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nsharks · 1 year

Text

merry christmas, lieutenant | simon “ghost” riley

words: 2k

plot: soap runs into his lieutenant off-duty and meets the girl he’s been keeping secret (you).

tags: pregnant reader, fluff, domestic simon, fem!reader

a/n: I was really inspired by the holiday season and this fic by @wttcsms.

part 2 & 3

Soap has seen you before.

Not in the flesh, but in a photograph. A small little Polaroid that he noticed his lieutenant thumbing in his pocket when they went out to a bar in Prague once with the team.

"Got something worth sharing there, Ghost?" Soap had asked him, mouth humming over the pint he was indulging in.

Ghost had just gave him a lidded look, as if to say "drop it". But later that evening, when Ghost stepped out for a smoke, pulling the little photograph out to look at when no one was around, Soap managed to catch a glimpse. He didn't realize Ghost was outside by himself, thinking he'd run off to the bathroom, so Soap was surprised to see the lieutenant when he'd stepped out for a smoke himself.

Not announcing his presence, Soap saw the little picture of you for just a few seconds. Enough to notice that it was a woman. A pretty woman, at that.

After that, Soap made a few attempts at getting Ghost to tell him about the girl in the Polaroid.

"Taking a little vacation when I get back," Soap had told him once, weeks after the bar in Prague. "Hope I meet a cute bird. What about you, Lt? Got a bird waiting for you back home?"

"Not your business, Sergeant."

It didn't take long for Soap to give up on trying to learn anymore about you. His lieutenant was as secretive as he was admirable out in the field. Soap decided that secrets were secret for a reason; most of the team was quiet about their personal lives, only dropping vague bits and pieces. It made sense that someone like Ghost wouldn't drop any pieces at all.

By the time Soap happens to see you, in the flesh, he's almost forgotten about that little Polaroid of you.

They're on a two month break. It was around Christmas time, the time of year when Soap tried to see as many old faces as possible, so he'd been driving down south to visit some friends before he got holed at home with the family for the holidays.

He knew his skull-faced teammate was from Manchester, which was readily available information given the man's thick accent. But he didn't even consider that he might run into the lieutenant there.

Soap stops by a holiday market on his way to see an old roomie. Hot wine, trinkets, warm food. He's not usually impressed by the Brits, but this market is something out of a movie, he thinks.

He's got a warm cup of Grenache in his gloved hands when he sees a set of familiar broad shoulders, tucked inside a black winter jacket and attached to the familiar skull-covered face. There's no way. No fucking way, he thinks to himself, narrowing his eyes to squint across the crowd of people. But it was most definitely his lieutenant; Soap knew it from the way he walked like a tank, sticking out like a sore thumb among all the civvies.

Soap is smirking the whole time he makes his way over.

He's expecting a look of surprise on Ghost's face. He's expecting the lieutenant to scowl at him before pulling him in for an awkward, half-hug. He's expecting a small chat before they part ways again.

What Soap isn't expecting is to see a young bird next to him.

You're walking next to Ghost, just barely touching his side, and a glowing smile is on your face. You've got on a knitted dress that reaches your ankles and a warm coat, but the layers do nothing to hide the visible baby bump.

Ghost is carrying various shopping bags, assumably all belonging to you, and he keeps looking down at you as if worried you're going to get lost in the crowd or run off to another stall without informing him.

The sight of it causes Soap to stop.

Instead of surprising the lieutenant like he'd planned to, he suddenly feels like he is intruding on a private moment. He's got a girlfriend? Of course he bloody does, Soap thinks, remembering the photograph from all those months ago.

He is ready to backtrack and pretend he never spotted Ghost at a holiday market of all places, when the lieutenant is suddenly looking right at him. Eyes widen at first, but then they narrow considerably. The brief moment that Ghost looks away from you is enough to make you follow his gaze, landing right on Soap about five meters away.

Ghost tries to keep walking, eager to pretend he never saw the Sergeant. But you're already putting two and two together. Soap can see the mental math you are doing, looking between him, then looking at the hulking man beside you.

Your eyes flicker with excitement.

You start waving at Soap.

Christ, I'm sorry, Lt.

He's got no choice but to walk up to the two of you now that he's been spotted.

"Hi!" you chirp, tucking your arm through Simon's so he can't start walking away. He groans to himself- this couldn't be happening. "Gosh, you must be Simon's teammate?"

"Yes, ma'am," Soap gives a nod. The three of you are standing amid the people. Soap's got a better look at you now and he realizes you're not just a girlfriend. The slim band on your finger, the prominent bump under your dress- the lieutenant's got a wife.

"I've never met any of Simon's friends before," you exhale excitedly, and the use of the word friends makes Ghost want to gag. "Simon," you whisper and give his arm a small squeeze. "Why don't you introduce us?"

Soap pities the lieutenant in this moment, but he can't say he doesn't enjoy the way Ghost instantly obeys your request.

"Johnny," he gives Soap a stiff nod. "This is Y/N. Y/N, this is Johnny."

You start chatting with Soap, asking him about what he's doing there and how he's enjoying the wine. Small talk. But all the while, Soap is trying to wrap his head around the bizarrely mundane sight of it all. The fact that Ghost is spending his free time walking around a holiday market, carrying the shopping bags of his pregnant wife. His beautiful wife, at that. Soap never imagined he'd witness something like it.

"Well, I don't want to keep you two," Soap says, but mostly he is referring to Ghost, who has said maybe two words. "Better get going."

"You're not keeping us," you shake your head. "It was so nice to meet you, Johnny. Are you... are you busy this evening?"

Ghost immediately knows what you're thinking. He also knows that once you get an idea in your head, and you get excited about it, it's extremely hard to say no to.

"Well, I-"

"We'd love to have you for dinner," you beam at him, leaning into your husband's side. "Right, Simon? We rarely have guests over."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Ghost clicks his tongue and grumbles under his breath.

The pointed look you give him almost makes Soap laugh out loud.

____

And that was how Ghost ended up agreeing to have his teammate over for dinner. Even more bizarre than the initial encounter is the home you two share, Soap figures. When he arrives later that evening, he brings in a bottle of bourbon and a small wrapped gift. He steps into the warm house, immediately met with an interior that is cozy above all else; dim lights and flickering candles, a small tree already up in the living room, a couch covered in Christmas-themed blankets.

And Soap is surprised to find that his lieutenant is the one in the kitchen, while you're the one greeting him.

"Simon will like this," you say, taking the bourbon.

"And this is for you," Soap rubs his neck, handing you the gift. "Well, both of ya, I suppose."

You don't open the gift until after dinner. Soap learns that Ghost did most of the cooking since it's been hard for you to be on your feet for too long lately. He learns that you're due in 8 weeks, and Ghost has already put the nursery together. (He nearly smashed the crib when he couldn't figure it out for two hours, apparently). You almost offer to show Soap, but decide against it, knowing that your husband was already out of his comfort zone as it was. Some things were best kept just for you two.

And Soap tells you about all the fun times they've had together. The near-death experiences, the times that Ghost almost killed them both whenever he was behind the wheel, all the different cities they've been to.

Simon only speaks up to add comments like, "That's not how I remember it" or "You're a worse driver than me".

Soap notices the lieutenant gradually start to relax, soften up a bit. What he doesn't notice is that it's mostly due to your hand on top of his thigh under the table, rubbing gentle circles.

You open the small present once everyone is done eating.

"It's really not much," Soap says, "Just somethin' I managed to pick up on the way over."

But the contents of the box pull at each string of your heart. You tear off the bow and open it to reveal a small, knitted romper, the color of cream. It's soft to the touch and it invites a moisture to your eyes (because everything made you cry these days).

"Johnny, thank you," you tell him earnestly. You'd only met the man a few hours ago, but already you were fond of him. Trusted him with your husband's life, even.

"Didn't know what the sex is," he explains sheepishly, catching a glimpse of the lieutenant's unreadable gaze. "Thought this would work for either one."

You look at Simon. You wish he'd say thank you, but instead he clears his throat. "Gonna clean up the kitchen," Ghost says gruffly, and stands from the table.

When he's gone, you offer Soap an apologetic smile. "He has a hard time accepting gifts," you explain on your partner's behalf, rubbing the swell of your belly.

"I figured," Soap shrugs. "If I'm honest, I can't believe he's got a family like this... like you. Bit surprising."

"It took him awhile," you hum thoughtfully, recalling the years of patience that your relationship demanded of you. "It took him two years to tell me he loves me. Another three to propose."

"Sounds about right for Ghost."

You nod in agreement and sigh. "I'm grateful he has someone like you. I know he's got a funny way of showing it, but Simon is secretly grateful, too."

_____

Ghost is the one to see Soap to the door. You wave your goodbyes, eyes starting to get heavy. Your husband quietly urges you to "slip into something more comfortable, pet", and you were happy to abide. Soap has noticed how gentle the brooding man is with you. Small touches to your waist, little kisses to your hair, grazing his hand over your belly. It’s a remarkable contrast to the demeanor Soap, and everyone else, knows him for.

As you're changing into your pajamas, Ghost is standing in the middle of the front doorframe, arms crossed.

"Nice place you got here, Ghost," Soap tells him with a cheeky grin. "Reckon I should stop by more often?"

His lieutenant doesn't seem to share his enthusiasm, instead grumbling in annoyance, “Fuckin’ hell. Don’t push your luck, Johnny.”

There is a warning in Ghost’s eyes that Soap knows him well enough to read, loud and clear: don’t tell anyone about what you saw today.

Soap simply lays a hand on his tense shoulder. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Lt.”

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost #fanfiction #fluff #dad ghost

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 month

Note

What about princess reader who falls for Konig? He's a retired royal soldier (Bit of an age gap but I was thinking more like he was so good he was able to retire early) that she saw every once and a while and she does the typical "disguise myself as a commoner so i can sneak into town" routine and he pretends he doesn't know but he used to serve her family so ofc he fucking recognizes her

He tries to be gentle with her but honestly she should just be happy he isn't ratting her out to her family 🙄🙄🙄 (not that she minds)

CW: 18+ MDNI. Medieval AU, forbidden love, mutual pining, virgin!princess!reader x veteran!knight!König. Undefined age gap (reader is of legal age which means she’s "old" for an unmarried woman of this period). Reader is kinda coercive, König is implied to be a virgin too. Bittersweet romance vibes, brooding guy/gentle girl trope, ambiguous ending.

Word count: 6.4 k

You never thought you’d have the guts to slap a knight.

Violence is unladylike, and even if you’re a princess, it doesn’t mean you should force your status down someone’s throat like that. Far less his, the man you were taught to respect and listen to because he’s a man, and older than you.

The fact that he was also an anointed knight didn’t seem as important as the simple truth that he possessed a cock between his legs, and it always annoyed you to no end that this was the reason why men ruled the world. As a lady still unwed, you’re supposed to be afraid of cocks, especially if they’re old and gruff.

But you never were afraid in the presence of your father’s most loyal knight. He was your sworn shield too, and the only time he had been away from your side was when he asked to go on a pilgrimage to some chapel nearby. Said he wanted to seek forgiveness for his sins.

A man like him must have a lot to pray forgiveness for, but knowing that he could split a man in half with that greatsword of his doesn’t stop you from sneaking out one night as you follow him outside the castle walls and into the local inn.

Dressed as a stable boy, you watch with wide eyes how he gulps down three pints of beer and doesn’t turn any dumber from it. His speech never slurs, his shoulders never slump, but when some kitchen wench sits down beside him, your breath gets caught in your throat.

You look at the odd couple for a moment or two, watch how your father’s knight, the secret object of your silly daydreams, finally loosens the strings of his purse and offers the girl a copper coin.

It’s more than you can take, so you shoot up from your bench and march to him. The woman looks up at you with lousy disinterest as you ask the man of your dreams if he’d like to have another pint of ale. Your knight recognizes you immediately, even in your too-big tunic and your uncomely hose, even with that dirty felt hat covering your hair.

And he’s mortified, from what you can tell.

Both your eyes are wide now, and the woman beside him is smart enough to leave. She slides herself off the bench and sneaks past your side, and your valiant knight just looks at you, looks at you, looks at you.

You should be worried that he’ll snitch about your adventures to your father, but right now, all you can do is stare at him like he’s the thief, caught fresh and red-handed. Because he is a thief, and a devil, the worst man on earth when he was supposed to be the best. You snort to let him know how much you despise him—for coming here and bedding women for money when he’s supposed to be a sworn, celibate knight—but what truly hurts here is that he’s bedding someone else than you.

When you march out of the inn, he follows you, even dares to lay his hand on you by grabbing your arm outside. That’s when you turn on your heels and deliver a fat slap on his cheek, lightly stubbled and sweet, something you had hoped to plant a kiss on for many, many years.

“Your grace,” He grunts and rubs his chin, slightly amused. “Have I offended you?”

The slap couldn’t hurt that much, and this man never does amused. Even now, the mirth extends only to his eyes, never to his lips.

“You know perfectly well that you have, sir,” you clasp your hands in front of you, now entirely his princess even though you’re dressed like a peasant.

“My lady,” he bows both in body and in voice. “I truly don’t know what crime I have committed.”

You’ve never seen him so… jovial.

Usually this knight looks like there’s a stick up his ass, that someone pissed in his porridge and shat in his stew, that there’s nothing but hailstorms and calamity in his life.

Were you any more clever, you’d leave him be, but God has made it so that you’re drawn to battered and beaten animals. Of course you’re drawn to him too, lonely and spiteful as he is. This man broods so much you sometimes wonder if he’s the reason why it rains so violently up here in the hills. He probably summons dark clouds above the castle with those ponderous frowns alone – but now he’s looking at you as if he just woke up from the dead and walked into the shy sunshine after a long, harsh winter.

“You… You shouldn’t bed women,” you tell him, and he looks at you even more curiously.

“You shouldn’t pay for it,” you mumble next – unladylike, again, especially when your eyes turn to your shoes and away from that hawk-like, calm stare.

There’s a short silence after that, and you almost turn heel and walk back to the castle from the desire to escape the weight of his eyes. Eventually, he shifts his weight to the other leg and clears his throat.

“I sometimes pay for women to hold me. There’s nothing more to it.”

You raise your eyes to meet his, but the mirth is all gone now. It’s replaced by solemn acceptance, some sorrow you never even knew he had. Yes, he’s always silent and looks a bit pissed, but he’s not heartbroken, no, not your brave knight…

“To “hold you”, sir?”

The sorrow is covered with white lashes before you get to the bottom of it. Something tugs at the corner of his mouth—shame and frustration, probably.

“To hold me. Like a mother would. Is that a sin?”

His eyes search for yours from under dark brows, they beg for your consent as if it mattered to him. They’re quite catching, his eyes; enchanting in their intangibility. You know he doesn’t need your acceptance, nor is he threatened by your disgust. He’s unreachable, untouchable, forbidden—a mountain you can never climb because you wouldn't even find it among the mist. And those eyes see everything but feel nothing: they haven’t taken part in the troubles of this world in years.

…

He evades you for the whole of next week.

Leaves the hall if you choose to dine there, walks away when he sees you at the stables, looks through you if you have the courage to address him. You stand watch by the window every night to see if he slips out of the castle, but it seems your knight has lost his interest in kitchen wenches and copper hugs.

It burns like hot broth in your stomach, the thought of him in some other woman’s embrace. This mighty giant of a knight, kneeling in front of a girl, paying for her to simply put her arms around him.

You’re not sure if you’re childish to believe him and his words. To trust that he truly goes to them just to be held. You’re not sure if you’re the worst lover of poor, crippled creatures for not wanting to let him have even that...

Because you wish to hold him yourself, here, in the softest of all beds. Just wrap your arms around him after you’ve unburdened him of that heavy mail and thick gambeson; you’d help him with anything he needs. Let him sigh against you and have those lines of worry on his brooding face smooth somewhat. Maybe sing a soft song for him to help him sleep...

The thought of him being so lonely that he spends his wage on girls just to have a hug is driving you to madness.

It’s tearing you to pieces because he would never, ever have to pay you to hold him.

It’s forbidden, you know: this love you’ve harboured for years. He’s far below your rank, even as a bannerman, he’s far below you even if he’s taller than the tallest war horse in your father’s stables. He’s older than you too, but that’s hardly the biggest problem: your father took his second wife when he was five and thirty and the maid was seventeen. The match was considered perfectly normal, even healthy, but this would not. This would cause an outrage.

Oh yes, you’re to be wed far away to some sadistic young lord if your father has his way. You’re sure they’re already gossiping about it in the streets: how you should’ve been sold like a horse years ago. How is it that you’re still here, burdening the kingdom with your presence and swallowing up coin?

If they only knew that you’ve fought against every match with tooth and nail, the townsfolk would work themselves into a small uprising. And you’re not against marriage because you like it here so much... You’re against it because the knight who dresses himself in black mail and makes the servants piss themselves with his heavy footsteps alone makes your heart flutter like never before.

Your father would kill both of you if he knew.

And you wonder… What would he do? Your pale, brooding knight?

Would he scoff and turn his head away if he knew you dreamed of him before sleep, would he be appalled to hear that you’ve touched yourself to the thoughts of him? Would he think you a whore…?

You dress differently that night, the night you catch him escape the dull horrors of the castle once more. Boredom oozes out of the walls here, a poison of nothingness and despair. The stones won’t offer warmth, not even during the height of spring, so it’s no wonder that your knight is headed elsewhere for warmth and a mug of ale.

You dress accordingly to see what this toughest of knights is made of: with a brown woolen skirt and a white cotton blouse, you look the part of a kitchen maid who forgot half her garments at home.

People look at you in the streets, but without your usual attire and with your hair styled differently, they wouldn’t know who they’re looking at even if they saw you frolic around like this in court. You know they’re looking at you because you're a half naked woman ripe for taking, stubbornly out at night and dressed so suggestively it’s a miracle no guard rapes you before you reach the inn.

Maybe it’s the royal pride that keeps them away: you certainly look like you haven’t toiled in the fields or shoveled horse dung in your poor miserable life. There’s an air about you, and he notices it too, far before you’ve sat your pretty bum on the bench next to him.

“What are you doing,” he asks with a slightly alarmed voice.

He has that stick up his arse again, sits so straight that you’ve never seen such a ramrod back on anyone. When you set your hand over his, he only blinks.

“One silver to hold you, sir,” you lean to whisper on his skin, the shaved cheek you’ve wanted to kiss for so, so long. “What do you say...?”

He’s still breathing, even if there’s no sound to prove that he is. You can only see it from the rise and fall of his chest, covered by a stained, cream-white gambeson, that he’s breathing. He’s big, even without his armor, big and strong and intimidating, a tower of strength in one man.

“I cannot bed women,” he talks to the stout logs that make the walls of the inn, refusing to even look at you after one quick horrified glimpse.

“Who said anything about bedding?”

“This is a dangerous game, your grace,” he warns with a low purr when you won’t relent.

His voice is parched but smooth, and you smell smoke; delicious smoke from the fire that sticks to the clothes of a person who spends too many hours staring into a fire. You smell ham and earth and leather and sweat, horses and metal, the rusty stench of mail gone bad.

You wonder how you smell to his nostrils – is it something sweet? Fresh herbs and lavender oil maybe, or soft, spun wool, some tangerines and summer wine?

“I’m not your grace,” you tell him, nose now touching the bridge of his ear. “Not in here.”

You see from the turned sleeve of his padded tunic that the hairs on his arm are standing on end. His eyes are closed, and you can finally hear his ragged breaths. Desire speaks in them, or then you’re in over your head... Why else would he sound like that, like he’s already making love?

“One silver, sir, and I’ll hold you all night,” you repeat softly, and he swallows with a dry, open mouth.

“I don’t have such money on me,” he rasps, voice drenched in slow, drowsy want.

He wants this; wants, wants, wants….

“Really? Is my price too high?”

“Far too high for a man like me.”

