ofc <33
color-coded
the doctor shows up at your office on valentine's day and learns a thing or two about how you see your relationship.
gif credit: @devilmns
a/n: ANON I GOT YOU!!! this will be fluff because i am not a smut writer and i probably should make a thingy that says what i will and wont write (and i did it's on my pinned post) - thank u anon for that. also this turned out to have angst in it because for some reason it always seeps though. and also i wrote most of this at work. boss makes a dollar i make a dime, etc etc etc. anyway i hope this is good and you enjoy!!!
—
You don't really want to be working on Valentine's Day.
You don't expect a day off — you're not that desperate. Today isn't a national holiday, and no matter how much you dread being in the office while your co-workers hide love letters around the building, your manager would not approve an emergency leave based on "awful vibes".
And then there's the matter of the dress code.
Your company's HR department, in some kind of effort to build camaraderie and encourage conversation among coworkers or whatever corporate shtick, has asked employees to dress in a color that represents their love life. Red if they're in love, black if they're heartbroken, yellow if they're single, purple if it's complicated, pink if it's unrequited. It's the silliest thing in the world.
What's the color for hopelessly pining over a nearly two-thousand-year-old spaceman with a funny outfit, floppy hair, and a handsome face who'll never look twice at you because, well, look at how normal you are?
You're so normal you aren't even with the Doctor on the TARDIS today. You haven't been in at least a week. You've told yourself it's a boundaries thing — you've spent so long building a life of your own on Earth that you're allowed to take a step back and go home every once in a while — but now all you want to do is smack the more rational version of you upside the head. You could be anywhere but your office right now. You could be on a water-world planet, submerged miles below the ocean, admiring the bioluminescent life as it swims by. You could be on Helnypso, the whole planet dedicated to being a beach resort. You could be sipping Lobarian wine watching the sun set over mountains of ice. You could be with him.
Instead you're here, in your saccharinely decorated office, surrounded by paper hearts, dressed in a stupid pink shirt that's probably just a little too small for you.
"You're glaring at your monitor like you want to explode it with your mind."
Your co-worker, Judy, flops into her chair beside you, setting down her possibly third coffee cup of the day. She has a red sweater on — her wife Kate works with the international client department, one floor above.
"It'll happen one of these days," you mutter. You type a few meaningless words into the document. Change the formatting on a couple of headings. Busywork to keep yourself from thinking about it too much. "One day I'll unlock my superpowers and you'll all be sorry."
"Ooh, grumpy." Judy smiles good-naturedly. "Don't think I haven't noticed the color of your shirt today. Did you and that handsome boyfriend of yours break up?"
You nearly delete your entire document with the way your fingers spasm over your keyboard. "Sorry?"
"Would be awful timing if you did," Judy continues. She takes a sip of her coffee like she hasn't nearly upended your day. "It was cute, seeing him pick you up from the office at the end of the week. Such a boyfriend thing to do. I thought I'd be seeing you in a different color today, you know?"
That was another thing you and the Doctor had agreed on. If you wanted to take a week back on Earth, he could pick you up at the end of it. You'd convinced yourself it was an entirely platonic compromise. You could ignore the butterflies fluttering in your stomach every time you saw the familiar blue box parked outside your office building, ignore the flush of heat that crept up your neck when the Doctor oh-so-casually flung his arms around you.
Because it is such a boyfriend thing to do, isn't it? Pick up your partner after work? The idea of it — it brings the butterflies to life. You have to swallow the smile that twitches at your lips. It's embarrassing how stupidly happy the idea makes you. Even if it is so far-fetched.
"He's not my boyfriend," you manage. "Just a friend. A good friend. Don't get any ideas."
Judy pauses mid-sip to peer at you over her glasses. A strange expression dawns across her face — her brows furrow, then relax, and then her eyes soften with understanding, her gaze settling on the color of your shirt. Silently, she sets her coffee cup down and turns her chair to face yours.
"Oh, dear," she says simply, and that's when you know you've been caught.
"Judy," you start, but she's already rolled her chair closer.
"If he's not your boyfriend then what is he, darling?" she asks. She takes you hand, so impossibly gentle it almost makes you angry.
You can't help the frown that twists your face. You don't know. He's a friend. That much you're sure of. The idea of him being your boyfriend, being yours is just a giddy fantasy that you haven't allowed yourself to indulge in — until today. The Doctor doesn't belong to people, and certainly not to you.
Your reply dies in your mouth when the doors to your office floor burst open and you hear someone call your name.
"Hello!" the Doctor greets. He's a purple blur as he strides over to you, coat swishing dramatically with every step. "There you are!"
"Speak of the devil," you mumble witheringly under your breath. Judy gives your hand a supportive squeeze before she returns to her coffee.
"Hi, Doctor," you say, louder, once he makes his way to your desk. The Doctor's face lights up and you have to keep yourself from grinning back. You are a little mad at him right now, you think. "What are you doing here?"
The Doctor smiles and loops his thumb around the lanyard hanging off his neck. His psychic paper is placed haphazardly into a badge holder, the words Important Visitor Pass printed on them in bolded text. "I came to pick you up. Was getting a little bit worried, you see, waiting. And I'm not good at that. I thought I'd speed it up a touch."
"By visiting me in my office." It is so hard to keep your voice flat. You are happy to see him. You think he can tell by the way your eyes squint, because his smile grows wider.
"Well, yes," he says, then pauses. "It is time for you to get off work, right?"
You raise your eyebrows at him and purse your lips, eyes darting around the still bustling office.
The Doctor's mouth falls open slightly. He turns his wrist over and pulls up his sleeve to reveal his watch — reading the clockface, he grimaces. "Five hours early," he says sheepishly, flashing you an awkward smile. "My mistake. Think I must have set the temporal navigator to the wrong setting."
It's enough to break your grumpy facade. You can never stay angry at the Doctor for too long, not when he looks like an embarrassed puppy. You let a smile spread across your face. "I'm never going to let you pick me up again if you can't learn to drive."
"Excuse you," the Doctor gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest, "I'll let you know I'm a wonderful driver. I drove a fire truck once."
"Not the point," you sing.
The Doctor scrunches his face in response. You scrunch back in wordless agreement.
Judy coughs.
"Oh!" The Doctor whirls around to face her, leaning down to clasp her hand in his in a vigorous handshake. "Hello there! You must be Judy, it's lovely to meet you."
"Likewise." Judy leans over his shoulder, mouths at you He knows who I am? You can only shrug. "The Doctor, I presume?"
"That's me," he replies brightly. He gives her hand another vigorous shake. "I met your wife on the way up, Kate, she's lovely. You're very lucky. And sorry, I really have to ask, but what's with the color-coding? Everyone's so colorful today."
"It's Valentines Day," Judy says carefully. "Kind of an office tradition to wear your relationship status as a color." She flashes her wedding band, wiggles her fingers. "Red means taken, like me, for example. You're wearing purple, so you'd be under it's complicated."
The Doctor claps his hands together. "That sounds about right," he mutters with a wry smile. Then his eyes settle on you, and he blinks. "So what does pink mean?"
You want to disappear out of your seat. Suddenly your pink shirt feels too bright, too stuck to your body. Judy glances back at you — you can only stare nervously back.
Go on, Judy mouths.
"Um —" Your tongue is like lead in your mouth. The words dry up and wither as fast as you can think of them. "Well, it — it means that I like someone that doesn't like me back."
The Doctor frowns like the thought personally offends him. "Well that's rubbish. Who wouldn't like you back? You're brilliant."
You know he means it by the way he looks at you, all wide-eyed and earnest. Yes, the Doctor lies, but never about things like this. When he calls you things like brilliant and wonderful you know he means it from the bottom of his hearts. The hard part is believing him.
"No, I'm —" You shake your head, shake the vision of the Doctor, staring at you with stars in his eyes. "Well I'm — normal, you see. And the person I like, they're everything but. It's like… it's like how I see the moon. The moon's beautiful, and wondrous, and it moves the tides themselves."
The words escape you, thin and reedy, with a shuddering breath, and you cover them with a shaky smile. "I can't move the moon."
A strange expression dawns across the Doctor's face. You feel a sick sense of deja vu. His brows furrow, then relax, and his eyes soften with understanding. But there's something else, something you can't quite place — it looks like sadness, deeper than you can fathom, more ancient than you'll ever understand.
He looks down at his feet for a moment, chin dipped against his chest, and he when he looks up he looks both younger and older than you've ever seen him.
"No, I think you could," the Doctor says quietly. The words pound heavy inside your chest.
Before you can even form a reply, he pats you on the shoulder. "I'll be off. Five hour hop into the future should do it," he says, flashing you and Judy a smile. Judy doesn't notice the way it wavers around the edges, but you do. You always notice him. "I'll see ya later."
He turns on his heel to leave. You're still frozen in place.
What the hell did you just say?
"Go," Judy splutters, the moment he's out of earshot. She's pushing you out of your chair, coffee sloshing dangerously inside her cup. "Go, go!"
Your heartbeat is crashing like stormy ocean waves in your ears. You let her push you out of your chair, and you basically stumble all the way to the elevator lobby. You find the Doctor there, waiting for the elevator to arrive. He's unsettlingly still, lost in thought, staring at his own reflection.
"I'm sorry," you call. Your voice echoes in the empty space.
He doesn't startle, instead turning his head to face you. "For what?"
Everything. Me. "For springing that on you," you say instead. You wring your hands. The Doctor's gaze is intense, focused — you find it hard to hold it with your own nervous one. You find your way to his side, standing in front of the elevator with him. "I'm sorry."
"None of that," the Doctor says, lowly. "I should be sorry."
Your head snaps up. Why would he be sorry? Surely it was your fault — only your own lovelorn heart could be to blame for the mess you're in. The elevator numbers tick higher, three, four, five, like your heartbeat racing faster and faster. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do," he grounds out, and there's a hardness tinting his words that you never expected. "I didn't notice. I'm so old now, and thick. I didn't notice the way you looked at me because I was too busy trying to —"
Seven, eight, nine. He sucks in a breath, lets it go. He turns to face you with those big, sad eyes of his, and places his hands on your shoulders like he's trying to anchor you to him.
