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fanficapologist · 9 months

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter One:

Rain House, the ancestral seat of House Wylde, stands as a captivating testament to the might and resilience of the noble house. Located amidst the Stormlands of Westeros, the castle was perched majestically atop a rugged cliff overlooking the roaring waves of Shipbreaker Bay. Its imposing stone walls rose high into the sky, providing a formidable defense against any would-be intruders. The castle's turrets and battlements gave it a distinctive silhouette against the coastal horizon, evoking an aura of strength and power.

Septa Mathilde hurried through Rain House, long robes heard swishing in the halls, a letter in hand that that had arrived that morning by Raven. It was from her lord, Jasper Wylde, the current Master of Laws serving on the small council of the newly appointed King Aegon, second of his name.

With three knocks on the heavy wooden door, the Septa entered the chambers. But there was no sign of Lord Wyldes eldest daughter. The Septa had left her in there not long ago, an hour at most, to continue practising with her lyre, before being called to collect the correspondence that had arrived. It appeared that once again, the young lady had abandoned her duties and had sneaked away from her chambers. To the training yard to spar with her brothers no doubt, a common occurrence. The Septa huffed and then made her way back down the stairs.

“Lady Maera!” Septa Mathilde called behind the wooden fences in the courtyard, as she saw the young lady who had abandoned her gown and was now clad in leathers, dagger in hand and covered in mud. The eldest daughter of Lord Jasper showed a likeness to her father, having inherited is green eyes and dark brown hair. Underneath her thick mane was a stripe of silver, a reminder of the Targaryen blood that also ran through her veins thanks to her late mother.

She stood opposite her two elder brothers, Luthor and Faran, her long hair drawn back from her face in an intricate braid down her back, waiting for one of the men to attack. For many years, Maera was used as target practice for all her elder brothers when they were sparring, as a way to deter her from bothering them in the courtyard. However this did the opposite, as not only did the girl learn to defend herself with the sword, but also to strike the first blow.

The Wylde siblings had always shared a competitive spirit, and sparring sessions were not uncommon among them. Today was no exception. Lady Maera, though not as physically imposing as her brothers, possessed a grace and speed that often caught her opponents off guard. Faran swung his broadsword with force, aiming for Maera's defenses. She deftly parried, countering with a swift strike of her own. Luthor, the quickest of the three, darted in and out, testing Maera's reflexes. But she was no novice, and her years of training had honed her skills to match her brothers' prowess.

They moved in a dance of steel, the clashing of swords and the grunts of exertion filling the air. Maera felt a sense of exhilaration, embracing the challenge that came with sparring against her the two men. The sibling rivalry was not about proving superiority but pushing each other to be better.

The Septa shouted for the Lady once more, and as Maera turned to look, Faran had kicked her in the chest, Luthor had yanked the dagger from her hand and both brothers held their swords to their sisters throat as she lay on her back in the dirt.

“I yield” Maera groaned, propping herself up with her elbows on the muddy floor. Faran extended and arm and pulled her up onto her feet, smiling triumphantly. Maera glared at him.

“Well that was hardly fair, how am I meant to concentrate with Septa screaming at me as though the whole of Rain House is burning down?!” Maera dusted the dirt off her leathers as Luthor placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Many a great warrior have died in the battlefield due to distraction. You must never let your guard down” he said.

“What would you know about that, brother? The only battles you’ve seen are the ones in the story books” Maera said cheekily before sauntering over to the Septa, who had a face like thunder and would no doubt give the Lady a stern talking to.

“Yes, Septa?” Maera said as she reached the edge of the training yard, leaning against the wooden fence casually. “I thought I left you practicing The Ballad of Visenya and Vhagar upstairs?” Septa Mathilde stated gruffly. Maera laughed and said “Yes well as exhilarating as that was to practice on the lyre, I found myself distracted by watching those two idiots practicing like tavern wenches with their swords out here” she pointed to her brothers who rolled their eyes in unison as they were collecting the training equipment. The Septa did not acknowledge the Lady’s statement or smile . Maera then looked down and gestured to the piece of parchment in her hands. “What is that?”

“A letter from your father in the Capital. It arrived by Raven this morning” replied the Septa. Having heard it was from their father, Faran and Luthor also came to the edge of the yard to read the correspondence over her shoulder.

“Maybe Guston has been writing to father about what an absolute pain in the ass you’ve been since he left” laughed Faran, earning a huff from his sister. As Lord Wylde was performing his duties to the crown, the eldest son Guston was serving as the Lord of Rain House. Needless to say he did not approve of Maera’s demeanour and considered her a bad influence on the their younger sisters. Maera mostly just avoided her eldest brother and was clever enough to partake in the activities that were deemed “unladylike” by Guston, such as training in the courtyard or hunting with her other brothers, when he was busy with his Lordly duties. With a slight unnerving feeling in her gut, Maera broke the seal and read the letter.

Maera,

It is with great urgency that I write to you. The dowager Queen Alicent herself has requested your presence at the red keep. Queen Helaena is struggling to become accustomed to her new role and Queen Alicent feels that if she were to have a friend by her side during these difficult times, it would make the transition easier

Of course she’s struggling, Maera thought, shaking her head to herself. Married to a drunken, whoring oaf like Aegon, who had now all of a sudden ascended the Iron throne instead of his sister and Viserys’ named heir Rhaenyra, Helaenas world had been turned upside down almost overnight. The letter continued

Furthermore, I feel it would be good for you to return to the capital again. You are well past the time to be wed and Queen Alicent has assured me that as companion to Queen Helaena, the position will draw out many well-matched potential suitors. Guston has written that although you have grown more into your role of a Lady, there are still many things for you to learn, and your lack of commitment to your duties is having a negative impact on the other young ladies at Rain house.

“Bastard” Maera muttered under her breath, drawing a stern look from the Septa and a snort from Faran. Both her father and eldest brother intended for her younger sisters to be raised in a way that would suit their future husbands. They could not be their own person, have their own thoughts or interests or feelings. They simply existed to birth heirs and be an extension of a man that they had been tied to through matrimony.

Nevertheless, I would urge you to leave as soon as possible. I have asked the servants to pack your belongings and prepare a carriage for you to leave once my letter has reached Rain House. Given the delicate situation of the crowning of our rightful King, and the support his Queen requires, it looks as though you will not be returning to Rain House for quite some time. Rest assured, your younger brothers and sisters will be in the safe hands of the Septas and the wives of your elder brothers. I need not remind you that it is an honour and a privilege to be asked to serve the crown in direct manner such as this. I wish you a safe journey.

Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord of Rain House and Master of Laws

Maera finished the letter with a look defeat and Faran was heard to audibly gasp as he also reached the end of the letter.

“Seven Hells, Kings Landing seems to keep drawing you back to it” sighed Luthor, shooting a worried look to Faran in the process. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Maera was there, yet it had only been three years. So much had changed in such a short space of time. Would her friendship with Helaena remain as strong as it was years ago? Would Aegon be as insufferable as he was last time they met? And then there was Aemond. Aemond…

“When are you to leave my Lady?” Asked Septa Mathilde. “My father has suggested as soon as possible, so on the morrow I am presuming” replied Maera, folding the parchment and slipping it into her vest pocket. “Inform my family that we shall eat supper together this evening, if Guston is agreeable, and I will tell them my news”

“Yes my lady” the Septa nodded, and she left the yard to alert the maids. Maera turned to her brothers, both of which had concern in their eyes, which she returned with a sad smile. “I suppose I best ready my belongings and bathe. I can’t show up to Kings Landing looking like I have emerged from a swamp” Maera laughed and left the courtyard, entering the stone walls of her home.

As she walked through the halls towards her chambers, wiping her mud-covered face on her sleeve, her mind raced with thoughts of serving the Targaryens directly for the third time in her eighteen years in the world. It had been several years since she last set foot in the capital's court, and memories of her previous experiences flooded her thoughts. The intrigues, the politics, the ever-shifting alliances - they all weighed heavily on her mind. Lady Maera was no stranger to court life, but after spending time away from it, the prospect of returning filled her with a sense of anxiety, as well as curiosity of what was to come.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #slow burn #enemies to soulmates #smut #chapters #hotd fanfic #hotd #house targaryen #house wylde #Jasper wylde #helaena the dreamer #hotd helaena #Maera Wylde

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keroppidreams · 6 months

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lately i've been thinking about hiji/kata and whether or not he'd hesitate to pursue a relationship post mits/uba arc considering what went down, and how it might impact reina. ramblings below ⬇️

on one hand, i can definitely see him still hesitating since 1) might feel guilty falling in love with another person 2) the nature of his job (he puts his life on the line constantly, rebels might go after his loved one etc. doesn't help that reina is essentially a civilian) 3) sougo's reaction if he finds out and 4) he's just so used to people falling for his looks only to get disgusted when they find out about his love for mayo

but on the other hand, some scenes implied he tried to get in a relationship after leaving bushu (ex: the memory where he's drinking with a group of women, and kondo making an interesting comment about him having a vendetta against type b women because of a past experience). and he might've realized post-mit/suba that he only made things worse by pushing her away.

tl;dr; he might still hesitate but if someone smacks some sense into him and he overcomes his insecurities, he'll go for it. still gonna be the world's longest slow burn, good luck reina. whether it's gin or toshi, she'd confess first mostly cause 1) character development on her part since she's finally asserting herself and 2) shes just lowkey fed up with the awkwardness

#💭 dreamer's thoughts #🚬🐤the demon's sparrow #rip reina your potential relationships involve slow burns due to insecurities/past experiences no matter what

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checkoutmybookshelf · 1 year

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History, Characters, and Just a Little Bit of Magic

I discovered Juliet Marillier when I was in high school and was looking for literally *ANY* alternative to Twilight, because while I have nothing against vampires, I was not a Twilight girl. No shade to anyone who loved those books, they just weren't my cup of tea. I first found Wildwood Dancing with it's night people, frog prince, and dancing princesses (and we'll talk about that book someday), but today I want to talk about one of Marillier's adult trilogies. This trilogy follows Blackthorn and Grim as they work through life-changing trauma and find their way back to humanity--their own and others'.

First thing's first: This is an adult trilogy, and a few tirgger warnings appy. First and foremost, there is discussion of and recovery from sexual assault across all three books. I'm not going to get into it here, but take care of yourselves when choosing books to read and maybe steer clear from this trilogy if that topic is not a healthy thing for you to engage in just now. There is also some sacking-of-monastery-level graphic violence, and some absolutely screwey medieval dictatorial power dynamics that lead to gendered violence.

I loved these books, but I include trigger warnings because I would like y'all to be safe and healthy in choosing what to add to your TBR lists. The world is *a lot* right now, so anything that we can do to add some softness and gentleness and joy is important, and trigger warnings facilitate that.

With that bit of business out of the way, let me tell you about Blackthorn and Grimm.

Blackthorn reads a lot older than she actually is; by the time we catch up with her at the beginning of Dreamer's Pool, she's roughly early thirties, but we don't get that temporal marker until quite a ways in, and I'm not going to lie, I was FULLY a decade off in where I initially estimated her age. Blackthorne had her start as a healer who's abilities are greased with, perhaps, just a bit of magic. However, when we meet Blackthorn, she is in the deepest bowels of a men's prison and is, entirely reasonably, extremely cranky about it. Blackthorn has sharp, wounded edges, and watching those edges heal and lose some of their sharpness--although not all, never all, part of what you grow to love about her is the grouchiness that covers a startlingly soft heart--is one of the most compelling parts of the trilogy. Blackthorn is a protagonist who is allowed to be cranky, allowed to be nontraditional in so many ways, and has a certain je ne sais quoi that brought her and her story close to my heart.

If I were to describe Grim in one word...I wouldn't. I just quite simply wouldn't, because reductive, nuance-less pop descriptions do not and will never be appropriate for this trilogy. Grim is a man who is terrified of himself, and deeply ashamed of his past for reasons that do not become clear until the second book. Grim's emotional journey and his dealing with his own PTSD was incredibly compelling to watch, and even in the first book when we don't have the information to understand Grim's self-assessment, all you want to do is hug this man. In a world that is hard, unforgiving, and often unspeakably cruel, Grim is soft and kind in the best ways. Watching these characters interact and influence each other is a masterclass in recovery and rediscovering humanity.

For fully 95% of this trilogy, Blackthorn insists that there is no word for what she and Grim are to each other, and not going to lie, I fully spent 90% of the trilogy (and if you read the books you'll understand why that number should have been 65% absolutely maximum) thinking "Oh this is going to be an emotionally intimate but completely platonic relationship and I love this so much!" Reader, I was wrong. In hindsight, I would call this the slowest of slow-burn romances, but that feels like a woefully inadequate description of the relationship journey these characters go on. Literally, the first book starts with a fae-assisted jailbreak and the final book ends with a corruption trial. The trail from point A to point B is wild, wonderful, and a joy to read.

I picked up this trilogy during my recovery after grad school (the PhD killed my love of reading guys, and rekindling that was a JOURNEY) and publication, and I am so, so glad I did. It was a better fit than I could have ever imagined, and going and finding the rest of Marillier's back catalog really helped jumpstart my love of fun reading again.

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lilyoflaguna · 1 year

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February 22

I thought of you as dreamers do: apart from the material

And there you'd stay three worlds away to typify 'ethereal'

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phonydiaries · 7 months

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Beautiful Dreamer - P x Reader

Notes: This is a bit of a shorter fic from me and it's pure unadulterated fluff and sap and nobody gets stabbed! Which is really stretching myself as a writer, to be honest. You guys know I love nothing more than a good life-threatening injury. Anyways, no warnings for this one! Enjoy the cozy vibes <3

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It seemed somewhat magical in the beginning.

Pino came running to you once, at the very break of dawn when you had just barely opened your eyes; too-bright sunlight stinging them as the puppet shook you from sleep. It was difficult for you to grasp what he meant, at first, to wrap your head around what he was trying to describe. His speechless manner of communication and your general grogginess certainly didn’t help matters. But through a series of signs and expressions from Pinocchio, you came to understand. In his slow but sure gaining of humanity the boy had begun to dream at night.

You were vaguely aware that he did not dream before, and didn’t exactly sleep in the way humans did (although he did something similar enough that you personally couldn’t tell the difference).

“Is it… pleasant?” You asked him, genuinely quite curious as to what a strange thing dreams must seem to someone who had never known them. It had the potential to be wondrous and peaceful, but at the same overwhelming and utterly confusing. P seemed to take your question into careful consideration, really mulling it over. His eyes shone bright as he finally nodded decisively.