You breathe a smile upon his skin, the place where his neck meets his jaw. Running your fingers across his wrist, you leave little to the imagination and you both know it.

“You can pay for the room and we’ll see how much you have left after that.”

“Princess, this is–”

“Hush.”

He’s in pain now, you can see it: the sharpness, the distant eagle gaze from his eyes is gone. He can barely keep his lids open, and when you peel the sleeve back with your hand, pet him like he’s one of your cats, press your lips on the spot you know is the most sensitive, he groans.

“You’re going too far,” he whispers, but won’t move. Breathless now, he can’t even speak with dignity. Gone are the distanced grunts and the composure, even the stick in his arse has melted away.

If a touch of your lips and the softest caress can do this to him, what would happen if you straddled his lap? How would it feel to be pressed against him, naked and entwined in a mutual embrace?

“You didn’t say no to that other girl,” you breathe more kisses on his skin. “Am I so horrendous…?”

“You–” he starts, opens his eyes somewhat. “You are teasing me on purpose.”

“You never were the brightest of my father’s knights,” you smile a little laugh in his ear.

He grabs his pint as if that could save him; out of fury or lust, you don’t know. And that’s when your little adventure gets interrupted: someone must’ve had enough of this disgusting display of seduction and whoring.

“Pardon me, lovebirds. The room’s a copper, if it please you,” a tired voice says from somewhere above. “And the ale is–”

“Ja, ja. I’ll pay,” your knight grunts with such annoyance that you’re not sure if he’s mad at you or the poor soul who interrupted you two.

Everyone here must think that you’re here to make some coin on a lonesome, desperate man. And he’s desperate, by God, he’s desperate… But when you walk upstairs and into your room, he takes a dip in cold waters without you knowing anything about it. When the door shuts behind you, your knight is back to the unbroken effigy he was last week, as he has always been.

“You sleep there,” he points at the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“There’s plenty of room on the–”

“One more word from that pretty mouth and I’ll tell your father what you’ve been up to.”

You’re sent to your bed without supper, in your silly clothes, and get to watch how he barely takes his boots off before setting himself down on the floor, back turned to you. The innocent question “You think my mouth is pretty?” only gets an irritated scoff for an answer.

From under the linens, you watch him sigh and slowly turn to stone on the cold floor. There’s a big rug there but it’s barely enough to keep the chill out, and the hearth is cold during late days of spring. You’re warm enough here under your sheet, but you would be warmer if your knight was here with you… Warm body against yours as you both hold each other through the night.

If only he could be enticed here by lying that you’re freezing... His honor would force him to share the bed with you, and your poor knight wouldn’t have to wake up with sore joints. The more you listen to him let out those occasional sighs, the more you want to shake this man. This silly act of martyrdom has to come to an end, now.

Slipping out from the warmth of your bed, you tiptoe to him. You know he can hear you, probably cursing in his mind with that crude foreign tongue of his. Laying yourself down behind him, you snuggle close until your front is glued to his back.

It must pain him to have a maiden leave the comfort of her bed and trade it for the dirty floor, but you wonder if there’s pleasure in the pain when your touch finds him once more. And it’s not just want and lust you feel when you place your arm around him. It’s not motherly love either, although you do feel like you’re embracing a giant child who doesn’t want to be comforted. You know nothing about how lovers touch or hold each other, you’ve never touched a man other than your father, and those touches were never affectionate and warm, those touches were barely there at all.

You wonder if you should be scared: you were taught that men will fuck everything that moves when given the chance. If a man of his size chose to take you here on this floor, there would be nothing left of you. Such an outcome seems dubious, however, when your sworn shield acts like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Let me hold you,” you whisper when he continues to be stiff as a rock in your embrace. “You don’t have to pay me. Surely you know that you don’t have to–”

He moves, and at first you fear he’s about to rise and dart to the door. Make a run for it and slam it shut because you pushed it too far, his dumb, danger seeking maiden.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns around and buries his face somewhere in your neck. He does it so forcefully that you’re almost sent to lie on your back, and you barely catch the naked pain in his eyes before a rough arm snakes itself around your waist and pulls you close.

Warm breaths hit your skin, sending all the little hairs in your body shooting up – were he to move an inch further down, his face would be buried in your tits…

And then come the tears.

You’ve never heard a man cry like that – well, you’ve never heard a man cry at all. You didn’t even know they knew how to weep. It’s like all the tears in the world are reserved for women and children because there’s no wetness even now: your knight cries in thick, dry sobs, shudders that shake the both of you, years and years of suffering sighed through gritted teeth and into your hair.

Slowly, so slowly, you place your arm around him once more. Your hand barely reaches the middle of his back, so vast is this man, now only a crumbling mountain in your embrace. But when you won’t waver, when you refuse to turn your tail and run, he slowly melts in your arms like spring snow.

He still breathes as if in pain, the sounds that come out of his mouth heartbroken and strained. You’re not surprised to see that even his crying is an act of violence; he’s a man inconsolable.

And yet, you console him. Comfort him. Like a mother, you stay and let him cry his fill in your ear as he clutches you, threatening to tear the back of your poor cotton blouse while doing it.

When he’s done, the shakes recede and his body is warm and calm, soft, almost. He pants and swallows, comes down from it with so much shame that you’re sure he has never done this with anyone, not ever before.

And then…

“I beg for your forgiveness, my lady,” he gruffs on your skin. “That was–”

“Shh... It’s alright.”

You caress the back of his neck, sweaty from the toil. He releases the fabric of your blouse only to grab it again in an even tighter fist. The face in your neck is buried deeper, his lips now pressed right over your throat.

“It has always been you, Geliebte... God knows it has always been you.”

You freeze in the middle of his confession, the panting on your skin intolerably thick now. When you swallow against his mouth, he pulls you against him, the body that used to be rigid and cold now like a hot, thick furnace, threatening to devour yours.

“You must know it too,” he whispers. “You must. You’ve seen my torment. Tell me you’ve seen it…”

He’s not demanding more than he is desperate, some dam suddenly being breached by a long-held flood.

If anything, you thought he hated you... You thought you were alone in your anguish, but it turns out he has carried the same soft secret all these years.

And it drowns you for a moment, his want and yours. Hands trying to touch whatever they can, mouth searching yours like he’s about to die if he can’t have a sip. You’ve heard what happens to women who allow themselves to get groped in dark hallways and winding steps; they hardly ever escape a man’s touch with their maidenhood still intact. And yet, this is what you’ve always dreamed of; a hot, blunt, forbidden encounter with this man.

Now that he’s finally on fire for you, you’re not so sure though. What if you’re about to mate with a beast?

“Sir…” you whisper when he plants trembling kisses down your throat. He thinks you’re only moaning his title in the throes of pleasure, and squeezes you against him so hard that a tight little whimper is squished out of your mouth.

“I’m–I’m untouched,” you tell him before he sends his face between your tits, and it finally has the effect you feared and hoped for.

He freezes too, in the middle of tearing down your blouse. A shivering hand releases the fabric slowly, reverently; it rises to cup your face as your flushed knight meets your stare with shame.

“Of course you are,” he hushes upon your lips, strokes your cheek softly. “I cannot bed you. I know. But let me…”

He blushes while searching for the right words. That’s the moment when you start to suspect if he’s ever even been with a woman. What kind of a womanizer would blush when they’re about to make love to a lady?

“Let me make you feel good,” he finally suggests. “I’ve heard… of a way.”

He almost stutters when he says it, and you wonder if this is what he’s prayed forgiveness for. If he’s been thinking about different ways of wrecking you so much that it’s enough to send him to hell…

“And then,” he continues, “we’ll never speak of this again. You’ll become my lady, and I’ll become your sworn shield once more. We’ll be as we always were. As it always was...”

You’re not sure if you like that – returning to your status quo, becoming who you were before clutching each other on the floor like mad animals about to mate. But you nod.

Whatever he wishes to do to you, it must be something good, and you trust him. Even after he showed you a side of him you’ve never seen before, you’d trust this man with your life.

Your valiant knight carries you back to bed, and delivers on his promise. He never undresses you, he never defiles you. He just lifts your ankle to his lips and gives it a soft, reverent kiss, grazes your shin with his mouth before starting to worship you like a pagan idol of old.

You don’t know where he heard about it–at the stables, or the kitchen, at the barracks or the taverns–but the way with which he makes you squirm doesn’t require a cock, not even a hand. His lips are gentle, but his mouth is hungry, and you don’t know how to feel shame when he’s buried under your dress like that. You can’t even see his face when he makes you his, claims you with his mouth alone.

It must be a sin to not take you like a man takes a woman on a wedding night; it must be a sin that it does not hurt at all, what he wants to do to you. But you don’t care. Love is much better and far messier than how they depict it in the songs, and no one ever talks about the noises a man can make when they pleasure a woman.

He groans like a beast, but moans like a whore – it sends a flush of hot blood up your cheeks to hear him so utterly needy and vile. Your knight who barely gave you a grunt as a greeting in your father’s hall now whines with a broken pitch between your legs. His hot sighs drown your own, and you thank Saint Mary and all the angels that there’s loud music and booming laughter downstairs. It’s still there, the dirty tavern, even if you’re being sent to heaven on this bed...

He gives you mercy only after you break upon his mouth with a series of tight cries. Spends a lengthy amount of time under your dress too, licking and kissing you clean.

He doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to get out of there, but when he emerges, he looks like a drowned, happy puppy, this giant, brooding knight… The sight seizes your heart in a flaming hand that you know will never let go: it’s forever engraved in your heart, that drunken, devoted stare. You thought that men had the needs of an animal and that women were put on this earth just for them to have their fill, but when you look at your knight, it appears it’s the other way around... This man has finally found what he was looking for. Between your legs, he just found his Heaven on earth, his Holy Grail.

And so he returns from his quest with a devotion that leaves you breathless. Takes you in his arms like an injured bird, making you feel like it’s summer already, and the world is nothing but songs and tales and long nights of bliss.

“Know that I am yours,” he says. “Until my dying breath and even beyond, I’m yours.”

It’s a pledge, not a statement, and it’s said with so much weight that the vow he swore to your father pales in comparison.

“Sir... You always say such silly things,” you whisper back while lying in a pool of shimmering love, a heaven on earth indeed. Not even anointed, true to their faith knights talk like this… And he just smiles languidly when you raise a hand to brush his cheek.

He looks like another hug could save him, like a simple adoring stare from you is all that is needed to keep him going for another year. It irks you that he’s ready to settle for so little when you’re ready to give him everything he’s ever wanted and more. With what just happened, he’ll live on for a thousand, thousand years, he’ll survive even the coldest of nights – but you won’t.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you tell him, and a flash of fresh panic crosses his eyes.

“Süssling…”

He says it with worry, but does nothing when you send an exploring hand to his bulge. Drawing a sharp breath when you sweep your hand over it, he goes rigid again, this time for reasons other than just nervousness.

You’re younger and therefore more impatient, which means you’re at the strings of his pants in no time. He looks at your greed with a slack jaw and a set of furrowed brows, but never tries to prevent you. It only spurs you on that he’s acting so shy in front of an eager maiden when other men would already be bullying their cocks in your unexplored heat.

“This is madness,” he whispers when you pull out the heavy, hard cock that reminds you of the members you’ve seen on horses and bulls.

Of course the man’s big down there when he’s practically a myth walking… And there must be a way to pleasure him too, some lovely devilry that will leave you a maiden. A virgin for him to take on your wedding night – because you will marry this man, no matter what anyone says. You’ll burn the whole kingdom down before giving yourself to any other man.

You wrap your fingers around him to punctuate it that he’s yours. If he feared you might mirror what he just did to you, he makes no comment about it when you don’t, only whines when his cock is snared by a frail but eager hand.

“Princess,” he warns, slightly out of breath. “I will stain your dress…”

“Shh. Show me how to please you.”

The worry in his eyes is wild and bright, but the way your fingers mold around him leaves no space for arguments. A broken, stiff sigh is punched out of him when you begin to move: if he won’t show you how, it’s no trouble at all to try and find out yourself.

But when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of him, he finally brings a trembling hand upon yours. He starts to guide you, adjusts your grip, huffs when you both apply pressure on it. The curious creature that you are, you look down to witness the ugly beauty of it all.

It’s intimidating and rough, the cock in your hand... It looks like a weapon, honestly, a battering ram that leaks heady liquid from the head. Smooth and heavy and ripped with veins, it’s like a too hard muscle about to bludgeon something, and your hand is making it drool profusely. Would that it were inside you, you would be in grave danger, and why is it that you find the prospect so seductive?

His hand is far bigger than yours, and it makes your heart run wild, the way he tries to be gentle while using your grip to get himself off. He can’t even keep his eyes open from the shame, just takes a quick glance at your enthralled face before squeezing his eyes shut once more.

“Look at me,” you command softly, and he obeys – what else can a sworn knight do? – but you can see that the poor man is on the verge of tears. Shaking and panting, he stares at you while fucking himself with your hand, and when you close the small breath of air between you and kiss him, he melts.

The first thick spurt surprises you completely, you even mewl into his mouth when it shoots to stain your dress. You didn’t expect that to happen, at least not so fast… And because this is the first time you’ve seen a man come undone, you quickly leave the panting, moaning mouth and look down.

There’s so much of it, and the release is so violent; it looks and sounds like it hurts because the man is shuddering and groaning as if stabbed. Thick, white pulses of seed coat the brown wool of your dress, but it soaks the semen gladly: there’s nothing left of his cum other than dark, damp stains after he’s done.

And there’s no end to his shame. He pries your hand away from his cock as soon as he’s somewhat composed. Does it with a shaky hand, wipes what little stains of hot, wet seed you have on your palm to his pants, and all you’re thinking about is what it would feel like to have this giant trembling and groaning like that above you, inside you… If you could even take all of that thick, brutal length. If he would be able to move away when inside your heat, if he’d let you hug him again, just hold him close so that he’d never ever leave anymore…

“I have soiled you,” he mutters while looking at your skirt.

“Nonsense. You have only claimed me... I’m yours now.”

“Princess… No amount of silver–”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

You actually manage to kiss him silent. Tears begin to run down his face when you show him where he belongs. It’s the final surrender as he pulls you into his arms and finally drowns you in love – at last, you find yourself under him as he takes what's his. What seems like hours later, he breaks the kiss, only to look into your eyes with full-blown adoration.

“How am I to live without you after this?”

“You don’t have to. Not ever,” you say.

“Princess. If there was any hope for me to have your hand, if there was any hope that your father would give it, I would have carried you away from this place years ago.”

For a while, you fear it’s the fear of sin that burns him. But then you realize it was always only just you.

He looks so anguished now, even more in pain, when all you wanted to do was relieve his agonies. This was only a taste of what he can’t have. You both took a bite of the forbidden fruit but can’t eat the entire thing – no wonder he looks like he’s cast out of heaven he didn’t know even existed.

“Sir, I cannot do this,” you grab his face with both hands now. “Please don’t make me do this...”

He sighs and looks at the mess you just made. He’s broken every oath he’s ever taken, and the evidence is scattered right there between you. The only thing deadlier than this would’ve been if he pumped all of that hot, fluid sin inside you.

“Sweetling,” he laments. “Look at us. You’ve already ruined me. Ruined us both…”

“It’s called love, silly.”

He breathes a short, shy smile, the first you’ve ever seen on him. It’s cute and makes him look young, the quick flash of teeth between unruly lips, the almost bashful, downcast eyes that are not quite ready to meet the full brunt of your devotion.

“Ja,” he breathes. “Ich weiss.”

Then he brings his eyes back to yours, his smile slowly making way for a more serious expression. He lifts a hand to touch your cheek, and you find yourself soaring in the sky like a bird, a phoenix that has risen from the dead. It’s heavenly, the way you both caress each other, here on the lowly tavern’s bed, covered in salt, sweetness and sin.

“Your father will have both our heads if he finds out,” he tells you as if you needed the reminder.

“I pray our heads will never be separated then.”

He snorts a quick smile again. It makes you heady, that you’re apparently the only one who can make this gruesome giant laugh.

“You’re dangerous, princess,” he gruffs. “I knew you were trouble… And yet I curse all the years I left you in peace.”

“I know,” you smile. “Never the brightest one, my love...”

When you lie in his arms that night and tell him about your silly little fantasies, he grows hard again. When you tell him you now have new ones—ones where you’d want to feel him inside you—he looks like a man condemned to death.

The stares he shoots your way make it clear that he’s lost – no matter what he says, he can’t be kept away from you, not anymore. You suppose he’ll forsake even more secret promises and vows before forsaking the pledge he swore to you. Even at the cost of your lives, he’ll come scratching at your door, howling for some quick, hot love in the night, begging for you to give him everything he has denied himself.

And eventually, you grow more serious too. While lying in his arms, safe and tucked away from all the horrors of this world, you play with the leather strings of his gambeson, tugging them and twisting them around your finger like a child.

“There will come a day when they promise me to another,” you whisper, wondering if he’s already asleep.

He promised to never leave your side again, he promised. And still… What will happen when the carriage and horses take you to some distant, hostile kingdom, far away from him? What if you only get this summer together, and then nothing no more?

“They’ll take me away,” you tell him, almost without a voice.

A soft, hearty grumble answers, a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.

“No one will take you away, sweetling. Not as long as I live.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #medieval au #konig x reader #könig fanfiction #cheesy romance warning

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hwaitham · 7 months

Text

𝓼𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓼𝓾𝓷 ⋆ ࣪˖ 𓂃𓋜

al haitham x f!reader . sfw . established relationship ﾉ fluff + suggestive ﾉ reader is smaller than haitham ﾉ kaveh!! ૮꒰ིྀ˶꜆´˘`꜀˶꒱ིྀა

"someone's up rather early."

al haitham's kitchen is teeming with light when he walks in on saturday morning: the pots hanging from the ceiling catching the sunshine from the open window (ting! ting!), the blue flame on the gas burner that billows out along the bottom of the stone pan that rests atop it, and you.

the warmest, softest light of them all, standing there by the stove in your—his—shirt, silk strings of an apron cinched into a messy bow at your waist as you busy yourself with frothing the masala chai, turn to face your lover when his voice reaches your ears and welcome him with a cheery, "g'mornie! breakfast's gonna be ready soon."

darling angel, little sunspot in the corner of his mind.

he hums sleepily, making his way behind you and draping his broad frame over your smaller one, strong arms curled around your waist and tenderly squeezing your ribs, chin propped on your head before he leans down to nuzzle his nose into your hair—sweet and sun-warmed.

you don't need to tilt your head up to know al haitham is keeping a watchful eye as you split even volumes of the chai into three mugs, stir a tablespoon of sugar into two of them. spread ghee over the hot stone pan and wait for it to sizzle before you pour on a ladle full of dosa batter.

had it been a few months prior, you would've felt nerves from tip to toe, afraid of his silent judgement—yet here you stand now, blooming like a rose under his gaze.

it's one that's caring, tender, when he gently reminds you to watch your fingers as you're cutting an onion and to flip over the dosa so it doesn't burn.

"dosa and chai for breakfast? you spoil me."

you open your mouth to reply, but the words leave your throat as a garbled mess of stutters and little hums when al haitham surprises you with lazy kisses fluttered over your cheek, and then your jaw, trailing southbound of your neck to your décolletage.

"haitham, stoppp!" you burst into a lovely little peal of giggles when he nips at your skin—playfully, hungrily—pushing your rear back into him and shrugging your shoulders in a failed attempt to get him off you. "what if kaveh sees?"

"then he sees."

his voice is low and nonchalant, but he only holds onto you tighter, protectively, digging his arms further into your ribs as if to remind you that he's already made his home there, that he's staked his claim.

"if the sight of me loving on you drives him out of the house faster, then i may just have to do it more often."