"You're not just normal," he breathes. "I mean it when I say you are extraordinary. My old, daft, Time Lord brain, and all I can think about —"
He leans down, touches his forehead to yours, and your heart nearly gives out,
"All I can think about is you," he continues, hushed, staring into your eyes like you hung the moon. "You might think you're just normal, but you're all that's in this daft head of mine. And I missed you. I visited 'cos I missed you. I always do when you're gone."
That was that decided then. You are never, ever gonna leave the TARDIS again, if it means he can keep looking at you like that. "Okay," you say, your voice suddenly quite small, because what else could you say to that?
"Okay," the Doctor repeats, his voice also quite small.
He brushes his lips against your forehead ever so gently as the elevator doors ding, sliding open smoothly.
You're not sure what comes over you when he lets you go and steps inside the elevator. You're not sure whether it's the impossibly fond look on his face or the way his eyes are shining in the dim hallway light or just something, some instinct hammering away inside your chest, but you rush forward, grabbing the hem of his sleeve before the doors can close.
You don't say anything. You're not even sure you need to.
You hold his face in one hand, thumb brushing against his blushed skin, and tilt your head up, guiding him to you — he meets you halfway as you press a kiss on his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth. The moment is quicker than a heartbeat but it stretches into what feels like infinity.
There, you think as you lean away, dazed but proud. A kiss for a kiss.
It's hard to miss the Doctor's stunned expression when you step away. But his surprise melts into a gentle warmth, his smile wide across his face.
"Happy valentines," you murmur. "See you later."
"Happy valentines," he replies, his eyes twinkling. They continue to sparkle until the elevator doors close.
Author's Note: I've been having trouble writing Chapter 6, and I have so many ideas for little scenes that wouldn't fit within the overall narrative of the story, so I came up with the idea of doing shorter "half" chapters every now and then.
I'm sorry if you were expecting a whole new chapter this week, but I was thinking at least this way I'm still writing something as I work through my creative block. I really want to stay on a consistent publishing schedule, and I think a low-pressure, inconsequential structure like this is just what I need.
Let me know what you think about me writing more chapters like this. If you were disappointed, just know that next week's chapter is the longest one so far!
At long last, you'd finally fallen asleep, and you had successfully fallen asleep every night for the last several nights. In a way, your return to Gravity Falls had meant a return to old routines. Some of these habits were comforting, like sitting in your favorite chair as you read in the mornings, or sleeping in your own bed. Others only served as a distressing reminder of all that had changed since the 'old times'. For example, you still instinctually left the light on in the living room as if you expected Ford to sneak into bed during the wee hours of the morning.
Though you were able to fall asleep, that didn't necessarily mean you were able to stay asleep. Given your current occupation—that being the retrieval of your husband from an infinite array of possible hellish dimensions—you found yourself waking at the most inopportune times. Tonight was no different than previous nights.
You tossed and turned, attempting to fool yourself into believing you hadn't woken up yet again. You made a valiant effort, but at some point you just had to accept it. You weren't going to fall back asleep like this.
You were thoroughly uncomfortable in more ways than one. You were having trouble with back pain again, as you usually did whenever you wrestled with your comforter, and your throat was parched. While you loved the sparkling blankets of white outside, you loathed the winter air, dry and oppressive. Perhaps you could invest in a humidifier, you thought, but that wouldn't be much help right now.
You shuffled around in your bedsheets and got to your feet. It was still dark in your room, and you couldn't yet open your eyes all the way, so finding your slippers was going to be an impossible task. You weren't up to conducting a search at the current hour, so you crept from your bedroom down to the kitchen, bracing yourself as your bare feet met the cold tile.
Shivering slightly, you skittered toward the cabinets. You couldn't remember where the cups were now. Stan had shuffled around your kitchen organization a bit since he'd been living here, so you were stuck opening every cabinet again, until, at last—
Huzzah! The cups!
You filled a glass in the sink and leaned back against the counter, illuminated by the dim moonlight. You chugged the first half, then paused to take a breath. You looked at the remaining liquid in the glass. Was it half-full or half-empty?
Neither, you decided. It's completely full—half water, half air. Air, however, just wasn't very useful to you in your pursuit of hydration.
You drank the remainder of your water in small sips. Setting your glass down into sink, your stomach grumbled. As it turned out, hydration wasn't the only thing your body required before it would let you sink back into slumber tonight.
You opened the refigerator door only to be immediately blinded by the light emanating from the back of the fridge. Blinking a few times, your eyes adjusted so now you were able to at least squint. You were thankful that when you'd done your shopping you picked up a few snack foods besides the essentials because a pickle sounded like the perfect post-midnight picking.
You grabbed them from the refigerator door before kicking it closed behind you. Squeezing with all your might, you twisted the stubborn lid off and grabbed a spear from the jar. Then, setting the jar down beside you, you leaned over the counter and ate as you hovered above the sink, juice spilling down the side of your hand and into the basin. Nothing beat the impeccable crunch of a good pickle.
When you were finished, you grabbed another, and just as you bit into your second snack, the lights came on. You turned around half-dazed, looking, you imagined, not quite unlike a photograph of Bigfoot.
There stood Stan, again in a tank top, but now dressed down to his boxers. He himself seemed stunned, like he was walking in to pull a bank job only to find another guy already breaking-in to the vault.
Stan cleared his throat. "What'cha up to?"
Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Three twenty-seven. You looked back at him and held up the spear in your hand. "Pickle."
Stan shuffled over to the refrigerator in his slippers. With the lights on overhead, the fridge wasn't so blinding this time around. He pulled some tupperware off one of the shelfs and a fork out of the drawer. He let the fridge close on its own as he sat down at the kitchen table and removed the lid from the container—the spaghetti you made the other night. He stuck his fork in, cold, and shoved it in his mouth.
You turned back around, taking another bite of your pickle.
Summary: You help Alex practice a harder cello piece. But this practice is somehow entirely different from the previous ones.
Warnings: established relationship, MDNI (+18), swearing, subby Alex, sensory deprivation kinda (Alex is listening to music here), dry humping, fingering, brief oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, aftercare
Word count: 4k
Author's note: Look, I don't have anything to say. I think we all saw what we did yesterday, and immediately got obsessed. Did I write this during the night and fucked up my sleep schedule again? Maybe. But I think it was worth it. My darling Cha (@bergamote-catsandbooks) thank you for being so excited to beta read this story. Love you! 💜
The house is quiet. Quieter than on most days.
There isn’t any music echoing off the walls, no sound of cello creeping around every corner and the occasional curse of Alex when he misses a beat, or he makes a mistake.
It seems too odd. Your ears are already used to the constant loudness in the house, and now it is almost like it is haunted.
You shake yourself back to reality, giving the soup another stir in the pot before you reach to turn off the stove. You move to take a spoon from one of the drawers. The smells in the kitchen makes your mouth water, and your moves are maybe too quick as you taste the still too hot food.
The moment the spoon touches your lips, you hear a loud and frustrated sigh coming from the living room.
Well, maybe today isn’t as peaceful as you thought it would be.
You swallow that spoonful of soup, humming at the taste before you put the used spoon in the dirty dishes. It clatters against the plates, but you’re already out the door, worry filling you as you round the corner and your eyes fall on Alex.
You furrow your brows, not noticing anything unusual. Alex is laying on the couch, headphones on, tapping on the bunch of paper in front of him in his lap with a pencil. You almost swoon at the way he looks like. Black tank top with gray sweatpants. One of those outfits he wears when he’s not in his practice room, playing on his cello in just a shirt and his underwear.
“Alex,” you call out, but quickly realize that he can’t hear you because of the music playing in both his ears.
So you walk through the room, your bare feet tapping on the wooden floor quietly as you get closer. When you arrive beside him he still doesn’t look up, and as you sit down a soft breeze hits you through the open window behind the couch.
“Alex,” you try again, leaning closer to him.
When he still doesn’t pay any attention, not even turning his gaze towards you for a second, you do something that you immediately know you would regret after.
You take hold of the bunch of paper in his lap, placing it on the coffee table in front of you, followed by his pencil too.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks confused, brows furrowing, making the lines between them deeper.
You reach to push back his headphones, letting it hang around his neck as you look at him. “Lunch is ready,” you announce with a soft smile, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of his forehead.
His hands fall back onto his stomach, and with a frustrated sigh he throws his head back against the pillow. “I was in the middle of analyzing a very hard passage,” he murmurs under his breath, and you immediately feel guilty for interrupting him.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you couldn’t have known,” he shakes his head, lifting his head and looking at you. With one hand he reaches out, holding you by your waist and pulling you suddenly towards him. To prevent falling across him and landing on the floor, you throw your leg over his lap, straddling his hips. When your eyes fall on his face, you see a wide grin paying on his lips. “It’s okay.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs, his arms circling your middle and pulling you down to his chest. You rest your head in the crook of his neck as much as the headphones allow, and you listen to the music playing from it, the pace too fast, notes flying so quickly you can’t even understand how someone is able to play that.
“What is it?” you ask, curiosity winning as you glance up at him from behind your eyelashes.
“Saint-Saëns, Cello Concerto No. 2, Op. 119,” he answers immediately. Your eyes widen at his precision for knowing the exact passage, and you smile up at him.
“Sounds complicated.”
“That’s why I’m analyzing it first. I may understand harder works, but not this one. The notes I’m making don't make any sense,” he explains, his thumb drawing small circles on your back.
“And it’s making you frustrated because you want everything to go perfectly on your first try.” It’s not even a question. You know him so well now, to understand that he’s a perfectionist, when it comes to his playing and music.
“At this point you know me better than me," he chuckles. He angles his head so he can place a soft kiss on your temple, hugging you tighter.
You stay like that for a few minutes. Him holding you, the music playing beside your ear, the occasional chirping of birds creeping through the window, filling the room. But no matter how peaceful the moment seems like, the position makes your legs go numb, so you start squirming in his lap, trying to find a better one.
As you move, you feel his hands tightening on your waist, and he lets out a low groan. “Shit. Stop moving around, baby.”
You look at him confused for a second, not understanding why he says that, but then realization dawns on you when you push yourself back to sit in his lap again. You can feel something hard under you, pressing against your center. You look at him with a surprised expression, but then a satisfied smile stretches across your face. “You’re hard.”
He tries to ignore your statement, clearing his throat as he looks up and down your body. “This is my shirt. The one that I played in yesterday.”
“Don’t avoid the conversation,” you warn him, leaning close so you are hovering above him, steadying yourself with your hands on his chest. “You’re hard just by me moving around a little in your lap.”