For all his excitement over this newfound ability, Pinocchio was frankly dreadful in his attempts at describing his dreams to you. You tried earnestly to follow along, but his gestures and expressions would eventually become too complicated and frenetic for you to follow and so you found yourself utterly lost in his recollections. It was after one such frustrating night that you gifted him a pocket journal to write in. This was much preferred for both of you, and you came to enjoy the routine of him eagerly handing off his scribblings for you to interpret in the morning. You would sit elbow to elbow at the table, sipping morning tea and reading his writing aloud, while he listened and nodded along captivated, his chin resting over his hands on the table.

His writing was uncharacteristically scratchy, with words often misspelled or crossed out implying that he was simply transcribing for speed and not coherence. Now and then there would be an addition of a crude drawing, sometimes the vague outline of a rabbit or a rushed impression of beaming stars.

One day, when it was particularly gloomy, you and Pino wandered to the library. Silence between the two of you was not uncommon, nor was it in any way awkward or uncomfortable. With the heavy fall of rain against the roof on this day, you found the quiet between the shelves especially peaceful. By the orange glow of a lantern, you turned the pages of a dream-interpretation guide. It was a small and somewhat battered thing and had been picked up eagerly by Pinocchio of course, who sat on the floor with crossed legs, chin resting in the heels of his hands as he listened to you, enthralled. In hushed tones, you ran down bulleted lists of common dreams and all the cryptic mysteries they may contain.

“Here, how about this one, have you ever dreamed that your teeth were falling out?” You asked, pointing to a passage in the book. P slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head vigorously, looking suddenly very concerned with keeping said teeth firmly in his mouth. You couldn’t help chucking as you turned the page.

The day wore on, and the oil in your lantern burned down to nothing, the dim light flickering across an eerie illustration. You’d been leafing through an art book of the romantic era painters and left off on a Fuseli painting of a tormented woman being peered upon unknowingly by some manner of devil. You found the page quite off putting honestly, and closed the book.

“I figure that’s enough of that. What do you say, Pino-oh.”

As you addressed your puppet companion in the dark, you came to see that he sat on the floor still, slumped against the foot of your chair. His cheek was sunk into his left shoulder, eyes shut, breathing soft and shallow. The serenity of the scene warmed your heart some, and you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Pino…” you whispered, and ran a hand through his hair in an effort to wake him. But he didn’t stir, seemingly in a deep sleep. You were sorry for the uncomfortable condition he seemed to be posed in, but you didn’t want to disturb the poor puppet. You gathered your things and left quietly, shuffling off to your quarters.

It was around midnight that the puppet woke with a panicked gasp. He was surprised to find his legion arm held up defensively, as if in anticipation of an invisible attack. His eyes searched his surroundings frantically, and only when he recognized the library did he hesitantly lower his arm. In the darkness he felt quite uneasy and disoriented. He tried to recall your soothing hushed voice. It had put him into quite a state it seemed before he eventually drifted off. It was in stark contrast to the current thrumming of his mechanical heart and the uncomfortable quickness of his breaths. He had dreamed something wholly unpleasant, and with some sadness realized this new facet of humanity came with drawbacks. He did not care much for these dreams at all.

Pinocchio made his way down the corridor to your quarters, his steps echoing eerily. He threw pointed glances over his shoulder frequently, half expecting some monstrous creature to appear suddenly in the halls of Hotel Krat. The simple casting of shadows had never before made him so on-edge. When he reached your room, he opened the door slowly and peered inside. You lay there in the dark beneath silk sheets, curled in on yourself and sleeping soundly. With great care not to startle you, he knelt by your bedside and nudged you in the back. Your head flinched momentarily, but you otherwise remained still. With some urgency he took your shoulder and shook until you stirred. Rubbing your eyes wearily, you rolled over to face him.

“Pino, it’s ah…it’s late isn’t it? Can’t it wait til morning..?” You grumbled. He shook his head almost apologetically and squeezed your shoulder. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you were able to make out unfamiliar anxious creases in his expression. You willed yourself into a greater awareness and sat up promptly. “What is it, what’s wrong?” You asked, your tone softening significantly. P gestured in the direction of the library and rummaged around in his pocket for a moment. He retrieved the pocket journal you’d given him and pointed several times at the most recent entry. You squinted. On the left page he had simply blacked out the entire thing with a pen, and on the right page the phrase “strung up” was written several frantic times with increasing disregard for legibility.

When you looked up at him to clarify, he raised his hands limp above his head and dropped his chin to his chest. The image was admittedly shuddersome and he cast a long and spindly shadow across the wall.

“I see.” You said, closing the journal. “You had a nightmare, hm? All strung up like an ordinary puppet.” Your heart fell for the poor boy. It must’ve been terribly frightening for him.

Pinocchio nodded solemnly, not meeting your eyes. He stared off blankly and rubbed his wrists, as if easing a phantom feeling of restraints. You took note of this and hummed softly.

“Here, may I see?” You asked, and pulled his arm towards you. You made a show of inspecting it and tapping your chin thoughtfully. Holding his arm with one hand, you stuck up two fingers like a pair of scissors and pretended to snip the invisible puppet string. You repeated this mimic on his other arm and then took his hands in yours, placing a kiss on the back of each.

“All gone.”

Pinocchio looked at you with a kind of boyish wonder. He raised one fist to the crown of his head with a smile, making a pshhh sound and opening his hand, giving the impression of a miniature explosion.

“Think you’ll be alright for the rest of the night?”

At this he shifted a little. His fingers busied themselves, twisting in the bedsheets. He was obviously still shaken up somewhat. You could understand that, although it was a bit of a surprise to learn that someone so nearly indestructible could be afraid of the dark.

“Alright,” you sighed, lifting the sheets. “Get in here.”

P’s chin jutted forward and his brow furrowed at your offer. You just gestured to the space beside you with your head. “Go on, before I change my mind.” You teased. At this, Pinocchio clambered up into your bed and nuzzled his face into the pillow. As he got settled. You pulled the sheet over his shoulders and snaked your arm up around him from behind. Your nose pressed against the nape of his neck and you breathed in the smell of him, like fresh rain.

“Have no fear, my puppet.” You said sleepily against his skin. “Your trusty human won’t let anything steal you away from me in the night.” You heard him snicker at this, but you knew without a doubt he felt safer here with you and vice versa. It was sweet, really.

By the time the sun rose you were both still sound asleep, all tangled in each other’s limbs, looking like lovers in the warm morning light. The day could wait a little longer.

#originally this fic was called sing me to sleep bc I was listening to the suckerpunch soundtrack version of Asleep on loop #so if you want the full experience queue that song up while you read #lydia dropping art history refs like a fucking nerd #extremely soft pino #lies of p #lies of p fanfic #lop #lies of p x reader #pinocchio x reader #lies of p fanart #fluff #my writing

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hells-wasabii · 3 months

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Hiii! Hope you're doing okay!

Could you possibly write some headcanons for a soft, slowburn-like relationship with Lucifer Morningstar? As him still having his wedding ring on after the separation with Lilith suggests...he may not fully be over the relationship quite yet so I'm interested in him hesitantly falling in love again...not wanting to mess things up! Even better if the reader is also hesitant to be so open with someone as well and they tend to self-isolate ...

(preferably gn!reader who's a sinner staying at the hotel :3)

A/N: This one was a fun one, i didn't think i'd get to delve into slow burns! Oh and in typical slow burn fashion, you don't get together quite yet

Character: Lucifer

Type: Headcanons (Lucifer x reader slowburn, Fluff)

When onlookers say your romance is a slow burn, they aren't kidding. No, seriously. It took a long time for the two of you to finally be on the same page. Neither of you made it easy, however.

He still wore the ring. Which, of course he did. Lilith had been his first love, a dreamer just like him. But that was okay, You could deal with that. You understood, the pain and anguish that came with losing a relationship like that? A relationship that had quite literally been cultivated from when man first walked the earth.

But he wanted to build a new bond. A bond with you, if you would have him, that is. He was admittedly worried that somehow, somewhere along the way, he’d screw things up. This fear became so overwhelming that at one point he tried to distance himself from you, something that was quickly shut down however.

It got to the point that others eventually stepped in to intervene, otherwise existence would crumple to dust before either of you made the first move. Charlie was on the case, and if Charlie was involved, its not exactly farfetched to guess that the rest of the occupants of the Hotel would be as well.

But you had disappeared, no one could reach you on your on your cellphone. Hell, no one even knew if you were still in Pentagram City. Your front door remained locked and when knocking, no answer. So Lucifer took matters into his own hands.

He didn’t necessarily like just popping in places without an invitation, especially when it came to the demons he considered himself close with or fond of, but this time around he felt he didn’t have a choice. He knew self-isolation when he saw, he himself having done the very same thing for years after Lilith disappeared

But he knew one thing for sure, he wasn’t about to let you face whatever bothered you alone. Sure, he may not always know how to comfort people who need it, but as soon as he lets himself be vulnerable he’ll let you know that whether you like it or not, you’re not alone in your hesitation. He's there to help you through it, and once it's over, he'll be right there with you on the other side of that hurdle!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin headcanons #hazbin imagine #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar

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lavendertales · 8 months

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SEÑORITA: Chapter 7**

pairing: Javier Peña x Murphy!f!reader

summary: following your fallout with Steve, you find yourself on Javier's doorstep.

word count: 6.4k (oops)

series warnings: reluctant friends to lovers, lots of playful banter, mutual pining, slow burn, secret relationship, filthy smut.

chapter warnings: face sitting, body worship, piv (safe).

A/N: here we are ya'll, the long awaited explosion of the slow burn hehehe. thank you so much for all the comments and the love, it means so much to me 💕I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well, and feedback is always much appreciated!

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

series masterlist | AO3

You would’ve preferred to sit down inside your apartment in order to have this conversation rather than wander aimlessly on the hot streets of New York at almost midnight with your brother, but the surroundings are less important than the issue at hand.

Steve offered to buy frozen yogurt for the two of you, and fight as you might, you were persuaded to eat a little bowl of strawberry cold goodness. The two of you sat down at this little place on the corner, both clearly too uptight to initiate the conversation. So you clear your throat, exhaling slowly and steadily, and braced yourself.

“Steven—“

“I’m sorry.”

He blurts out the words as he stares at you, his eyes big and regretful.

“I’m so sorry for not supporting you more,” he continues, putting down the spoon. “And for not taking more of an interest in your hobby. It clearly means so much to you and I… I know I was a dickhead.”

“If you’re waiting for me to disagree it’s not going to happen.”

Steve chuckles, huffing.

“It’s more than a hobby, Steve,” you tell him. “In an ideal world where money wouldn’t be a thing, this would be my dream job. I’d do nothing else but write, travel and eat food all over the world. It’s why I took a job at the library. It’s the closest I’ll ever be to achieving that dream.”

“That makes me sad.”

“Made me sad too. But this is reality, and denying it won’t do me any favors.”

“You were always so much more mature and rational than me.”

Surprised, you make a face at him, unable to contain yourself. You’ve never heard such words from your brother.

“Me?” you say with a light chuckle escaping from your lips. “The eternal dreamer?”

“Yeah. Sure, you like to picture fictional worlds and get lost in them but you never lose sense of reality. You’re neither optimistic nor pessimistic. You just… live in the now.”

“You know… I’m actually really close to getting my own book published.”

Steve’s eyes widen further, his face revealing nothing but sheer excitement at this point, and the sight softens you; so much so that you smile involuntarily, rather flustered to finally share this news with him.

“That’s amazing, I’m so happy for you!” he nearly shouts.

“Thanks, thanks. You’re the third person I tell this to.”

“Third?”

“Javier and Sylvie know.”

“Oh. I see. Is it based on Star Wars? Or inspired by it?”

You frown. “No, you doofus, it’s my own story. If I were to publish a fanfiction for Star Wars, I’d definitely get sued by George Lucas.”

“Kind of defeats the point of writing it, doesn’t it?”

As happy as you felt a minute ago, you feel just as dumbfounded now.

“The point, again, is creativity,” you reply. “You start from there and you build towards your own independent stories.”

“Isn’t it a waste of time? I mean why not start right at—“

“Oh my God! You’ve been this way since we were kids. You always thought you’re superior, whether you realized it or not.”

“I didn’t. And I didn’t mean to insult—“

“You never mean to and yet you still do.”

Steve watches you stand up, hands on your hips and munching on your lower lip in what can only be described as anger finally bubbling up at the surface.

“Mom and dad always sung your praises because you chose to do things logically and fit into society while I was a bitter disappointment for spending time alone in my room, reading and writing,” you say. “You finished high school and went straight to the Academy and mom and dad couldn’t have been prouder. Me? I finished high school and went to study literature in college and it still wasn’t good enough.”

“Nobody ever said that, you know it’s not true.”

“They didn’t have to say it. I could see it in their eyes, the way they spoke. I was the weirdo who needed a social life while you were their beloved Steven, making his way into the real world at such a young age, being so brave. Mom and dad never stopped thinking there’s something wrong with me and they didn’t hesitate in telling me that with every chance they got. Passive aggressively but still.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know. I know that now. It took years of therapy to realize that.”

Steve watches you closely, filled with unrelenting guilt. He’s never seen you this decisive and mad, but he knows deep down he’s had it coming. All of the things he wished for your relationship are slowly going down the drain and he begins to fear that if he doesn’t say the right thing now and try his hardest to be here for you, he will lose you forever.

“I never meant to treat you any way other than with respect,” he says, his voice oddly hoarse. “I know I’m pushing things a lot of the time and I exaggerate and I have no right to intervene in your personal life, but it only comes from a place of needing to protect you.”

“I can protect myself, Steven.”

He huffs, grabbing your wrist and thus urging you to sit back down. “Do you remember in seventh grade when that group of idiots picked on you while you were reading on the playground? It rained heavily the day before and they snatched the book from your hands and threw it into a puddle, ruining it.”

“Yeah, I—I remember.”

“And then you told me that one of them, the bigger one, came onto you that same afternoon and forcefully kissed you. I had him suspended.”

“What—how?”

“I may have… broke his nose and threatened him to worse if he didn’t go to the principal’s office to confess to both forcing himself onto you and to bullying you.”

“Oh my—you never told me that.”

Steve shrugs. “Pretty sure that was the moment I started to be mindful of the guys that were around you. And when you got annoyed and purposely started dating the worst guys you could find, things have gotten wild.”

“You can say that again.”