"you meanie." you quip back and stick your tongue out at him as you transfer the crisp dosa onto a plate, reaching for the bowl of batter to make another.

a squeak escapes you before you can do so, because your lover is tilting your chin up with his finger and finally giving you a kiss where it should be given, sucking and licking at your lips, wiping a bubbled bead of his saliva off the corner with his thumb.

it's rare for your haitham to get like this—outwardly clingy with his touch, but you know him well enough to understand why he's displaying such behaviour.

"you're not still jealous from last night, are you?"

ah, yes.

last night.

celebrations at lambad's tavern after al haitham's successful demotion from acting grand sage to mere scribe—celebrations in the manner of a feast of delicacies, followed by innumerable rounds of genius invokation tcg, and concluded with pints upon pints of beer; one for the master (al haitham), one for the dame (you), and one too many for the roommate who swilled them without restraint (kaveh).

and what a sight to behold was the kshahrewar architect—your bestest friend—at the end of the night.

blonde braid mussed and his clips somehow finding their way into your hair, hiccuping and sniffling and pockets emptied beyond belief, trailing at your feet like a puppy and slathering you with sweet words and blubbering drunkenly on your shoulder:

you're so pretty, you're so kind, i really don't understand why you'd entertain a romance from someone of the likes of al haitham... i can assure you, if he doesn't get down on one knee soon, then somebody else definitely will!!

"me, jealous of kaveh? what a joke." your haitham scoffs, burying his face in your hair to hide the irritated pout on his face.

"that sounds an awful lot like something someone who is jealous would say."

"'m not jealous."

"i don't think i believe—a-ah!"

you're cut off all of a sudden—him growling into your temple and tugging you back firmly into his chest, arms unraveling from your waist to weave his fingers between your own, drawing your attention away from breakfast as he lays his love heavy on you with heated kisses to the shell of your ear, nipping and tugging and seemingly overcome with some form of carnal desire.

"i'm—" your knees wobble and knock together when he licks at a particularly sensitive spot, caging you against the kitchen countertop and leaving physical manifestations of his love over the fragile skin of your neck.

and then it becomes awfully hot in al haitham's kitchen on saturday morning, despite the stovetop now turned off and chai no longer steaming, the sun hiding behind a cloud and covering his eyes to allow you and your lover the privacy you deserve.

"i need to make breakfast—i-i'm busy, haitham..."

he hums in dismissal of your protests, mindlessly thumbing at your ring finger before he bunches your shirt up past your hips, lowers himself onto a knee and kisses up the back of your thigh—touches once possessive, greedy, now softening and sweetening into something more reverent and devoted.

"as am i."

#𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓯𝓸𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓻 ⑅˚˖ ݁ ˓ ෆ #al haitham x reader #alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham fluff #genshin x reader #al haitham x you #al haitham x y/n #haitham ❤︎

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sunflowersteves · 1 year

Text

another day, another dollar || b.b.

pairing || bradley “rooster” bradshaw x reader

summary || Is Rooster jealous that some random aviator won't stop looking at you? Definitely not.

author’s note || i'm so glad you guys enjoyed my last rooster fic!! i have so many ideas for rooster and i hope you guys enjoy this one! <3

warnings || jealousy, misogyny (not from rooster), fem!reader, some mention of violence, smut, oral sex, blowjob, praise kink, a little sub!bradley, [18+ only]

“Getting pretty busy, huh?”

You turned your head around to the unfamiliar voice. You almost raised an eyebrow—he looked smug. “Yep.” You replied, short and sweet.

You gave him a strained smile in hopes to keep up some customer service facade. You whirled back around to continue to pull the tap and fill up more beers.

He decided to talk to you again. “Think you can handle all this by yourself?”

At the Hard Deck on a buzzing Friday night, you were the only one tending to the bar. Ever since dusk peaked at seven-thirty in the evening, you had been busy refilling beers and taking orders—then occasionally ringing the bell when someone couldn’t pay their tab.

Penny asked you for a favor when Amelia came home from school with a really bad case of the flu. You knew she felt bad enough leaving you alone on the busiest night of the weekend, but you didn’t mind. Not one bit. You had wished Amelia a speedy recovery.

You were doing pretty well from the rush of Navy officers, lieutenants, captains, and everywhere in between asking for ales and lagers.

It had actually been somewhat fun chatting up conversations with people. Out of nowhere, though, this lanky twenty-something man stationed himself right in the front of the bar.

He had been staring at you for more than five minutes, and when you paid him no mind—since you were quite frankly busy with customers—he decided to strike up a mundane conversation. It was almost nauseating.

When you had turned your head the first time, he had his elbow resting on the bar and twirled a pint of beer in his hand. He had a fresh face and flirty twinkling eyes that almost made you gag a little. You knew exactly what he was doing, and you weren’t interested.

You could tell he was a Naval Aviator with the whole khaki color suit and hat on his head. You could also tell that by the looks of it that he’s new.

You didn’t spin back around, though, when he asked you that question. You didn’t want to give him any attention—hopefully, he will get the goddamn hint.

“Think you can handle all this by yourself?” Gross.

“I’ve been doing this for a while. I think I can handle it just fine.” You then turn to Coyote with the four beers he asked for—a genuine smile on your face. He thanked you kindly before sauntering back off to your group of friends by the pool table.

“Really? I’ve never seen you in here before.” He locked eyes with yours before trailing down your figure and admiring the curves of your hips in tight jeans—a shudder of disgust ran through your body. “I would’ve remembered someone like you.”

Yeah, he was definitely new because if he saw the six-foot-four Top Gun aviator—the top one percent of fighter pilots in the world—that was glaring daggers into him, he would have shit his pants on the spot. You were sure he would never set foot in the Hard Deck again.

You were Bradley’s, and Bradley was yours. Everyone in the vicinity of the bar knew that. You were always perched on his lap while he spread his skilled fingers across the piano. His arms were always wrapped around your waist as you destroyed Hangman in darts. You two practically couldn’t get your hands off of each other every second of the day.

No one in their right mind would disturb the pure, raw love between the two of you.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, you were forced under the confinements of the bar area, giving this newbie the perfect opportunity to try and stake his claim.

“Maybe you’re the forgetful one, kid. I’m here every weekend.” You fought the urge to smile in victory when he gave an annoyed expression as the word kid left your mouth.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

“You gonna do something, Rooster?”

His eyes never left your cute irritated face. He watched you give the guy a one-worded answer with a mundane expression. As much as he wanted to give you the kiss of a lifetime, he stood back. “No.”

With Bradley’s answer, Jake was even more amused. “No? I’m surprised. I’d figure by now you’d be trailing over to her like some lost little puppy.”

Bradley bit his cheek to keep from snapping back. He knew that Jake was just giving him shit. He knew that he was just trying to get him all riled up.

It’s what Jake does. But he couldn’t let anything get to him, or he would trail over to you like some lost puppy. Hangman was undoubtedly and stupidly right.

Jake’s eyebrows raise in surprise at the brooding silence. He expected some little quip and then a smack upside the head from Phoenix right next to him.

Damn, this must be really grinding Bradley’s gears. Jake almost felt guilty for his friend sulking in the corner of the Hard Deck.

“Don’t let Bagman get to you, Rooster. He’s just jealous that your girlfriend rejected him first.”

Phoenix grinned with a teasing smile, and Jake just grumbled to himself. At that, Bradley snorted and shook his head. He was still silent, but his demeanor had at least changed. All of the pilots smiled at Rooster’s shoulders relaxing just a smidge.

Bradley hated feeling jealous—the angry green monster that sprouted in his chest and sat home in his head was relentless in its hold on him.

His heart always throbbed in his chest, and anger bubbled through his veins when some guy or girl gave you a bashing smile and feather-light touches to your shoulder.

He always stayed silent—brooding—as he watched you from afar. He never wanted you to feel like he didn’t trust you because he did. Oh, he did. He trusts you more than anyone else in the room, and he flies life or death with some of them. He would follow you to the ends of the earth if you had asked him to.

He figured it is most likely some unresolved tension from the tragedies that have struck during his thirty-five years of life, and anyone that wanted to take you away from him burned a hole in his chest.

So, to combat these ingrained feelings, he sat idly by as that guy’s hips were attached to the bar and watched you dodge every single flirtatious glance and awkward pick-up line. He knew you could handle yourself, and there was a whole gaggle of naval aviators that would stop at nothing to make sure you were doing okay.

“Need another beer?” A peace offering. Jake was already standing up from the bar stool and about to make his way over to you.

He nodded solemnly. “Thanks, Bagman.”

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

You looked bored. You looked so absolutely uninterested in this guy still speaking to you, and now, he was over-explaining how F-18 engines work and fly. You were a mechanical engineer. You knew how plane engines work.

You tried to tell him you did, but he was quick to interrupt to continue telling you about how F-18s have more than one-hundred thousand horsepower.

If you didn’t respect Penny’s establishment and reputation, he would’ve been thrown out of the bar by now. Typical men with their typical egos. Though now that you think about it, you’re sure Penny would have encouraged it.

Your eyes locked with Jake’s, and your eyes lit up at the familiar face. Finally, someone you actually enjoy talking to. Not that you would ever tell Jake that.

“Need savin’ over here, hot shot?” Jake had interrupted the aviator and ignored the very irritated look that was sent his way. It was almost like the guy was insinuating that he had caught you—that you were going to be his tonight. The feeling of possession he exuded made you want to gag again.

Jake could tell you wanted this shift to be over as soon as possible. Your eyes glanced at the random man staring at you before turning your attention back onto Hangman. “Nothing I can’t handle. How many beers?”

“Two, please.” Jake smiled—cocky little shit. “I think you should go talk to your boyfriend over there. He’s been stewin’ for quite a while.” He paused, eyes sliding over to the stranger. “I could even help ya with the bar.”

You turn around to fill up the empty glasses that he handed to you. “Don’t I know it, Bagman.” It was like the aviator that had been hitting on you all night had disappeared—though, you wish. Just you making drinks while your friends entertained you. It was nice for a moment, actually. “I’m due for a break soon enough.”

Jake spoke too soon, though, because Bradley was already making his way over to the bar. He couldn’t help himself when he saw the guy stare straight at your ass and bite his lip. The action made his blood seethe with vexation, so his feet started walking before his brain caught up.

“Boyfriend?” The guy looks shocked. His eyes were wide as he stared at you. “What the fuck? I’ve been trying all night, and you didn’t say a fucking thing?”

You pursed your lips. Irritated. “I did.”

“Huh?”

Rooster stood tall near the bar, watching the scene before him. He studied the menacing glare you struck at the guy and a hand resting on your hip.

“I told you multiple times when you were talking about damn plane engines that I have a boyfriend—who’s a naval aviator by the way. I’ve made it crystal clear.”

He didn’t miss a beat. The stranger’s eyebrows were furrowed in rage. He stood up from the bar in an irate stance. “You’re a fucking bitch. Do you go around eye-fucking all the guy's then?” His eyes move over to Jake’s.

“You allow your slut to do this, man?”

You, Jake, and Bradley all froze. The whole bar dulls out into silence from his loud gestures, and all eyes are on you four now.

The audacity of this kid to insult and degrade you when all you were doing was listening to this guy talk and talk. You gave clear signs of being uninterested. Clear. Not to mention he also had the sheer audacity to make a scene in Jake and Bradley’s presence.

“The fuck did you just say?” You were almost in his face as you leaned over the bar—a hard glare set on him with your fueled anger. The grip you had on the bar counter was starting to ache, but you didn’t care.

“Tame your fucking girl, would you?” Jake’s hands clenched by his side at the comment.

Bradley’s chest heaved up and down, and he could feel the burning emotion consume his entire body and soul. His hands were almost trembling by his side as his thoughts of tearing this asshole to shreds simmered inside his head.

The guy scoffed. He tried to turn around to leave but was met with Bradley’s hard chest. Clearly, he had no idea what was coming.

Bradley was sweet—a kind, gentle soul. He has picked you up from your lowest and drew you back up. He has told you things about himself that not even he understands. Bradley Bradshaw was a good man—one of the best, you would even argue.

However, he had a temper. Call it the jet fuel that was practically injected into his veins, but when that temper was pushed to the brim because someone fucked with you? Yeah, they should hope to be six feet under before Bradley could get to them.

Bradley towered over him, almost making the guy tower down. He was seeing red—fully unsaturated rage at the disrespect toward you. The guy tried to regain some confidence, oddly enough. “Move out of my way.”

Bradley didn’t move—he didn’t even blink. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His eyes bore into the stranger to assess him. His hand twitched at his side as if it was gearing up to make a move.

“Apologize. Now.” His voice was deep—it was gruff and hollow that immediately went straight to your chest. He didn’t look like the Bradley you knew, the Bradley that would carry you for three miles from a sprained ankle.

This Bradley looked menacing. This Bradley looked deadly. And you weren’t going to lie, it was hot as fuck.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Bradley’s eyes flashed with something you were unfamiliar with. He has been jealous before, yes, but it has mostly been the reassuring kind. This was pure seething rage. His eyes were almost red from the amount of anger that pulsated through his body.

“Apologize.” Bradley breathes out, but his eyes are digging into the man in front of him. “Or I will rip your fucking kneecaps off.”

Jake stood tall—back stretched out as he watched the interaction. He would spot for Bradley any day, especially to assholes like this random guy. He wanted to be ready for anything that could come Bradley’s way.

The guy opened his mouth but quickly snapped it shut as Bradley took a step closer if it was even possible. He almost dared him too—almost wanted him to so Bradley could get in some punches that this guy deserved.

“I-I-I’m sorry.” The guy tried to take a step back but was met with the bar counter. “I didn’t mean—”

“Not me.” Rooster pointed directly at you. “Her.”

He spins around faster toward you than you had seen a person spin in your life. “I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He looks up to your boyfriend for approval, but Bradley’s eyes locked with yours. You nodded as a signal to your boyfriend that you were okay—things were okay. All you wanted was for this guy to leave and Bradley to be by your side again. It’s all you could think about.

Bradley’s eyes retreated back to the stranger, and you could have sworn that the guy almost flinched. “If I ever see you in here again, I will not hesitate. Do you understand?”

The aviator nods vigorously and tries to ignore the deadly glare from Bradley. His hands picked at his sides in nervousness. “Do you understand?” Bradley repeats.

The aviator’s eyes widened. “Y-Yes. I understand.”

Bradley’s posture somewhat succeeds back into a relaxed form, his eyes already returning back to you in comfort and warmth. Every tipsy person located in the bar had shouted in celebration for kicking out the guy that ruined all the fun. Coyote and Fanboy unkindly escorted him out of the bar and threw him out onto the sandy beach. “Don’t fucking come here again.”

In the bar, everything and everyone had gone back to normal. People started laughing and smiling once more—shoveling more drinks into their mouths. Some even started racking the balls on the pool table and throwing darts.

For you, though, you couldn’t take your eyes off of Bradley.

He was on you in less than a second, taking two full strides around the bar in desperation. His hands gripped your hips harshly and his lips collided against your own. Your back bumps into the bar, which causes the bottles of booze to rattle against the glass.

His tongue is shoved into your mouth, and he groans deeply at the taste of beer. His nose harshly bumps against your cheek—messy and harsh with every swallow and molding of your mouth.

You almost whined into him. “Bradley.” Your breath fanned up against his cheeks, and his knees felt so fucking weak for you.

His body starts to sloppily drag you away from the bar and into the back corner of the Hard Deck. His lips never once left yours in a fury to feel you—to be inside of you at any and all cost. His hands make their way down the back of your thighs, and you instinctively jump. Your legs wrap around his torso as he continues to walk backward.

Jake rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Go fuck like bunnies. I’ll man the bar, I guess.” But there was a hint of a small smile on his face. Finally, you two could cut the shit and fawn over each other once again.

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

Bradley pulls you into the supply closet near the break room at the back of the bar. His back hits one of the shelves, and you could hear the sound of cleaning bottles falling onto the floor.

Neither of you could stop your fluttering hands that followed each other’s curves. Bradley’s lips trailed down your jaw and neck, which left you breathless and aching for more. Your body feels hot—and elated—from his calloused fingers digging into the flesh on your stomach.

“Bradley, please.” He thinks he knows what you are begging for. He wants to taste you on his tongue. He wants you creaming into his mouth until you’re so dumb that you don’t even remember your own name.

To his chagrin, though, you stop the trailing hand that is trying to make its way between your thighs. “I wanna taste you, Bradley. I wanna swallow your cum.”

His eyes widened. “Fuckin’ hell—” Bradley breathes out, fast and light. He watches you sink down onto your knees and clumsily drag his shorts to pool around his ankles.

You weren’t very graceful from your pure desperation to have his cock in your mouth. Bradley didn’t mind, though.

His cock jumped from the sight and thought of you in such a state of yearning. “Pretty baby.” He whispered, but it sounded more like a whine.

Your lips trailed kisses around his thighs. “Do you know how hot it was to see you almost lose your shit on that guy?” Your words slurred together from the intoxication of his broad muscles and lips that were sucked in between his teeth.

You pull down his boxers and almost drool from his ruddy tip dripping in pre-cum. You lightly graze your fingers across his shaft and your mouth waters from his shaft twitching. Your eyes flickered up to see his reaction, his hooded eyes watching you pump his cock.

“You had been watchin’ me all night, Roo. I could feel it.”

He licked his lips. “He-He—” He moans your name. “F-Fuck. He-He can’t take you. I–” God, you’re so hot from your lust-filled eyes racking over his hopelessly hard cock. He withers in your grasp, and he couldn't help but say your name over again.

“Oh, Roo, no. He can’t take me, hmm?” You hum out the last part of the sentence so your mouth can gravitate to the bulging vein on the side of his cock. “I’m fucking yours, Roo. I’m yours.”

You swirl your tongue and suck your lips around his tip. His hands latch themselves into your hair, and he tugs and tugs. How is he already so close to the edge?

You’re barely touching him, but he feels like he’s on cloud nine, and the knot in his stomach twists and pulls.

“F-Fuck, pretty baby, yeah. You’re mine. You’re mine.” He repeats the saying as his hips involuntarily hump your mouth. You gag around him and his cock shoves further deep into your throat.

You want to guide him to a sweet release for being such a good partner to you. He is yours. He is your Bradley.

“Oh, fuck–fuck baby, please. My fuckin’ girl—yeah, yeah, yeah.”

He lowly groans out—deep, guttural, and sultry—while his cum paints the inside of your mouth. Thick ropes shoot into your mouth, and the salty taste made you salivate even more. Your eyes watch his hung-open jaw and his eyes trailing down to watch you suck around his cock.

You swallow all that he has to offer, and you moan out his name while still stuffed with his cock. His eyes widened slightly at the action, and his heart swirled in his chest. How did he get so lucky with you?

You go to stand up and pull his pants back up, but he catches your hands.

“Oh, pretty baby, you aren’t leaving me so soon, are you?” His palm rests below the back of your neck and pulls you into him. His breath fans up against your cheeks, and he presses sweet kisses on your jaw, working his way up to your temple.

“Roo, if you don’t fuck me right this minute—”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, pretty baby, we’re jus’ getting started.”

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw smut #smut #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x y/n #rooster smut #top gun #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun smut #top gun maverick smut

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fanaticsnail · 6 months

Text

Remember Me

Hello Shanks fans!

This work was requested by @aishabbbb, which I linked back to here for the full description of the prompt. This is my third (technically fourth because my thoughts ran away with me!) requested work that I've completed.

I'm not currently taking requests, but if you do want to see my writing style depict a specific idea, I will honestly most likely hyper-fixate on it until the idea consumes me if you do ask me nice enough. I do appreciate a good prompt! And seriously, who doesn't love an amnesia trope!

Word Count: 6,636

My Masterlist is here!

Echoes of gruff laughter lingered in the air as tankards of ale clanged against one another. It had been a while since the Red-Hair Pirates had made port and as they viewed a rowdy port full of lively music, contagious laughter and bursting at the seams with a variety of pleasurable company; they could not resist.