“That wasn’t moving around a little. You were basically dry humping me. Of course I get hard.”
“Oh, Alex. I see some concepts are not clear for you. This is what dry humping is,” you shoot back with a wicked smile, starting to move your hips around in his lap, dragging the most aching part of your body across the hard line of his cock in his pants, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh at the feeling, the thin fabric of your underwear not blocking the sensation.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips and guiding your movements as he occasionally lifts his hips to match your rhythm.
When he closes his eyes and throws his head back, you suddenly stop. He tries to thrust up again, but you lift off of him enough that he can’t reach you, and he looks at you with a wounded expression. “Why did you stop?”
“I thought you wanted me to stop, no? You said it moments before.”
“No, hell no. I don’t want you to stop. The music must have got to my brain for saying that. Too many notes, too many sounds, too many—”
You don’t let him finish the sentence, capturing his lips with yours. He groans into the kiss, and you take that quick moment to take control, slipping your tongue past his teeth. His hands wander down from your back to your ass, squeezing down hard when you teasingly nip at his bottom lip.
You can feel his hands moving again, up under your — technically his — shirt, caressing your back before he moves them to your front, moaning gently when he realized you don’t have any bra on. He immediately starts playing with your breasts, the callouses on his hands rough against your skin, but still igniting a fire on the path he takes with them.
You can feel the wetness between your thighs, and maybe because of the lack of oxygen getting to your brain because of the kiss, or because something else entirely, you get an idea you never had before.
You break away from him with a soft gasp, taking in a deep breath as you look into his eyes, seeing only hunger and desire burning in them, his soft brown eyes turning almost fully black.
When you feel like your brain can function again, you reach for his headphones, taking them off from around his neck, but not putting them down behind you on the coffee table. You just hold them while he looks at you with confusion. You nod towards his tank top. “Take it off.”
He complies without a sound, taking his hands from under your shirt and sitting up so he can quickly get out of his tank top, throwing it to the side. When he is done, he lays back again, his hands finding their place again on your waist.
You lift the headphones a little in the air, hovering above him again. “So I hear this piece is very fast. Must require some amazing finger work,” you wonder, and you watch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I wonder how yours is compared to it.”
Without warning you take hold of his left hand, guiding it down along the waistband of your underwear until you dip it into the fabric, his fingers immediately swiping across your wetness. He moves to dip his fingers lower, but you stop him with a soft squeeze on his wrist, and you hold up the headphones in your other hand. “You’ll follow this pace, alright?” you ask, and lift it to put it on his head, but he is the one stopping you now.
“I won’t be able to hear you that way.”
“Take it as a challenge or an experiment,” you answer. “Imagine a deaf musician. They simply rely on their feelings and eyes. They feel the vibration of the strings under their fingers, see where they’re supposed to hold them down. You feel too, no?” you ask, bucking your hips into his hand, his fingers gliding across your folds again.
“I do,” he nods, his voice strained.
“Great. Good thing you have this piece on repeat.”
You place the headphones on his head, pulling them over his ears so he can only hear the music and nothing else. You nod at him, and he dips his fingers between your folds, swiping them back and forth until his index settles on your clit, drawing slow and tight circles over it.
But his pace is not matching the music you heard coming from his headphone earlier, so you lean down next to his ear, lifting one side of the headphone so he can hear you. “I don’t think the music is this slow.”
That is all you say before placing the headphone back on his ear and leaning back again. At your words his finger immediately speeds up, following the pace of the piece in his ear. His eyes are studying your reactions closely, and you can see them glint when your mouth opens around a soft moan, your eyebrows running together.
You reach to unbutton the shirt you have on, giving him a free sight of your bare breasts, and he doesn’t miss a beat as he sits up to take one of your nipples in his mouth while his right hand plays with the other. His tongue circles around the hardened nub while his index finger wanders downwards towards your entrance. You hold on to him with your arms around his shoulders, and you tilt your hips a little when he eases one finger inside of you, a soft moan leaving your lips.
He starts to move it in and out of you to the music, and you can already feel your walls tightening around his finger, your orgasm building up faster in you than you expected.
It doesn’t take long until he adds a second finger too, and you look down at him.
He is now resting his chin on your sternum, your nipple still glistening from his saliva. But in his eyes you see such concentration like you never saw before. He is looking out for every small breath you let out against his face, every time you open your mouth when you moan, every time you furrow your brow at the sensation growing in you.
And you know he can also feel the way your walls are tightening around his fingers.
So when the music hits another fast point and he picks up the pace of his fingers again, you let go. You fall forward, letting your forehead rest against his while your orgasm washes over you. Your thighs are shaking slightly around his, but he holds you up, slowing his fingers so you can ride out your high without him overstimulating you.
When you feel like your body can work again, you lean in to kiss him. He reciprocates it, pulling his hand out from your underwear to place it on your thigh.
When you pull back, you also push off one side of his headphones. “And how is your timing?”
“What do you mean?” he asks confused.
“Your timing. When you have to hold down the note, or jump into a passage,” you explain, trying to sound like you understand everything about his world.
“It’s pretty good I guess,” he shrugs, still looking at you with furrowed brows, trying to guess where this conversation is going.
“How about we practice that too?” you ask, slowly climbing off of him to lay down on your back. He follows you, hovering above you. “Do you want the underwear to stay?” you ask, hooking your thumbs in the waistband.
“No, not this time,” he shakes his head, his answer coming out breathless. You start pushing the lacy material off, but he takes over halfway down your thighs, pulling them off himself and throwing it on the ground. His eyes fall on your exposed center for a second, and before you can say anything, he is already laying on his stomach between your thighs.
You place your leg on his shoulders, but realize that this position easily pushes off his headphones, so you reach down to pull it back in place, keeping your hands on either side of his head.
He doesn’t wait for you to approve his action, he dives in, swiping his tongue all the way from your entrance to your clit. You jerk your hips at the sudden contact, and he places one hand on your lower belly to keep you still.
You let out a loud moan when he starts drawing quick circles over your clit with his tongue, you are sure that he can hear it even through the headphones. And when he closes his lips around the little nub and starts sucking it gently between his teeth, you know you won’t be able to last too long this way.
And the second time you come, you want that to happen on his cock.
So you quickly pull him up by his hair, and the sight of him with your wetness glistening on his mustache and beard makes you go dizzy. You partially push back the headphones from his ears again.
You open your legs wider so he can settle in, and when he is leaning comfortably over you, you reach down to pull down his gray sweatpants along with his underwear too. The moment his cock is free, your focus falls on it. His tip is already glistening with his precum, the head almost an angry red for being denied any friction for so long.
You place your hand on his stomach first, following that path of coarse hair from his belly button leading down to his cock, taking a hold of him.
He lets out a long groan above you as you gather his precum with your fingers, spreading it over his length as you stroke him a few times.
When you pull your hand away, he tries to chase it at first, bucking his hips, but then he waits for what you are going to do next. You reach up taking a hold of his headphones. “Concentrate on the timing,” you remind him before you put the headphones back over his ears.
He purses his lips, but nods. He reaches down between your bodies, taking a hold of his cock and guiding it through your folds a few times before he lines himself up at your entrance, pushing in slowly. Your walls stretch around his length, and you throw your head back against the pillows at the feeling.
He lowers himself closer to your body, his forearms resting on both side of your head, his chest making contact with your breasts.
When he bottoms out, you both let out a strained moan. He waits for a few seconds for you to adjust to his size before he starts moving based on the music.
His rhythm is steady, and when he hits the spot in you, you don’t even care anymore if he really is following the music’s timing, or he is just making it up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders, keeping him close while you wrap your legs around his waist, the new angle allowing him to go deeper in you, making you see stars.
You are moaning at every thrust, and next to your ear Alex is grunting too, breathing heavily and occasionally cursing under his breath. You can hear the music drifting out from his headphones, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
You tear it off from his head, throwing it to the ground carelessly.
Alex falters for a second, pulling back to look down at you, and when you nod in encouragement it is almost like a spell falls over him. He leans down to capture your mouth with his, and he starts driving into you with more force and determination, and you can’t help but hold on to him tighter, every thrust sending you further up on the couch.
The living room is filled with moans and the sound of skin slapping against each other, the smell of sweat and sex lingering in the air. Now the house is not filled with cello notes bouncing off the walls, but with the music of two people merging into one.
“Oh God, Alex,” you moan into his mouth.
He groans too, closing his eyes tightly. “Fuck, I missed hearing your moans,” he murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.
You can feel yourself get closer to your high again, and you pull back to warn him. “I’m close, Alex. I think I’m gonna—” Your sentence is broke off with a loud moan from you, your walls squeezing him tight as your orgasm washes over you in waves again, this one a lot more powerful than the previous.
Alex doesn’t stop moving above you, but you can feel how his thrusts become sloppier, and he doesn’t need more than a few before he comes hard, burying himself to the hilt, his warmth filling you. You can feel his cock twitching in you as your walls milk every last drop of cum from him, and then he collapses over you, careful not to crush you with his weight.
Neither of you says anything, but you don’t need to.
You brush your fingers through his hair, combing back the sweaty curls as he breathes into the crook of your neck. His hand is all over your body where he can reach — your arms, your shoulders, your sides, your outer thighs.
You have already learned that after such an intense time with you he always needs time to process. He is not used to such level of intimacy, not used to being vulnerable in front of anyone. So after these moments he needs some time to look back at them while you hold him close. Not because he is weak, but because he is afraid of the possibility that it was only just a dream that he made up to comfort himself.
And you always wait patiently until he is the one to break the silence.
Like now.
“I’m hungry,” he says with such simplicity that you can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.
“I bet you are. We’ll need to re-heat the soup.”
“Maybe, but I don’t regret having this moment,” he shrugs, looking up at you with a loving smile. He cranes his neck to place a kiss on your jaw before he pushes himself off of you. Both of you let out a low hiss when he pulls out of you, the emptiness in you suddenly too unexpected. He gets up from the couch, pulling his underwear and sweats back on before he looks back down at you. “I’ll get a wet towel.”
You nod, resting your head on a soft pillow as you watch him walk away, the muscles in his back moving under his tanned skin, hips swaying slightly with every step he takes, making your eyes fall on the curve of his ass.