You both chuckle.

“You know, the fact that you confided in Javi about your book before me or Connie is a bit hurtful,” Steve admits.

“Do you know why I told Javier first? Even before Sylvie? Because he asked me. It’s that simple. He took an interest in my passion and he actually cared about it. Hell, he turned my Star Wars story into a real book. He made it into a book just for me because he knows how much it means to me, and how much writing means to me.”

“He what?”

You nod. “Yeah. He didn’t mock me, he didn’t assume he knows better than me. He even encouraged me to keep going, which is how I’m close to finishing the editing part of my book faster than I anticipated. And this from a guy who was a complete stranger to me three months ago. You keep saying that Javier is your best friend but you don’t seem to treat him that way. You treat him like he’s bad news, like you didn’t go through all that shit together in Colombia. You need to get your shit together. Javier is a really good man. A good friend, and an overall good person.”

“I know he is, I’m just worried about him too like I’m worried about you. He hasn’t been the same since we came back from Colombia. It changed him in ways that I… I don’t know. I have Connie and Olivia and I feel so lucky but… he keeps to himself. He barely allows anyone in so I don’t know what it’s like inside his head. I was just so worried that you’d both rush into something you might not be ready for and end up hurting each other.”

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath for quite some time, but you certainly hadn’t felt the need to breathe, not in this moment when years of anger and misunderstandings culminate in the most honest sentences either of you have ever spoken to each other.

“Even if we did rush into a relationship or casual dating or whatever, it still wouldn’t be your call to make,” you remind him. “It’s not your decision, it’s mine and his. We’re both adults, tip-toeing around each other and around you because you have this weird protection fetish.”

“It’s not—“

“You know what I meant.”

“I—I’m really sorry, sis. I just wanted us to be closer. I went the wrong way about it, I know that.”

“You did. Trying to intimidate your best friend and controlling whoever your baby sister is around is not the way to go about this. You pulled the same shit in high school and look how that turned out.”

“I was worried about you, about both of you.”

“And you had reasons to, I’ll give you that. But now there is none. I’m okay. And Javier can talk if he feels like it.”

“You don’t know him the way I do.”

“Maybe not. But you don’t know him like I do, either.”

Steve calls out your name once you get ready to leave.

“Whom I date is none of your business,” you retort. “Not even if that someone was your best friend. Which is not. So cut it out already and get your shit together. If you can’t accept this, then leave me the hell alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate it. And I appreciate what you did for me that time in the seventh grade. I really do. But I need some time before I can truly forgive you.”

Javier hadn’t expected the erratic knock on the door at this hour, and he certainly hadn’t expected to be met with the sight in his doorway.

You look just as lovely as ever, though you do seem to be a little tense. He doesn’t ask; instead, he looks you over and welcomes you inside, waiting for you to offer some explanation for your late visit, already perilous enough as it is.

“I know it’s late, I’m sorry,” you coo. “I just—this was the first place I thought of. Didn’t wanna be alone in my apartment.”

“It’s okay. What happened?”

“Why do you assume something happened? Can’t a friend pay a visit to another friend?”

“They can, but not with that expression on their face.”

“What expression?”

“You look like you’ve been run over.”

You frown, distancing yourself from him even further.

“I’m your friend, I should be able to tell you this without a problem,” Javier adds.

“No, you sure can. Thank you for the fine observation.”

“Glad I could be of service. Do you want a drink?”

Say no, your mind screams at you, almost begs. You shouldn’t be drinking, not when you’re feeling vulnerable after the raw conversation you’ve had at long last with your brother, and certainly not around Javier.

It’s not that you don’t trust yourself. You know what you can and can’t handle.

You’re simply afraid the liquor might provide you with the courage to finally tell him exactly what’s on your mind, and that you might end up being rejected. Something tells you Javier might choose loyalty and rationality over his feelings.

He keeps to himself, Steve told you.

“Little bit of whiskey would be nice if you have it,” you eventually reply, catching both Javier and yourself off guard.

“Didn’t know you drink whiskey.”

“I don’t. Not really. Only when I need something really strong.”

“I take it the conversation with Steve didn’t go that well then.”

Fucking hell, how does he do this? How does he intuit things about you without you even saying or hinting them?

“It did. I think,” you smile as a glass of amber liquid is being handed to you. “We talked things through, I told him my piece… he apologized. And he meant it, I could tell.”

“He’s an honest guy, and he means well.”

“I know he does. He only ever wanted to be there for his baby sister and to be a good friend, but he’s taken things too far. Which he’s acknowledged.”

“Color me intrigued and shocked.”

You smile, hiding the gesture in the glass and stealing a glance at Javier. An unfamiliar warmth surrounds you, wraps you in a blanket of confusion and longing that you’re certain you haven’t felt up until now.

“So how come you ended up here then?”

“I don’t know. I just… stormed off, told him I appreciate his apology but I need some time before I can fully forgive him.”

“While we’re at it…” Javier clears his throat, lowering his now empty glass, “I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“You didn’t cause this.”

“I feel like I kind of did mess things up though. I’m quite good at it.”

“Javier…”

“What?”

You lower your glass too, reaching out to take his hand which he hesitantly accepts. “You’re not a bad guy. In no way, shape or form. Trust me on this. I know them pretty well. And you don’t fit in that category.”

When you smile at him, so sincere and bright, Javier pulls back his hand, chugging the rest of whiskey and focusing solely on the way it burns his throat.

And yet when he thinks of the way his body feels when you’re around you, that all-too-familiar burn is nothing compared to it.

“If I wouldn’t have taken this job, maybe things wouldn’t have been this way between you and Steve,” Javier mutters.

“Things between me and Steve have been rocky for years. They would’ve probably continued to be tense if you hadn’t pushed us to talk. Involuntarily, of course. And besides, if you wouldn’t have taken the job… I wouldn’t have met you.”

“I don’t know anyone whose life was better for having known me.”

“There is someone I can think of.”

Javier briefly gazes at you and quickly wishes he’d evaporate. It feels too much, far too consuming to even maintain eye contact with you on account of all the fear, the impossible yearning, the confusion and the—

No. stop it. This is not that.

“Anyway,” you resume, feeling a bit short of breath yourself, “I don’t think Steve wanted me to meet you in the first place.”

“That kinda makes me wanna get back at him.”

“Me too. And you know what would show him?”

Javier raises his brow, already anticipating and dreading the answer before it ever leaves your mouth.

“If we hooked up,” you smile wickedly.

He cocks an eyebrow, his interest peaked and his stomach all twisted in knots. “That so?”

“Mhm. We could let him stew in doubt, let him guess.”

“How would we pull that off?”

“Well, since we already agreed actually doing it is out of the question, a light touch on the arm when we’re all together, gazing at each other from afar, smiling… a kiss on the cheek, stuff like that.”

Javier has no idea when he finds himself in your close proximity again. All he knows is that he’s sitting on the chair next to you, leaning in yet again, cursing his own inner demons for fighting a losing battle, and his breaths betraying his restlessness.

“The buildup to a kiss is the best part,” he coos, and you swear you shiver for a second. “One of them, anyway.”

“Is it though?”

“Yes. What kind of jackasses did you date in the past? Jesus Christ.”

“The worst I could find.”

Against his better judgment—if there was any of it left—Javier chuckles, forcing himself to look at you.

“The moment you look into each other’s eyes and lean in, that’s where it all starts. It’s simple but it’s really powerful stuff. Heart beats faster. Breaths get shallower. At some point your eyes sort of drift away to the other’s lips, wondering what they taste and feel like. And then, when you finally feel bold enough to lean in more…”

You close your eyes, Javier’s faintly whiskey-infused breath all warm and tingly over your lips, and you wait. What you receive in return is a phone ringing though, so you instantly pull away, opening your eyes again and noticing the same expression on Javier’s face as you assume is on yours: desperation.

“I—“he starts, but you shush him immediately.

“It’s okay.”

We shouldn’t anyway, you think.

“Hello?” Javier practically groans into the telephone. “Hey, Con.”

You turn towards him on instinct, curious about the subject matter between the two, though you shouldn’t be; you know exactly what this is about, and at this late hour nonetheless.

“No,” Javier answers in an unusually dark and steady voice, eyes locked on your figure. “She’s not here.”

You look at him, utterly taken aback, and you gulp.

“Have you at least heard from her?” Connie inquires at the other end, unbeknownst to you. “She had a talk or a fight or something with Steve and now he’s worried. He says he called her apartment, went there and there’s no answer. It’s a whole thing.”

“I haven’t heard from her.”

“Javi…”

“Look, Con, with all due respect and care, she’s a grown woman and Murphy needs to stop babying her. She’s perfectly capable of making her own choices and seems to me that right now she doesn’t want to be found. So whatever you think it is that I’m doing…”

“I’m not thinking anything. Should I?”

“We’re… friends.”

“Have you noticed that whenever you say that, the pause between ‘we’ and ‘friends’ gets bigger?”

Javier frowns and blinks several times in a row, dumbfounded. “What?”

“It started out as ‘oh, we’re friends’ but now it’s more along the lines of ‘oh. We’re… sigh… friends’.”

“I sound nothing like that.”

“Javi. Come on.”

“I told you, Con. She’s not here tonight. Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s fine. She just wants to be left alone for a bit.”

“Well if you hear from her—“

“Yeah. Goodnight, Connie.”

Javier hangs up, frozen in the same spot. He knows that now there is no going back and that he’s in deep shit, but truthfully he only gives a damn about your well-being.

Everything else is tomorrow’s problem.

“You lied,” you coo.

“Fine observation skills.”

“Thank you.”

Javier stares at the ground, processing his own words and thoughts. Ever since he left Colombia, he’s all but tried to always do the right thing, the honorable thing and be a respectable man in today’s society. Not the Javier that worked with one of the most gruesome groups in the world for the greater cause, not Javier that bent the American embassy’s rules to fit into his scenarios, but a new Javier that was good and learned from his mistakes.

And now, every time he looks at you, he feels himself falling deeper into temptation, on the verge of making another mistake. Only this one might not be so easy to fix.

“Don’t thank me,” he mutters, pacing around the living room. “It was stupid and selfish. Obviously Connie knows you’re here and Steve’s gonna know and the whole thing’s gonna blow up in my fucking face.”

You notice him purposely avoiding your eyes and you reckon by the edgy way he’s marching through the living room that there are dozens of things on his mind now, if not more.

“Javier.”

No answer, more pacing.

“Javier, look at me.”

Still no answer, slightly less pacing.

“Why aren’t you looking at me? A minute ago you couldn’t stop looking at me when we were about to—“

“We were about to do nothing.”

“Right. I just—“

Then, Javier turns to you so abruptly it startles you for a second. You watch him walk towards you with a look on his face that you can’t quite put together. But it doesn’t intimidate you, nor does it scare you. On the contrary: it rather makes you want to hold him and be with him.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” he murmurs, his chocolate, soft eyes now glued to yours.

“I’m not—I’m not doing any—“

“No, you’re fucking consuming me. Eating me alive from inside out. And looking at you… whenever I look at you, I feel my promise to Steve break. I feel myself break, I feel… I feel the way I did back in Colombia, all fucked up and twisted and you don’t deserve that.”

“You never talk about it. Colombia.”

Javier purses his lips, holding his breath. “Sometimes it feels like I never left. Like it’s hell all around me. But then I think I can’t possibly be in hell cause you wouldn’t be there otherwise.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, your cheeks scorch with flattery and your body only craves more.

“Instead, you’re… here,” Javier continues, somewhat distraught. “You’re here and you’re… warm and fun and… alive. And your scent… I can’t get it out of my fucking head even if I know I should, I really should. Fucking… lavender, ruining me. And I just… I was hollow back there. I was dark and a jackass and… not as half as honorable as I thought I was, or that I’d be. I did shitty things, bad things. Colombia twisted me in ways I can’t revert. But I want to be better now, I want to be worthy, ironically because of you and for you. So looking at you feels like the most incredible thing in the world and the worst.”

You inch closer, breathless from the words that have been thrown at you, so raw and heartfelt.

“Did you ever kill a child?” you ask, and you can see the surprise on Javier’s face as the question is being processed by him.

“No.”

“A woman?”

“No.”

You nod once, slowly, inching even closer to him. “I thought we’re friends,” you whisper.

“We are, which is why I’m saying this with respect and care. Being your friend is killing me.”

“You said I’m not your type.”

“Apparently I was wrong. So very wrong. Apparently… you’re the very thing that I want. Pathetically desperate and… so fucking needy.”

Your skin is on fire by now, your throat dry and your mouth practically drooling.

“Javi,” you manage to get out.

“No, don’t—don’t do this to me right now.”

“Don’t do what? What are you—“

“Don’t say ‘Javi’, not like that.”

“How should I say it then?”

Javier’s eyes drop to your lips, and all of a sudden he’s unable to look elsewhere, consumed entirely by the unholiest thoughts he’s ever known.

“I got some ideas,” he whispers, his tongue wetting his lips.

“Mind sharing them with me?”

“I can’t.”

“But I want you to do this to me. There, verbal consent.”

Javier cocks his head to the side, thus exposing his neck and you’re feeling more parched than ever.

“The things I could do to you…” he mutters as if strictly to himself. “The things I could show you…”

“So show them to me. Show me… you.”

“Fuck, I want—“

“What do you want, Javi?”

The way you said his name, fully aware of the effect it has on him now and how much it messes with his mind, it makes Javier unable to think straight and certainly unable to resist you. In what can only be described as an act of insanity, Javier’s hand boldly rests on your waist, barely touching, and yet enough for both of you to feel the heat radiating from it.

“I want to do this right,” he says. “You’re not a random hookup. I—I wanna take you out to dinner, get to know you and be with you.”

“Dinner sounds nice.”

“Tomorrow night at seven?”

“Okay.”

In an even more insane act, you decide to move closer to him so that your lips press against his stubbled cheek. The touch is tentative, meant to be appreciative and thankful, but in the end, it only acts as a detonator to an already short enough fuse.

Before your brain properly understands what’s happening, you feel Javier sliding down your body until he kneels before you and wraps his arms around your legs and look up at you.

“Show me how to be good,” Javier mutters, and it shocks you to your core. “Show me how to be good, for you. Please.”

You open your mouth, and yet nothing comes out. Your mind must’ve short-circuited because no words come to mind except Sylvie’s from many weeks ago.

Mark my words, this Javier is gonna be on his knees before you, asking you to teach him how to be good.

Then you’re gonna be in big trouble, missy.