This port had been known for some time to be a lawless town, accepting of any journeymen as they resupplied their vessels, sailors selling their wares and even the odd Marine here or there had graced the town with their presence. The World Government paid no mind to the comings or goings, knowing should the port be shut down; their supply of rum would slowly dwindle away.

The Captain of the Red-Hair Pirates sat upon a stool at the rear of the room as he stared into the bottom of his tankard, watching the amber liquid slosh from side to side. He withdrew into himself; his former joy and carefree attitude no longer present on his features this night.

A woman with a painted face sauntered over towards the captain, swaying her hips as she overemphasized her intentions.

“Care for some company, sweetheart?” she asked him in a sultry tone as she took his hand in hers that still clasped the tankard. He made eye contact and smiled from the corner of his mouth before withdrawing the hand from her grip and drew his drinking vessel to his mouth.

“Not today, love,” he said, taking a drink from his tankard, “but I can point you in the direction of someone who would be more than happy to share your time.”

She smiled as Shanks gestured to his senior officer, who had a black bandana featuring a white jolly roger insignia atop his lengthy blonde hair. His expression was one of a displeasing grimace, black glasses concealing more of his irritation behind them.

“See if you can bring a smile to his face, would you?” he laughed slightly as she nodded as she made her way to her next target.

Plonking two fresh pints down on the table before him, Benn Beckman sighed as he sat on a stool facing his Captain; taking one of the pints and gesturing for Shanks to do the same.

“You turned her away?” Beckman questioned his Captain, “I thought you’d enjoy a pretty blonde giving you attention this time.”

“I’m not as open today as I have been any other day to the company of a painted lady,” Shanks laughed in response raising his pint and clanging it against his First-Mate’s, “or any other man or woman you’ve since such sent my way. You know this.”

“Oh,” Beckman uttered, eyes widening before looking down at the table, “I didn’t realise it was today. Sorry Cap’n.”

“Don’t apologise, Beckman,” he smiled at him before drinking from the tankard. He moaned slightly as the cool, bubbling liquid hit his lips and he tasted the bitter flavour of the hoppy amber ale.

“How long has it been since-?” Beckman began, halting his words in search for the more appropriate way of phrasing it.

“How long has it been since my bride was claimed at sea?” Shanks offered to complete his First-Mate’s sentence. Beckman nodded in response, gesturing with his pint for Shanks to offer his answer.

Shanks sighed and leant back in his stool, his back thumping against the small railing at the back.

“This day marks ten years,” he added with a sad smile. A silence fell between them as they reminisced the day the Captain of the Red-Hair Pirate’s wife was lost to him.

After a brief pause, they commenced their drinking as they surveyed the movements of the patrons and crew interacting with one another.

Beckman raised his tankard to his lips and begin to gulp with gusto at the frothing liquid. He trailed his eyes throughout the bar as he did so; looking to Limejuice as he grit his teeth tightly at the blonde woman’s incessant and unrelenting flirtation was thrust upon him.

He continued his assessment of the room before his attention was caught by a group of sailors laughing amongst each other, a woman throwing her had back at the joke uttered by one among them. Benn Beckman spluttered into his tankard, coughing as the amber ale entered into his wind pipe and corrupted his lungs with it. He continued to draw in his breaths while maintaining visual contact on the situation unfolding before him.

“Benn,” Shanks addressed his choking crewman, “you alright?”

The First-Mate continued coughing and spluttering, managing to relieve his lungs of the bitter substance and gasping in a long breath. His pigment all but fled from his face as he continued staring blankly at the bar in horror.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Shanks laughed, placing his tankard down on the table before clapping a hand against the upper arm of Beckman’s shoulder.

“I-I think I have,” Beckman stuttered slightly before bringing his attention to his captain, “look to the bar and tell me if you can see her too, Captain.”

Shanks furrowed his brows in confusion, laughing lightly at the confession of his crewman before turning and immediately having the playful expression pulled from his lips.

“You see her?” Beckman asked him in a voice just above a whisper.

The Captain wordlessly rose to his feet, almost toppling the stool over in the process as he made his way to approach the woman. His bride, his queen. His whole world was carelessly and unaware of his presence as the melodical laugh fell from her lips; a sound Shanks never thought he would once again experience.

------------------

You tapped the chest of the older sailor in front of you as you continued to laugh at his joke.

“Harold,” you gasped, wiping a tear from your eye, “and that’s the reason you only have three toes on your left foot?”

“Honest to goodness, lass,” he continued to rumble laughter, his eyes twinkling with utter mischievousness, “the bloody crab nearly carved the whole lot off, if not for my quick thinking!”

He imitated the pinching movements of a crab’s claw and crooked his head to make himself look as crab-like as he could, prompting another roar of laughter to erupt between the sailors and yourself.

“Alright, I’ll get you that drink then,” you teetered your laughter and turned to address the bartender you had come to know, “Mary, give us a couple schooners of ale- the pale stuff if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Right you are, my love,” she acknowledged your order and began pouring the foamed liquid into two smaller cups.

It had been ten years since you found yourself lying upon the shore with no recollection of who or what you were before your arrival. Thankfully enough, your body was strong. You knew how to hold your own when it came to unwarranted and unreciprocated attention, often brawling with men to assert yourself among them.

As you needed a job to afford food, you managed to bully Captain Harold of the Angelfish Shepherds Fishing Crew and would accompany them out to sea, bringing in several catches a day and selling their many items throughout town. It was only when the sun would disappear behind the horizon, you would come home to the tavern: "Mary’s Resting Track" and make yourself comfortable with your crew at the bar; drinking well into the night.

Just as Mary had finished pouring from the keg, you felt an arm placed upon your left shoulder, prompting you to turn to face it's source.

“My bride,” a tall, red-headed man gasped in a voice above a whisper as he drew you in to place his lips against yours. You squealed at the tender impact, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth at the sudden softness and passion you felt from the unknown man. You pushed on his chest slightly before creasing your brows in confusion.

“Steady on, Sailor. Save it for your wife,” you laughed at him, collecting the two schooners from the bar and placing one into the hands of Captain Harold, “or at least buy me a drink first!”

You laughed, prompting your crew to do the same as they raised their glasses and took a drink. You rose yours to your lips and drank from it, keeping playful eye contact with the sailor before you.

He was handsome, his red hair immediately drawing you in. He had a black cloak shrouding his left arm from view and a three-point claw mark over his left eye. His face held a shocked, sobering expression on it as if he was staring at something extra-terrestrial in make.

“Y-You,” he stuttered out, “Y-You’re.”

The words caught in his throat as he again reached his right hand up to attempt to secure a fallen strand of your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You swatted his hand away from completing the action.

“No,” you said firmly, playfulness leaving your face as your eyebrows collected themselves with a frown, “no one touches my hair. It’s out of bounds to even those who know me, and know me; you do not.”

You swiped his arm away fully away from your face while keeping a warning, reprimanding look on your features. He continued to stare at you, his eyes swelling slightly as they fluttered between your own; pleading with you and searching within them for a small shroud of recognition.

“She’s saving it for her beloved,” your crewman mocked you in a high-pitched tone, bringing humour once again to the room. You laughed at his jest, prompting you to turn away from the red head to scold his imitation.

“I don’t sound like that,” you laughed at him, prompting your crewman to again mock you by wobbling his head from side to side and scrunching up his face.

You turned back around to see the man again gazing with a fierce intensity born deeply into your eyes and managed this time to tuck a strand of your hair behind your left ear with his right hand. At this, you brought your own hand firmly up and struck the side of his face, all humour once again leaving you.

At the crisp strike, chaos erupted at the bar. A crew of pirates drew their pistols, pointing it towards you; while your crew of sailors pulled their own from their belt and aimed it at them in response. You kept your eyes completely fixed on the red-haired pirate as his face continued to hold a yearning expression.

“She gave you a warning, Sailor,” your Captain spat at him, “I don’t care how much ale you consumed, you respect the wishes of a lady.”

This seemed to shatter whatever illusion was held on the redhead in front of you as he looked to the assortment of pirates behind him. He held up his hands in defence of himself, taking a step back from his proximity near you and nodding his head in a deep bow.

“Easy, lads,” he smiled, “put them away. We don’t bring out our guns at one little slap.”

The crew focussed their attention on you as you shook your head and creased your brows at his address. He again turned to you, and bowed his head slightly deeper as an apology.

“You’ll have to excuse me, miss,” he uttered, “I didn’t mean to cross your boundary. It was reactionary, and for that I offer my most sincere apologies.”

Your gaze softened at his words as you gently used your pointer finger to raise his chin to look at you once more.

“Apology accepted on the condition of buying me and my friends a round of drinks,” you scrunched your nose with a small wink. He laughed at your remark, shaking his head and smiling once more.

“I would have to agree, miss. Definitely the next one on me,” he continued to gaze into your eyes as you withdrew your finger from his chin and tapped his nose with it playfully.

-----------------

You didn’t remember him. That must be the only reason you didn’t hoist yourself into his single arm and cling yourself against him. Why you didn’t lean into the kiss and allow him to lace his hand into your hair and relieve your face from it shrouding your vision. The act so intimately solidifying your relationship in the early days, holding onto it as you spoke your wedding vows.

No-one was to ever touch your hair apart from yourself and your beloved were the words you spoke while dressed in your white, lace dress aboard the Red Force; Beckman performing the ceremony all those years ago.

You were married in your youth, relationship blossoming from friendship to something more on the Oro Jackson under the watchful gaze of Gol D. Roger. The subtle glances turned into subtle touches, turning into kisses stolen from within the hidden halls of the Oro Jackson as you would press each other against the walls and roam your hands along your bodies.

He was obsessed with your hair, and with each caress, each embrace, he would find himself absent-mindedly playing with it. You vowed alongside your commitment in matrimony that only he and he alone would be allowed to tuck your hair behind your ear in adoration; and you be the only one permitted to place a kiss atop the crown of his head.

Shanks had to contain himself as his soul screamed within the chasms of his chest to embrace you, to hold you against him and cry out in joy at your return. He didn’t touch another woman in the ten long years it had been since your last departure; the notion turning to ash in his mouth at the mere suggestion. It had only been until recently that Beckman prompted him to seek out someone to relieve his tension, but he felt it would’ve been an insult to the beautiful memories you shared with one another.

You were even in the process of early conversations on what starting a family would look like aboard the Red Force with his assortment of rowdy crew.

You would bicker at having the ship make birth permanently at a port, returning every two weeks to the solid shore as Shanks refused to halt his travels. He wanted you and the children aboard, rearing them alongside his crew; an idea you immediately shot down as you understood infants waking and crying at every interval and the disruption would not be fair to bring to the crew.

Shanks remembered Beckman adding to that conversation with: “We’re already getting sleepless nights from the sounds echoing the halls originating at your quarters!”

He chuckled at the memory before he remembered the fear on your face as the storm threw you overboard in your attempt to raise the sheet from the topmast and secure it in place. The black sky and torrential winds making it impossible to see your form as you struggled against the waves. He didn’t see what happened, only noticing your departure once they successfully made it through the storm and into the central eye of it.

The roar-like scream rumbling throughout the chest of the Red-Haired Captain still reverberating within the ears and memories of the entire crew as they recollect it every year. The pain shared amongst them as their captain bore his grief openly; drowning in rum every night before Beckman pulled him out of his rut with the reprimand: “this is not what she would have wanted.”

It mattered not what happened to him from that point. The pain of loosing you was far greater than any earthly injury could bring forth. He didn’t even bat an eye as his arm was claimed by a great Sea-Beast; consuming his flesh within it’s belly. He was more upset by the fact his golden wedding band perished at its disappearance.

And here you were, not a scratch upon you; laughing as if you had not a care in the world.

You had no memory. That was the only explanation Shanks had as he gazed lovingly at you, drinking your free ale at his expense.

----------------

You shook your head at a comment made by one of your crewmen as they suggested to hold a drinking competition between the red-haired pirate’s crew and your own.

“I don’t think I have enough booze in the house for that,” Mary laughed from behind the bar.

You smiled at her comment, turning back around to see the far off look in the red-head’s eyes.

“You know,” you nudged him with your shoulder, bringing his attention back towards you, “for someone that leads in lips first, you’re awfully quiet.”

He chuckled at your comment, expression softening but with a hidden depth you couldn’t quite understand.

“I’m not usually like this,” he scrunched his nose up with a smile.

“Rough time at sea, then?” you asked him, gesturing to Mary with two fingers to indicate your intentions of purchasing the next round for you and the red-head.

“Not particularly, its just-,” his words trailed off, prompting you to gaze your eyes; flittering them between his own two deep brown orbs before he took a deep breath and looked forward at his crew interacting with your own.

“You gestured for the good stuff, right?” she asked, placing two short, round glasses down on the counter; spiced rum swishing in the base as she did so.

“That I did, love,” you replied, placing down your berry on the counter and taking the glasses from it. You went to place the glass into the red-head Captain’s hands, noticing it was already occupied with a half-drunk tankard of ale.

“You keen on a rum?” you asked him, bringing his gaze up. He gasped out a quick hum, raising the tankard and downing the remainder of his ale with haste and placing the empty vessel atop the bar. He rose his hand to accept your offer and his fingers brushed against your own as he claimed the drink from your hand.

He looked down to your collar bone and noticed a single gold ring hung from a piece of fine leather around it. He furrowed his brows at it as to inspect it from his great distance.

“The gold band around your neck,” he gestured down to your left hand, “are you married?”

“Not to my knowledge, Sailor,” you laughed at him, “I was found with it.”

You sipped at the rum and creased your brows as the heavy alcohol entered your system.

“I apologise for slapping you,” you uttered, “I, uh. I made a promise, you see. I don’t really know what about or to whom, truthfully.”

He hummed at your comment, fixing his eyes on your face as you spoke. He trailed his eyes over your body, looking at you with an expression completely unreadable. Somewhere between: bewildered, surprised, great sorrow, relief, curiosity and apprehension.

“I don’t actually have a lot of that – knowledge, I mean,” you reiterated with a smile, “For the better part of ten years, I’ve been building back what I think I used to be like. I have no idea, though. I could’ve been some prissy young lass with a string of twelve children; or some standoffish, uptight cow-.”

“-You were never like that,” the red-head interrupted you, prompting you to snap your gaze up to meet with his.

“Do you know me, Sailor?” you asked him, your brows creasing together.

“Shanks,” he corrected you, “my name is Shanks.”

“Alright, Shanks,” you corrected yourself, “Do you know me?”

He sighed, drinking a small amount of liquid from his glass and looking to the rowdy crowd as their boisterous laughter echoed throughout the walls.

“If you want to talk about it, I’m going to need two things,” he said, downing the remainder of alcohol from his glass in one quick swell, “another drink, preferably a bottle this time.”

You laughed at him, before asking; “and the other thing?”

“Privacy,” he uttered with a small hint of sadness. You expressed concern within your eyes before patting him on the back and rubbing small circles in comfort to him.

You weren’t sure why you brought your hand up to comfort him, it seemed almost reactionary. A natural instinct of familiarity; organic.

“Alright, Shanks,” you began, making eye contact with Mary once more, “I’ll buy you a bottle under one condition.”

“And what might that be?” he chuckled warmly.

“That you give me a small glint of information before we proceed to the beach,” Mary placed the bottle on the counter and you placed down more berry in response, “I need to know if you are threatening me with a good time, or if you plan on executing me to reclaim some debt.”

“Were we enemies?” you asked him, bearing your gaze at the wall behind the bar.

“Sometimes,” Shanks shrugged his shoulders, prompting you to snap your gaze back to his. He erupted a full belly laugh from his diaphragm at your reaction. He let out a deep sigh before he suggested; “let’s make to the beach and I’ll fill you in.”

Mary smiled, looking between the two of you before the beckoning of Captain Harold and several bottles of the cheapest rum called her from her place before you.

You nodded, neglecting to collect glassware while you grasped the neck of the bottle; not once removing your eyes from the red-head next to you.

You made your way down towards the beach, walking in step with Captain Shanks, as the crew bid him goodnight. You noticed several members of his crew gawked at you as if they had seen a phantom or something of the make.

Once gazing into the open sea, the Captain plonked himself unceremoniously on the sand, legs spread wide as he sat with his knees bent upwards. You smiled at him before crouching down to sit beside him, uncorking the fresh rum bottle in your hands and offering it to him. He smiled as he took it from your grasp and brought it to his lips.

You trailed your eyes over his form, trying to conjure a whisp of memory from the recesses of your mind. After having no image return to you, you rose up your voice.

“So-,” you began, only to be cut off my Shanks.

“You were – are,” he started to relay, laughing at the fact he spoke over you. You nodded to him to continue.

He paused, sighing before again voicing what he was attempting to confess to you.

“It’s been ten years to the day since I lost you,” he sighed, looking down to the sand near his knees, “and not a day went by that my thoughts were not drawn to you.”

You looked at him, puzzled at what he was telling you.

“Your gold band,” he gestured with his hand towards your neck grasping the bottle, keeping his eyes fixed on the sand below him, “was gifted to us by our former Captain we served under: Gol D. Roger. He had a lot of love for you and I.”

“The King of the Pirates?” you asked him, eyes wide before adding, “and us. What do you mean, us?”

He sighed again, this time bringing his head to slouch back as he gazed at the dark and cloudless sky above you.

“I can’t tell you what happened right now. It’s-,” he paused between the words, prompting you to inch forward and look at his face. He turned his face away from you as you attempted to gaze into his eyes; “-it’s too painful today.”

You frowned and instead reached down to the hand placed upon his hand, and swiftly reclaimed the rum bottle from within his grip. He turned his head towards you at this and trailed his eyes up to yours as you placed the lip of the bottle and downed two large gulps of the liquid. You squeezed your eyes as the strong alcohol burned its way down your throat and into the pit of your belly.

He laughed at your actions, finally the forlorn expression eclipsed by glee.

“You haven’t changed,” he uttered, reaching his hand up to your hair before recoiling it back again. You watched him do this, as processing the boundary you expressed earlier still lingered within his thoughts. Instead of reaching your hair with his hand, he fell his grasp to your hands as they held the rum bottle.

“Is there truly nothing you remember of me?” He asked you, looking down to where his single hand rested upon your own. You furrow your brows and search your mind through closed eyes, willing yourself to remember any aspect about him. You hissed out a growl in frustration as you found no recollection.

“I want to,” you whispered to him, “you seem a decent kind of man, if not a little forward with the kiss and all.”

He chuckled at your comment, his laughter building to a rumble. His shoulders began to quake lightly as his laughter died and morphed into soft sobs. He attempted to conceal them from you by raising his hand up from where it rested atop his knee and turned to face away from you. You were overwhelmed slightly by this man becoming wrecked with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, bringing yourself to rest on your knees as you pulled yourself closer to him.

You opened your arms and shimmied your legs forward, hoisting them over his bent knees and found a comfortable spot on the sand to rest between them. Your arms circled his shoulders as you felt his right arm wrap beneath your waist and hook up your spine. He held his face flush with your stomach and squeezed his hand to grasp at your body as if you were to slip away at any moment. You felt his shoulders begin to relax into your embrace while inhaling your scent. You looked down the top of his head before absentmindedly bringing your lips down to place a chaste kiss against his hair. He flinched slightly at this impact, tension building in his shoulders before he slumped them forward.

You heard him sigh into your diaphragm as you did so, bringing his face away from its hidden position against you and resting his chin atop your chest to bring his sights to look up at you. For some reason, this man as he held you in an intimate proximity did not have you thrusting him away from your with excessive force as you did with so many others.

You unwrapped your left hand from around his shoulders and set it against his cheek. His youthful smile returning as you caressed him. You warmly smiled in response, feeling the gruff of his stubble against the palm of your hand before he turned his head and placed a brief kiss atop your inner hand.