When he disappears around the corner, you look up at the ceiling, closing your eyes for a few minutes, listening to the birds chirping outside under the window.
You only open them again when you hear his footsteps.
He kneels down beside the couch, cleaning you gently, and you watch in silence as he works. When he is done, you look around for your underwear, and when you see it on the ground you reach for it, but he stops you. You glance at him holding up a simple black material, and you look at him with a questioning expression. “A new pair of underwear. So you wouldn’t have to put on back one that is… well, you know,” he tries to find the words, and you consider it adorable how he stumbles over his own thoughts.
“I get it, don’t worry,” you reassure him, taking it from his hand to put it on. When the material sits around you comfortably, you take his face between your palms, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”
“Right,” he laughs nervously, getting up from the ground and pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll, uh, get us some food then. I’ll be right back,” he announces.
Before he can disappear behind the corner you call after him. “Alex.”
He turns around quickly, eyebrows pulled up, waiting for your next words. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
His lips pull into a small smile at those three words. He nods before he finally disappears.
He didn’t say it back. He never has, but you're patient with him. You know about some of the traumas that happened in his past. He sometimes is emotionally distant, but you don’t blame him. In those times you let him have his moment in his practice room, and when he comes out after spending hours in there, you keep him company.
Sometimes he talks about what happened at the rehearsal that day, or why he feels that way, sometimes he just prefers the silence and you close to him. There were times he asked you to read for him, or asked if he could play for you while you watched.
Even though he doesn’t say it out loud, you know he loves you. He shows it with his actions.
He just needs time to process his own emotions and feelings before he can say those three little words out loud too.
And you will be next to him when that day comes. Let it be days, weeks, months, or even years. But you know that you won’t ever be his first true love.
His true love will always be the music, and the beauty of playing. He fell in love with it as a child, and since then the bond between him and the music only grew. Nothing proves it better than him still playing on his first cello, that he got from his parents.
But you don’t mind. It was composed for him this way.
And his fingers run through the strings of life with a quiet, but strong confidence, creating a beautiful melody.
Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @eviispunk, @baronessvonglitter, @johnssherlock221, @goonersquad101, @my-tearsricochet, @nutbutterjellie, @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa
Some peope who were interested, but aren't on the taglist: @grogusmum, @vodkaandpizza, @peepawmiller, @kellyxo1, @mystickittytaco, @ningaispunk, @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls, @loveoverpride, @pedrospurplerain, @chewie-bars, @604to647, @joelmillerpascal
divider by: @cafekitsune & @rmstitanics & @uzmacchiato & @pepsipoet
word count: 2.6k
synopsis: You are brought to court for a proper marriage with Gwayne Hightower but Daemon Targaryen has another plan in mind.
a/n: Can we tell that I love writing for Daemon and I may have a favourite trope with him.
You were a daughter of House Redwyne of the Arbor—born to sun-drenched vineyards that perfumed the Reach and to ships that carried gold, wine, and quiet influence across the narrow sea. The Arbor’s wealth flowed through your veins as surely as its legacy, measured not only in coin, but in power carefully cultivated over generations.
Your name alone opened gates that remained firmly closed to lesser houses. A Redwyne dowry could fund fleets, sway councils, and secure loyalties. Your bloodline was spoken of with respect in council chambers and counting houses alike.
And now the time had come for you to use that name, bargaining piece to secure an alliance worthy of House Redwyne’s standing, to bind your legacy to another house powerful enough to match your own.
Your family’s arrival at the Red Keep was received beneath banners of deep burgundy, the sigil of your house rippling in the breeze as Otto Hightower and Viserys I Targaryen themselves came forth to greet you.
Yet the one face you searched for—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and even sharper tongued—was nowhere to be found.
By the time supper was served, the Red Keep was thick with whispers. It did not take long for the rumours to reach you: Otto Hightower had set his sights on you. A match for his son would bind Oldtown, the Arbor, and the crown in one elegant stroke.
The knowledge did not surprise you.
You had known the purpose of this visit long before your ships ever left the Arbor. Your father had made it clear that the time had come for you to marry. He did not seek merely a highborn husband for you, but one of consequence. House Redwyne possessed wealth in abundance, but your father wanted more than gold. He wanted more power and influence.
And what better match than Gwayne Hightower, son to the Hand of the King—honorable, influential, and perfectly positioned to elevate your house still further?
It was a sensible arrangement.
And yet, when it came to matters of the heart, sense had never been a thing you possessed. For what other explanation could there be for your continued folly—this forbidden tryst you refused to abandon, even knowing it placed everything you held dear at risk?
He came just after supper, when the Red Keep began to settle and courtiers drifted toward their chambers, wine-heavy and complacent. He had been absent from every gathering thus far, a deliberate omission that had gnawed at you all evening. Only beneath the cover of darkness did he finally appear, slipping into your room through one of Maegor’s hidden passages—the same secret entrance he had shown you years ago, back when you were reckless enough to believe the world could be bent to your whims and desires.
Your breath caught the moment you saw him.
“You cannot be here,” you whispered fiercely, crossing the space between you in two quick strides. Your hand pressed flat against his chest, half intent on shoving him back through the passage. “If anyone sees—”
“They won’t,” he replied, scoffing as his fingers closed around your wrist.
“You take too much for granted,” you scolded, wrenching free and turning away to smooth your night robe, as though a false sense of composure might somehow restore order to the moment. “My reputation—”
“—has survived me since the first time you gave in to me,” Daemon cut in smoothly.
You turned back just in time to catch the way his gaze raked over you—slow and unapologetically hungry.
“Barely,” he added, with a predatory smirk.
You glared at him. “I am here for proposal negotiations.”
He only hummed in response, arms crossing loosely as though the notion amused him, his attention never leaving you.
“You have no regard for propriety,” you huffed, turning your back once more, as if distance might dull the effect he had on you.
“Never have,” he replied lightly.
You had barely taken a step when he was behind you, his hands settling at your waist, firm and unyielding, drawing you back against his chest. His breath brushed your ear, lips grazing the shell of it as he spoke again, voice low and intimate.
“It’s what drew you to me in the first place.”
You tensed, breath catching despite yourself. “I will be married soon.”
His laugh came soft and dismissive, vibrating against your skin. “Ah yes,” he murmured. “To the lord of piety. A remarkably dull choice.” There was a sharp edge to his tone as he added, “You truly couldn’t do better than that cunt’s dutiful little heir?”
“It’s not as though I have a say in who I marry,” you snapped, twisting slightly in his hold. Then, more defensively, “And you don’t know him. He seems a decent man.”
He scoffed softly. “I know you,” Daemon said, and the certainty in his voice was the most unsettling thing of all. His lips brushed your neck, lingering there as he spoke again, “You don’t want a decent man. You want a man with fire. You want a dragon.”
Your lashes flutter as your body begins to melt into him. “Daemon…”
The protest died on your lips.
His hands traced slowly upward along your sides, familiar and sure, while his mouth followed the graceful line of your throat. One hand rose to your neck, guiding your head just enough for him to claim your lips, stealing your breath before you could remember why you should resist.
Sense deserted you entirely as you surrendered to the pull of him, to the ache of wanting that had lived in your chest for far too long.
You scarcely registered following him down onto the bed as he drew you down with him. His shirt had fallen open beneath your wandering hands, your fingers tracing familiar scars and hard-earned muscle, mapping what you already knew and lingering over anything that felt newly discovered.
Daemon kissed you with a hunger that unraveled you, coaxing soft, breathless sounds from your throat as though they belonged to him alone. And in that moment—caught between fire and ruin—you could no longer tell where he ended and you began.
His hands slipped beneath the hem of your nightdress, tracing a slow, incendiary path along heated skin. Your mouth parted, a plea forming on your tongue—
A knock.
You froze as though doused in ice water, your eyes flying open, heart slamming violently against your ribs.
“My lady?” your maid’s voice came from just beyond the door.
Daemon stilled instantly.
Panic snaps you back to sense. You shove Daemon down before he could react, dragging the blanket over him. your hands shaking as you snatched a pillow and pressed it firmly to your lap just as the door cracked open.
“Yes?” you answer, far too bright.
Your maid stepped inside, head bowed. “Apologies, my lady. Your father asked me to deliver a message.”
You nodded, forcing a smile as you prayed. Prayed she did not notice the odd rise beneath the covers, prayed that the candlelight was kind.
Beside you, pressed close to your side, Daemon smirked mischievously. Forever incorrigible and unrepentant.
You felt it the moment his fingers began to wander—sliding slowly along your bare leg, tracing an unhurried path back toward the hem of your slip. Your breath caught.
You nearly flinched, eyes widening as you felt what he was doing. Your leg kicked out subtly, a silent warning but he did not stop.
Your maid continued, unaware. “Lord Otto wishes to negotiate the terms for your hand. Your father asks that you attend the meeting tomorrow, just past breakfast.”
You nodded again, trying—failing—to focus as warm lips brushed the lowest edge of your sternum.
Your breath stuttered.
“Of course—thank you,” you said quickly, forcing a steadiness you did not feel. “Please let him know I shall be ready.”
You swallowed, heart hammering as his lips began to shift lower.
“Y-you are dismissed,” you added, voice jumping despite your effort to control it. You cleared your throat. “Goodnight.”
Your maid hesitated, her gaze sharpening just a fraction, suspicion flickering across her features.
Then she curtsied.
“As you wish, my lady.”
The door closed softly behind her.
You tear the blanket away, fury blazing. “You are impossible.”
Daemon only smiled.
He pushed himself up, his mouth claiming yours—stealing the words from your lips, the anger from your hands. Your protest dissolved the way it always did, melting into him despite your better judgment, despite every reason you had to resist.
“Don’t deny you haven’t missed me,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low with quiet certainty.
You should have denied it.
But the lie caught in your throat before it could be spoken.
Instead, you pulled him closer, surrendering to the truth you had never been able to escape. And while Otto Hightower plotted alliances and the Reach counted its wine casks and gold, Daemon Targaryen had already claimed what everyone was seeking—you.
By morning, Daemon was gone—vanished without a trace, as though the night itself had swallowed him whole. You woke to cool sheets and the unwelcome return of reality.
Breakfast was an exercise in restraint. Your father spoke at length about duty and advantage, about how vital this match was for House Redwyne, reminding you to comport yourself as a lady befitting your station. You nodded where expected, answered when addressed, and swallowed the weight of his expectations along with your food.