Damn you, Sylvie.

Still tongue-tied, you place your index finger beneath Javier’s chin, thus signaling him to stand back up. He follows obediently, staring at you once more and waiting, his heart in his throat.

Finally, at long fucking last, with chills creeping up your spine, you cup Javier’s cheeks and press your lips against his.

And good lord, is this the softest kiss you’ve ever had in your entire life.

It’s languid, tentative at first, as if you’re both waiting for each other’s reaction to it, but within the following seconds, the kiss turns sloppy and heated, betraying your eagerness.

Javier’s hands wrap around your body expertly, and he hums into your mouth, the sound going straight into your cunt almost soaking you on the spot. This is the part of relationships he’s actually really good at, something he’s very confident in, so he wastes no time in guiding you to his bedroom, leaving a wet trail of kisses down on your neck as he plops you on the bed, him atop of you.

“If you want to stop, you gotta tell me now,” he warns, his voice as dark as his eyes. “I mean, we can stop at any point, but if you don’t—“

“I want this, Javier. I want you. I don’t want to stop.”

Javier groans, his mouth back on yours and seemingly devouring it whilst his hands roam nervously on your body. There’s dampness between your legs, and you have the urge to rub your legs together in an attempt to hide the slickness, but when you feel a calloused hand grabbing the back of your thigh, gently squeezing it, you part your legs as if to make enough room for him. And he does; Javier grinds between your legs, beginning to undress you with so much determination it’s causing your head to spin.

By the time you’re topless and writhing beneath him, you’re begging for him to touch you some more. You’re begging for his hands, his mouth, any part of him that he’s willing to give to you, and Javier obeys without a single objection in mind.

“Lift your hips for me,” he instructs, and you do as he says.

Your pants come off, then Javier’s eyes stop on your underwear, already eating you up with a single look.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” you hear him say, and you shiver.

It’s you who pulls him back in for a kiss, and it feels like the most maddening, enticing and damnable thing in the whole wide world. One of Javier’s hands reaches in between your legs, feeling the dampness soaking your panties, and you gasp. He massages your clit through the fabric, having you moan uncontrollably right in his mouth, more so when you’re completely bare, panties thrown carelessly to the side.

“On my face,” Javier manages to get out during the brief pause which he takes to undress himself.

“What?”

“Sit on my face. Right now. I wanna taste you.”

Your mouth ajar, you stare at him struggling to compose yourself but there is no possible scenario in which you can accomplish that successfully. Instead, your eye roam over his shirtless figure, the sight fueling your needs further.

“Will you let me taste you?”

“I—it’s just I’ve never—done that, really.”

Javier looks dumbfounded at you. “You never sat on a guy’s face?”

“No, some of them barely went down on me, so I—“

“Do you trust me?”

You nod.

“Then take a seat.”

Javier lies down on the bed, quickly disposing of his own pants in the process, and it’s only then that you notice how hard he is. It can’t be comfortable, and yet here he is, choosing to do something that’s aimed for your pleasure. Unless of course this gives him great pleasure as well, which you think it does, and that only makes things tougher.

You climb up his body, quivering when you feel his calloused hands kneading the flesh of your ass and thighs as you do so, and quickly try to figure out the logistics of the act. That is, until Javier loses patience and grabs your thighs, placing them on either sides of his face, and you nearly lose your goddamn mind at his first taste he takes of you.

You’re sitting all the way on his face, his nose nudging your clit and his tongue lapping at your folds, collecting every ounce of arousal he can get. It’s pleasure from an angle you didn’t even dream of, and Javier certainly knows his way around a woman’s body. You react out of impulse and grab a handful of his hair, tugging on it while Javier’s tongue splits you open.

“Oh—f-fuck—“

You’re stuttering, heart pounding in your ears and your whole body afire; so much so that you shake, and not out of pleasure—not yet. But the way Javier yaps at your pussy, you somehow know he’s gonna get you there soon.

Beneath you, Javier listens closely to all the sounds you let out for him; he takes the time to feel every portion of your skin, not just the way his mouth is buried in your pussy, and to say he’s in awe would be a crass understatement. When you start grinding on his mouth, your body’s natural reaction to the way ecstasy builds in your body, Javier can’t help his own body’s reaction to it. You don’t see his hand sneaking behind you to curl around his weeping cock, and even if you did, all you’d want would be to take him in your mouth instead, give him at least half the pleasure and happiness he’d been giving you all this time.

“Javi—“

“Mhmmm—sounds so fucking good when you say it like that.”

“J-Javi, please—“

“Shit I could drink from you—all day long.”

Too impatient, both of Javier’s hands go back to your ass, grabbing it so that you rock faster against his tongue, but you’re already moving out of your own accord in a desperate attempt to capture more of his mouth, to have that feeling that’s only bubbling in your belly explode into a thousand explosive flames.

“Need you to say it,” you hear him beg from between your legs. “Can you say it for me, hm? Ask me.”

“Please, Javi…”

“Say it.”

“Javi, I need—I need you. Need to… feel you.”

Then, it all seizes around you: your mind goes blank, your vision goes dark, nothing but stars all around you and unbearable heat bursting from beneath you and going up till your whole body is enveloped in it. Javier’s hands continue to explore your body, touching and caressing every inch of skin, his eyes never leaving your figure like he’s admiring the most precious work of art there is.

“So beautiful,” you see him murmur as you’re getting off him.

Javier licks his lips teasingly just as you lean down to kiss him again. You doubt you’d ever get enough of his mouth now that you’ve finally tasted it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “And so tasty.”

You smile flustered, still unable to think of anything proper to say. Some words do come to mind, of course; thank you, I appreciate your friendship, I’m in love with you—

Oh no, not that one.

You begin to fear that the way you’re kissing him exposes the reality in your mind, the word you undeniably feel fluttering inside your chest, begging to be released, but you can’t. It’s far too soon and too hasty, so you keep them to yourself. As your bodies get entangled with one another and you find yourself beneath him once again, you abandon those words in a tiny box at the back of your mind, sealed.

You find that once you keep your mouth shut, you can only gaze at Javier, and he at you. There’s nothing else to be said, not when your body’s being molded in such tender ways by Javier’s hands and mouth, praised for simply being here in between the sheets with him.

“Javi?”

“Hm?”

“Can you please fuck me now? I think we’ve both waited enough.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Javier reaches over, opening the nightstand and eventually rolling a condom onto his erection, lining up to your entrance. You can’t help but admire Javier, his eyes, his lips, his cheeks, his strong arms, his chest and his belly, the soft, dark curls at the base of his cock, the way his lower lip quivers when he’s overwhelmed.

“You’re so—“you gasp.

And the way he fills you to the brim in one languid, careful thrust is equal parts mesmerizing and enticing.

“So what?” Javier asks.

“So pretty.”

Javier stills for a moment, blinking in confusion. “No one’s said that to me before. I don’t… am I?”

You smile, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes. Very much so.”

Then Javier sinks into you, inch by delicious inch. You feel him pressing down onto you, completely undone and ravished, and keeps muttering into your ear little praises here and there. Your back arched, you take him and his words deep inside you, allowing Javier to consume you as much as he told you that you consume him.

And you have to admit, it is the most maddening sensation in the world.

He starts to move, a new urge overcoming him than when he’d been with women in the past. Being with you feels different because for the first time in so many years, he doesn’t want to rush; in spite of his neediness and almost two years of celibacy, now that he’s here, with you and inside of you, he wants to remain in this moment for as long as possible. He doesn’t have to rush, he realizes. There’s no bombs going off in the distance or shootings—most importantly, Colombia is not out there.

But you are here, soft and warm and kind and beautiful and Javier can barely breathe thinking about how much he adores you.

He wants to say the words, he feels them on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want to scare you away. And he doesn’t want to rush things when this has the potential to be something so great.

His thrusts keep the same pace, though Javier feels like he could easily come at any given moment. Your tight, warm walls around him make him dizzy, utterly lost in that damned lavender scent and in your eyes and your smile. And your lips—oh God, he could kiss you all day and all night long. All the other times he’d abstained from kissing you, how close he was… how could he not have you that way?

“Javi…”

It’s all he hears, his name moaned from your perfect lips. All he knows now is you, the way you arch your back with each thrust of his, the way you gasp when his hand lays on your stomach and his thumb plays with your clit.

“I’ve thought about this, you and me… before,” you smile, cupping his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I swore I’d never tell you. But now—“

“I thought about it too.”

“You—you did?”

Javier nods, leaning down to peck your lips, the gesture followed by an ecstatic smile.

“I shouldn’t have. I knew it was… it was wrong, it was dirty and cheap… I couldn’t stop. I—I tried, please believe me, I really tried, I—“

“Javi, shhh. I know you did. You were very honorable, and a great friend. Especially now, to me.”

You both smile against each other’s lips, Javier’s hips stuttering after a little while. He feels that familiar burn in his stomach, and that’s the only time he dares speed up, almost manically so. With a few grunts, Javier buries his head in the crook of your neck, cursing once in a while as his orgasm bubbled in his whole body. He needs to feel you pulse around him more than anything.

“I’m—shitshitshit—“

“It’s okay, come for me, Javi.”

“But I—“

“I’m close too.”

“Yeah?”

“S-So close… please…”

You don’t need to beg: you and Javier are right there, both tipping over the edge of sanity and falling right into the pit of passion and ecstasy. Javier grunts the loudest he ever had, spilling himself inside the condom and remaining still above you, the pleasure coursing through his veins overwhelming him completely. He looks down on you and sees your face scrunched up in the most adorable and alluring way and it dawns on him: it’s because of him. You came twice now, once in his mouth and once around his cock, gasping and moaning sweetly because of him. There’s a pride in his chest, pride and flattery, almost to an animalistic, primal degree.

When he pulls out, you feel empty and lonely, though the thought seems ridiculous because he’s right there still, isn’t he? You can’t help it—it’s like you want your bodies to remain united as one for as long as humanly possible.

“Oh, by the way,” Javier says, returning from the bathroom with a towel that he begins to press on your inner thighs and between them, “this is probably obvious, but we’re not telling your brother about this, right?”

You raise your eyebrows, bemused at his genuine question.

“I know we joked about it before, but… still.”

“Unless hell freezes over, no, we are not telling Steven shit.”

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tags: @pedrostories @psychedelic-ink @milkymoon2483 @ifall4dilfs @casa-boiardi @fallenkitten @jenispunk

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pricelessemotion · 8 months

Text

sweet dreams, tennessee

summary: [4.5k] Upon visiting your grandma for the summer, you're greeted by more than one familiar face.

pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: references to alcohol and death of a parent, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn (?)

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Chapter One: Welcome home, Honeybee

An hour or so outside of Nashville is a town called Sweet Dreams, too small to show up on any map. The ones who want to make it out, bask in the irony. They say this town is exactly the place where dreams go to die.

Most people who have the privilege of leaving Sweet Dreams don’t come back. They watch the dust kick up in the rear-view mirror and say good riddance. But you’re not like most people.

You tip the taxi driver extra, even though he’s dropping you off at the edge of the property and you have to tug two suitcases and a backpack through a quarter mile of dusty road. The walk gives you time to think. Time to breathe. The air is different here, fresher. You can’t remember the last time you got to walk outside in the middle of the day and only have birdsong to keep your thoughts company. You’d thought that the vast emptiness would be a good change of scenery. You’d thought that the neverending din of the city was clogging up your brain, making your thoughts scramble like eggs in a hot skillet on Sunday. Now, they echo back to you, sung back in the form of mockingbirds. You don’t know if it's better. It’s just different.

By the time you make it to the paved driveway, your arms are aching and there’s a current of sweat making its way down your back. You’re barely twenty feet from the door when Nana appears in the open front doorway. Upon catching sight of you, she’s barreling down the porch steps, holding her sun hat to the top of her head so that it doesn’t fly off. Dropping the handles of your bags, you allow the woman who basically raised you to engulf you in the best hug this side of the Mississippi. She smells like fresh soil, powdery perfume, and everything that’s good about the world.

“You’re here! I told you that I’d pick you up at the airport! You didn’t have to call a cab,” She admonishes, before smacking kisses all over your face. “I missed you sweet pea.”

She looks older now, and the thought tugs at your chest. Her hair is more silver than anything and the lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than in your memory. It’s only been a few years, but your grandmother wears an entire new lifetime lived without you on her face.

“I missed you too.” You let out a laugh but there’s a melancholy feeling to your words. You know that if you stir on them just a little bit more tears will start flowing out and never stop. You bury your face into the collar of her blouse, willing yourself not to cry.

“Well,” She says, taking a step back and putting her calloused hands on your shoulders. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You smile, doing a little spin for her amusement.

“Just like I thought. Even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks in response. You never quite knew how to take her constant compliments. Not only about your beauty, but your intelligence.

“How’s your daddy doin’?” Her words are casual but her tone is clipped. Her lips curl in and she busies herself with brushing imaginary dust off your bare shoulders, looking at you like she’s trying to commit the sight to memory.

You breathe out a sigh, “As good as he’s ever doing.” Which is usually not good, you think but don’t say.

Nana only purses her lips, nodding in agreement.

Both of you know that your dad hasn’t been the same since Mama died. Mama was a realist. That’s why she left Sweet Dreams in the first place. Your dad was a dreamer. Without your mom to anchor him to this world he was adrift. He was careless with what he had when he had it. Now, he doesn’t know what to do now that it’s gone.

You fiddle with the strap of your backpack, feeling the weight of everything you brought with you digging into your shoulders. You should probably call him to let him know that you got here safely.

“You must be exhausted after traveling,” Nana says, breaking you out of your reverie. “Let me just put my gardening stuff aside real quick, you can go ahead into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up something to eat.”

You nod and step inside the house, taking your baggage with you.

—

The fridge, or as Nana likes to call it the frigidaire, looks exactly the same as you remember it. Magnetic alphabet letters are used to hang up reminders and photos. She still has the same drawing that you gave her for Mother’s Day all those years ago, the crude crayon stick figures of the two of you standing side by side in a wide-open field. Now, there are signs of aging, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges.

Aside from your childhood art, there are wedding announcements and Christmas cards a plenty. You recognize one of the faces. James wasn’t related to you but that didn’t matter. In Sweet Dreams, everyone was family. He was getting married to a woman named Elizabeth at the end of the summer. You can’t help but smile at the picture of him, his future wife, and his daughter.