“I am willing to dedicate the rest of my life to getting you to fall in love with me once again,” he whispered against your hand before turning his head to meet your gaze, “this I swear.”

Your eyes widened at the comment with a small smile toying at your mouth.

“I gather my undying devotion is overwhelming for you,” he chuckled, prompting you to move your hand away from his face and place both hands atop his shoulders.

“It is, to be perfectly candid with you,” you giggled at him, smoothing your arms over his shoulders and tracing circles against them with your thumbs, “I have tried everything to bring a small fragment of the person I once was to the forefront of my being.”

He trailed his hand from its place at the small of your back and rested it atop your left hip, grasping it firmly within his palm and kneading the flesh beneath it.

You brought your attention to the gold ring on your leather necklace as you held onto his shoulder, narrowing your eyes at the metal slightly; pleading within your own mind to bring forth any memory of the man cradling himself against you.

“To put myself in your hideous sandals,” you uttered, prompting him to quirk his head slightly to the side, “you found me, and it’s almost as if you did so only to lose me again.”

“Aye, it is,” he nodded, looking down again and meeting his eyes with the flesh of your forearm. He ghosted his lips over your left arm, dragging it higher within the crook of your elbow. Your hair follicles stood on edge under his ministrations, as he continued to not kiss your skin; but rather feel the way your body tasted below his lips.

“And you looked lovely in my highly practical sandals, last time you wore them,” he smirked his lips against your flesh before placing a kiss against it. He trailed kisses varying in intensity back down your forearm and against your wrist, prompting your breath to hitch in your throat.

That comment was it. After a variety of interpersonal and intimate words shared regarding your prior relationship with the man beneath you; it was the ugly sandals that brought a flitter of memory to grace behind your eyes. Any other comment; the hand in your hair from earlier, the wedding ring gifted by Gol D. Roger before he was executed, anything else; it was the ugly sandals he found in the run of the mill town that he purchased and, much to your horror, wore in public.

You remember taking them from his room and fleeing above deck with them in an attempt to throw them overboard to rid yourself of their ugliness forever, only to have your waist caught by your husband as he twirled you around to face the deck again with playful reprimand in the process of doing so.

At the request of your husband, you placed them on your feet and experienced the absolute comfort they bore you; almost shrieking in disgust at yourself for relishing in the feeling; as he belly-laughed at you.

“We’ll get you some at the next port” you heard his voice within your mind, “then we can be matching.”

You remembered him wiggling his eyebrows, prompting you to place your closed fist against his chest and tap him slightly.

“We can even get tiny little ones for when you relent and let me put a child in you,” you remembered his tone, causing a blush to rise presently to your cheeks.

“Something the matter, love?” Shanks' voice brought you from your singular memory and back into the present moment you were sharing so intimately with your husband.

No other memory sprang forward, only a few whispers of certain smells: sea water, spiced rum and stagnant drinking water with the natural smell men aboard a boat. You circled your arms around his shoulders and again pressed him against yourself, smothering his face against your sternum between your breasts. Your mouth fell slack as you pressed your face into his hair and inhaled the aroma of the fragrance he favoured to utilise in his red locks: sandalwood and ginger prominent with his natural scent lingering beneath it.

You began to feel a rough flurry of taps from the man beneath you as he indicated for you to release him. His laughter was unrestrained as his eyes twinkled with mischievousness.

“As happy as I am to once again have my face pressed between your breasts,” he heaved his laughter, “I do require air to sustain me.”

He brought his eyes to meet yours as you stared your eyes on the crashing waves of the beach as the tide began to come in further. Your eyes remained wide as you continued to will a semblance of recollection to come to you.

Once you offered no rebuttal at his comment, he again reached his hand up towards your hair only to halt it once more.

“What is it?” he asked you, now placing his right hand atop your left arm, holding it lovingly.

“I-,” you began, the words now halting between your lips. You brought your eyes down to look down and you continued to flitter them between each of his own.

“I-,” you again said, leaning in closer to him; prompting him to have a sense of seriousness overcome his features, “-will never own a pair of those ugly sandals.”

Immediately his seriousness fell away and his face split into a wide grin as his laughter rumbled within his chest one more.

“Yes, you always hated them. I think they’re wonderful,” he gasped while stifling his laughter. You continued to hold his shoulders as his laughter teetered off into a dull rumble.

“I tried to throw them overboard,” you uttered almost inaudibly, “and you threatened me with buying more of them.”

“You remember,” he gasped out a breathy sigh, “you remember me.”

He brought his torso up further to bring your foreheads to rest against each other. He nuzzled your nose slightly at the impact and squeezed his eyes shut with delight. He began to lean in to graze your lips with his, only to be halted by your gentle touch to bring him back.

“I don’t remember anything else aside from your disgusting sandals,” you whispered, closing your eyes before reopening them again and looking at him half-lidded, “and the way you looked at me when you suggested we begin trying for a child.”

A small gasp left his lips as a single tear fell from his right eye. Immediately he pulled your head against his further, seeking out your lips with his own. He moved his hand from its place at your hip to snake around your waist and hold you firmly against his lap. You felt him moan against your lips as you reciprocated his enthusiasm by lacing your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly at the new growth at the back of his neck.

As your proximity was so flush against one another, you had no choice but to press your full weight against him as he laid with his back against the sand; his hair sprawling out atop the course surface. He expertly maneuvered his right leg beneath yours without breaking the kiss, gasping into it as he darted his tongue out to meet with your own.

A soft whimper flung itself from your lips as he relentlessly attacked your mouth with his own; flittering deep and hungry kisses while trying to taste as much of you as he could with his tongue. You unlaced your fingers from his hair and raked them down his shoulders to his chest, massaging the hard muscle beneath them as you continued in your exploration. He gently rose his hand from its place around your waist and drew itself beneath your shirt and groaned when he felt your tender flesh beneath the material.

Placing your right hand below his cloak, you raked your fingers further along his ribcage and drew them up towards his left arm – halting your movement as you found none residing there.

You squealed into his mouth, feeling him smirk against your lips. You attempted to break from the kiss, only to feel his hand climb higher beneath your blouse and lie flat against your spine between your shoulder blades and continue passionately exploring your lips.

“Shanks,” you murmured a warning reprimand against his lips. He smiled while maintaining his lips against your own, feeling the soft pearls of his teeth as they made contact with your mouth. He continued to chase your lips each time you attempted to flee from his embrace.

You brought your hands up to ball the material of his white shirt within your fists and held him further against yourself, prompting him to let down his guard as he whimpered into your lips at your sudden domination. As soon as you felt him relinquish a small spectrum of control, you pushed hard on his collar bones and pried him from your lips. He first groaned in frustration before his body was wracked with uncontrollable laughter. He collapsed against the ground, prompting you to roll your body from above him to onto your own back in the sand as his laughter became contagious.

And as earlier, the heaving of your shoulders in fits of laughter evolved into heavy sobs from the both of you as you mourned the time lost between you.

“My bride,” Shanks called from beside you as he placed his right hand upon his eyes in an attempt to control his emotions.

“Yes, my groom,” you said as more of a whimper than an address.

He rolled over onto his side and hovered his face above yours, as the tears freely fell down the faces of the two of you; the moonlight cascading over your lover’s hair. Hesitantly, he reached his right hand up to your hair and slowly brought some loose strands from your face and wove it behind your ear. He sighed in relief as he watched you close your eyes and lean into his touch, taking your quivering lip between your teeth as you did so.

“You are as beautiful as the day I lost you,” he whispered with a slight hitch of his voice. You reopened your eyes to watch him smiling through his sorrow. You returned his expression and caressed his chest and ghosting your fingertips over his left shoulder.

“And you are one arm less than I remember,” you beamed a wide smile and giggled a little at your prod. He joined you in your laughter and pressed a chaste kiss against your hair before rising to his feet and offering you his right hand to hoist you up to meet him. You took his hand and allowed him to hoist you to your feet, before he dipped his shoulder down to make contact with your waist and lifted you over his right shoulder. He secured you in place with a crisp slap upon your left ass-cheek as he effortlessly crouched down to retrieve the forgotten, half-drunk rum bottle. He rose again to his feet and began to walk with you over his shoulder, using his teeth to uncork the rum bottle and spitting it against the sand.

“Is this quite necessary?” you asked him, mock annoyance in your tone.

He laughed and took a long swig from the rum bottle and gasped in joy as the liquid burnt its way down his throat.

“Not only is it necessary,” he called to you over his left shoulder, “it is also compulsory.” You laughed at him as he almost jigged back towards the tavern, him joining you in your laughter upon arriving at its steps and flinging open the door with his feet.

The arrival of the two of you had cheers erupting and reverberating from every corner and crevasse of the wooden building. Tankards were thrust into the air, foam sloshing carelessly from the top and onto the floor; much to the many protestations of Mary.

Shanks placed you on the floor after setting aside the bottle of rum atop a cylindrical raised bar table.

“Alright lads,” he addressed the room, “let me reintroduce you to my wife!”

He extended his right hand out for you to place your left hand within. As soon as you did so, he effortlessly spun you into him, your left arm laced over your front as he cradled you against himself.

You looked up to his face, your neck laying against his shoulder as he brought his lips down to meet your own for the first time publicly in a decade. Applause, shouts of glee and delight, more sloshing of ale and verbal reprimands from the tavern keeper echoed the hall as you smiled against the lips of your beloved. Your husband, and his bride.

#one piece #opla #x reader #shanks opla #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #one piece live action #opla fic #amnesia trope #my playlist broke me #angst #angst with a happy ending

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 7 months

Text

Testing One, Two, Three (S.R. Smut +18)

Summary: (Spencer Reid x Fem Reader) Spencer comes home, after a long week of being away, with a bag full of (sexy) surprises.

Content Warnings: Sex toy use, praise kink, dirty talk, mutual self pleasure, coming undone, overstimulation, very light submissive (Reader) dominant (Spencer) dynamics, talk of anal sex & pegging

Word Count: 3.3K

Note: This is one that I have had saved in my drafts for a very long time! And I just had the inspiration to finish it a couple days ago.

Testing One, Two, Three

It wasn’t strange for Spencer to make trips to the grocery store, to the used bookstore, or the pharmacy before making his way back to Y/N’s storybook Tudor home after work.

This evening proved to be not unlike the others. Spencer, driving his powder blue Volvo pulls into Y/N’s driveway. She watches from the windows as he takes out his satchel, his overnight bag, and other large black shopping bags. It didn’t look like it was from the grocery store and their local bookstore didn’t give customers plastic bags. Curious, Y/N unlocks the door for Spencer, deciding to meet him at her front stoop instead of in the kitchen or the hallway like normal.

“Hey there, love,” Spencer says, the nickname brushing off his lips with ease. He looks tired and worn down. Y/N thinks that traveling through two different time zones and not getting enough sleep is a way to do that to a person, but she decides she’ll keep that to herself and just usher Spencer to bed earlier tonight.

“Oh, Spence. I really missed you,” she confesses, breathing in his familiar scent. It's a little different. He smells like cheap hotel shampoo and stale coffee, not like his usual minty and green tea body wash and expensive coffee beans.

Spencer sighs into her neck, swaying slightly as he holds Y/N in his arms on her front stoop. His bags, even the mysterious black on, lay neglected on the ground by their feet.

“I know, Y/N. I know, sweetheart,” he reassures, rubbing his hand up and down her back in a comforting gesture. “I got you something. Well, really it’s for us. But for you, mostly I suppose,”

“You’re acting clingy and squirrely,” she assesses, leaning back to look at Spencer’s unreadable face. He simply shrugs, as if to say you’ll find out when you find out.

“I need caffeine,” Spencer remarks, as he insists on carrying all the bags into the house by himself, “And something comfy to wear. I’ve been in this shirt for the last two days. There was a break in the case 41 hours in and we couldn’t break for the hotel. It was too out of the way,”

“Oh my poor boy,” Y/N exclaims, helping Spencer shed his cardigan and standing with him as he takes his shoes off, “What about a nice hot shower and then some leftovers. I made chickpea curry last night. We have leftover rice and garlic naan, too,” she offers.

Spencer, offering his thanks, grabs at his tie. His shoulders tense with exhaustion and something unreadable. He’s not usually mysterious. Usually, Spencer’s nothing but an open book.

“You alright?” Y/N asks, doling out the portion of chickpeas and rice on the delicately decorated plates she received for her 25th birthday.

“Fine,” Spencer says, clipped and detached.

So unlike him.

“Hmm. Well how was work? Anything interesting happen?” Y/N asks, attempting to spark conversation with her boyfriend. They’ve only been dating for a solid five months; enough time for whatever it was to have run its course. If Y/N didn’t know any better than she should expect herself to be circling the drain tonight along with dishes that would certainly be neglected for a pint of Java Chip.

“Fine,” Spencer says, nodding thanks for the plate of food. He shovels in a couple bites, seemingly uninterested in continuing the conversation.

So unlike him.

Usually, Spencer would be clamoring to talk to her. It wasn’t too long ago that they spent long nights sharing a bottle of red and talking about everything from books to movies to the meaning of life.

“Alright, Spencer. Cut the crap. Are you breaking up with me? Because if you are–?”

Shock washes over Spencer’s face. And he doesn’t wear it well. He does a spit take and it’s nearly as foolish as it looks like in movies. Spencer’s eyes grow about three sizes bigger.

“What? Break up with you? God, no,” he stammers, the sentiment clear although his efforts lacked clarity.

“Okay.” Y/N says, tossing Spencer a napkin to mop up his mess of curry and water. “Good to know. But why are you acting so….squirrely?”

Shifting in his seat, Spencer attempts to remain calm. His eyes, a honey brown with a cool brown rim, flit to the mysterious bag he brought in from his car. It was as if she could hear the whirring of the gears clicking into place. She follows his gaze to the bag.

“You bought something. Something that you’re either nervous about or embarrassed? So it can’t be books. And it’s not something innocuous like a throw blanket or pie dish. And judging by your breathing growing heavy, it’s something….salacious.”

Spencer’s thin upper lip twitches with delight. He hums, neither confirming nor denying her claims. His eyes flicker with playfulness, a contrast to moments ago when Spencer’s eyes flooded with fear and shock.

“You’re smart.” Spencer concludes, smiling with knives. He stands to presumably grab the black bag that has caused so much intrigue. “Should have been a profiler with a mind like yours.”

“I’ll stick to what I know.” Y/N tells him, her interest in the bag only growing

when Spencer places it in front of her on the table. “Let me guess, we’re at the stage in our relationship where you can buy me sexy underwear without it looking like you’re sleaze,”

Chortling, Spencer blushes profusely. His feeble attempts at hiding the bag's contents fail miserably as they only pique Y/N’s interest. His eyes are wide with wonder and anticipation in the kitchen light.

“It’s not lingerie.”

“Alright, well whatever it is, Spencer I’m sure I’ll love it. You’re being so jumpy, it’s making me think you’ve got some really kinky sex toy in here,” she says, reaching her hand into the bag to finally examine its contents. She’s good at reading faces. From the old man who reads French Literature on the Metro to the young barista at the local coffee shop, Y/N, like even Spencer admitted, is pretty well versed at reading people. Which is why, for a split second she reads pure terror in Spencer’s eyes.

“Oh shit,” she says, turning the box in her hand and reading the label. “You bought me a wand?” Her voice goes up an octave as if she’s just realizing what she’s holding in her hands.

Spencer, now thoroughly, embarrassed, covers his face with his hand. His cheeks are tinged a lovely pink and he peeks through his fingers, apparently still eager. “Will you kill me if I say that’s not the only thing in there?”

“Spencer Reid!” she shouts, slapping his hands on the table with glee and excitement. It was the very thought of Spencer Reid in a sex shop that sent both shivers down her spine, like an electric shock and shock waves of laughter through her system. “You went into a sex shop.”

“Yes, Y/N,” Spencer contends, his tone playful enough, “But please continue your teasing. We’ll see how cocky you’ll be when you’re on the receiving end of 5000 RPMS. And that’s the lowest setting,”

“Is that a threat?” Y/N asks, leaning in closer to Spencer. Her cleavage is eye level to Spencer’s line of vision. His eyes dart there to the bag and back to her eyes.

He shakes his head. “A promise. Continue,” Spencer instructs, pointing towards the bag. She listens, fishing her hand in the large bag.

“That’s a clitoral stimulator.” Spencer explains, “The website I got recommendations from says that it simulates oral sex. It has eleven settings,” he continues, watching as Y/N’s eyes grow big at the thought of the toy in her hands.

“Hmm, eleven?” she muses, putting it down next to the menacing looking hitachi wand.

“Another one? Spencer, how much money did you spend on toys?” she says aghast as she takes out yet another item from the bag.

“It’s a Lush vibrator.” Spencer explains, waving off Y/N’s concerns for his wallet. “It’s actually connected to my phone. That means I can control it, even when we’re apart. Which, considering how much we’re apart, just might come in handy.”

“This must have cost a lot of money.” Y/N speculates, staring at the three presents facing her on the countertop. “You really didn’t have to. You really shouldn’t–”

“Y/N,” Spencer says, her name sounding deadly in his breathy timber, “It’s my job to make sure you’re satisfied. And I thought it would be a little fun to bring in some…reinforcements.”

“That’s certainly more forward thinking than my last boyfriend. He was under the assumption that toys stole his thunder. But between you and me, and like every other woman he slept with, it’s probably because he hardly ever made me finish.”

“Really?” Spencer says, looking shocked. “And he was still insecure about bringing toys into the bedroom?”

Laughing, Y/N tosses her head back in a chortle. There was something endearing about Spencer’s genuine shock.

Spencer, looking half bemused and half proud, shifts in his seat. “So are we going to test them out or what?”

Twenty minutes later, they were both in her bed. Y/N, on her back, with her feet planted firmly on the bed, watches as Spencer studies her carefully. Sweat pools in her cleavage and she grabs the sheets, needing something to grip as yet another wave of pleasure washes over her body. He had already coaxed an orgasm out of her with the clitoral stimulator.

Spencer, fully dressed, holds the wand against her. He has a notebook to her left with small scribbles of notes detailing how fast she’s edged with each different toy. His scribbles, messy and disorganized at best, grow increasingly illegible. Spencer’s creases his brow, a sign of his intense determination, and is fuzzy as Y/N gazes down at him. She watches his look of stoic concentration, something that she finds entirely too attractive. But considering he plans on bringing her to climax time and time again tonight, she’ll give into her flights of fancy.

“Think you like this one.” Spencer comments. He switches the wand to his less dominant, but still skillful hand to make notes on the pad. A self-satisfied smirk grows on his face, a sign that he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

“It’s really good.” she says, her voice betraying her already limited resolve. Spencer’s fingers lie casually on her thighs, searing marks into her legs that vaporize her skin. When he touches her it’s like her limb liquifies and her skin melts. She wants his fingerprints to sear into her skin, finally becoming part of her.

“Yeah,” Spencer asks, a sarcastic smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, “Tell me more, sweetheart. Tell me how good it feels.”

Spencer’s words are punctuated by the head of the toy rolling against her clit. He never keeps it in one place longer than a couple of seconds, either not wanting to overstimulate her too soon or to keep her on her toes longer for him.

“It feels so…good. Better than it used to. Before I had you,” she stammers, the words clunky in her mouth as she concentrates on Spencer’s deft hand at her core and his warm lips against her neck.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you had me to keep you nice and full, you had to use things like this. But I’m gone too often for you. I need to know my sweet girl is taken care of. So we’re going to test all of these toys out tonight. Till you’re drippy little mess, begging for me to finally fuck you.”

Spencer’s sloppy kisses climb the slope of Y/N’s neck. He leaves whisper-wishes into the nooks of her skin, each one filled with promises and love. It’s a stark contrast; the sweet kisses to his hand that holds the vibrator: the bane of her undoing.