When the negotiations began in earnest, you found you scarcely cared what value Otto Hightower placed upon you. Titles, alliances, dowries—it all blurred together into a tedious recital. Your interest in the proceedings was thin at best; your heart was not present in the chamber at all.
You sat beside your father, hands folded neatly in your lap, posture flawless, while Gwayne Hightower sat across from you beside Otto. When your eyes met, he offered you hopeful smiles—earnest, polite, well-mannered. You returned them as best you could, though your attention waned with every passing moment. You listened, nodded when expected, and endured the discussion with practiced grace.
By all accounts, Gwayne was an excellent match.
He was no bloated lord grown soft with age and indulgence, but a knight in his prime—handsome, capable, and sincere in his intentions. He would make a fine husband. A proper one. The sort of man your mother would praise and your father would trust without reservation.
Unfortunately, your heart had never been so sensible.
And as you sat there, composed and compliant, you could not help but think that fire had spoiled you for anything less.
You blinked from your thoughts when your father cleared his throat.
“We are agreed, then,” he said carefully, fingers steepled before him. “The terms are… acceptable. Provided certain details are refined.”
Viserys nodded, offering a conciliatory smile. “That is precisely why we are gathered—to ensure all parties depart satisfied.”
Otto smiled with measured approval. “My son would make a devoted husband,” he said smoothly. “House Hightower values loyalty above all.”
Your father hummed in agreement. “A fine quality.”
You drew in a quiet breath and turned toward Gwayne, offering him a small smile, the most you could manage. You hoped it appeared bashful rather than strained, hopeful rather than resigned.
You opened your mouth, ready to offer some meaningless pleasantry about duty and anticipation, ready to play your part at last—
When the chamber doors slammed open. The sound cracked through the chamber like a thunderclap, reverberating off stone and gilded pillars alike.
Every head turned at once.
“Gods—” Otto snapped, half-rising from his seat.
You looked up, heart stalling in your chest as Daemon strode in as if he owned the hall. Silver hair loose, expression sharp with determined intent.
“Brother,” Viserys said, startled, pushing to his feet. “This is a private council—”
“I know,” Daemon replied coolly. His gaze swept the room before settling, unmistakably, on you. “That’s why I’m here.”
Your father stiffened beside you. “Prince Daemon—”
“I will be brief,” Daemon said, cutting him off.“I have come to make an offer…For your daughter’s hand.”
The room erupted at once.
“That is highly inappropriate,” Otto snapped, rising fully to his feet. “Negotiations are already underway.”
“And lacking,” Daemon countered without hesitation.
He turned back to your father, voice calm, assured—dangerously so. “I offer more. Gold enough to rival the Arbor’s own vaults. Lands, favour at court—” his gaze flicked briefly to the Iron Throne before returning to you, “—and my name and station.”
A murmur swept the chamber.
Viserys stood abruptly. “Daemon, you cannot simply barge into a council and make such a demand—”
“I can,” Daemon said evenly.
He did not look at his brother. He did not look at Otto. His attention remained fixed on you alone, as if the rest of the room were little more than background noise..
“And I am.”
Your breath hitched. Beneath the table, your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown as you fought to keep the sudden, treacherous spark of hope from showing on your face.
“Lord Redwyne came to the Red Keep to secure the best possible match for his daughter,” Daemon continued calmly, as if stating a simple truth rather than upending the room. “And I am the best match.”
“My marriage to Lady Redwyne,” he went on, unhurried, assured, “is far more favourable to the crown than any union she might make with Otto’s boy.”
It was not something Viserys could easily refute. He hesitated, mouth parting as if to speak—then closing again, the weight of Daemon’s words settling heavily.
Beside you, Gwayne shifted, making to rise from his seat. Otto caught his arm at once, fingers biting into the fabric of his sleeve as he scoffed derisively.
“This is not how alliances are made,” Otto said coldly.
Daemon turned his head at last, violet eyes sharp, his mouth curving into a thin, knowing smile.
“No,” he agreed softly. “This is how they are taken.”
Silence stretched—heavy, stunned.
Your father swallowed, fingers tightening against the arm of his chair. “This is… unexpected,” he said at last, voice measured but strained.
Daemon stepped closer. “Is it unwelcome?”
The question was not directed at you, yet his gaze flicked briefly in your direction—just long enough to steal the air from your lungs.
Your father hesitated. You saw the calculation play across his face: risk weighed against reward, caution against ambition. At last, he exhaled shakily.
“If—if the prince is serious,” he said, choosing his words with care, “then I would be a fool to refuse such an offer.”
Otto’s face darkened instantly. “You cannot mean—”
“I do,” your father interrupted, firmer now. “House Redwyne did not come to court to settle for less than the strongest possible alliance.”
Viserys closed his eyes briefly, rubbing at his temples as though warding off a headache. “Gods,” he muttered. Then, louder, resigned, “If all parties are agreed… then the crown will not stand in the way.”
Otto let go of Gwayne’s arm, his jaw set hard with fury, but he said no more.
Daemon’s smile was slow and triumphant.
Before you could so much as rise from your seat, he crossed the distance and swept you up without ceremony, slinging you effortlessly over his shoulder. The suddenness of it stole the air from your lungs.
“Daemon!” you gasped, a sharp cry of surprise tearing free as you instinctively tried to wriggle from his grasp.
“Easy, my future wife,” he said lightly, one arm tightening to secure you in place. “You’re mine now.”
“This is outrageous!” Otto shouted after him, his voice sharp with fury.
Daemon did not turn back, leaving the four lords to their arguing.
He carried you from the chamber as though the matter were already settled, his boots echoing against the stone corridor while your heart thundered in time with each step. Scandalized murmurs followed in his wake, but he paid them no heed.
And as the doors closed behind you—sealing away alliances, negotiations, and the life that had been chosen for you—you knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Daemon Targaryen had never intended to let you go.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @rmstitanics & @uzmacchiato & @pepsipoet
word count: 7.4k
synopsis: He was fire, you were thorns. Forced into an unwanted marriage, Daemon Targaryen slowly comes to realize that being bound to you might not be the curse he once thought—but the perfect match he never expected.
a/n: I may have gotten a little carried away with this one. There are a few potentially triggering moments—nothing overly graphic, but I’ve listed the warnings below just in case. Please read with care.
warnings: Attempted SA (not by Daemon), mutilation, infertility accusations, political manipulation, and Otto being a power-hungry ass.
The wedding feast was suffocating. The air thick with roses, gold, and polite falsities. You sat beside Daemon Targaryen—your new husband—while the King raised a goblet and smiled through his teeth. Everyone knew what this was, another political match meant to tame Daemon’s reputation and bind your allied family tighter to the Crown.
Daemon hadn’t looked at you once. Not when you exchanged vows. Not when Viserys gave a speech about you two. Not even when you boldly reached for his cup, having already drained your own.
When he finally did, it was with that same infuriating sneer you were already learning to hate.
“So this is my reward for everything I’ve done,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only you to hear. “A fragile Tyrell rose.”
You smiled without warmth, your tone as sharp as Darksister that was resting at Daemon’s hip. “And I’m to believe I should be grateful to be shackled to a dragon of my own?”
His eyes flicked toward you and narrowed, his tone as cold as yours despite the faint trace of amusement threading through his disdain. “I’m not your dragon, wife,” he drawled, voice soft but edged with warning for you not to get your expectations up. Not that you had any. You knew exactly where you stood with your new husband—unwanted. “You may find you’ve married something you cannot handle.”
You hummed, entirely unbothered. “Only time will tell,” you said evenly, meeting his violet gaze without flinching. “Which one of us can’t handle the other.”
Daemon made no effort to hide his dislike in the weeks that followed. He avoided dinners, ignored the courtiers who dared offer their congratulations, and left your marriage bed untouched and cold. He refused even to consummate the union—much to your quiet relief.
You, in turn, perfected the art of pretending not to care.
You did not rise to his baiting remarks or sharp-edged insults. You ignored the whispers that slithered through the halls, the rumours that spread like wildfire about the cold marriage between the Rogue Prince and his southern bride.
Instead, you smiled sweetly, your wit sharp enough to charm but never offend the members of court around you. Where Daemon made enemies, you made allies. You had learned quickly how to survive the venom of court: with polite smiles, measured words, and alliances that grew quietly in the shadows. People underestimated you because you were young, southern, and soft-spoken. That suited you perfectly.
Daemon, however, did not take kindly to being ignored despite his own actions—especially by his wife.
He found you one afternoon in the gardens, sunlight filtering through the lemon trees, deep in conversation with a few of the court’s lords. His sharp stare cut across the courtyard like a blade, but you met it with nothing more than a polite nod before returning to your discussion, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Only that dismissal didn’t suit him and decided to interrupt and remind that fat lord just who you belonged too.
“Lord Redwyne,” he drawled as he approached, hands clasped loosely behind his back, tone deceptively casual. “I wasn’t aware my wife required your company quite so often.”
The poor lord paled instantly, words tumbling from his lips as he stammered a hurried apology before bowing and making a hasty retreat. You waited until the echo of his boots faded before finally turning to Daemon.
“Was that truly necessary?” you asked, annoyance lacing your voice as you regarded your husband with open disdain.
Daemon’s mouth curved into a smirk, his violet eyes glinting with something between mockery and challenge. “I find men at court need reminding of their boundaries.”
You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear. “And yet here you are,” you said evenly, “forgetting yours.”
You turned to leave, skirts whispering against the stone, but his hand shot out—fingers curling tightly around your wrist. His grip was firm and possessive, eyes dark with anger at your audacity.
“I am your husband,” he hissed, his grip tightening around your wrist. “There are no boundaries placed upon me. I could choose to take you here and now, and no one would dare stop me. Do well to remember who exactly you belong to.”
You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing, lips curling into a sharp, cold sneer. “And you’d do well to remember,” you said, voice low and venomous as you wrenched your wrist free of his hold, “that dragons aren’t the only danger in this world. Poison can be equally as effective as fire.”
You didn’t wait for his reply. The echo of your steps trailed behind you as you stormed down the hall, leaving Daemon standing there, the tension in his jaw slowly easing before a faint grin tugged at his mouth.