The last time you saw Winnie, James’ daughter, her mother had still been alive. The news of her untimely demise and James’ sudden status as not only a young widower but a single father had caused aftershocks that made their way all the way out to you in California. It was nice to see how happy the three of them looked together. You remind yourself to let Nana know that you want to see them soon.

“Miss Mellie? I’m done with the car. There was something wrong with the fuel tank.” A man comes into the kitchen through the back door, dressed in a white tank top and blue jeans, wiping the grease from his hands with a rag.

He stops, eyeing you curiously. “You’re not Miss Mellie.”

“I’m not,” You say, dropping your backpack onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Just then the screen on the kitchen door bursts open. The bottom has been busted for years and never repaired, for the benefit of the four-legged basset hound that’s bounding towards you. You light up at the sight of him, but your joy is cut short by the comment of the strange man who has yet to introduce himself.

“Careful. Jackson gets nervous around strangers.”

Jackson only pants in response to the man’s statement, gleefully sniffing your shoes before licking the exposed skin of your calves.

“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a stranger.” You mutter leaning down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “You don’t have to tell me about my dog, I was there the day he was born.”

Jackson was the runt of the litter. You had picked him out, seeing how he was weaker and smaller, being trampled over by his brothers and sisters. Your father had given you a funny look when you pointed at the weak little thing and said that one! The look quickly went away once Nana gave him a look of her own.

“No shit.” The man leans back on the counter with all of the comforts of someone who knows this house like the back of his hand. He puts down the greasy rag, running a now clean hand along the sharp line of his jaw, his expression a mixture of disbelief and recognition.

“Now,” You huff, standing straight again much to the chagrin of the dog still panting at your feet. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing in my house?”

Your snippy attitude doesn’t seem to have the desired effect because he only looks right back at you with an easy smile.

“Y’know, I’m a little offended that you don’t remember me, Honeybee.”

Despite the heat of the Tennessee summer, you’re frozen. Only a handful of people have ever called you that. One of them bursts through the kitchen doors, holding a stack of mail in her hands.

“Steven!” Nana exclaims, confirming your suspicions. “You all done with the car?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Oh please Steven, you know you don’t need to call me that.” Her tone is lightly scolding but from the curl of her lips, you can tell that she likes it. Nana has always been a stickler for good manners. “I see you’ve found my grandbaby. Isn’t she a beauty?”

His smirk only grows deeper as he tips his head. “Must run in the family.”

She turns her attention to you. “You remember Steven, don’t you sweet pea? The truck was making a noise that was something awful. He offered to fix it up for me.”

Steve looks decidedly bashful, shaking his head and casting his gaze down to the floor. “It was nothing.”

Nana doesn’t even take into account his modesty, instead barreling through the rest of the conversation like she always does. It’s a wonder that she’s thrived in such a slow and peaceful town all her life when she constantly lives and talks at twice the speed of everyone around her. Everyone else is left trying desperately to keep up. “The two of you used to be thick as thieves, I swear. Could never find one without the other.”

“I remember,” You murmur, only chancing a glance at the boy across the room who seems to have turned into a man overnight. You guess that’s what six years apart will get you.

You remember Steve’s mother. She was a sweet woman when she wanted to be, if a little self-absorbed. Every summer they spent in Sweet Dreams her accent would fall into its natural rhythm and syncopation, annoying the hell out of Mr. Harrington. He always had a sneer on his face, screwed up like he had just taken a bite out of a lemon and was waiting for the sting to subside. He only showed up for the first and last week of the season, to usher his family in and out of his wife’s hometown.

Steve always acted a bit tougher with his father around, puffed out his chest, and forced his voice to go deeper. You once pointed this out to him and he gave you a nasty look and told you that he had no idea what you were talking about.

You apologized and Steve forgave you in the way that kids do, over brown lunch bag trading sessions, with plastic-wrapped treats being exchanged between sticky fingers. You never brought up his father again. For all of his father’s watchful eyes, his mother was the complete opposite. She was one of those people who believed that children shouldn’t be seen or heard. So, she pawned Steve off to the dusty streets of Sweet Dreams, knowing that whatever trouble he could possibly amount to was limited by the fact that the town was so small.

But Sweet Dreams didn’t always feel so small. In fact, when you were a kid the entire world seemed only to exist in a twenty-mile radius.

Steve clears his throat. “Well, if that’s everything I’ll go get cleaned up.”

“Oh! Actually, could you be a dear and take the luggage that’s by the front door into the guest room?” Nana asks.

Steve flashes an award-winning smile. “Anything for you, Miss Mellie.”

Nana shoos him out of the kitchen with promises of a good dinner and even more thanks. You’re still stuck on the fact that Steve Harrington is in Sweet Dreams and apparently has been for a while if the way your grandmother was interacting with him was any indication.

“He’s staying in the old shed.” She explains, sensing your confusion. She’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of iced tea that immediately starts sweating in the Tennessee heat. Your mind is stuck on the soft thudding of heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase. The sixth step still creaks after all this time. “Fixed it up and everything. It already had a bathroom and a waterline, so all he had to do was make it livable.”

You can only think of offering a hum in response, grabbing one of the floral glasses from the cabinet, and pouring yourself a cup. It tastes like home.

“I’ve got you all set up in your Mama’s old room. Figured you’d like the sunlight. I pulled out the yellow bedspread, I remember that one being your favorite.”

Tears collect in your eyes. It’s been a while since anyone has paid attention to you long enough to remember anything insignificant about you. Nana collects every small detail like they’re precious, saving them for a rainy day so she can show you just how much you mean to her.

“Thank you, Nana.” You manage to choke out. You want to say more. You want to give her an explanation for why you dropped everything and showed up at her door. You’re not ready for any of that.

“Of course, darlin’.” She says simply, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home.”

—

Nana tells you to go upstairs and unpack–she purposefully set today aside for you to relax and unwind, knowing that you would probably be exhausted after traveling for so long. The reprieve is temporary, though. She’s assured you that the entire town has been informed of your stay and that her birthday party will also serve as a welcome home party for you.

Despite your insistence that you don’t want to take away the spotlight from her, she only winked and told you no one can take the spotlight from me, sweetie. Everything’s been prepared for the party tomorrow night. You’re already dreading the questions that you don’t have the answers to.

You make your way upstairs, avoiding that creaky sixth step. The walk to the room is daunting. The bedroom door has been left slightly ajar, and rays of sun are peeking through the crack, the only source of light in the dark hallway.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open. It looks exactly as you remember it. The curtains are drawn, allowing the north-facing windows to showcase the wide-open fields and dusty roads that you know and love.

The yellow bedspread is there, just like Nana said it would be. It’s sunbleached after so many years, but it still feels soft and comforting.

Your mother’s painting is still in the same spot. Looking at it, you can tell it’s never been moved the way the corners of the wallpaper around it give it away. Anyone with a keen eye can see how the pale sage green walls were once deep and rich, having faded away like so many other things in Sweet Dreams do. By sitting right where it always was.

Taking a deep breath, you move to unpack everything. The drawers in the vanity are all empty, except the one in the very center. It’s locked, and despite your best efforts, remains that way.

On the vanity, there’s an old picture frame. The photograph inside is of a memory you cannot believe you’d forgotten. You’re sitting cuddled up next to your mom. It was the day that you’d gotten Jackson, and he was so small you could still hold him in your little eight-year-old hands.

You’d refrained from smiling for weeks at that point, utterly mortified at the gaps in your mouth from losing your two front teeth at the same time. In that moment, though, you were smiling so wide. Jackson had gone from sitting quietly in your lap, to jumping up to lick you on the chin. The shock and subsequent squeal of laughter had been captured and kept.

You move the frame to the bedside table. It’s good to be home, you tell yourself. For the first time today, you’re not quite sure if you mean it.

—

“Is James coming tonight?” You ask in between bites of fresh strawberries and buttered toast.

The temperature in the kitchen is nothing less than sweltering. You’d been spoiled out in California, living near the bay and rarely having to worry about the weather climbing above seventy-five degrees. The room is in a state of organized chaos, with all of the food being prepared and cooked for the party. Nana stands at the back end of the kitchen, her back to you. She’s been up since the crack of dawn, placating your insistence to help her with food and conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry honey. He called this morning. Winnie’s got a toothache and he and Betty decided to stay home with her. I know you were looking forward to seeing them.”

“It’s okay,” You assure her. “Just would’ve been nice to see a friendly face.”

She turns the dough on the counter before folding it over and kneading it. There’s flour all up and down her forearms and most likely butter under her fingernails. “Steven’s coming,” She reminds you as if that fact is supposed to be reassuring.

“Right, of course.” You try to keep the apprehension out of your voice. “Steven.”

The truth is that you don’t know where you stand with him. You’d heard his voice from the top of the stairs last night, all full of polite regret that something had come up and he couldn’t attend dinner. The next sight you caught of him was his back as he rode off into the distance.

“He’s single, y’know,” Nana says, punching circles into the dough and setting them onto a baking tray. “He’s been working on the farm for about a year now. Real helpful.”

You know the farm isn’t what it used to be. After the passing of your grandfather, a lot of the acreage was sliced up and sold off to neighboring farms. They give your Nana tiny cuts of the profit, something to do with southern hospitality and it being a widow’s homestead. She’s still gardening, though she probably shouldn’t given her old age. Trying to take gardening gloves from Nana Monroe is like trying to wrangle a wild horse. Still, Steve’s wage must be meager, all things considered. No wonder why he’s living in a shed.

“Nana, I didn’t come here to date.”

“Well, what did you come here for?” She says, turning around and crossing her arms. Then, realizing the harshness of her words, she sighs. Dusting flour off of her palms and onto her worn apron, she rubs her thumb across your cheekbone. You can’t help but revel in the gesture. “You know I love having you around darlin’, but I know you didn’t decide to come spend the summer with your grandma just for kicks.”

The truth of the matter wasn’t easy. It was hard to swallow and tasted a lot like failure.

“I haven’t figured it out just yet, but when I do I’ll let you know.”

—

Drinks have been poured, food has been served, and the birthday cake has been cut. It seems the entire population of Sweet Dreams has overtaken the living and dining rooms, and you wouldn’t be shocked if that ended up being the case. If you had to count the number of inane conversations where you repeated the same five facts about yourself to people who haven’t seen you since you were fifteen, you might combust.

Everyone assumes that just because you go to school in California, you must be living the high life. Beaches and parties and sunsets on the West Coast seemed like a dream to those who live and die in land-locked states, yearning for the smell of salt air and sand beneath their toes.

You know better. California does have all the glitz and glam and charm that they seem to think it does, but it also is an agricultural state. The cities that aren’t highly populated, with bustling nightlife and celebrity mansions, are mostly cow towns. You’ve seen these places while driving down the 5 highway. It doesn’t escape your notice that the exact places that remind you the most of home, are the same ones that people pass by in hopes of getting to somewhere better. They sit in their air-conditioned cars and breathe through their mouths, hoping to drown out the stench of cow manure.

Never mind the fact that the curtains for your dorm were too sheer to block out the city lights, leaving you up for all hours of the night. Or the fact that, while you loved the beach, sometimes you longed for freshwater and mud between your toes rather than salt and sand. You still brought back pictures from when you and your friends decided to take a weekend trip, forking over small amounts of gas money and bartering meal plans in lieu of cash. The pictures spin a different story. One of a girl who knows what she’s doing and living her best life. Never mind that the thread being spun felt more like you were coming unraveled.

The back porch has always been your refuge when parties get too loud and the temperature inside gets so hot that it seems like even the floral wallpaper has started wilting. You sneak out through the kitchen door, relieved that there’s no one there to catch you. Nana usually would have noticed your absence by now, but she’s distracted. Uncle Chuck brought out his acoustic guitar and your grandmother has never passed up an opportunity to perform for others.

You sigh, taking one last bite of rhubarb pie before setting the paper plate down on the ground next to you. Testing the porch swing, you’re delighted to find that it’s still just as sturdy as ever. It used to be that you’d have to sit at the very edge of the seat in order to get it to swing without help, the tips of your sneakers barely grazing the ground. Now, you lean back and your feet are planted steady on the wooden planks below.

You and Steve used to play pirates here, pretending that the sway of the swing was the rocking of the ocean against a mighty ship. You’ve never felt more unmoored.

The screen door creaks as it swings open, and you brace yourself for Nana’s lilting voice, telling you to come inside and entertain guests. It doesn’t come. Instead, a deep timbre casts itself out into the night air. Despite the lingering warmth of the day’s heat and the lack of a night breeze, you feel goosebumps rise up on your arms.

“Not having a good time?” Steve asks. His figure is backlit, bathed in the golden light of the kitchen.

“No, I am. Just–” You take a moment to think of an explanation that won’t give too much away. “Needed a breather, I guess.”

He hesitates. “Maybe I should go then.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told I take people’s breath away.”

You roll your eyes in annoyance, but you can barely hide the smile that tugs at your lips. “You are insufferable, Steve Harrington.”

The smirk on his face grows into a full-blown grin. “It’s one of my better qualities.”

Steve sidles up next to you, hand wrapped around a beer. It’s amazing to think that the last time you saw him, the two of you would have to bend backward to sneak the bitter liquor out of the coolers without anyone noticing. Now, you’re both of age to where nobody blinks an eye. The thought makes your chest feel tight.

“So why are you out here?”

“Do you mean why am I in Tennessee? Or why am I on the porch?”

He shrugs. “Either one.”

You shrug your shoulders, sitting back and letting your feet swing and scrape across the wooden floorboards of the porch. “I just felt like I needed to come back. Remind myself of some things I felt like I was forgetting.”

Steve nods like he gets it, and opens his mouth as if to say something but decides against it. What instead comes out is an olive branch.

“I’m sorry if I offended you with the whole Jackson thing yesterday.” He offers sincerely. “And about missing dinner. I was so busy working on the car yesterday that I forgot I had to fix the Tillman’s chicken coop.”

You put on an air of faux contemplation. “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

“Thank god, I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t.” He playfully puts his hand over his heart before letting it drop to his side, lingering in the limited space between you. “Took me a second to recognize you–you look so different.”

Steve looks different, too. Baby fat has melted away to reveal high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Once gangly limbs have filled out into broad shoulders and muscles that strain against the cotton of his t-shirt. He was always cute, you’d be remiss to pretend that he wasn’t. But the year in Sweet Dreams seems to have been treating him well because now he resides on this side of ruggedly handsome.

“Good different or bad different?” There’s an underlying current of something in your question, but you’re not sure what.

“Good different.” He casts a sidelong glance at you before looking out at the backyard, saying the next statement into the lip of his beer bottle. “Same bratty attitude though.”