“You know Hitachi wands are excellent for clitoral stimulation. This one has only one vibration pattern, but eight different speeds. Now that sounds like a challenge. And one that I’d like to break.”

Y/N’s brow furrows as she gazes at Spencer with a deep concentration. He breathes against her neck, a trail full of wet kisses plotting their revenge against her sensitive skin. Spencer’s fingers hold the wand deftly as he concentrates the sensation against her clit. Y/N’s feet move up the bed, dragging the crocheted blanket with them.

“Holy shit, Spence!” Y/N curses, her breath bated as the wand’s vibrations kick up a couple of levels.

“That’s my girl. You like the fourth setting. Remember that, baby,” Spencer says, his lips curved into a proud smile as Y/N’s hips jut upwards in tandem with the toy, “Just like that, Y/N. I can tell you’re close. Give me another. One’s not enough for my greedy girl. And who am I to deny such a pretty face and a wet pussy. It’s all mine after all.”

She feels the wand leave her clit and venture up to her stomach. Y/N’s muscles react like falling dominos at the sensation. She tenses as the vibrations shoot up and fry her nerves. Spencer licks his lips at the sight of her arousal sticking to her bare torso. He carefully dances the wand up to her nipples, watching with glee as they pebble even further in response to the vibrations.

“One day I’ll give you an orgasm from just playing with these nipples. I’ll lick and kiss and suck on them till you’re dripping and begging for my cock to fill you up.”

“Jesus, Spencer.” Y/N pants, her hips buckling as her climax reached its peak. “Can I come, please? Please let me come again? I need it so fucking bad, baby.” Her tongue peaks out from her lips, wetting the surface as Spencer peered up at her. She grabs his collar to drag him up for a kiss just as she finally teetered off the edge, yet again.

Spencer separates from the kiss, his lips puffy and red from Y/N’s frantic mouth. He smiles, gently caressing her head in a gesture that was entirely too sweet for their current situation. She feels Spencer’s erection in his pants; it had to be almost painful by now.

“What was that two or three?” Y/N asks, a self-satisfied smirk plaguing her face. “I think we might set a record or something.”

“That was two.” Spencer corrects. He takes more notes in his little notebook. “Of at least four or five. Depending on how much you beg later.” He slips off the bed and fishes through the bag. “Now, I think I have an idea for which I’d like to try next.”

A bright pink silicone dildo with a flared based, freshly washed, lays in between them on the bed. Y/N raises her eyes in surprise.

“Most men wouldn’t be too thrilled to have something other than their penis fuck their girlfriends, you know.”

Spencer shrugs. “Yeah, but there’s a lot that we can do with it.” He claims, “Like double penetration or even, uh,” He blushes and stumbles over his next comment, “And pegging.”

Y/N grins as an overwhelming sense of arousal washed over her. “Oh,” she says, skimming her fingers around Spencer’s neck. His skin is ridiculously soft, “we are so tabling that one for later. I would love to see you a mess for me instead.”

Spencer grins. “Fuck, that’s good, Y/N. So good.” He kissed her forehead. “I wanna watch you ride it. Like you would my cock.”

Y/N nods, as Spencer shifts on the bed, allowing for her to assume a crouched position. She looks at Spencer, his eyes laden with lust and love. He sits, legs spread in an attempt to accommodate his hardened erection in the old arm chair. He looks too good to be true, his cheeks are tinged with a blush, the dances that line between innocence and corruption. His notebook is forgotten, as he needs the entirety of his attention focused on the sight before him.

“Good girl.” Spencer mutters, his hands resting on his thighs, but they twitch restlessly. It was as if he needs to physically hold himself back from ravishing Y/N at the sight of her crouched on her bed ready to fuck herself with a dildo her purchased for her. “Lower yourself on the toy. Give yourself an inch into your sweet little cunt.”

His voice is deep, yet soft as he guided her pleasure expertly. She groans as the toy breaches her cunt, the full sensation is welcomed after the last hour of the wand and clit stimulator.

“Don’t you wish it was your cock fucking my cunt, Spencer?” Y/N asks, her right hand wrapped around the flared base of the toy and the other holding herself up. Her abdominal muscles stunned with strain as her body remained in a crouched position, but the promise of release goaded her on. “You’re so hard, baby. I can see it from here. Don’t you want to touch yourself?”

Spencer bites his lip. He nods as his hands undo his belt and his hips lift up enough so he can shimmy his pants and underwear to his knees. He wraps a hand around his cock, hard and glistening with arousal, and rubs upward with a tight fist. Spencer’s teeth dig into his bottom lip as he continues to watch Y/N lower herself onto the toy.

“Give yourself another inch, sweetheart.” Spencer instructs as he fucked his fist. He swipes his thumb over the tip of his cock. “Fuck I wish it was your mouth or your pussy on my dick.”

“God, you have the prettiest cock.” Y/N pants, the toy filling her up more and more as she sinks lower onto the base. “But now that we have this toy, maybe you can fuck my ass? I know you’d like that, baby.”

“Dirty girl,” Spencer praises, a smile covering his face as Y/N’s thighs quiver, “Tell me does that toy fill you up nicely? I had to pick out the best one for my girl.”

“Yes, yes,” Y/N answers, her voice rough and raw, “So good….I feel so full.” The pink dildo filled her cunt.

“Good. Good.” Spencer says, his hand moving up and down his cock at a hastened pace. “Show me how you’ll ride it when I’m not here to fuck you, baby. Show me how you’ll fuck that tight cunt.”

Spencer’s words provide the encouragement for Y/N to hoist herself up and down on the dildo. She would've laid flat on her back, a position that would have been easier on her thighs and core, but the angle she’s able to reach makes the suffering all worth it.

“Fuck…so good, Spencer. But I don’t think I can come from just this…it’s not…it’s not enough for me.” Y/N explains. Spencer knows that. He understands the science behind the female orgasm enough to know that many women are unable to reach climax from vaginal penetration only.

“I know, sweet girl. Don’t you worry.” He promises. “Bring your fingers to your clit

and give yourself some nice tight circles.”

She listens. Her fingers draw tight circles around her clit. Y/N bites her lip as she feels her pleasure build and build. “So good. So good.”

“I know, I know. Grind against the heel of your hand. You go wild when I do that, love. Like a little fucking minx. You can’t get enough.”

The tension builds in her stomach as she grinds against the heel of her hand. Cursing, Spencer watches with lust-laden eyes as Y/N writhes on the bed. Sweat forms against her brow as her feet dig into the mattress and her thighs burn in exhaustion. Until she finally feels that familiar burst of pleasure release.

“Fuck, fuck,” She curses, so caught up in her own pleasure the room seemed to spin around her. “I–I…Spencer, I’m coming.”

Her release washes over her as she slumps down into the bed, finally spent with all her energy expended. She can barely hear Spencer shuffle over, nearly tripping over his feet since his pants remained gathered around his ankles.

“Holy shit.” Spencer curses. “That was the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen.” He looks at her with half awe and half love. He pulls his underwear back up and kicks his pants off as he sits on the bed. “Are you alright, babe?”

Y/N groans, her cunt is raw with overstimulation and it is like every single nerve in her body is lit on fire in the best way possible. She offers Spencer a weak thumbs up that morphed into an equally weak fist bump. He obliged and gave Y/N a sweet forehead kiss in return.

“So toys are a plus for us,” Spencer muses. He adjusts the pillows on the bed and helps Y/N sit up in a more comfortable position. “Thank you for this. I really enjoyed it. And I’m, you know, glad you’ll be occupied when I’m gone.”

Y/N’s face flushes as a warmth resembling love covers her entire being. “I should be the one thanking you,” she counters, “Wait…I didn’t get you off.” She says, sitting up and then failing as her tired body gave out.

“That’s a problem you already took care of,” Spencer protests, gesturing to his stained underwear. “I had already come untouched by the time you told me to touch myself. You put on quite the show, sweetheart.”

She raises her eyes in disbelief as Spencer chuckles and kisses her cheek. “I’m glad you found that equally pleasurable. I don't think I’ve ever come as hard as I just did. And I doubt it’ll ever happen again.” She rises from the bed, with the help of Spencer. He grabs her waist as they make their way into her bathroom.

“Is that a challenge?” Spencer says, with a cocky smirk

“Fuck yeah it is,” Y/N said, “but I think I need like three weeks to recover.”

Thank you for reading! Please remember, I appreciate you reading, reflagging, and commenting on all of my fics. I love your feedback and appreciate your support & community more than you'll ever know.

Tag List (I don't want to bother anyone, so just tagging people I mainly interact with)

@reidsbookclub @foxy-eva @reid-ingandweeping @boldlyvoid

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds smut

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hellishjoel · 9 months

Note

hi!! if you feel down to write this, could i request something along the lines of: bratty reader teases joel all day, even in front of his friends and in public, so when they both go their separate ways, he sends her a video of her fucking his fleshlight teasing her back for her attitude.

"See babydoll, this coulda been you if you weren't acting all bratty today; I could've been balls deep in you by now, but instead im balls deep in this toy"

SORRY, IT'S BEEN RATTLING AROUND IN MY BRAIN FOR DAYS NOW ♡♡

tease

1.5k // brat tamer!joel x f!reader

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3

masterlist

Warnings/Information/Heads-Up: MA 18+ (minors DNI), NO OUTBREAK, brat!tamer Joel, smut via fucking a toy, extended teasing, dirty dirty dirty man talk, pet names, etc. very little editing, a little angst?

A/N: thank you for the request! short and sweet <3

Joel is infuriated.

Your hand is under the table, raking up and down his thigh as if the motion was innocent. As if you didn’t know what you were doing.

It had been like this all day, you had been toying with him. Cat and fuckin’ mouse.

It started this morning. You insisted on coming over to Joel’s place early in the morning to make him a big breakfast, something he could definitely get behind. He came out of the shower, freshly trimmed and manscaped, all for you.

What he didn’t expect when he walked downstairs and to the kitchen was the sight of you making breakfast in just a pair of black panties and his oversized dark gray Miller Contracting shirt. The sight alone made his cock swell for a treat of morning wood.

You served his plate, gave that innocent little face, and proceeded to bend over the table to reach for the salt and pepper.

Joel’s hand slowly moved up the back of your thigh, cupping the globe of your ass and giving a good squeeze to you. He was about to pull you in to sit on his lap, but was surprised to see you just go and sit in your chair across from him, digging into your own breakfast.

Okay.

The two of you had plans to meet up with Joel and Tommy’s good friend Dan and a few others to celebrate Dan’s birthday at a local pub.

That’s where the two of you were now, with your hand raking up and down his leg and doing a few gentle squeezes that really made a shiver go up his spine.

He could feel himself leaking in his boxers, hard under the outline you were absentmindedly drawing on his thigh.

“Cut it out.” Joel told you sternly under his breath, his pint glass covering his mouth as he laid it against his bottom lip, trying to stare straight ahead at one of the large televisions they had in the bar.

“Cut what out?”

So many damn people were around, and it always felt like they were watching.

Your fingernail added pressure to him, Joel’s knuckles going white around the pint glass he was certain he might shatter it.

He felt you lean in, lips to his ear as everyone absentmindedly discussed the game on the tv.

“What’s wrong, daddy?”

The condensation on Joel’s glass and your naughty comment had his pint slipping right through his fingers, his iron grip loosening for just a second before it clattered down onto the table and spilled everywhere.

“Shit,” Joel quickly cursed, standing up from the table and reaching for the closest napkins he could find.

Everyone looked at him and leisurely laughed, dismissing Joel’s little slip, wiping the streams of ale that reached their side of the table before returning to their mundane conversations.

Joel’s eyes were staring daggers into you. He was pissed.

Not only did he have beer dripping from the hem of his shirt, you were watching with a dopey smirk on your face as if you didn’t have anything to do with it.

Joel’s cock has been aching in his jeans for hours now, the thought of bending you over and spanking the attitude out of you was really what he could go for right now.

But you’d like that wouldn’t you? Getting Joel worked up all day, denying him access to his favorite little toy, not being able to pound his dick into your pussy like what he’s been craving for since he woke up this morning.

He’d be a simmering tea kettle until he could get a good cum in, he couldn’t be here any longer.

“I’m headin’ home to change.” Joel announced to Dan who shook his hand and thanked him for coming.

You were in tow, slinging your bag around your shoulder as you followed Joel out with a pleased little grin.

Joel’s face was fuming red like an angry cartoon character, one hand gripping his steering wheel while the other held his clutch.

Your hand landed on his arm, head coming to lay on his shoulder as you let out a soft sigh.

“Someone’s angry.” Your teasing made his cock twitch.

“Don’t like bein’ toyed with.” Joel returned flatly, feeling you run your fingers delicately up and down his bicep, causing goosebumps in your wake.

“Who’s toying with you, daddy? When have I ever not delivered?” Your hand egregiously cupped his cock through his jeans, Joel swerving on the road at the unexpected grip you had on his pulsating balls.

He could cum in seconds if you’d just let him.

“Bein’ a real fuckin’ brat, you know that, baby?” Joel said through gritted teeth, his eyebrows furrowed together as his heart raced, the pressure pumping down to his swollen dick.

He harshly shoved your hand away, feeling your pout from the passenger seat.

Joel pushed his tongue against the side of his cheek as he concentrated on driving, watching from his peripheral as you hiked your skirt up for his pleasure.

You slipped two fingers past the band of your panties, playing with your slick before circling around your clit and letting out a little moan of his name.

Joel’s eyelashes fluttered, he dared himself not to look but he couldn’t help it.

His lips parted at the sight, watching as your fingers moved under the veil of your panties. But he could hear it. The squelching of your wet juices combatting your anxious fingers.

“You gonna let me take care of that for ya?” Joel asked, his final try at trying to get himself in your pants.

He watched you throw up your eyes in debate, biting down on your lower lip before you shook your head and crossed your legs, removing your hand as you sucked your slick right off your fingers. Not even letting Joel have a taste.

“Mmm… nope.”

Joel cocked his head, his throbbing member nearly giving him a headache.

You were surprised to see Joel had parked in front of your house, looking out the window then back to him.

“What are you-”

“Go on.”

You paused, your eyes narrowing on him before you took off your seatbelt.

“Fine… you can come in, you know.” You looked over his face but he was just staring straight ahead. “Joel?”

“Gotta go home and change my shirt, take care of a few things. Go on, now.”

You let out a short little huff, throwing his truck door opening and hopping down, quickly slamming it closed as the truck rocked. You eyed him as you crossed in front of it, hitting the steps to your front porch when he peeled off.

What the hell.

You teased Joel all the time! Maybe never for this long but you weren’t expecting him to leave you high and dry at the end of the night. You liked when he showed you who was boss, telling him that your pussy was all for him.

You threw yourself back in bed, rolling your eyes at the whole situation.

Your phone buzzed beside you after you got out of the shower, combing through your hair before sitting on your bed and opening the video message from Joel.

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped at the sight. Your eyes were glued to the screen as you watched Joel thrust his cock into his fleshlight.

An audible whimper left you, watching it in shock.

His deep grunts echoed through your phone speakers, mouth going dry as you watched his fleshlight get filled up. You were envious of that fucking toy.

“Oh, fuck me,” Joel’s moans were heaven to your ears, feeling a white hot spot start in your stomach as the video continued to play.

His wrist snapped the toy faster down his cock, watching as it was lubed up with his spit and slick from his pre-cum and probably a bit of lube.

Another whimper left your lips, begging that the toy could have been your aching pussy.

“Ya see.. This could have been you, baby doll. Could have.. fuck.. could have been balls deep inside of you right now if you didn’t act like a damn brat all day. This could've been you.”

His words made your bottom lip quiver, continuing to watch as his girthy length filled that toy to the brim.

“God damn.. M’ fuckin close.”

His words made you shutter. You wanted to turn the video off. Hell, you wanted to chuck your phone out the window. But here you were, your eyes glued to it. You could see his dark happy trail, his salt and pepper hair that led to his fat fucking cock.

You should have taken it at breakfast, you should have given it to him at the fucking bar! You’d do anything right now for him to fill you up like he was for his fleshlight.

His phone got a little shaky as he came, Joel’s beautiful but erratic moans filling your ears as he flushed himself deep into his toy, filling it with his white hot cum.

You could hear his breathing slow, watching as he slowly filmed himself taking the toy off his cock. He was covered in his own spill, and all you wanted to do was lick it clean off of him.

“Goodnight baby girl, thanks for the good cum. Needed it all day.”

-----

@jrrmint @gracieispunk @macfrog @strang3lov3 @notjustjavierpena @bastardmandennis @joelslegalwhre @brittmb115 @casa-boiardi @nostalxgic @cool-iguana @chim-cham-blog

how to be added to the taglist

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #therapist joel #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #hellishjoel #hellishjoel request

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away.

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist.

Not that he cares.

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm.

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint.

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper.

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years.

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag.

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right.

Here, he can relax.

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck.

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation.

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home.

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you.

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon.

Simon.

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore.

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one.

And then you begin calling him Riley.

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful.

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural.

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses.

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song, but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking.

He had smirked at that.

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat.

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same.

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either.

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening.

Keep me company.

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once.

Now, it’s normal.

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you.

“You back for long, Riley?”

“No.”

“Never are.”

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.”

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong.

Especially when you start it first.

“What would you do if I was?”

That’s new.

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing.

But then, you are—to him at least.

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood.

You’re too good for him.

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets.

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so.

It’s hard though.

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral.

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but.

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him.

Not that he complains.

He’s done the same.

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock.

Tonight he’d likely do the same.

Winter is in full effect when he next returns.

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt.

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening.

“The usual?”

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him.

“Surprise me, sweetheart.”

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn.

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew.

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting.

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice.

“Go on, try it, Simon.”

And he does.

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth.

“What y’made me?”

“You like it?”

Yes.

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days.

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now.

He drinks it. He even orders it again.

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car.

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you.

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him.

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap.

Not that he would.

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip.

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb.

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things.

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his.

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises.

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.”

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye.

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face.

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?”

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun.

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.”

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face.

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.”

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.”

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold.

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun.

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?”

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.”

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body.

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart.

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes.

But—

“Next time.”

“Yeah?”

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods.

He got your number.

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers.

So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it.

A time. An address.

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable.

Fuckin’ fuck.

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better.

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream.

So he sucks. Bites. Nips.

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears.

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in.

So fuckin’ stubborn.

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name.

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break.

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you.

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream.

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to.

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big.

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for.

You now being one of them.

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t.

But then neither does he.

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt.

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth.

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave.

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are.

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck.

And then he wonders about something else.

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life?

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream.

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished.

It has become a habit.

You have become a habit.

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness.

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him.

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there.

Simon lets you be, too.

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted.

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length.

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert.

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance.

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep.

“What would my alias be?”

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something.

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal.

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once.

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.”

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails.

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough.

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night.

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.”

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.”

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding.

“Snow.”

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect.

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure.

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar.

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him.

And he wants to kiss you.

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him.

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows.

His throat suddenly dry.

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air.

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price.

It’s stretched on for months. A year.

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it.

Loves it.

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing.

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why.

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny.

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope.

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him.

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think.

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you.

So, Simon said your name.

Simple. Easy.

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share.

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too.

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste.

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot.

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own.

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares.

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?”

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family.

The moment is tender, almost fragile.

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts.

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…”

“What?”

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain.

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes.

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.”

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me.

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him.

But it does.

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake.

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you.

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something.

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead.

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

And he knows he should just ask again.

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three.

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him.

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty.

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt.

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions.

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him.

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it.

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep.

Yet, here you are.

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave.

You are important. You matter.

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?”

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him.

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.”

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves.