You were still his unwanted wife, but the longer he watched, the more Daemon realized your indifference fascinated him. There was something intoxicating about the way you carried yourself. He had thought you soft, too weak to stand by his side as his wife, yet beneath that deceptively innocent exterior laid an unyielding spine and a quiet, hidden fire he found himself wanting to provoke—to see how brightly it might burn.
You had adapted to court life far faster than he’d anticipated, and the fact that you offered him nothing—no submission, no craving for his approval—only deepened his fascination. He had expected you to run back to Highgarden, to crumble beneath the weight of court politics, or perhaps to come crawling to him for protection once the vipers began to circle. Instead, you had stood your ground. You may not have carried the blood of the dragon, but your thorns proved sharp enough to rival one’s bite.
And as the days passed, he watched you closer, beginning to notice a shift in court—the way certain lords now looked at you with measured respect, the way your words began to carry more weight when you spoke. You were earning favour, allies, influence—without his name, without his help.
Daemon would never say it aloud, but the truth lingered all the same: the woman he had dismissed was quickly becoming the only person in the Red Keep he could not ignore.
It was deep into the night when he found you.
He hadn’t meant to—restless and half-drunk, he’d been wandering the castle’s corridors in search of quiet when a sound stopped him. A scuffle. A muffled cry.
His hand went to the hilt of his sword before his mind even caught up with his body. He turned the corner—steel half-drawn—and what he saw turned his blood to fire.
A knight, one of the Reach’s lesser sons, had you pinned against the cold stone wall. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other tearing at the thin fabric of your nightgown. You shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble, but he caught you again, slamming your shoulder into the wall with a brutal thud. You fought like a cornered animal—kicking, clawing, the sound of your muffled scream cutting through the stillness of the Keep.
Daemon didn’t think. He moved.
In two long strides, he was on the knight, seizing him by the collar and hurling him against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the stone. The clang of metal filled the hall as the knight’s sword hit the floor, followed by a strangled gasp of pain.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Daemon snarled, every word vibrating with barely contained fury.
The knight barely had time to register who stood before him before Daemon’s fist collided with his face, the impact sending him sprawling across the stone floor. The sickening crack of bone echoed down the corridor, followed by a sharp cry of pain.
“Please—” the knight gasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to crawl away.
Daemon said nothing. His expression was carved from ice, his fury so cold it burned. He drove his boot into the man’s ribs once—hard—then again, each strike landing with the force of restrained rage. But restraint only lasted so long.
“Tell me,” Daemon hissed, his voice low and venomous, “why I should stop—when you saw fit to ignore my lady wife as she begged you to let her go?”
He seized the knight by the collar, yanking him upright with a violent jerk. The man’s head lolled, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth as he blubbered incoherently—pleas for mercy, apologies, excuses.
Daemon’s lip curled. “Pathetic.”
The words were little more than a growl before his fist crashed into the man’s face again. The wet, sickening sound of impact echoed down the corridor, followed by another and another, until the knight’s desperate cries dissolved into gurgled whimpers. Bone crunched beneath Daemon’s knuckles; blood splattered his sleeve.
The knight’s feeble attempts to shield himself only stoked Daemon’s fury further. He struck until the man finally collapsed—crumpled and half-conscious, his face a ruined mess of blood, swelling, and shattered bone.
Daemon’s breathing came harsh and ragged. He straightened slowly, wiping a streak of the man’s blood from his knuckles with a calm that contrasted his earlier fury. He should have called for the guards—those useless bastards who had clearly been asleep at their posts—but he had no intention of delegating this.
No, this was personal.
He would make a spectacle of this wretch. He would ensure that every knight, lord, and servant in the Red Keep knew what became of any man foolish enough to lay a hand on what belonged to him.
Because as unwanted as you had been, you were still his wife. And compared to his late bronze bitch, you were far more tolerable—infuriatingly so.
He was already moving, intent on dragging the vermin to the dungeons, when a flicker of movement stopped him.
You stepped forward.
Your nightgown was torn, the fabric clutched tightly to your chest to preserve what little modesty you had left. Blood stained your lip, your hair hung loose and tangled, and your eyes—seven hells, your eyes—burned with a cold, unflinching fire.
Before Daemon could speak, your hand darted for the dagger at his belt. His fingers twitched in surprise, but you were faster—ripping it free in one fluid motion. He opened his mouth, perhaps to stop you, perhaps to warn you, but the words never left his tongue.
You dropped to your knees beside the fallen knight.
Daemon watched, frozen, as the trembling in your hand steadied with terrifying purpose. And in that heartbeat, he realized he had gravely underestimated you. The danger you carried wasn’t in your silver tongue or your deceptively soft appearance. It was in the fire he so often enjoyed provoking—the one that now burned, fierce and unrestrained, revealing a brutality that mirrored his own.
The blade came down. Once. Twice. The sound was wet and final.
The scream that followed ripped through the Keep, sharp and ragged, echoing off the stone. Blood spattered across your cheek, soaking into your torn nightgown as the severed hand hit the flagstones with a dull, wet thud.
You didn’t look away, your eyes burning with something perilously close to satisfaction. You only took a single deep breath, your grip on the slick dagger tightening for a brief moment before you finally straightened up.
“He won’t be touching anyone again,” you said, your voice calm—eerily so. Then, as if the act had been no more than pruning a hedge in the garden, you turned the dagger in your hand and offered it back to Daemon, blood still dripping from the blade. “You can do the rest.”
Daemon stared at you—really stared—as if seeing you for the first time. The sharp edge of his anger faltered, giving way to something dangerously close to admiration. Then, slowly, a low laugh rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t mocking or cruel, but low and genuine—born of disbelief more than mirth.
“Seven hells,” he murmured, a crooked grin curving his lips. “Perhaps the gods aren’t so cruel after all. You’re full of surprises, little flower.”
You met his gaze without flinching, the flickering torchlight catching on the blood still splattered across your cheek.
“You married a Tyrell,” you said evenly, “not a delicate flower.”
His grin widened, sharp and feral. “No,” he said, almost admiringly. “It seems I married a thorn.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing a streak of blood from your cheek. The touch lingered—longer than it should have, longer than either of you cared to admit. His eyes, glinting in the dim torchlight, softened into something dark and dangerous. “Perhaps,” he murmured, voice low, “I should’ve agreed to this marriage sooner.”
You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by the sudden warmth in his tone. “Save your charm for someone who cares, husband,” you said coolly, stepping past him.
The hem of your ruined nightgown dragged across the stones, leaving thin streaks of crimson in your wake. You didn’t look back—not even when another low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
Daemon watched you go, the sound of your fading footsteps echoing through the corridor. You didn’t rush away, nor offer him a single glance.
For a man like him, so accustomed to obedience, fear, or devotion, that quiet defiance was nothing short of intoxicating.
By the time you disappeared around the corner, Daemon’s grin had widened, but it was darker and less amused. He glanced down at the severed hand still lying in a growing pool of blood, then toward the path you’d taken.
“Definitely a thorn,” he muttered to himself, before raising his dagger to do as you ordered and finish what you started.
By the time the task was done and the wretch was dragged to the dungeons, you were long gone. When Daemon finally reached your shared martial chambers, he found the door barred from within. There was a faint flicker of candlelight beneath the door, telling him there was a high chance you were still awake.
He stood there for a moment, silent, debating whether to knock. His hand hovered near the handle, but he didn’t move. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he let his hand fall away.
“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured under his breath, turning on his heel.
As he walked down the dim corridor, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone, Daemon found something unfamiliar curling in his chest as he once again thought of you.
For the first time in years, he was smiling at the thought of someone daring to tell him no.
The story spread quickly—faster than wildfire and twice as hot.
By morning, the entire court knew that a knight had been maimed and stripped of his title, Daemon Targaryen had been involved, and the new Lady Targaryen was not to be trifled with. Servants whispered in corridors, eyes wide with both fear and fascination. Lords traded embellished versions over their morning wine, each claiming to know the true tale. And by the time the sun reached its peak, it had reached the ears of the Small Council.
Viserys wasted no time. Before the morning was out, the two of you were summoned before the Iron Throne.
Daemon stood tall at your side, hands clasped behind his back, his smirk unmistakably smug as though the entire affair amused him. You, however, remained composed, despite the split lip and the faint bruise still shadowing your jaw.
Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. His patience, always thin when it came to his brother, was clearly stretched to its limits. “Seven hells, Daemon,” he muttered, his tone sharp with exasperation. “Can you not go a single month without bloodshed in the Keep?”
Daemon’s smirk only deepened. “It wasn’t entirely my doing this time,” he drawled lazily, almost playful. “My wife saw to most of it.”
The council chamber fell into utter silence. as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to thinly veiled horror, as though they’d just realized the soft-spoken lady from the Reach was no lady at all.
You did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. When you spoke, your tone was calm yet cold. “The knight was drunk and violent, Your Grace,” you said evenly. “My husband stopped him before he could do worse. I merely… ensured it would never happen again.”
Otto Hightower regarded you as though you’d sprouted fangs. “You ensured it?” he repeated, his voice slow and dripping with disdain. “By cutting off his hands? The man was brutalized.”
“Hand,” you corrected smoothly. “I took only one. My husband saw to the other in his own form of retribution.” You tilted your head slightly, meeting Otto’s stare without wavering. “Would you prefer I’d waited for the court to deliberate while he still had the use of it? It is the law, is it not—to lose them for such crimes?”
For a moment, silence hung over the council chamber. Then Daemon broke it as he chuckled under his breath, low and amused.
Otto’s eyes narrowed, his irritation bleeding into every measured word. “The law, Lady Tyrell—”
“Targaryen,” Daemon interrupted, his tone deceptively mild.
The single word landed like a slap. Otto blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his expression smoothed back into something resembling civility. He inclined his head slightly, though the muscle in his jaw twitched. “The law, Lady Targaryen,” he corrected, voice clipped and cold, “is not yours to carry out. You have overstepped your station. The King’s justice does not come from the hands of women—or from vigilantes acting on impulse.”
Your expression didn’t falter, though the tension in the room thickened. “Then perhaps,” you said evenly, “the King’s justice should arrive before a woman needs to defend herself.”
A few councillors shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. Otto’s expression darkened, his composure fraying at the edges. “You forget yourself, my lady,” he snapped. “Such defiance is unbecoming of—”
“Careful, Otto,” Daemon drawled, his voice cutting cleanly through the chamber. “You seem to be forgetting yourself.”