“Hey!” You squeal in mock offense, lightly smacking the back of your hand against his chest. The movement comes like a second nature, remnants from childhood squabbles. In the microseconds it takes for you to draw your hand away, you take notice of the solid mass of muscles hidden underneath his white t-shirt.

He’s full-on smirking now. “Nice to know some things never change.”

“You’re one to talk,” You retort. He quirks a brow at you. “You’ve always been such a charmer. I’m pretty sure you’ve got the entire female population of Sweet Dreams wrapped around your finger.”

He gives you a meaningful look. “Not the entire female population.”

You have a sharp reply sitting at the tip of your tongue, pointing directly at Steve, when someone calls his name from inside. It’s Uncle Chuck, insisting that the man sitting next to you join him in a duet.

“Well,” He stands up, brushing his palms on his denim-clad legs. “I should probably head back inside.”

You hum in acknowledgment, only ever so slightly disappointed, but make no move to leave your spot on the porch swing. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Steve opens the screen door but props it open with his foot. The golden light from the kitchen is on his face now, and you can see the soft edges of the boy you once knew.

“Welcome home, honeybee,” He says simply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

With that, he steps back inside and the screen door slams shut. You’re left alone on the back porch, breathless.

—

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taglist: @corrodedseraphine

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington blurb #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things #mimi wrote ✍️#sweet dreams TN #cowboy!steve harrington

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mimiriko · 1 year

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐃𝐘 | 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

notes :: established relationship. 2.4k. fem!reader.

summary :: it’s slow progress making people realize their explosive hero is more than that, more than shallow waters of anger. you wonder faintly if it’s intentional turning a blind eye at the love cracking from his hands, bleeding into you so openly. all it took for the world to change is him carrying you bridal-style.

Sometimes you think about people, and how easy they judge. Sometimes, you think the surface layer is faux and the sea beds contain the real treasure. But to put on a suit and take a deep breath: from your mouth and hold it in your throat, venture down until your ears ring, is too much. Skimming the pretty waters from above is enough.

Living amongst dreamers will never become better, walking beside the theorists and talking to the audacious never gets lighter to bare. To conure stories of the wonders and horrors underneath, cajoling you into saying anything that will prove their words, imprint fact on their gossip. You're the first and only one with a diving suit after all.

"Is he coming?"

The smile clipped on your face is straining. "Any moment, he's just parking."

"It's almost been six months together, right?" she continues, giggling unkindly and sipping her fruity drink. "Who would've thought."

It's a shame: her polite guise from afar drove you to her side, a nook of safety from the overwhelming dance floor, but her mouth opened just like the rest. 'Who would've thought?' You scoff, scanning for the familiar blond peaks of hair.

Don't flare up; you're gonna leave soon anyway.

"Yo."

Thank god.

"Hey, Kats," you're glued to his side in a second. The mercurial energy around the girl— her name already went out of one ear, ever since she recognized you from the papers —switches into something else. Sycophant. Harsh for your tongue, but her fluttering lashes at your lover is boiling your temperament with rage. Raw, as strong as it's been since the first day. The first day Katsuki made it known he was yours.

(It wasn't a fleeting comment on your relationship, no Sorry, I've got a girlfriend to fans, it was even before any dispatch got ahold of your pictures. It was in his first interview. Where he looked the camera dead in its lens and flayed himself open, I'm taken. )

"Hi, Dynamight," she says, breathless.

"Hello. I'll be leavin' now. Enjoy your night."

You spluttered, catching yourself before fully launching a laugh in her face, and turned to the front door with his arm hanging off your shoulders.

You notice the tension in his face and frame easing off, the rough edges around his eyes slanting, sculpting into a rounder, softer look.

No one sees the hand that holds the door for you, they just see your warmth embracing the man.

—

Your legs burn. Diverging from the joint of your knees, paralysing nerves till your toes and sending needles up your abdomen. Harsh fluorescent lights blind your vision in spots, and you're stuck with blinking them away vainly as you scan the store aisle. You look worn out, from the creases in your hoodie to the shine of sweat on your face, and you feel exactly that. Rung dry from the day, barbed heart and pounding head.

Nimbly, you slot a packet of pads in your armpit and make a beeline for some food. Something warm for your sore throat, maybe some sweet potatoes if they're still on the charcoal at this time. Or you could snag any bento box and frozen gyoza left and heat it for you and Katsuki. It’ll be futile considering he’ll have to deviate from his meal plan, but you’re sure he won’t mind you indulging.

A hand on your shoulder startles you, “Wha—“

You blink. Speak of the devil. “Kat.”

Dressed in his spare outfit he wears after patrol, the one that smells like a men's locker room, Katsuki stretches his hand to you, holding a basket full of your cravings. "Knew you'd be here," he says plainly.

Dumbfounded, you take the basket. Your eyes catch your favourite rice cakes, drinks, chips and frozen gyoza. Around the handle your fingers tremble, and you shyly tuck your chin and move closer to him. A surge of protectiveness overtakes him, and he tenderly holds your head with his calloused hands, bringing you to his chest.

Walking towards the cashier with his heartbeat as your melody, a sharp ring from his phone cuts the air and divides his attention. He fails to feel your arm shooting towards a coffee drink left out, securing a pack of chilly ramen along the way. Your hands slink the items at the counter, and his copper eyes burn your downturned face resting now on his bicep. He was Dynamight on the phone right now, and could not break out of it.

Bag in your grasp, the moon offered her light on the walk home, lighting the concrete silver. Shades of black detail his build and his hair looks as if it’s crowned by stars—you can't help but stare.

Silence caved once Katsuki finished the call, savouring the tranquillity the night brings in comparison to the hustle of the day.

Quietly, pensively, your hand lowered into the bag, floundering for the shape of a can. Your fingers spread like cobwebs until they wrapped themselves around the item. In an attempt to be smooth, you lift it in one motion, and a defining chorus of crinkles of plastic echoed.

You sweat.

He sucks in a breath. "Y/n,” he growls, "you know caffeine isn't fucking good for your cramps."

"I know," you reply helplessly, "but-"

"And it's almost midnight!" He takes the can, swatting your hands away.

You whine with no real vexation, like a sated child denied extra candy. Bouncing on your heel, tugging him by his collar, reaching for his arm that went in the air above your reach, or when he stoops down and you have to crouch to even skim your fingers on the metal.

"You wont get anywhere with this." He smirks despite the mask of indignation: lips stretched lopsidedly, utterly charming and handsome. Your own lips tingle, buzzing with a want to kiss him silly. Even if you're in public at nighttime, even if the shadows cloak you—the memory of a glossy lens, cold glass shielding an all-knowing eye, renders you to keep your love for home.

But like an oasis in a desert, a novel feeling mixes in your head. Glistening with temptation under the heat and surrounded by hot sand, beckoning you to bring its poison down your gullet.

It's just you and him. The night was waning, and your heart loosened with it. It's just you and him.

Giddy, you shoot a grin, killing him softly. And then you spring up, startling him. Your lips meet with excitement, mirroring two puppies. Eager, trusting, vulnerable.

Incrementally, you deliver another peck. And another. Until a warm hand takes shelter in your hair, bunching it up and using it to angle you better. A swift kick to his calf jolts him. "The fuck?"

A curse never sounded so breathless. "Give my coffee back you piece of shit. You'd think your lover would be a little nicer when you're on your fucking period.”

"Oh yeah? Maybe your lover just doesn't wanna be a victim to your fucking tossing and turning at night because of your cramps."

Wrestling him is useless, not when his muscles faintly show themselves under his hoodie all hard and wired, but you try anyway. You continue until he's heedless to his own laugh, a rosy tint spread on his bunched up cheeks. You can feel the wind of it on your face.

But the world zooms out of focus, expanding from your happy alcove far too soon.

Beneath a street lamp on the lane you just entered stood a group of people. Back from an outing, judging by the glimmer and cat-eye's, adding depth to the stare they've held on you. Heads drawn like a shark to the scent of blood.

Katsuki fluidly untangles from your limbs, but his jaw is more rigged, his eyes are cast off a bit too far, and the hand on your waist hovers lightly. Touching the fabric of your shirt more than yourself.

Your heart sinks as you pass by, only a narrow road between you but it feels like oceans. A ship travelling the opposite direction and passing by your route, whispers flicking at your ears like sea-foam and cannons angled towards you.

(The main fear that resides in your chest, claws sharp digging at your bones, is what they can say about Katsuki. Ruin him overnight, transforming the gentle hands around your waist to ones with an intent to hurt, to harm. Off of no basis—only his explosive character.

However you are nothing but an open heart to him; he knows your fears like they're his own, and he makes sure everything is behind sealed doors.)

The bag full of food becomes invisible, but the coffee in his hand away from you is in the spotlight.

—

You feel as if you’re in an inchoate dream.

Skipping stones between life and a hazy alternate universe; the low thrum of the car brings an illusion of a soft lullaby, coaxing you into letting go and float somewhere above clouds.

If it hadn’t been for the hand on your thigh stroking in gentle motions, you would not have made it this far. If it hadn’t been for Katsuki sitting beside you, powering you through all the preparations, your first official public appearance would’ve been a calamity.

The car slowly rolls to a stop in front of a red carpet, sleek and ever so daunting, and the chauffeur makes his way to your door before Katsuki stops him with a hand.

Dressed smartly in a mulberry tux, tailored fabric and fitted waistcoat leaving nothing to the imagination, he turns towards you, as if approaching a trembling animal, and waits. Your eyes felt as if they’ve been covered by a veil, barely outlining his face painting only patience towards you. The world’s chaos outside reached your ears through a blanket of water, and your own matching mulberry dress clung uncomfortably to your skin.

He extends his fingertip, brushing your knuckle, and you blink owlishly at him. Trailing further to your wrist, he takes your hand and places it on his lap.

Your throat unstuck itself suddenly, just by a touch.

He tugs towards the door, looking at you for permission—and with a nod, you give it to him.

The rest is lost in bliss and buzz of fame. A dizzying dissonance of memories but all linked with happiness. You are here. You are alive and well.

And with Katsuki, you can finally turn to a camera and give a smile. A big, beautiful smile that leaves your eyes in sparkling crescents. A smile no serpent could look away from.

But there’s a limit to the sky, and being weightless only feels so great until you miss the drag of gravity. Your fingers tug Katsuki’s tie askew in the after-party, and one eyebrow rose in response. He studied you, posture needle straight which he knew was forced, and put his drink down on a nearby table. “Want to switch your heels with my shoes? Your feet are probably red as hell.”

Your chest warmed with the question. “‘m good.”

The ruckus you stood in was at the back of a building, floors down and a lengthy walk from the line of cars awaiting for their respective hero’s. You nod at friends while you make your way to the entrance—Izuku, Kiri, Mina—and smile back at their lovers.

You forgot Katsuki’s words have a habit of becoming law though, no matter the circumstance. A soft pinch of your heel strap takes your attention, and it continues until it starts to scrape. You’re slow to feel the tender flesh of your soles, the press of material at your toes. Glossy lips become a chew toy to suppress your agitation because you were just fine ten minutes ago.

It’s fine, there’s not much longer to go. It doesn’t matter if you can see from your peripheral vision Katsuki’s tantalizing face.

"The earth won't collapse if we switch shoes y'know."

"It's not that long of a walk," you grumbled, "quit it."

If the stars weren't spilled into the night sky, if the sun replaced the moon and the familiar goosebumps of cameras returned, you would have let him wear your heels. The media would greedily devour the intimacy, the acts of service, and boost Katsuki's name with praise not flames.

But underneath the high ceilings and dimly illuminated hallways, with only tinted windows to know of your love, there's no point.

The word stubborn breezes past your ears, and you turn your head at him curiously, before your world is rocked sideways like a glass knocked off a table.

Yet the arms that were the source of your fall did not let you hit the ground, that wasn't the purpose at all, but instead lifted you and stole a yelp from your lungs. Cradling you bridal-style, feet dangling off his arms.

All you did— could do, courtesy to the iron grip on your body, was stare at him. At his eyes fixed forward—defiant, stubborn, handsome. You wonder if your weight matters to him at all if he could steal you from the ground mid-stride.

And you have half a mind to castigate him for it, because it was fundamentally cruel. Unfair. Unjust for him to blend your heart like this.

"You better put me down before someone sees,” You stress.

"Y'see anyone here, sugar?"

"Once you get to the front door there will be! I'm not playing Kat."

"Neither am I.” he says, before jostling you around with dilute vigour, with you whisper-screaming to knock it off. Another flight of stairs and a revolving door, and you'll be at the eye of the public again. Like entering a relic.

The idea of lowering your head, clinging to Katsuki and praying the shutters of white light would freeze in time, was unbearable. Not when you felt encapsulated in a fairytale tonight. How had you lived before?

Because you weren't. A mere skull filled with blackened thoughts. It felt like removing the stitches off a wound, staining the marred skin red and jumping back in.

You were getting closer, nearer to the front doors.

In that instant, a new feeling blistered.

You brace yourself with a smile. "We're going to make a scene, aren't we?"

The halting bold look on his face transmutes into confusion—then true courage takes over.

The uproar of paparazzi and the internet the next few days rival each other. A sight one would think is so rare there wasn't a chance of it existing at all, served on a silver plate. Ares holding an Angel.

One thing in particular which truly lit the public into a spiralling inferno, was spotted by a fan. Trained eyes from a bedroom catching a private moment, between the intervals of blinding light at Katsuki's walking figure.

@makingmagic :: Doesn't Dynamight look like he's whispering "darling"?

#🪐#bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugou katsuki x y/n #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader

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fanficapologist · 9 months

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Two

The flickering candlelight danced on the stone walls as Lady Maera Wylde stepped into her chambers. The warm water awaited her, inviting her to immerse herself and find solace in its comforting embrace.

The tub was filled with salts from the nearby coastline, scented oils and lavender petals. The maids helped Maera remove her training leathers, boots and tunic and undid her thick dark brown braid, the silver streak disappearing into her locks once more. She thanked the maids for their help and went to step into the bath before being cautioned by one of them. “My Lady, the water is freshly boiled. It will burn you!”

“I have my mothers blood” countered Maera with a grin and she stepped into the tub, the burning sensation feeling heavenly on her skin. Even though she inherited very little from her Targaryen side, one thing that was obvious was that the heat would not scold her.