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

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scuderiasundays · 10 months

Text

time after time

summary: years of yearning ending in a fiery release 🧨 written with lennon stella's cover of "time after time" (one of my all-time favorites) on repeat!

words: 1315

a/n: those b/w milan photos gave me the final push i needed to get this out into the world! the first time i've written anything this long so i would appreciate any and all feedback 🫶🏼

September 2012

"I bet you could convince my mom to let me go." It was a picturesque night in Madrid as the words slipped out of his mouth. Gathered around a table adorned with colorful tapas, Carlos and his friends celebrated his and Y/N’s birthdays over Gambas al Ajillo and pints of Estrella Galicia. Sat across from Carlos was Y/N, his best friend who he had grown up alongside. The aspiring Formula 1 driver had been away for months, leaving behind his beloved hometown. Tonight, their tight-knit group had unanimously agreed to refrain from discussing anything related to motorsport, but Carlos couldn't help but come up with hypothetical situations that ended in successfully persuading his mother to allow him to race in Macau, a city an astonishing 10,497 kilometers away.

Would Y/N ever gather the strength to say no to those velvety brown eyes? The evening had quickly gone by, and Carlos and Y/N bid farewell to their friends, commencing their walk back to the Sainz residence. “Mama, look who I’ve brought home.” Reyes’ face lit up upon Y/N’s arrival at the front door. If ever a motherly instinct surged within Reyes, it was when she witnessed the two little ones growing up, sensing deep down they were destined to end up together. Reyes had been like a second mother to Y/N and had always gotten her a birthday gift of her choosing. “So, what shall it be this year?” Reyes beamed. “I want to use this year’s wish for Carlos, if that’s alright. He’s worked tirelessly this season and it would kill me if he didn’t get to race in Macau.”

“Carlitos put you up to this, no?” Reyes chuckled. Drawing Y/N into a warm embrace, she assured Y/N that Carlos could race at the Macau Grand Prix, so long as he stopped pressuring his best friend to speak on his behalf. To make up for her son’s foolishness, Reyes allowed Y/N to blow out the candles on the birthday cake she’d made for Carlos since she had virtually used up her birthday wish on him. Y/N closed her eyes, silently praying that this would be the year Carlos would come to his senses and realize she’s been madly in love with him this whole time.

July 2020

"You're not coming to Mallorca this summer?" Y/N could sense Carlos’ frustration seeping through the phone. It wasn't that she didn't want to go, of course she did. Summers in Mallorca were pure bliss. The refreshing gazpacho Reyes prepared, the laughter-filled board game sessions with Carlos' grandfather, and the exhilarating late-night padel matches with Carlos, Ana, and Blanca. There was cause for additional celebration this summer as Carlos had made it through the treacherous F1 silly season unscathed, securing a seat at McLaren. However, a mixture of the demands of residency and an unspoken truth kept Y/N from wanting to spend even a single moment with the man she had termed “Summer Carlos.”

Summer Carlos was carefree, bronzed, and exuded warmth. Summer Carlos was the Carlos who had drunkenly kissed her three summers ago, leaving her heartbroken when he acted as though nothing had happened the following day. The memory still stung, and Y/N wasn't sure if she was ready to face those emotions once again.

July 2022

Caco, Carlos' older cousin, had graciously invited Y/N to join them at the Silverstone Grand Prix. After managing to secure a weekend off from work, Y/N was euphoric escaping the sterile confines of the hospital. As she walked into the motorhome, a mix of emotions swirled within her. It had been months since she had last seen her best friend. Her job kept her tethered to the emergency room, while Formula 1 had taken Carlos across the globe.

The initial words that escaped Carlos' lips were, "You look pale, like you could use some Mallorcan sun." Y/N couldn't decipher whether he genuinely wanted her there or not. The uncertainty lingered, leaving her unsure of where they stood after all this time apart.

Eager to avoid being in anyone's way, especially Carlos', Y/N decided to take a stroll around the paddock. Lost in her thoughts, she ran into Lando, Carlos' former teammate, who recognized her immediately and approached with a friendly smile. "How've you been, Y/N? We miss you over at McLaren.” Y/N had tended to Lando after his Eau Rouge crash during qualifying in 2021, forging a close bond between them.

A faint smile appeared on Y/N's face as she replied, "Maybe I'll seek refuge at McLaren's hospitality this weekend since it seems like Carlos doesn't want me here." Lando chuckled in his characteristic way, the sound putting Y/N at ease. "You and I both know the man is terrible at expressing his feelings. He's probably just yearning for you because you've been too busy saving lives. Trust me," Lando reassured her. "I'm running late for a meeting, but I'll catch up with you later, okay?"

Y/N's mind was filled with curiosity, trying to make sense of Lando's words. Carlos pining for her? It seemed impossible, given their history and the distance that had grown between them. Yet, a flicker of hope ignited within her, and she couldn't help but wonder if there was more to Carlos' aloofness than she had initially assumed.

Y/N's phone buzzed, and her heart skipped a beat as she read Carlos' message: "You and me in my driver's room now." Her hands shook as she knocked on the door, waiting for his response. "Come in," he replied, and as she entered, she couldn't help but notice how he made the fiery Ferrari red his own.

"You can't just waltz back into my life whenever you feel like it, Y/N. Race weekends are sacred to me, and you showing up out of nowhere is a distraction. It's not like you even care about me or my career anyways. When was the last time you watched a race, hmm? Dr. Y/N is always too busy at the hospital."

Y/N wouldn't allow Carlos to lash out at her like this, not after all the sacrifices she had made. Countless sleepless nights on call, choosing to stay awake to watch Carlos race in distant cities. Collecting every article featuring him since his karting days, carefully preserving them in a special scrapbook. Being there for him in his darkest moments, answering late-night calls when the pressure almost crushed him.

"You can't push me away that easily. We both know I've always been there for you, to the point where I didn’t even know who I truly was when you reached Formula 1 and left Madrid," Y/N said. "I only bury myself in my work to avoid facing the emptiness that hangs over the city when you’re not around."

Carlos felt a pang of pain as he witnessed his best friend break down in front of his eyes. Had he truly misunderstood everything all along? Y/N's words pierced through his heart. "I’m all yours. I always have been," she said, her tears dampening her sleeves.

In an attempt to console her, Carlos whispered softly, "Don't cry, princesa. Mama will kill me if she finds out I made you so upset."

Y/N couldn’t help but giggle through her tears. “Well, go out and win this race for me, and I'll promise not to snitch.”

“For you, anything,” he said.

“And for the first time in Formula 1, Carlos Sainz is victorious! He wins the British Grand Prix!” The electrifying announcement filled the air as Y/N ran from the garage to the podium. As Carlos emerged from the car, his eyes searched for one face in particular. With both hands, he gently caressed Y/N's face. Without hesitation, he pressed his lips against hers, years of longing exploding in a passionate release. The two of them radiated a golden glow, as if destiny herself had brought them together, time after time.

#carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz #carlos sainz fic #f1 x you #carlos sainz fluff #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #carlos sainz one shot #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz angst

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ralkana · 3 months

Text

Fluffbruary, Day 6

February 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G

-----

It's the middle of the afternoon when his stranger shows up at the New Inn, a smile on his face, naming Hob friend. Apologizing for his absence.

"Welcome," Hob says, shoving his marking into his satchel. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

His stranger sits silently as he asks Katie for another pint and orders a glass of Malbec.

"The good one," he clarifies, and she grins.

"Got it, Robbie," she says, with a curious glance at his companion, and then they're alone again.

His friend is still watching him, that smile on his face, and Hob can't help but take a moment simply to look. He thinks about asking why they didn't meet in 1989, why he was left adrift and alone, but it doesn't matter. Not really. He's here now.

"What were you working on when I arrived?" his friend asks, his gaze shifting briefly to Hob's satchel before anchoring firmly on Hob's face once more.

"Marking," he says, and his friend's brow furrows. "Checking my students' work," he adds. "I'm a professor now! Me, can you imagine?"

And then he's off, the familiar rhythm of their past meetings suddenly returning. He talks for so long that his voice falters. There is so much to tell his friend about. X-rays and the space race, vinyl records and the internet. With a word to Katie, he switches from beer to water, and keeps going.

His friend is no more talkative about himself than usual, but he seems more engaged, less... dour. He asks questions, and is more expressive than Hob has ever seen him. Hob even thinks he tried the wine Hob chose for him, though the nearly full glass now sits on the table between them.

He is in the middle of explaining the miracle of organ transplants when his stomach growls, loud enough to be heard from across the table even in the busy pub, and he breaks off in embarrassment.

"Pardon me," he says with a laugh.

"I have kept you from your evening meal," his friend says, shifting in his seat, and Hob lunges, half-desperate, as it looks like he might rise. His friend stills, eyes widening a fraction.

"No, no! It's fine!" Hob says, lowering his hand from its aborted grasp. Please don't leave! He takes a moment to breathe, to calm himself.

"We have shared a meal before," he reasons, though of course, his friend has never eaten. He has remained while Hob has eaten, though, and that's what he's hoping for now. "We could do so again. If you'd like."

His friend nods his agreement, so quickly that Hob thinks he might not be the only one unready for the evening to end.

He orders a steak and ale pie, and when Katie asks his friend for his order and he declines, Hob asks for two forks. His friend raises an eyebrow at that, and Hob simply grins. One day, he'll find something that tempts his friend - his need to feed those he cares about is strong. Stronger still because his friend looks like he's missed a fair few meals recently.

If he even eats. Perhaps he lives on words. Heaven knows Hob has given him plenty of those.

His meal arrives, and he breaks the crust of the steaming pie, smiling as he inhales the aroma of the thick gravy that wafts out.

He has eaten a few bites in between his words when his friend shifts in his chair, reaching for the fork in front of him.

Hob watches, fascinated, as he scoops up a small bite of beef, a morsel of crust, and a tiny bit of gravy. Those petal pink lips part as he tastes it, head tilted like a bird's as he considers it.

"It is pleasingly savory," he pronounces as he sets the fork down again, and Hob grins.

"That it is, friend," he says in agreement, applying himself to his meal and his tale.

"Dessert then, Robbie?" Katie asks a few minutes later, as she brings him another glass of water and sees the remains of his meal.

Hob debates for approximately three seconds. "Yeah, go on then."

Katie laughs as she picks up his plate. "The usual?"

"Please, and two forks."

There's so much more to tell his friend about - there always is - but Hob feels mostly talked out. This is by far the longest his friend has ever lingered, and he can't ignore the ache of the knowledge that soon, their meeting must end.

Unwilling to prematurely give into the melancholy that always arrives after these evenings, Hob pushes it away and says, "The kitchen here is fantastic. In some ways, pub food is the same as it's always been, but some things are so different now..."

He's in the middle of explaining gastropubs and fusion cuisine when Katie approaches their table once more, and he breaks off.

"Ah, thanks, love," he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as she sets down their dessert. "Butterscotch bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream and housemade whiskey caramel sauce. It's absolutely the best thing on the menu. It's won awards."

Lifting the shot glass of caramel, he upends it, drizzling it over the pudding sizzling in its little cast iron pot. The ice cream is melting slowly into the top of the pudding, and the smell is divine.

Hob digs in and pops a bite in his mouth. It's too hot, burning his tongue, and it's absolutely worth it.

His friend picks up his fork and digs out a tiny bite to try, and Hob watches his eyes widen, his pleasure clear on his face in a way that has Hob shift in his seat. He's beautiful.

"Good, innit?"

He says nothing, but his fork dips again, lifts a larger bite this time.

Sweet tooth, then, Hob thinks. Got it.

He goes in for another bite as well, picking the thread of his words back up.

He's talking about the rise of the celebrity chef a few moments later, reaching for another bite, when his fork scrapes against iron, and he blinks and looks down. The little pot is empty, only a few drops of caramel sauce and a few smears of melted ice cream remaining. Hob has had maybe three bites.

He looks up, astonished. His friend looks back serenely, but there are spots of color, high on his pale cheeks. He sets his fork down.

Hob could not stop the smile breaking over his face for all the money in the world. His friend's lips twitch, the corner tucking into a tiny smile, and Hob notices there is the smallest drop of caramel sauce at the corner of his friend's mouth.

Hob entertains a very brief fantasy of leaning across the table and licking it off, tasting the sweetness of the caramel and his friend's perfect skin.

Clearing his throat and shoving the thought away, he sets his own fork down. They are not unfamiliar, these little moments of want that flash within him, whenever they share an evening. They are what sustain him in the long decades between their meetings.

His friend's gaze is sharp on his face, but those spots of color remain.

"I apologize for consuming your dessert."

"Our dessert, friend. Two forks, remember? I'm just glad you enjoyed it. Would you like another?"

His friend looks away, out the window long since gone dark.

"The hour grows late," he says, and Hob tries not to flinch. "And I have. Difficult work ahead of me. But. Perhaps we might meet again soon. To share this dish. Or perhaps another."

Hob's breath catches, his heart pounding. I will take you to every bakery and dessert shop in London, he thinks. England! The world!

"I would like that very much, my friend," he says.

"Dream," he says as he stands, looking down at Hob with the same smile he had when he first came in. "You may call me Dream."

"Good night, Dream, my friend," Hob says, trying not to choke on the emotion that swamps him. "I hope to see you soon."

"You shall, Hob Gadling. Good night, my friend."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone.

END

-----

Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt, and to the Morrison in Atwater Village for the best damn bread pudding I've had in my life.

#dreamling #centennial husbands #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2024 #my fic #tumblr fic #fic challenges #my immortal sunshine boy #my sad wet king of cats

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caffinated-and-sleepy · 2 months

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Part 1

Thranduil with a human SO

Meeting Thranduil

- Realistically I don’t think Thranduil would ever let himself get close to a new other half that’s human

- Thranduil would never be ready to watch his significant other die again especially that quickly, after all 50 years is a blink of an eye for an elf

- Throwing what is realistic out the window let’s say he does find a human significant other

- Even then you have to be a VERY intriguing human to catch his eye

- Most likely you met him when he and his guard stopped at Lake Town on the way to Erebor

- He was entranced by how you treated him like a normal person

- It was strange, most mortals trembled before his 7ft tall frame

- Not you, you simply welcomed him to the Inn and left to help clean the bar

- Of course Thranduil didn’t intend to sit at the bar at all considering he could easily drink wine that didn’t taste like piss in Mirkwood

- But he convinces himself he’s just being a good King by going down and checking on his soldiers

- Of course his soldiers were doing well, many of them where testing out how many ales they could hold down they found it was 74 pints

- You were now in front of the bar sweeping and humming a low melody under your breath

- He goes to grab your attention and moves besides you, only for you to crash into him

- Thranduil catches you by the hand and for a minute the two of you simply looked like you were dancing

- “Are you alright?”

- You blush with a sweet smile on your face (me writing this: do it, write the line. NOOOO I CAN’T. Don’t be a wuss do it! IT’S SO GENERIC. DO IT. )

- “Looks like I fell for you.” (I’m sorry) Thranduil is beyond taken aback and processes what you said after he fully pulls you up.

- His response is a strange look and “I’m glad your alright.” and he disappears to his room.

- You don’t see him the next morning either since he and his soldier left for Erebor when dawn broke

- Little did you know the King of Mirkwood had trouble sleeping that night

- When they came back through Lake Town Thranduil was exhausted

- Lacking sleep and arguing with pig-headed dwarves can do a lot to an elf

- After checking back into the inn he finds you working again and decided to once more check on his soldiers

- After glancing over all of them he turns his eyes towards you, he then proceeds to listen in on your conversation with the owner’s nephew; Thaine

- “I don’t get why you’re still here? You could be at home by now.” The boy looked to be turning into a man (18ish)

- You shrugged “I like listening to the elves, Síndarian sounds beautiful! It runs off the tongue with such elegance and it brings about a sense of calm.

- The boy replies “That’s great y/n but I don’t think you should be in the commons alone and I need to head home soon. Mother said to be home before midnight.”

- Looking at the boy you sighed and said “Alright, just let me pack up and tell the customers.”

- Before you say anything to the other elves Thranduil butts in after leaving his eavesdropping corner (I sWeAr I wAs DrOpPiNg No EaVeS sIr!)

- “I can watch over both her and my own men if she wishes to stay.” He looks to you with the slight raise of his eyebrows.

- Looking to Thaine you immediately reply “Absolutely fine with me!” With a wide smile right after.

- Shaking his head with a shrug Thain says goodbye and walks out

- Finally alone with the king you opt to break the silence

- “You do not have to stay if you do not wish to. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your bed.” You almost looked guilty as if second guessing taking Thranduil’s offer

- Thranduil was now also surprised at how genuine you seemed, you a mere mortal was just worried he wasn’t getting enough sleep

- His face betrays him as he shows some sense of curiosity and amusement “It is quite alright, I do not usually sleep much until we arrive back at Mirkwood. I find that sleeping on rocks throw out ones back.”

- You couldn’t help but let out an audible gasp and let slip “So the rumor is true? The dwarves sleep on rocks?!”

- At this point he couldn’t tell if the human was dumb or dense, but he instead went with uneducated

- For the rest of the night you asked questions about the race of dwarves and elves

- The soldiers silently questioned why the King took an interest in a human, but they kept quiet

- Thranduil did his best to answer your questions, at one point he even smirked instead of giving you a blank stare

- The next day Thranduil felt a bit disappointed when leaving, you were the most intriguing human he had met in a while.

- Although something Thranduil didn’t say was that the dwarves didn’t actually sleep on rocks he is just a diva who missed his ultra plush bed in Mirkwood

Why is it kinda giving gen z reader? Nah but I swear it’s like a tradition to randomly post a Thranduil Imagine every few months, my Tolkien Curse. Anyways I hope you enjoyed and please comment, repost and like!

#the hobbit #thranduil x you #thranduil #thranduil imagine #thranduil x reader #thranduil headcanon #lotr x reader #The Tolkien Curse

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faeriichaii · 4 months

Note

hiii! Hope you're doing well <3 if it's not much trouble could I request Legolas x reader where the ring fellowship one night stopped at some kind of inn to rest, and reader happens to be a musician that performed there that night and catches the interest of Legolas??you can make up the rest of the plot !Thank you 🫶🫶

Music to My Ears ~ Legolas x Reader

A/N: Hii thank you for asking I'm doing fine atm <33 I hope you're doing all right as well! Thank you so much for requesting!! I love the idea and I really hope you love the story :) Ngl I even listened to like some tavern ambience stuff to really get into the groove haha

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Warnings: fluff, mention of alcohol (Just a bit cause Gimli) ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Words: 1.3k ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Request: Yes (Thank you <33) ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ A'maelamin ~ My Beloved ࿐ྂ

Summary: A trip to the tavern results in you not just winning new fans over with your music, but also winning the heart of a certain elven prince.

Rain was pouring down as you walked through the busy streets, trying to find your destination. Stopping in front of a wooden building, you look up towards the sign that read ‘The King’s Head’. Entering through the door, you were greeted by loud laughter and chatter from various customers, who sat at their tables to take a relaxing break after their hard days. You have been working as a musician for quite a while and moved from one place to another, making a name for yourself on the way. “Welcome to ‘The King’s Head’. What can I get ya?” A woman asked you, as she mustered you from head to toe with a smile. Realization dawned upon her as she started to recognize you. “Hello, I am here for the performance of the night. Do you maybe know where my room is, so I can leave my baggage there and prepare myself?” Nodding brightly, the woman walked behind the bar counter, got a set of keys and signed you to follow her up the stairs.

“(Y/N) it is an honour to have you play for us tonight!” You smile at her, before she started to open the door for you. “I am happy for the invitation to play my song in this lovely tavern.” At that the woman grins, handing you the keys and leaving you alone in the room. It was a small room with a small wooden bed on the right side and a bedside table. You put your bag on the bed, before taking out your violin, strumming it and playing a few notes before leaving the room. While walking out the door you bump into the back of someone. “Oh- Excuse me I didn’t watch where I was going.” You say, before continuing to walk down to start your performance, not noticing the gaze of a certain elven prince linger on your disappearing figure.