The Hand froze mid-sentence. The smirk that usually curved Daemon’s lips had vanished, replaced by something colder and dark. His words simmered with threat. He took a slow step forward, the click of his boots echoing against the stone floor.
“My wife,” Daemon declared, looking to the members of the council, “was attacked in her own hall. And the man who dared touch her breathes still. I’d say we’ve already shown the court more mercy than it deserves.”
Otto’s jaw tightened. “Mercy?” he repeated with a scoff. “You call mutilation mercy?”
Daemon’s gaze turned sharp as a blade. “That, Otto,” he said evenly, “is leniency. Were it my full measure of justice, you’d be discussing a corpse, not a cripple.”
Viserys sighed, rubbing at his temple as though warding off an oncoming headache. “Daemon—”
But Daemon wasn’t finished. He moved closer to Otto, enough that the old man’s hand twitched to grab the edge of the table.
“You should choose your next words carefully, my lord Hand,” Daemon said softly, the quiet in his tone somehow more dangerous than a shout. “Because the only reason this matter reached your ears at all is that I allowed it to. Had I wished otherwise, that knight would’ve vanished before sunrise — and not a soul would be the wiser.”
Otto’s mouth tightened, his knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. “You threaten the Hand of the King in open council?”
Daemon’s grin returned — thin, wolfish, and entirely without warmth. “No,” he said. “I’m reminding you where your authority ends.” His gaze flicked toward you, lingering for a heartbeat before returning to Otto. “Whether you like it or not, she is a princess. Her word carries the same weight as mine — as any Targaryen’s. You’d do well to remember that the next time you choose to address her so brazenly. Next time,” his voice dropped, dangerous and deliberate, “I may not be so… lenient.”
“Enough,” Viserys interjected sharply, his patience at last fraying. He sank back against the Iron Throne with a weary exhale. “Gods save me, the two of you are well-matched. The knight’s punishment will stand as delivered. Now — let us not waste more of the realm’s time on this nonsense.”
Otto looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at Daemon’s expression silenced him. The prince’s violet eyes burned with quiet warning, and the faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned back toward you, brushing his fingers briefly against yours
You didn’t return the gesture, though your lips curved just slightly as you met his gaze.
For the first time since your marriage, Daemon’s smirk wasn’t cruel. It was proud. And worse still, it was genuine.
After the council incident, something between you and Daemon shifted. It wasn’t a sudden change, nor one you could easily define. It was noticeable enough that conversations faltered when you entered a room together. Even Otto Hightower, ever the picture of composure, could not disguise the way his mouth tightened and his expression soured the moment his gaze landed on either of you.
You had become something of a spectacle: the Rogue Prince and the Southern Rose, a union that should have burned under the weight of its own volatility—but hadn’t.
Daemon, of course, took delight in every ounce of scandal your union was inspiring.
At council meetings, he no longer sat opposite you but beside you, close enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against your sleeve when he leaned in. He had made it his personal amusement to whisper comments low enough for only you to hear — wicked little asides designed to test your composure.
“I think,” he murmured one morning, as Otto began another of his long, tedious speeches, “if the old vulture glares any harder, his eyes might fall out.”
You fought the smile tugging at your lips, forcing your expression into something neutral. “Try not to provoke him,” you whispered back. “He’s still the Hand.”
Daemon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous humour. “He’s a hand I’d gladly cut off,” he murmured. “Care to help me, wife? You did quite well the last time.”
You sighed, though the faint curl of your lips betrayed you. In truth, you disliked Otto Hightower just as deeply as Daemon did. The man was a vulture — always circling the throne, always overreaching, always pretending his ambition was piety.
“You enjoy making enemies far too much,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Daemon’s smirk only deepened, that infuriating glint in his eyes suggesting he found your disapproval endlessly entertaining.
He began to appear everywhere.
At dinners, his chair was suddenly beside yours, his presence commanding attention no matter how much you tried to ignore it. In the gardens, you’d feel his gaze long before you turned to find him watching, his expression unreadable. Even during court sessions, he lingered near you, standing just close enough to make it impossible for anyone to forget whose wife you were.
He hovered close enough to unsettle you, close enough that the courtiers began to whisper behind gloved hands. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Daemon Targaryen had made no secret of his disdain for this marriage, for you. Yet now, wherever you went, he followed — a shadow that refused to fade, a dragon circling what he had once dismissed as unworthy prey.
And in all his watching, Daemon came to a realization.
The lords who had once made their disdain for him plain were now markedly more tolerant—some even deferential. Conversations that used to die the moment he entered no longer did. The same mouths that had once whispered against him now spoke with murmurs of cautious respect.
It hadn’t been his doing. It had been yours.
For all your ice, for all the cruelty he’d shown you, you had never once turned against him. In your own quiet way, you had stood beside him. Those endless interactions he had dismissed as meaningless pleasantries, the soft smiles and chatters he’d mistaken for you wasting your time on simpering lords in what he had thought had been in indulgence, hadn’t been acts of vanity or spite.
You had been securing him power. Turning enemies into allies. Shifting the court’s favour not through fear, but through quiet influence — a kind of power he’d never learned to wield.
And you had done it all without asking for credit, without expecting his gratitude.
It unsettled him—how easily you’d done what he, with all his fire and fury, never could. For perhaps the first time in his life, Daemon Targaryen found himself forced to admit that he had gravely underestimated the woman the gods had chained him to.
“You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” Daemon drawled one evening as he joined you on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The setting sun bled across the sky, painting the water in molten gold and fire, while the wind carried the faint scent of salt and smoke through the air.
“Half the court is terrified of you now,” he continued, his tone lazy, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Are they now?” you mused, lifting your goblet and taking a slow sip of wine. “Perhaps it’s you they fear, husband.”
Daemon snorted, resting one shoulder against the carved stone rail. “Of course they fear me,” he said easily, almost amused. “But you, my lady wife—” his gaze swept over you, lingering in that way that felt like admiration, “— you’ve built a reputation entirely your own. And a powerful one at that.”
You arched a brow, setting your goblet down with a soft clink. “You almost sound impressed.”
A low hum rumbled in his throat, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, crooked smile that had begun to lose some of its cruelty. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted, leaning in as his tongue swept briefly across his lips.
You turned to face him fully, the sea breeze catching a loose strand of your hair and brushing it against your cheek. “Then you should be careful,” you said lightly, though the warning in your voice was unmistakable. “It seems I’ve earned a reputation for maiming men who touch without asking.”
His answering grin was wicked, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement. “Don’t worry, wife,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and far too sure of itself. “When I touch you, it’ll be because you begged me to.”
You didn’t blush at his implication. You simply rolled your eyes, “Need I remind you that you hate me?”
“I’m reconsidering that fact,” he said without hesitation, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Don’t bother,” you replied coolly, your tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re not forgiven.”
“Forgiveness,” he said, leaning just close enough for your breath to catch, “was never what I wanted.”
You didn’t move away. The space between you felt taut, charged, alive. His nearness carried heat — the faint scent of smoke and steel that always clung to him — but you refused to yield an inch.
“Then what is it you do want, my prince?” you asked, your voice measured, daring him to answer truthfully.
“Husband,” he corrected softly, taking another slow step forward. “I’m your husband, and you are my wife.” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. “And what I want…” He paused, the ghost of a smile curling his mouth. “…is you.”
You studied him for a long moment, the torchlight flickering across the sharp planes of his face — the proud line of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his violet eyes. He wasn’t jesting. There was something different in him now, something that unsettled you far more than his cruelty ever had.
Finally, you exhaled and shook your head, turning away. “Goodnight, Daemon.”
He didn’t try to stop you. He only watched as you passed him, his gaze following the graceful sweep of your figure as the faint scent of roses lingered in the air, as you made your way down the corridor.
“Sleep well, wife,” he called after you, his voice carrying that maddening blend of amusement and promise. “You’ll dream of me before long.”
You didn’t look back, though your lips curved faintly as you rounded the corner. “Not likely,” you murmured under your breath — but even as you said it, you knew it for a lie.
If the gods had cursed you with Daemon Targaryen, they had done so knowingly. For all his temper, his wickedness, and his arrogance, the man was beautiful. And worse still — he knew it.
Despite the growing ease between you and Daemon, there were still some in the court who looked upon the change with thinly veiled displeasure. Power unsettled men like Otto Hightower — especially when it didn’t belong to them.
Daemon had been gone for days, called to Dragonstone on some errand for Viserys, and though you would never admit it aloud, the castle felt quieter in his absence. You told yourself it was a welcome reprieve — fewer stares, fewer annoying grins, fewer games — but there were moments when you caught yourself missing the sound of his voice, the heat of his presence. You buried the thought quickly.
When the summons came, you were told it was a matter of court business — routine, nothing more. But the moment you stepped into the council chamber, you knew better.
Viserys sat slumped at the head of the table, his crown slightly askew, weariness written in every line of his face. Beside him stood Otto Hightower, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression smooth as polished marble. Around them sat a small cluster of lords and septons — enough to make the meeting official.
“My lady,” Otto said as you approached, inclining his head with mock civility. “We thank you for attending on such short notice. Please, be seated.”
You didn’t move. “What is this?”
Viserys shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering between you and his Hand. “There have been… concerns raised,” he began, his tone hesitant. “You understand how closely the court watches the stability of the royal line. It has been several months since your wedding to my brother and…” His words trailed off as he rubbed at his temple. “Questions have been asked.”
You stared at him, suspicion already twisting in your gut. “Questions,” you repeated slowly. “About what?”
“About heirs,” Otto said smoothly, seizing the opening. “Or rather—” he paused, letting the silence linger for a moment, “—the lack thereof.”
For a heartbeat, you could only stare at him, the meaning of his words sinking in like ice water down your spine. Then disbelief hardened into fury.
“You summon me before the council,” you began coldly, taking a step closer to the table, “to discuss my womb?”
Otto smiled faintly, the perfect picture of reason. “Not to discuss, my lady — merely to clarify,” he said smoothly. “You see, the matter has caused… some unrest. There are whispers that perhaps the marriage has not been—” he paused delicately, “—fruitful.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails biting into the polished wood. “Fruitful,” you repeated, the word falling from your tongue like venom. “Tell me, Lord Hand — are you in the habit of inquiring into the private matters of every marriage in the realm, or only those that inconvenience you?”