As the servants scrubbed her mud-covered skin, it reminded Maera of the first time she visited Kings Landing, seven years ago. When Lord Wylde was initially given the honor of Master of Laws, he brought his eldest daughter with him to the capital in order to teach her the etiquette of a proper Lady and to be a companion to Princess Helaena. Advertised as “The Jewel of Rainwood” by her father to Queen Alicent, a name that her mother had bestowed on her when she was born, Lord Wylde assured the queen that the friendship between the two young ladies would be mutually beneficial for both Houses.

Of course, Maera was well-mannered and on her best behaviour when she first made the acquaintance of Princess Helaena, who was initially shy and withdrawn. But as the days turned into weeks and the true personality of Maera shone through, Helaena became more sociable and talkative, almost like a snail that was being coaxed out of its shell. The boldness, strength and curiosity of Lady Maera balanced well with Helaenas meekness, gentleness and passive traits. Together they would walk the grounds of the Keep, arm in arm, collecting bugs to place in the glass cases in the princess’s chambers. The young girls spent one glorious year in each others company, laughing, feasting, reading

“Are you looking forward to returning to the Capital, my lady?” Asked Imelda, the older of the maids as she rinsed her Lady’s hair with the bathwater. “Yes and no” Maera replied to the servant. “I am most fortunate to be asked to be the companion to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms once again, however with the way my Lord father has written, I doubt I will be returning to Rain House for some time, if at all”. The other maid, Cristina, was scrubbing the mud out of Lady Maeras nails with a brush on the opposite side of the tub. “What makes you think that way, Lady Maera?” Cristina asked meekly. “Maybe because Guston is sick of me, maybe because I have finally flowered or maybe because I have frightened off every eligible suitor in the Stormlands, I am unsure. A combination of those? Anyway, Father seems quite eager this time to sell me off as a brood mare to the highest bidder”

Imelda sighed “It is the duty of highborn ladies , unfortunately. At least you will get a more advantageous match in the capital. Hopefully you claim a decent, kind husband”

Cristina snorted at her fellow maids statement.” Our Lady is more likely to want to claim one of the wild dragons that are currently fleeing from Dragonstone”. The maid was not wrong. Rumours where circling that the wild dragons of the Realm were leaving their island to seek out new places in Westeros to call home. Some of the common folk said the creatures were fleeing due to the instability of the realm. Maera was sure it was due to something more scientific.

“I would agree with you there Cristina” Maera laughed, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the water.

“Marriage is of the upmost importance Lady Maera, I would not take heed to young Cristina’s words” Imelda said as she glared at the younger maid, causing Maera to smile in her direction.

“Men are odd creatures, Imelda. Surely there is not one worthy enough for our Lady. Remember the son of Lord Penrose, Ser Reginald? How he-“

“Let us not speak of such things” Maera interrupted, sitting upright in the tub and clenching her jaw. Ser Reginald was once her friend, three years her senior. He was interested in Maera and wanted to ask her father for her hand, but she did not reciprocate his desire for marriage to him, and her father did not see it as an advantageous enough match. And with his ego bruised, Ser Reginald betrayed her through whispers of scandal across Storms End.

“Forgive me, Milady, I have spoken out of turn” Cristina apologised, head dipped in respect. Maera let out a breath she had been holding and grabbed the servants hand with a squeeze.

“That wasterel deserves no more of our breath. We are meant to be celebrating. Come, I expect supper will be served soon”

Maera eased herself out of the bath, the water droplets glistening on her skin like precious jewels. Imelda stood ready with a robe, wrapping it around Lady Maera's shoulders with practiced care. The air in the chamber was infused with the lingering fragrance of scented oils, creating an atmosphere of serenity.

"Thank you, Imelda," Lady Maera said, a contented sigh escaping her lips. She reached for a towel and began to gently dry her hair, her movements deliberate and unhurried. With conviction in her step, Lady Maera made her way to her bedspace. The future held uncertainties, but she was determined to face them head-on. The realm and her house needed her, and she would embrace her destiny with the strength and grace that had come to define her journey.

As she sat at her Vanity, Imelda stepped forward, holding a comb ready to tend to Lady Maera's damp hair. As Imelda's skilled hands worked through the tangles, Lady Maera's mind drifted to the memories of Kings Landing; the grandeur of the Red Keep, the intrigues of the court, and the bonds she had forged with Queen Helaena from when she was a child

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm golden hue over the House Wylde’s ancestral estate. The maids adorned Lady Maera with a necklace of sapphires and gold, and necklace that had belonged to her mother, which perfectly complemented her gown. As they weaved her dark, cascading locks into an intricate braided updo, her silver streak of hair was now the top of her head, peaking through her locks. A smile graced Lady Maera's lips as she glanced at her reflection, the dress draped gracefully around her curvaceous frame. The gown was a masterpiece, tailored to accentuate her natural elegance - a shimmering sea of turquoise blue silk adorned with intricate golden embroidery that swirled like a maelstrom across the fabric.

Imelda and Cristina stood by, their gazes respectful as they admired their lady's radiant appearance.

"Thank you both," Lady Maera said with a warm smile. "Your dedication is truly unmatched."

"It is our honor to serve you, milady," Cristina replied, her voice filled with genuine sincerity.

As she adjusted a stray strand of hair, a wave of nostalgia washed over her. This estate had been her haven, the place where she had grown up, a sanctuary of love and laughter. Leaving it behind felt like turning the page to a new chapter, one filled with both excitement and apprehension.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#aemond fanfiction #aemond x fem!oc #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #slow burn #enemies to lovers #smut #chapters #hotd fanfic #house targaryen #house wylde #Jasper wylde #helaena the dreamer #hotd helaena #maera wylde

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k-slla · 18 days

Text

Call It Fate

A/N: @beka-dreamer - This was supposed be ready by your Birthday but I am so sorry that this took me so long - It's now finished and as I warned, angsty (sorry for that too), but I still hope you'll enjoy it! 🤍

W/C: 1.7k | My Masterlist

Warnings: angst, Demon!Dean

All mistakes are mine! Feedback is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Rebekah wasn't sure how long she had been driving for. She was still not even totally aware of what had happened.

Dawn was breaking so few hours have passed at least since she left the Bunker in the dead of night, but she wasn't going to stop. No, she couldn't. Despite the growing ache in her limbs, stomach or in her heart, she floored the gas, determined to get as far as she could from him. She’d tend her wounds later when she'd have time to worry about anything else but getting herself hidden.

For a long time it was just her and silence in her car between the empty fields, dark forests or seemingly extinct small towns.

That's quite how she felt. Dark. Lifeless. Empty.

At least the wind coming in from the rolled down window was relieving the sting of the little cuts and scrapes on her face. Every little movement she dared to do, felt again like another punch she had gotten from Dean.

His laughter was still ringing in her ears. Cruel and taunting. His smile - another sight she wouldn't forget - so cold and diabolic.

“Do you really think you can run from me, Beka?” That nickname slipping past his lips now evoked goosebumps on her skin. He was much closer to her than she had hoped. Not getting ahead of him more than a corner, she still gathered all the strength she had left to even try to get away.

“Why are you still trying to escape? I could make the end for you real easy, maybe even borderline enjoyable, if you would just stop!”

Bunker had become a total maze of torture for her. Rebekah had no sense of direction anymore and the red emergency light made every hallway look the same. She was stuck like a mouse in a snake tank, with nowhere to run.

“Or on the other hand, I could drag it out, make it long and slow. You know I’d enjoy it. Whichever you’d prefer, sweetheart.”

She got nauseous. Rebekah pulled the car over at the side of the road. This was a mistake. Staying with the boys. Last few years she had gone through were all wrong. She shouldn’t have let herself fall for him. She should've known that she had no chance at happiness. She should've known that being alone was all that she would get in this world. No family. No Dean. No one.

Groaning loudly, Rebekah wearily climbed out of the front seat, and looked around her. In the middle of nowhere, only desolate fields surrounded her again. She leaned on the car, letting her tears roll freely as she slowly slid down and hid her face in her arms.

She sat next to the car, gravel pushing deep into her bruised skin. It hurt, but not as much as the burn on the inside. She was shattered. Heartbroken. And this time she wasn't sure if anything would help her heal.

The wind was warm around her, tousling her long brown locks, almost like an invisible embrace, it had her surrounded.

She didn't want to admit it to herself. That she missed him. That she still loved him after what he put her through. But she did. She loved Dean as much as she hated him, and after tonight Rebekah hated him more than anything.

She hated those green eyes that once had been her escape from reality, were filled with such hatred and coldness tonight. She despised that smile that once had the power to brighten her day in a split second, would now be the cause of her nightmares. She loathed the man who once saved her from that very same thing he had now become, was the one who promised to protect her with his life. She hated that she loved him.

She was sleeping when he came. After months of fighting with sleeplessness, trying to find Dean day or night, she had fallen asleep surprisingly quickly tonight, but it was still restless for her.

She was lucky she hadn't slept in their own room. That was the first place he had checked looking for her. But she didn't need any more things to remind her of Dean, so she chose a room a few doors down from it.

A door slammed into the wall, waking her up immediately.

“Sweetheart, I'm home!” A muffled voice echoed in the hallway, almost maniacal laughter following right after. Rebekah didn't think he'd come back voluntarily. Her heart started thundering. He must've been here for a reason.

But that wasn't her Dean, and she was alone with him in the Bunker.

She had no idea what time it was or how long she had been sitting by the road, but she was parched. Carefully she stood up and started to look for a water bottle in her car. She knew she had one somewhere. Every move still hurt, but she finally found it, and drank almost half of it.

The heat kept climbing and she decided to find a first motel on the road to wherever she was headed. But first, she'd need a change of clothes. She was still wearing her pajamas, and those had gotten ripped in the fight.

With shaking hands, she opened the trunk of the car, and started rummaging through the blankets and books and weapons in it to find her back-up clothes.

She has always been prepared for the worst, keeping at least two sets of clothes in her car at all times, both bags had also a burner phone, cash and some medicines in them.

She just never thought that the worst would be running away from Dean.

Rebekah took in two painkillers before she sat behind the wheel again. She felt a little more like a human at least, all she needed now was a shower and sleep.

About another hour later a “Jade’s Motel & Diner” sign caught her eye. Underneath it was small writing “Redfield, South-Dakota”.

She must've been so out of herself not to notice crossing two state lines.

She pulled into the lot and parked the car, but was unable to get out. For months she had tried to be hopeful of finding Dean and helping him. Even when everything had gone wrong, even when smallest traces of him disappeared and despair started to creep in, she never gave up. But now there was nothing for her to fight for. Now she was just tired of trying.

She loved Dean. More than anything, but seeing him being able to try to kill her so easily, that hurt more than any other punch she had gotten from him. She couldn't go back to that.

Rebekah stayed hidden behind a corner and Dean's low voice echoed somewhere in the Bunker. It seemed to her, he was heading the other way. She was wrong. As soon as she let out a little shaky breath and wanted to turn around to lean on the wall, Rebekah saw Dean behind her and barely had a chance to duck down before a hammer hit the wall right where her head was a second ago. She fell to the floor and there was a silence between them. But not for long before Dean pulled the hammer out of the wall.

“Dean, don't!” She was shaking as she turned her face away from him, expecting another hit, but it didn't come. Instead Dean squatted down in front of her and roughly grabbed her jaw.

He sneered, staring at her teary eyes and the bruises forming on her skin. But then to her surprise he caressed her cheek softly and pushed away stray hair from her face. It almost seemed like he cared, but she knew better. He was not the man anymore she loved.

“You know, what? I changed my mind. It's actually not that fun when you're just laying here. Get up!”

He stood back up and waited for Rebekah to do the same, but she remained on the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” She had no fight left in her.

“Well, the Mark needs to be fed, right?” He turned his right arm out, revealing her the red scar on it. “And I knew just the place where to find my next victim.” Dean waved his hands around him. “It's either you or someone innocent from the streets. Would you like that more?”

Rebekah glared up into his black eyes that had nothing left of the lively green they used to be. She won't give up that easily. She heaved herself up.

“You'll get a ten second head start, then we'll play.” Dean's eyes flashed green as grinned after her, watching her limp away. When she got right around the corner, she started to run. With her final strength Rebekah made her way to the garage. This was her only chance to escape.

Rebekah stared at herself in the rearview mirror and an unrecognizable face stared back. She didn't even realize that before, but Sam didn't know yet that Dean came back. She decided to deal with this a little later. He wasn't home anyway and Dean had probably run from the Bunker, too. She'd call him later sometimes, when she'd had time to sleep. Right now she just needed to lay down.

She gathered her stuff from the backseat and got out of the car. The gravel crunched under her shoes as she walked across the lot towards the motel. She didn't know yet what would be her next move or where she'd end up.

As she got closer to the building, Rebekah saw an older woman sitting behind a little desk. When the little bell above the door announced her entering, the woman looked up from the newspaper she was reading, smiling at her welcomingly.

“Hello, miss, how can I help you?”

She couldn't tell what tomorrow would bring for her, but Rebekah knew one thing - she would be alone and it'll be alright. She had been alone for years, before she met the Winchesters.

Maybe one day her path would cross with Dean again, but until that she would have to do what she was best at. She'd have to keep on hunting.

For now, she plastered on a little smile.

“Good morning! Room for one, please.”

Taglist (always open) @jackles010378 @nescavaneck @cevansbaby-dove @deanwinchestersgirl87 @winchesterwild78 @anundyingfidelity @suckitands33

Dividers by @cafekitsune

#dean winchester fic #supernatural #demon!dean #spn fanfiction #jensen ackles #dean winchester #jackles #spn #angst

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fantasydaydreamers · 5 months

Note

Heey, how’s everything going? eating well? staying hydrated??

well… i’m not that creative when it comes to suggestions and i hope you’ll be able to understand

so, i was thinking maybe some headcanonns with Shinsou as a rockstar and he meets reader while in a tour, they get along pretty well, have some tastes in common (if you’re feeling like, some nsfw but that’s totally up to you!!)

it’s not very detailed so feel free to add whatever comes to mind! 💕💖

i love you and your writing, even if sometimes i don’t know how to interact, you’ll always have my support, thank you so much for your time, you’re amazing!! 🤧💖

it's been a stressful 2 weeks. hey? i wanna quit my job guys😟 AND STOP YOURE SUGGESTIONS ARE WONDERFUL!!! I LOVE SEEING MY DREAMERS INTERACT WITH ME AND YOU'RE ALWAYS SUPPORTING ME SO THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU TOO!!!!!!💕💕💕💕😭😭

Also, I wrote a Boyband Au! already if y'all haven't read it....check out my Boyband Bakugou!Au x Reader🤭🤭🤭

🔥🥀The Burning Rose🥀🔥

ANYWAYS. SHINSOU-

Warnings: Lemon

• I see him starting out in a band, NOT as a lead singer, but more as a lead guitarist who SOMETIMES has background vocals in a song. Or sings the bridge.