Taking your place on the small makeshift stage, the waitress from before appeared again. Clapping twice into her hands, she silences the tavern. Now that the attention was set on the both of you, she stepped aside a little to introduce you warmly. “Dear guests, please welcome the star of the night, (Y/N)!” Claps and cheers filled the space, as you put your violine in its right place and began with your most known song. People started to stand up, taking others hands and began to dance around happily while laughing and chatting with glee. Some even started to sing with you, almost as if they knew your songs by heart like you did.

Letting your gaze wander across the tavern, you notice an intriguing party at one of the tables. Four hobbits were dancing around the table, while a dwarf laughed loudly with a pint of ale in his hand. Beside him sat two men, one who you knew as the strider. You two once met in a tavern a few months ago and conversed for a bit, sharing stories of your adventures, leading you two to become somewhat acquaintances. However, the other man is unknown to you. His long white hair was braided at the sides, making him reveal his pointy ears. A smile spreads on your lips as you catch his eyes staring at you, making him quickly turn his attention towards his smaller companion.

After a few more songs you take a quick break, to hydrate yourself and grab some food that the waitress prepared for you. Looking around the full tavern, you spot an empty seat beside Aragorn and decide to approach the table. “Is this seat taken?” You ask him with your plate in one hand and the drink in the other. “Long time no see (Y/N). I see you have really made yourself a name.” He smiles at you, before pulling out the chair. “What brings you here on this stormy night Strider?” “We are on an important journey, however I can’t really tell you more.” You look around the table, stopping at the ethereal looking elf beside him.

“Let me introduce you to the company. The hobbits dancing around are Merry and Pippin. Big fans of yours apparently. And these two are Sam and Frodo.” The both opposite of you give you a small wave, before continuing to eat, meanwhile the two dancing around stand beside you with pleading eyes. “Are you going to perform ‘The Elfin Knight’? It’s one of our favourites!” “How can I say no, now that you have asked me so nicely.” You smile at them, before they skip away. “My half-drunk friend is called Gimli and this,” Aragorn stops a moment to scoot back with his chair, so you can clearly see the man beside him. “This is Legolas.” You smile at him softly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance (Y/N).” “The pleasure is all mine.” Staring into his brown eyes you notice a golden swirl around them, making them look like the purest form of jewels. “Legolas just told me how much he enjoyed the songs you played so far.” You giggle at the confession and see a gentle smile grace the elven princes beautiful face, making him look almost like an actual angel.

“I will grab something from the bar.” Aragorn says, before disappearing into the crowd of people. Taking the now empty spot beside you, Legolas leans towards you. “Your music is very capturing. Can you maybe even play a song from the elven realms?” “I’m sure I will be able to play a song just for you.” He chuckles at that, making your heart melt on the spot at the soft sound. “I hold you to that promise.” His hand delicately brushes against yours for a split second, making you feel just a little bit warmer. Focusing your gaze on his eyes once more, you gasp softly at the warmth that radiates from them. “You have really beautiful eyes.” You remark, melting at the way they crinkle when he lets out a light laugh. “I think your eyes might shine more like mine. They look like they could rival against any star in the dark night sky.” A pink tinge accompanies your face at his heartfelt compliment.

After you finished your dinner, as well as your lovely chat with the elf, you fulfilled the wishes of Merry, Pippin and Legolas with the last few songs of the night. Grabbing the money for your performance from the waitress, you prepare to go back to your room for the night. However, before you get a chance to leave, the elven prince approaches you once more. “I really loved your performance.” “Thank you very much. Does this mean I can count you as one of my admirers now?” You ask him teasingly. “I think I might actually now be your number one admirer.” He responses while taking your hand in his. “It is quite sad that your performance is already over and the chances are slim that you might want to join our company, right?” “Even if I wish to join you and your friends on the journey, I sadly can’t. I am not really good with weapons and won’t be of good use to you.” A slight sadness washes over his face, however it dissipates as quickly as it came. Suddenly he gently pulls your hand towards his lips, giving it a kiss. Heat floods your cheeks at the sweet gesture. “I hope to meet you again sometime A’maelamin.” With these last words, he leaves your side and takes a part of your heart with him.

Weeks pass and you are once again playing your songs in a small tavern in a new village. The newest edition of your songs called ‘A lovely pool of honey’ Your eyes travel across the various dancing people until they spot a very familiar company at the table. Setting for a familiar set of honey kissed brown eyes, you smile brightly while your heart once again flows with warmth and love for the song you wrote for your one ethereal elven muse.

#legolas x reader #legolas x you #legolas x y/n #legolas greenleaf x reader #legolas greenleaf #legolas lotr #the lord of the rings #lotr legolas #lord of the rings #fluff #the lord of the rings fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr movies #legolas #lord of the rings fic #lotr #middle earth #lord of the rings legolas #x reader

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notsoattractivearenti · 5 months

Text

Wanna Prove It? (Christian Pulisic x Fem!Reader)

WC: 800+

Warnings/Tags: pure fluff

A/N: a short one cuz i need to get it out of my system lol. he really is gonna be a great dad one day to our children cuz christian and babies = 🫠😍💗💗💗! btw no it's not dad!pulisic (y'all gotta wait until christmas 😋). anyway hope you guys enjoy and i’d love to hear your thoughts thru ask/reply/reblog 💗 apologies for any errors! feedbacks are highly appreciated 🤍 (ps: if you want to be added in my taglist just lmk!)

—

Christian and I are having a chill night in, and we spend most of the night laying on our couch with TV on. He gets up into the kitchen to get us some ice cream while I scroll through my Instagram feed on my phone – until I stumble across a video posted by USMNT of Matt Turner and Tim Ream answering a couple of "dad" questions. Just in time, Christian walks back into the living room holding a pint of ice cream and two spoons in his hands.

“Babe, have you seen the video USMNT just posted on Instagram?”

“What video?” He replies.

I show the post to him briefly as he sits back and puts the ice cream and spoons on the table in front of us.

“Oh it’s Matt and Tim! I thought it was another VW video I did!” He laughs. “ I haven’t seen it. Let me have a look.”

“Watch it until the end, I think you’re going to love it.” I suggest as I hand my phone and grab the ice cream.

He watches the short clip and makes some little comments during. He isn’t aware at the moment but from my point of view, excitement is written clearly on his face. There’s no denying he genuinely loves his national teammates (or as he usually calls them: buddies) – he does have some wonderful bonds with most of them.

“Yeah, I can see Joe and Brenden being terrific dads.” He agrees with one of Matt’s answers on the video.

“Wh- Aww, stop it.” Christian slightly blushes when Matt stated Christian would be a great dad and Tim agreed with it. “They’re so nice for saying that.”

“I do love their kids. They’re adorable and sweet!” He excitedly adds. “Also, who doesn’t love to hold babies!?”

“People who don’t like babies, I suppose.” I spontaneously answer him with a mouth full of ice cream – even though he doesn’t ask for one.

“Well, I think they are missing out on one of the best things in the world.” He comments back and it makes me chuckle.

I want to get more reaction from him so I ask him, “Do you think they’re right? That you’re going to be a great dad?”

“Uh…” He pauses. “Do you?”

“Hey, I asked you first!” I jokingly point my finger at him. “Don’t turn it back at me.”

“I mean, I hope I will…” He shyly hesitates. “But I don’t know. I don’t want to sound so cocky...”

“I know you will.” I wink at him.

His face suddenly turns pinkish red but his eyes lighten up so quickly.

“Y/N…”

“Say what you want Chris, but you know I’m right.” I try to convince him.

“Maybe…” Though he sounds unsure, he still agrees with me. “You know, I’m glad you think that way.”

With a spoon still in my mouth, I give him a little smile and nod my head. “Mmhm, you’re most welcome.”

The conversation ends there and we go back to finishing our pint of ice cream - or so I thought.

“You wanna prove it?” He breaks the brief silence.

“Huh.” I think I know what he’s implying but I’m not quite sure. “Prove what?”

“We can make a baby right now and prove I’m capable of being a great dad.” He smirks as he gently grabs my shoulder, pulls me closer then whispers in my ear, “We don’t need to wonder no more…”

Yup. That is exactly what I thought when he said “prove it”. Now it’s my face that turns so red and I nearly choke on my ice cream when he whispered so seductively. Oh, he surely knows how to get me good – what a cheeky man my boyfriend is!

“Christian Mate Pulisic!” I playfully gasp. “You can’t be serious!”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He laughs seeing me so visibly flushed. “I am just offering something you and I both want, sweetheart.”

“Why are you so sure I want it?”

“Well, I mean, you literally talked about always wanting to have babies on our first date, didn’t you?” He states. “You can’t deny it. I remember every word you said, Y/N.”

“And I remember I specifically said one day when I’m finally ready, Chris!” I clarify his statement before he continues. “I am totally not there yet.”

“Okay, but you do want babies right? So my offer still stands.” He moves his eyebrows up and down while giving me a cheeky grin.

“Oh…” I cover my face and shake my head. “Of course but not now, babe! Besides, if I get pregnant today, it’ll be like… A teen pregnancy!”

“You’re in your 20s, Y/N!” He cackles at my remark.

“Still! I feel like I’m way too young to have a baby. I’m still one myself!” I jokingly whine.

“My God, Y/N, you are a baby.” He says sarcastically. “I’m just messing with you, my love.”

“I know, Chris, I’m not dumb.”

“Don’t worry, no need to rush, yeah? We can definitely wait.” He kisses my forehead. “‘Cause you’re the only baby mama I want.”

—

taglist: @pulisicsgirl @neverinadream @swimmingismywholelife @chilwellspulisic @bracedes @lovelynikol16 @thoseboysinblue @lizzypotter14 @masonsrem @landoslover

#christian pulisic #christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic x fem!reader #christian pulisic x y/n #christian pulisic x you #christian pulisic fic #christian pulisic fanfic #christian pulisic imagines #christian pulisic one shot #christian pulisic fluff #footballer x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x you #footballer fic #footballer fanfic #footballer imagines #footballer one shot #footballer fluff

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weemssapphic · 6 months

Text

Strange

PART TWO: Welcome home

Link to part one - please read that first!

Brienne of Tarth x f!reader

Summary: Being on the run is the hardest, most heartbreaking thing you've ever done. More than anything, you wish you could go home.

Words: ~1.8k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: angst, breakups, hurt/comfort for this part!

A/N: This part of the fic is loosely based on the song Welcome Home by Radical Face! Again huge thanks to @dianneking for suggesting the song for this chapter!

It’s been almost six months now since you left your life - since you left Brienne - behind you. Some days are harder than others - especially when you’re technically on the run. You’ve been lying low, never staying anywhere for too long. You’re in the North now, but winter is coming, and you know that soon you should head farther south - who knows, maybe you’ll end up in Dorne. You’ve never been. Perhaps, though, you should leave Westeros entirely - it’s all getting awfully exhausting, and everything just reminds you of Brienne, and of a life you’ve run away from.

Tonight you’re sitting in a tavern. It’s dark and everyone is drunk, and no one cares about a stranger nursing a pint of ale in the corner, so long as that stranger minds their own business. You stare into your mug and twirl it idly this way and that, watching the amber liquid slosh around. Tomorrow, you’ll move on to the next town, the next tavern.

Sleep, don't visit So, I choke on sun And the days blur into one And the backs of my eyes Hum with things I've never done

The door to the tavern swings open - the other patrons are too drunk to pay any mind to the tall, hooded stranger who enters, but you notice them immediately. Because they’re tall - too tall, even for a man - and there’s only one person in Westeros who’s that tall.

You couldn’t tell if you’d be excited or afraid to cross paths with Brienne again - your body can’t decide either, apparently, for your heart flips as your stomach sinks. But there’s no need to get all riled up - the Lord Commander wouldn’t come here, she has no business this far north.

Except the stranger doesn’t take a seat at the bar, nor do they head for one of the many empty tables - instead, they make a beeline for you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat as you pull your own hooded cloak tighter around you. Your eyes dart about the tavern, trying to map out an escape route, but it’s too late - you hear the scraping of wood on wood and your eyes snap up to the tall stranger, who has taken a seat across from you.

“Didn’t think the North would be your style. I’d have thought you’d head for Dorne.” Their hood shrouds their face in shadows still, but you would recognize that gentle, gravelly voice anywhere.

You want to cry - you want to scream, actually. You want to fall to your knees and let out all the tears and anguish that you’ve kept in for the past six months. You want to grab onto Brienne’s cloak and beg her to stay with you, whatever she does, to take you back and never let you be so stupid as to leave again.

Instead, you shrug and take a healthy swig of ale. “Maybe for the winter.”

Brienne pushes her hood back just a little. You can see her face now - she looks the same as always, though maybe a bit more weary, a bit more worn-out. Or maybe that’s just your wishful thinking - that Brienne would be just as affected by the absence of your love as you are by the absence of hers. You wonder if she is - just as affected, that is. You wonder if she’s lost any sleep over you, if she still thinks of you sometimes, if she still reaches out in the middle of the night, only to find that spot right next to her in the bed cold to the touch.

Ships are launching from my chest Some have names, but most do not If you find one, please Let me know what piece I′ve lost

Blinking back tears, you drain the rest of the ale in your mug and slam it down on the table, harder than intended. “What’s the Lord Commander doing this far north? Gone to visit Castle Black? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to send a more lowly knight?”

A strange look crosses Brienne’s face. Her brows knit together and her lips part - she seems to be struggling internally with something, and it takes her a while to find her voice. “Haven’t you heard?”

You snort. “Heard what? I’ve been kind of busy surviving, been keeping to myself. I’m not really in the position to be partaking in local gossip.” You don’t mean for your voice to be so cold and so hard, and you feel sorry for the hurt that flits - however briefly - across Brienne’s face.

“I-I’m not… I’ve resigned.” The words come out in a rush. Brienne seems to be holding her breath now, and you cock your head to the side, furrowing your brow.

“What do you mean you’ve resigned? From what?”

Her breath comes out in an annoyed huff. “I’ve resigned. I’ve given up my position as Lord Commander.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“You’ve what?” you hiss. You suddenly feel dizzy - you can hardly dare hope to be the reason Brienne of Tarth gave up the coveted position of Lord Commander, surely there must be another reason…

“Months ago, actually.” Brienne’s gaze falls to the table and she traces a long, slender finger over a little hole in the wood. “I’ve been searching for you… You’re hard to find, you know that?”

You can’t help but chuckle a bit - Brienne’s lips curl up into a little half-smile and she risks a shy glance at your face, peeking up through blonde lashes. Her expression is guarded but her eyes aren’t - they’re soft and hopeful and almost girlish in the sparkling naivety that they exude.

“I probably should have headed to Dorne, it’s fucking cold up here,” you say with a breathy laugh, letting your hood fall back slightly. Brienne’s eyes immediately drink in your face, your hair - in the spirit of becoming harder to recognize, harder to catch, you’ve cut it and dyed it. You suddenly feel self-conscious as Brienne stares at you, your cheeks turning pink. “Don’t you like it?” you mutter, your eyes dropping to your lap.

Strong fingers grip your chin and tilt your head up, stealing the breath from your lungs. “I do, actually. It suits you.” She offers you a soft, sincere smile, and your face reddens further. It all feels so familiar, so comforting, and that hurts. You gently pry your chin from her grip and lean back a tad, just out of her reach - her face falls, and it makes your heart ache.

“Why did you resign? Why have you been looking for me?” Your heart is hammering against your ribcage, so hard it hurts - you’re afraid of the answer but you need to know.

Brienne takes a moment to mull over her words. When she answers, her tone is serious, her expression solemn. “I thought about what you said, the day you left. I-I’m sorry that I got angry, I was afraid. I was wrong to doubt you - I should have taken your side. I afforded my loyalty to the wrong people, and I have been paying for that mistake every day since you left.” Her chin quivers and her eyes are glassy, but she sits tall and looks intently into your eyes.

A swell of emotion crashes over you and you stand abruptly, drawing the attention of a few patrons. You yank your hood over your face and grab Brienne’s wrist - she allows you to drag her outside, where you pull her around to the back of the tavern and push her back against the cold, dirty wall.

“You’ve found me. Now what?” you ask, your voice low and demanding. You can see your breath in the cool air - it mingles with Brienne’s.

“I’m not letting you leave again. I’ll go with you this time. Please. I want to be with you, I need to be with you.”

You search Brienne’s eyes - they’re bright and earnest. “You know what that means for you - for us? Don’t think the King has forgotten what I’ve done.”

“I don’t think he’s very fond of me anymore either,” Brienne breathes out, and you can’t help but chuckle. She laughs, too, and before you know what you’re doing, you’re pushing yourself up on your tiptoes, your hands curling around the base of Brienne’s hood to pull her in for a kiss.

Her lips are cold and cracked - regardless, you feel your heart being mended the second they connect with your own. Her tongue darts out across your bottom lip and, fuck, she tastes like home and you sigh into the kiss as you allow her to deepen it. You kiss until you run out of air - and then you kiss some more.

Peel the scars from off my back I don't need them anymore You can throw them out Or keep them in your mason jars I've come home (home, home, home)

“I have something for you,” she murmurs against your lips, and you rest your forehead against hers as she digs around in the pocket of her cloak. Whatever she’s just pulled out glints in the light of the moon and you pull back to get a closer look. Brienne takes your right hand in her own and places the object in your palm - it’s cold to the touch, and tears spring to your eyes when you see what it is. Her mother’s necklace.

“Bri-”

“It’s yours. It’s always been yours.” Her hand curls around your own and she closes your fist around the necklace, before placing a tender kiss to your knuckles. “I love you,” she whispers against your skin. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it back that day.”

You feel your face break out into a beaming smile - it feels strange (you haven’t smiled properly in so long) but it feels good.

“I love you, too, Brienne. I haven’t stopped, not for a minute.”

Brienne offers you a watery smile and chuckles - she sniffles a bit, her cheeks tinged pink.

“We cannot stay here now,” you whisper, your own smile faltering a bit.

“I know.” She sniffles again but her smile remains, and your stomach does a somersault - she looks so beautiful when she smiles and, Gods, you’ve missed her smile. You’ve missed her.

You bite your lip. “Where will we go?”

Brienne’s blush deepens and she takes in a shaky breath. “Would my lady like to accompany me to Dorne?”

Your smile returns full force - so wide that it hurts. “Your lady would very much like to accompany you to Dorne, Ser.”

“I’m not a knight anymore,” Brienne says with a quirked brow.

“You are to me.”

Brienne smiles softly and her fingers curl in the little ringlets of hair at the base of your neck as she pulls you closer. Her lips brush gently, slowly against your own as her other hand finds your lower back and tugs you flush against her. Her body is warm and comforting, and the tenderness of the kiss steals the air from your lungs and makes you feel dizzy. You wrap your arms around her neck to steady yourself and keep your knees from buckling as your tongue slowly enters her mouth; exploring, memorizing, coming home.

Here, beneath my lungs I feel your thumbs Press into my skin again

You know, without a doubt, that everything will be okay - no matter where you go. As long as Brienne is by your side, you will always be home.

Welcome home (home, home, home)

Taglist: @alexusonfire @brienneswife @rosieathena @pro-weems-places @bigolgay @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @katie-bennet @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @michi2504 @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @sequoirius @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @Ssappling2004 @fictionalized-lesbian @i-like-reading @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @The_Demon_of_your_Dream @agathaandgwenslesbian @http-sam @Cute-catx @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @zillahofviolets-bayolet @scarlettssub @catechristiestuff @niceminipotato @barbarasstar @women-are-so-ethereal @thevillagegay @willowshadenox @lilfartbox1 @larissaoftarthweems @syrenacrainn @mysaviorfalsegod @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @sweetderacine @daydream-cement @milfomaniac @sapphos-ode @ilovetlcc @ladylarissaweems @makemyworldworthliving @yourmomwhitediamond

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