Otto’s expression didn’t flicker. His tone remained calm, reasonable — the voice of a man who hid malice behind measured words. “I inquire only when the stability of the realm may be affected,” he replied smoothly. “The King’s council must consider every possibility. You and Prince Daemon have been wed for—” he glanced down at a parchment, the motion purely performative, “—five months. No announcement has been made. No signs of an heir. Naturally, the court wonders if perhaps the gods have seen fit to close the womb of the Princess.”
The air in the chamber seemed to still at the thinly veiled implication.
Your jaw tightened, but your voice, when it came, was soft and cutting. “Careful, my lord. The gods are fickle creatures. They might decide to close your mouth next.”
A few of the lords shifted, uncertain whether to look at you or the Hand. Otto, of course, merely smiled — that thin, patronizing curve of his lips that made you want to drive a goblet straight through his throat. “I assure you, Princess,” he said mildly, “no offence was meant. But when the succession of the realm may hang in the balance, His Grace is right to seek certainty.”
You stared at him, the realization sliding into place like a dagger between ribs. This wasn’t about heirs. It wasn’t about the stability of the realm. Otto Hightower, ever the vulture, had scented blood — your rising influence, your ability to temper Daemon’s fury—and meant to get rid of you down before you became unassailable.
Turning toward the King, you met Viserys’s weary gaze, disbelief and anger threading through your voice. “Surely, you don’t mean to entertain this insult.”
Viserys shifted again, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not an insult, child,” he said, his voice carrying that weary gentleness he used when trying to placate. “Merely… a concern. You know how these things spread. If the marriage is troubled, it would be better to resolve it quietly before others make assumptions.”
Resolve it quietly. The words settled like ice in your chest. He meant annulment.
Otto’s eyes gleamed — the satisfaction barely hidden behind his veneer of civility. “The Faith could be called to confirm the matter, of course,” he added smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “A physician or septa might—”
The doors slammed open.
The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder.
Daemon strode in. His cloak billowed behind him, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, and though his expression was deceptively calm, the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. Every man in the room went still. Even Otto Hightower’s composure faltered.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Daemon drawled lazily. “I’d hate to interrupt such an important meeting.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Viserys exhaled heavily, already bracing himself. “Daemon…” he began, but it was useless.
The prince was already in motion, his steps measured — a predator circling prey. His gaze swept over the gathered lords, past the nervous septons, before locking on Otto like a dragon sizing up a meal.
“I heard,” Daemon said, his voice low but carrying easily through the room, “that my wife was summoned before the council.” He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Imagine my curiosity when I discovered the topic of discussion was of our martial bed.”
He reached your side in three long strides, his arm winding around your waist and pulling you close without hesitation. The sudden gesture was possessive, protective and it startled you more than you cared to admit. You had expected to stand alone in your defence; part of you had even braced for Daemon to use this as an opportunity to accept an annulment and cast you aside.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stood beside you, unyielding, his hand firm against your hip as though daring anyone in the chamber to try and take you from him. Whatever else he was to you—your unwanted husband, your tormentor, your frustration—right now, he was your shield, and the weight of his presence filled the room like a drawn sword.
“So tell me, my lords,” Daemon drawled, his tone deceptively casual, “which of you volunteered to climb into my bed in my stead?”
An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the room, the councillors shifting uncomfortably at the implication. No one dared to meet his eye.
Otto’s composure faltered only for a breath before he recovered. “Your Grace, no one meant offence,” he said quickly, though his voice carried an edge. “Concerns were raised for the good of the realm—”
“Concerns,” Daemon echoed, turning his head toward the Hand with slow, deliberate menace. “About what, exactly? My performance? My wife’s virtue?” His smile thinned, the faintest hint of a snarl curling beneath the words. “Or is this your latest attempt to worm your way deeper into my brother’s ear?”
Otto straightened, his restraint beginning to fray. “I advise the King as duty requires,” he replied tightly. “The realm must have heirs.”
Daemon’s expression sharpened, all trace of humour gone. “And you presume to dictate when they come?” His tone dropped lower. “Or from whose womb?”
“Of course not,” Otto began smoothly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his intent. “However, if your wife cannot fulfill her duties, it would be prudent to consider other options. My daughter, Alicent—”
“Alicent Hightower?” Daemon scoffed, his laughter low and mocking. “The only thing she could breed is boredom.”
The insult hit its mark. A few of the councillors coughed into their hands, poorly hiding their amusement. Otto’s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of fury breaking through his polished restraint.
“I have no interest in your spawn,” Daemon continued sharply, each word laced with venom. He leaned forward, his head angling just over your shoulder, his voice dropping to a low growl that slithered through the chamber like smoke. “And the next time you dare to question my wife’s worth—or her body—you’ll be counting your teeth instead of heirs.”
You fought the urge to smirk, but gave in to the temptation of leaning into him, placing your hand to rest over his. It was a simple gesture, but it showed your solidarity. Daemon Targaryen had once claimed he was not your dragon, yet here he stood, defending you as fiercely as one. And though he infuriated you more than any man alive, you had no intention of letting him go either.
“This is unseemly,” Otto hissed, his composure splintering. “The Prince misinterprets the council’s intent.”
Viserys rose from his seat, attempting calm though his tone frayed with irritation. “Daemon, enough,” he said, voice heavy with exasperation. “The matter was only raised to ensure stability—”
“Then let me assure you, brother,” Daemon said, his tone dropping to something low and dangerous, “my marriage is quite stable. And as for heirs—”
He turned toward you, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile that made heat creep up your neck. “They will be provided when I decide the time is right. In the meantime, how my wife and I fuck in our marital bed should not be of concern to anyone in this hall.”
Ignoring the gasps rippled that through the chamber. He turned on his heel, using the hand on your waist to guide you to follow him out of the chamber. The doors slammed behind you, the echo reverberating through the marble corridor, leaving a stunned silence in your wake.
Only when the noise of the council faded did you finally exhale, tension bleeding from your shoulders. “You didn’t need to do that,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.
Daemon’s tone was calm as he took you in. “If you think I’d let them humiliate you while I breathe, wife,” he said softly, “then you truly don’t know me yet.”
You turned to look at him—and for the first time since your marriage, there was no mockery in his eyes. No smirk. No cruel amusement.
“Why?” you asked, your voice low. “You made it quite clear you never wanted this marriage. That was your chance to be rid of me.”
Daemon stopped walking. The torchlight from the corridor flickered across his face, throwing sharp shadows over the hard lines of his jaw. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He only studied you, eyes dark and searching, as though weighing truths he’d rather keep buried.
Finally, he said quietly, “I didn’t want a marriage forced on me.” His voice had lost its usual bite—no swagger, no arrogance—just the faint rasp of honesty. “But I’ll be damned before I let Otto Hightower, or anyone else, decide what’s mine to keep or discard.”
You stared at him, uncertain whether to scoff or believe him. “So this is about pride, then?” you asked, your tone measured. “Possession?”
He gave a faint, humourless huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching but never quite forming a smile. “At first,” he admitted. “Perhaps. But pride doesn’t make a man ride through the night when he hears his wife’s being paraded before the council and being accused that she is some barren broodmare.”
Your breath caught — just a fraction. You searched his face, expecting him to be mocking you, but what you found instead was something dangerously close to sincerity.
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him seeped through the thin layers of your gown.
“You’ve done what no one else at court has managed,” he said, voice low, roughened by truth. “You’ve made them listen. You’ve made them respect me—support me—without ever drawing a single blade. You stood before them with nothing but your tongue and your will, and you bent the court to heel. You’re a threat to Otto, and that’s why he went after you today.”
Your pulse quickened, steady composure slipping beneath the weight of his words. “And that’s why you defended me?”
“No,” he said simply. “I defended you because I wanted to.”
The air between you grew heavier. You could feel it — the shift that had been building for weeks now was impossible to ignore.
You tried to look away, but he reached out—gloved fingers brushing beneath your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You are my wife, from now until my death, you are mine to protect.”
For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. The fierce promise in his eyes rooted you in place, stealing the air from your lungs. You searched his face for the lie—for that familiar smirk that always followed his provocations—but it never came. Daemon Targaryen—your infuriating, impossible husband—was entirely, terrifyingly sincere.
“So let them whisper about heirs all they like,” he murmured. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about soon enough.”
You swallowed hard, forcing composure back into your voice. “You think one grand gesture and a few flowery words erase months of your cruelty?”
His thumb grazed the line of your jaw. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s a start.”
You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I hope this doesn’t mean you expect me to let you into my bed.”
A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, a glimmer of the man you knew too well. “I’ve told you, wife,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “When I touch you, it will be because you begged me to—not because some fat lords on a council demand it.”
“I may not have wanted this marriage,” Daemon said. “But the thought of losing you… that, I find I want even less.” His gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “They thought forcing this marriage would tame me,” he murmured, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “But all they’ve done is tie me to the one person as untameable as myself. You and I—we were never meant to be gentle. A dragon needs fire to burn…” His thumb brushed once more against your skin, the gesture feeling less like flirtation and more like a vow. “And I’ve found mine.”
For once, you didn’t have a sharp retort. The words lingered between you, fragile and unguarded, like something that might shatter if either of you dared to break it. Your gaze danced between his, taking in the depth of his lilac eyes, and slowly—almost against your better judgment—you stepped forward, your hand resting lightly against his chest.
He stilled beneath your touch, watching you closely as you leaned up, your lips brushing his softly. Daemon’s breath hitched, and then he returned the kiss instantly—hungry, wanting, alive. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it burned like wildfire. You were the one to pull away first.
“Thank you, Daemon,” you murmured, your voice softer now, though not without its steel. “For coming to my defence—and for your honesty. Perhaps… there’s hope for us yet.”
He released your wrist, stepping back just enough to let you go. His gaze lingered on your face, unreadable. “Rest, wife,” he murmured, his tone softer than you had ever heard it. “The realm can damn itself for all I care. They’ll not touch you again.”
You hesitated only a moment before offering the faintest of smiles. “Goodnight, husband.”
Daemon’s lips curved, the ghost of a grin playing there. “Goodnight, wife.”
And as you walked away, your steps echoing down the quiet corridor, neither of you could quite ignore the truth that had finally taken root—whatever bound you together was no longer duty, nor politics, nor the will of others.