Oh...and the the fans go crazy for his voice. Smooth and deep...so whenever a new song comes out and he's not on it, let's just say the streams aren't very high. Does this annoy the actual lead singer? Yep. Is the rest of the band annoyed they don't get enough attention either? Absolutely.

• Quits and goes solo.

SORRY BUT HELLO? Shinsou already made a name for himself with the band and if people prefer his voice, oh...he'll give y'all what y'all want~

His first single tops the charts and the music video was just him sitting on a stool, strumming his guitar. The Internet went crazy and you might've came.

Anyways.

Finally a solo tour rolls around after his debut album and you scrambled for the meet and greet tickets and holy fuck.....

His voice? In PERSON?!

The smirk he had on his face while talking to you didn't help and you think you blacked out because soon enough you were waiting for the concert to begin.

• Sees you in the crowd and purposely meets your transfixed gaze when singing the sultry parts of his songs.

Would call a security guard to get you after the show and bring you backstage. Just for a tour hook up but....

• HIS FINGERS AREN'T JUST GOOD FOR PLAYING GUITAR-

He turns you into a singer by the end of the night the way his fingers curl in and out of you with his post concert voice, a low raspy rumble in your ear, bringing you to the edge over and over and over-

Knows he's good at dirty talking and is aware of voice kinks.

He talks you through it and won't continue until you answer his questions.

→ Shinsou: *is rolling his hips into you with a slow and deep rhythm* "Mm... how's that feel? You're clenching down real good for me...want it faster? Deeper? C'mon baby..."

Which started as a tour hook-up, turns into something more when Shinsou goes to the next city but can't stop thinking about your voice singing his name with whimpered cries and eyes rolling back into your head.

Hopefully he crosses paths with you soon. Or you might have a song written about you~

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinsou #shinsou hitoshi #mha imagines #bnha imagines #Shinsou x reader lemon #shinsou x reader smut #mha lemon #bnha lemon

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moodymelanist · 4 months

Text

I Guess It's Half Timing (And The Other Half's Luck) — Epilogue

I can’t believe this story has finally come to a close!! Thank you so much to everyone who followed along with me on this fic, I had so much fun writing it and trying my hand at slow burn for the first time 🩷

Also, a very big and special shoutout to the GC for motivating me every month to write this and helping me come up with fun little ideas to sneak in. Y’all kept me going and I couldn’t have done it without you!!

I hope this ties up everything nicely!!! until next time and happy 2024 everyone :’)

✷✷✷✷✷

Cassian

Cassian had been enjoying his dream when he was abruptly yanked into consciousness by the sound of his daughter screaming her head off in excitement.

“Mommy! Daddy!” Sera yelled at the top of her lungs, her little feet just narrowly missing crushing Cassian’s hand as she jumped up and down on the bed. How she’d managed to even climb up without shaking him awake was beyond him, but she’d certainly accomplished her goal now. “Wake up! It’s Christmas!”

“Jesus Christ, what time is it,” Nesta muttered under her breath. She looked adorably grumpy as always, and Cassian fought the urge to tug where her hair pulled into two loose braids for sleep like he was the little kid here. “Okay, okay, Sera. We’re up, I promise, just give us a second.”

“Too goddamn early,” Cassian mumbled right back. He was usually an early riser, but he’d been pulling a lot of long nights leading up to the actual holiday. Sue him for wanting to sleep in a little later than six thirty in the morning. “Sera, mijita, calm down a little, okay?”

Sera had just turned four last month, so they were much more concerned about making an effort for the holidays these days now that the chances of her remembering it were so much higher. She’d been talking about Santa and wondering aloud about her presents for weeks now, and if Cassian hadn’t been so worried about making the day good for her, he would’ve been able to focus on just how adorable she was.

Keep reading on AO3 here!

#acotar #acosf #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #Cassian acotar #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron x cassian #pro Nessian #pro nesta archeron #pro Cassian #pro Cassian acotar #moodymelanistwrites

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impala-dreamer · 1 year

Text

What Actually Happened...

A Supernatural Story

~Dean and Y/N finally confess their feelings and spend a long, perfect night together.~

Dean x Reader, Sam

2,043 Words

Warnings: FLUFF, Real Life, Crack

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

Dean shut the door of the Impala and crashed into the driver’s seat with a deafening roar of a yawn. He sank down a bit, stretching his long legs out as far as the space would allow, and rested his head against the back of the seat.

He yawned again and shut his eyes, letting his head fall to the right.

Sam raised both brows and noted a crusty line of dried drool in the corner of his brother’s mouth.

“Long night?” he asked, rather loudly just in case Dean had a hangover.

Startled, Dean jolted to full consciousness, pulling himself upright with a hand on the wheel.

He cleared his throat. “Sure was.”

Sam laughed under his breath. “Mhm.”

“Long… awesome night.” Dean wiggled his eyebrows and smirked. “Awesome night,” he said again, emphasising everything he needed to to get his point across.

“Sure seems like it,” Sam commented, pointing to Dean’s mouth and then his own. “You got a little something there-”

Quickly, Dean wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and growled. “Yeah- shut up.”

The backdoor squeaked open and Y/N climbed inside behind Sam, tossing her bag onto the floor.

“Mornin’,” she croaked, keeping her head down, eyes looking anywhere but at Dean.

Sam noticed instantly. “Morning.” Again, he lifted his voice just enough to be irritating, but neither seemed to notice. The air also didn’t have that tell tale hint of stale booze, so he let that theory go. “How are you?”

She settled into place and rubbed at her eyes. “Uh- good. Good. All- is good.”

“Long night?” he asked, looking between her and Dean.

Y/N swallowed hard and her cheeks burned. She bit her lip and finally looked up, her eyes meeting Dean’s in the rearview.

“Yeah,” she said with a smile. “It was.”

“You are so…” Dean’s words fell away as he got lost in her eyes, his plump lips swerving into an unstoppable smile. He curled his hand behind her ear and Y/N dipped her chin shyly, her heart racing so fast she was sure he could feel it in his fingertips.

“What?” How she had become so bold after three years of dancing around the sexual tension between them, she had no clue. Maybe it was the full moon reflecting so perfectly on the hood of the Impala, perhaps the cool breeze flowing through the open windows calmed her nerves, or the half a bottle of tequila shared between them. Whatever it was that pushed away the butterflies had certainly left her wanting and courageous. “Tell me what I am, Dean.”

His name rolled off of her tongue like honey and Dean drank it all in. “You are...beautiful,” he whispered, tilting his head just a bit and licking his lips slowly.

“And?”

He laughed softly and ran his hand through her hair. “And… amazing and sexy and funny-”

“And I can kick your ass at cards.”

“Yeah, you can.”

His kiss was gentle and sincere; a soft press of lips and a slow exhale from each. Their eyes closed as they savored the moment, hot breath fanning over cheeks, the tender pressure of her push back, the brush of wind all around them.

As first kisses went, it was perfect.

The second kiss was peppered with passion. It was an electric shock that pulsed through each of them as Y/N parted her lips to let his tongue inside. The jolt was intense and she reached for him, curling her fingers around both of his ears and tugging him downwards.

Dean lost his balance but made up for it by pushing her up against the car door. She moaned into his mouth and spread her legs around his left leg, just wide enough to let his meaty thigh slide between.

He lifted his foot from the ground as he licked into her mouth and the noise she made went straight to his cock.

“Fuck.”

“You feel so good,” she whispered, scratching her nails against his scalp. “I want you so bad, Dean.” She rocked her hips on his leg and shivered. “Do you want me?”

He licked his lips and gave her a stunning smile. “Baby, you have no idea.”

The ride back to the motel was short but it was far from easy. Having mutually decided that a bed would be preferable to the side of the road for their first attempt in the boudoir, they rode back to the room seeped in arousal.

Dean struggled behind the wheel; his erection rubbing painfully against the stiff denim of his jeans, even more so when Y/N ran her hand down his leg and her tongue around his ear.

“You keep that up, we may not make it back,” he warned.

Y/N grinned and took a quick bite of his jaw. “Wanna bet?”

They made it back in one piece, if not a little flushed and damp downstairs.

Y/N fumbled with the key as Dean scooted up behind her, his hands on her tits, his cock nudging her ass.

The scanner denied them entry for the third time and Y/N swayed backwards, grinding against him.

“You gotta quit it, or we’ll be fucking on the ice machine over there.” She nodded to the left and Dean laughed gently.

“Wouldn’t be so bad. I’d keep you warm.” His teeth grazed her pulse and she nearly dropped the key.

“Yeah...no.” The green light appeared and the door unlocked. “Yes!”

Dean let her take two steps inside before grabbing her by the waist and spinning her to him. He drove his tongue deep past her lips and Y/N melted in his big arms, her knees giving out and her breath disappearing.

“Fuck, I want that tongue inside of me.” She bit her lip and blinked up at him, all sense of the shy girl gone for good.

“I like a girl who knows what she wants.” Dimples popped as he smiled and Y/N grabbed his collar in her fist.

“You don’t need to tease me anymore, Dean,” she explained, dropping her hands to his belt. “You already got me.”

“Goddamn…”

Walking backwards while unbuckling someone else’s belt while his tongue is in your mouth is never easy, but somehow Y/N managed. Dean’s kisses were distracting but incredible and she almost died when she realized that his fingers had snuck into her jeans and his hand was on her bare ass.

“Uh- can you…” She pulled away and cleared her throat. Respectfully, Dean removed his hand. “Can you just give me two minutes? I wanna- freshen up.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow and traced his finger over a splatter of dried wolf blood on her cheek. “I’ll give you one and a half.”

She laughed and rubbed a firm hand down his chest. “Perfect.”

Bathroom door locked, she moved like lightning. Pulling off her filthy clothes, grabbing a washcloth, pinning up her hair.

She brushed her teeth as quickly as she could, still able to smell Funyuns on her breath.

“Oh God, that’s gross.” She looked at herself in the mirror and shrugged. He ate from the same bag, so he probably didn’t notice, she told her reflection. “Still…”

Another brushing was in order and then a swig of the motel supplied mouthwash.

“Awesome.” She knocked on the door. “You OK out there?”

Dean looked up from the floor, mid-pushup. “Uh- all good. You OK?”

“I’m awesome. Be right there!”

“Cool.” He struggled to hold himself up, but lost, knees and elbows whacking into the floor. “Gah!”

“Dean?”

“All good!”

He stood up and looked in the mirror, flexing a bit and deciding that it was good enough. “You’re a stud, baby,” he said aloud, winking to his reflection.

Breath fresh, Y/N set to doing her hair but then realized there was way more hair on her that needed her attention.

She looked down with a grimace at the Christmas Tree Farm growing out of her legs and decided that she definitely had to take the time to shave. There was just no way she was letting Dean touch her when she looked like a cactus.

Also, she hadn’t tended to her lady garden in forever...

Dean paced the room, occasionally throwing in a jumping jack and then deciding that his time to get jacked was ten years ago and he was too old for that nonsense anyway. Besides, what could he do in two minutes?

He looked at his watch. OK, ten minutes.

Was she coming back out?

Y/N tossed the pink disposable razor into the sink and toweled off the rest of the shaving cream. “Well, now I smell like Sam, but at least I’m smooth.”

Back to the mess on top of her head. She picked out dried leaves and a clump of bloody fur. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

Dean’s eyes flew to the bathroom door as he heard the shower turn on. “Seriously?”

Remote in hand, he sat on the foot of the bed and turned on the tube, flipping through channels until he heard the familiar sound of pornography.

He glanced at the door again and shimmied out of his jeans. “Might as well keep things going here…”

Y/N scrubbed her hair as fast as she could, trying not to look down at the swirling blood and dirt around the drain. “Coulda been a librarian but no… just had to go off and have adventures…”

She nearly screamed with fright as Dean’s voice permeated the door.

“Hey, Y/N/N! The chick in this porno looks just like you!”

She laughed. “That’s disgusting!”

Dean pouted at the t.v. and shrugged. “She kinda does…” Bored, he turned off the movie and bounced to his feet. “Ya almost done?”

A puff of steam snuck out from beneath the bathroom door.

“Uh- yeah! Sorry! Be right there!”

“OK-”

Clean, shaved and shampooed, Y/N emerged from the shower and set to drying her hair. She really was trying to hurry, but this was Dean Winchester. Love of her life. She needed to be clean the first time he really saw her naked. That last time in Peekskill didn’t count. That was for medical reasons. This was it.

Dean turned down the blanket, smoothed out the sheets, plumped up the pillows. He dimmed the lights and pulled off his t-shirt. Plopping down onto the bed, Dean turned onto his side and cocked a knee, held his head up on one hand and posed for Y/N… should she… ever get out of the bathroom…

Makeup. I need makeup. Oh my god, my eyes are so bloodshot!

A swipe of eyeliner and a dab of mascara later, Y/N batted her lashes in the mirror, gave her cheeks a pinch, and proclaimed herself properly prepared.

She was ready.

She was gorgeous.

She was horny as fuck.

Dean was-

Dean… was…

Dean was sound asleep on the bed, his face smashed into the crook of his arm, his body twisted and oddly posed.

Y/N felt a hint of disappointment, but then smiled as Dean let out a tiny snore.

“Poor guy…”

Not wanting to wake him, she carefully shut the bathroom door and climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up with her.

Dean stirred as she tucked the fabric around his waist.

“Mmm… hey.” He blinked into the darkness and groaned. “Shit, I fell asleep. I’m so sorry-”

Y/N stilled his worry with a tiny peck on his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I took forever in there.” Lifting his arm, she spun around and tucked herself against his chest.

He smiled and dug his nose into her immaculate hair. “You smell nice.”

“Yeah. You don’t,” she teased. “Go back to sleep.”

“What about-”

“Hey.” She kissed his bicep and snuggled in. “We got tomorrow and forever, Dean. It’s all good.”

He was asleep before she finished.

In more ways than one.

“Kinda perfect though,” she added, cheeks burning as Dean stared at her through the mirror.

“Yeah,” he agreed, remembering the content feel of falling asleep with her in his arms and the joyful rush of seeing her face first thing in the morning. “It really was.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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